D. Ted Green
B&W
A year after the first Dropper Harris movie, Cary Grant was
back. This is interesting in itself, as sequels were far from the norm back
then and certainly not the done thing for major stars. They were the preserve
of men with the surnames Weissmuller and Crabbe, Olympic swimmers who’d turned
to – what could loosely be described as – acting, rather than serious cinema
players. Yet the ‘Dropper Harris’ movies, although clearly made with a higher
budget and better actors, are trading in the same language as your Tarzans and
Flash Gordons. They are popcorn, adventure films, there to provide mindless
entertainment, but of a higher quality and with bigger thrills. Which means
that decades before George Lucas and Steven Spielberg took those old adventure
films and turned them into ‘Indiana Jones’, Cary Grant was – as always –
already leading the way.
Here we are back in a London of the mind, a London that
bears as much resemblance to the 1930s or the 1890s as it does to now. There
are horse drawn carts and Dropper Harris’s housekeeper seems to be wed to an
old fashioned mangle. But there are also speeding black Ford automobiles and
gangsters, some of whom would not be out of place in Chicago. Harris catches what
he refers to “the London tube”, but it’s one of those sleek trains you imagine carrying
you from Grand Central to Union Station. It even has a bar for god’s sake! Most
jarring of all though is Harris’s portable communication device, which he keeps
in his pocket and looks and treats just like a mobile phone (albeit it’s
something like a Nokia from the turn of the century, rather than an iPhone.
This film isn’t that forward looking!) This is a mix of the present, the past
and a million possible futures. This is Dropper Harris’s world and we’re
supposed to goggle at it.
Along with his trusty sidekick Binky (Tommy Harrison),
Harris finds himself again investigating a music based case. This time they are
backstage at the opera where two warring parties of gangsters are prone to
machine-gunning each other at the crescendos of arias. One is your standard
group of hard-faced, monosyllabic muscle, the others are Charles Laughton’s
antiquarian gangsters. Hoodlums, known as The Charing Cross Road Gang who – and
I’m not making this up – love nothing better than first editions and are
running a protection racket involving all the libraries in London. Elsewhere we
have the delicious Margaret Lockwood as a femme fatale soprano, and Claude
Rains as an ineffective policeman. The plot, once it gets there, never really
leaves backstage of The Royal Opera House – and so we have something like
‘Night at the Opera’ meets ‘Scarface’ meets ‘The 39 Steps’ but even more
complex than such a bizarre mash-up would suggest. Mystery piles on top of mystery
until it all falls over into a conclusion which is brilliant, but doesn’t make
the slightest bit of sense. That doesn’t matter though, as by the end, all we
want to know is what is Leslie Howard’s conductor really up to?
It’s incredibly fun and fast paced (seriously, the way Grant
rat-tat-tats the dialogue here makes it seem like he was doing ‘His Girl
Friday’ while on mogadon). If you tried to think about how all the strands
actually tie together your brain would explode, but this is one of the most
invigorating films the 1930s ever produced.
Wednesday 26 February 2014
Sunday 23 February 2014
The Bang-Bang Men (1972)
D. John Flynn
Colour
This is actually the movie Gene Wilder made directly after ‘Willy Wonka’ and in many ways it seems like the same performance. Once again he is quixotic, changeable and prone to bursts of rage, so much so it’s impossible to believe a word he says. Okay, that magical look has gone from his eyes. When he stares off into the distance in ‘The Bang-Bang Men’ it’s like he’s contemplating not just shooting some fat kid up a tube, but torturing him a little first. But clearly, even before Gene Wilder’s portrayal of Willy Wonka became a cultural touchstone, Gene Wilder was doing his own riff on Willy Wonka – although a far more dangerous version. You see Gene Wilder’s character in ‘The Bang-Bang Men’ doesn’t have the heart of gold Willy Wonka has, instead he’s a hired killer who’d think nothing of blowing up a pleasant and picturesque (almost Germanic) little town if it would get him what he wants. There are some things that The Candyman can’t do, but The Bang-Bang Man certainly can.
Taking this Willy Wonka-esque performance and putting it in a far edgier film does make for a strange dissonance, and that’s before we’re introduced to Wilder’s co-star – the redoubtable Charlton Heston. It’s amazing to see them together. Of course their careers overlapped (Heston actually made his last big screen appearance after Wilder) but to say that a pixyish Gene Wilder and a stolid Charlton Heston is a clash of styles is like suggesting that strawberry jam and marmite really shouldn’t find themselves together in the same sandwich. By the 1970s Heston was a face of the glorious past now become the vision of the frightening future. America had grown up with him in all those historical/biblical epics, but now he was ‘The Omega Man’, now he was visiting ‘The Planet of the Apes’, now he was investigating ‘Solyent Green’. Everything was going swiftly to hell and Charlton Heston was our weather vane, showing us just how bad things were going to be. In ‘The Bang-Bang Man’ he is even saying that the present isn’t so brilliant – playing a CIA agent forced to hire Wilder’s psychotic assassin to clear up a mess after an agency wetjob goes wrong. But the plot is almost irrelevant, there just to facilitate granite faced with mercury; Heston’s manly snarl against Wilder trying a little too hard to be funny (and he does try a little too hard, which has the effect of making his character even more deranged and frightening). This is jittery and nervous young America facing off against its wonderful and macho history.
We are in the shadows here, with covert operations, counter covert operation and operations which are probably confused about whether they covert or not. There are assassinations, car chases and angry confrontations. There’s Susan George as a possibly rogue British agent, seemingly enjoying a highly unlikely sado-masochistic relationship with – of all people – Roy Kinnear (Veronica Salt’s father in ‘Willy Wonka’). There’s Angie Dickenson as the chanteuse with a secret and Joseph Cotton as the senator who probably commits three corrupt acts before breakfast. You get the picture. It’s moody and atmospheric, has no faith in any of the structures and players of government, and every single frame just drips with paranoia.
And it really says something for the paranoia of 1970s America cinema that even Gene Wilder and Charlton Heston could be affected by it.
Colour
This is actually the movie Gene Wilder made directly after ‘Willy Wonka’ and in many ways it seems like the same performance. Once again he is quixotic, changeable and prone to bursts of rage, so much so it’s impossible to believe a word he says. Okay, that magical look has gone from his eyes. When he stares off into the distance in ‘The Bang-Bang Men’ it’s like he’s contemplating not just shooting some fat kid up a tube, but torturing him a little first. But clearly, even before Gene Wilder’s portrayal of Willy Wonka became a cultural touchstone, Gene Wilder was doing his own riff on Willy Wonka – although a far more dangerous version. You see Gene Wilder’s character in ‘The Bang-Bang Men’ doesn’t have the heart of gold Willy Wonka has, instead he’s a hired killer who’d think nothing of blowing up a pleasant and picturesque (almost Germanic) little town if it would get him what he wants. There are some things that The Candyman can’t do, but The Bang-Bang Man certainly can.
Taking this Willy Wonka-esque performance and putting it in a far edgier film does make for a strange dissonance, and that’s before we’re introduced to Wilder’s co-star – the redoubtable Charlton Heston. It’s amazing to see them together. Of course their careers overlapped (Heston actually made his last big screen appearance after Wilder) but to say that a pixyish Gene Wilder and a stolid Charlton Heston is a clash of styles is like suggesting that strawberry jam and marmite really shouldn’t find themselves together in the same sandwich. By the 1970s Heston was a face of the glorious past now become the vision of the frightening future. America had grown up with him in all those historical/biblical epics, but now he was ‘The Omega Man’, now he was visiting ‘The Planet of the Apes’, now he was investigating ‘Solyent Green’. Everything was going swiftly to hell and Charlton Heston was our weather vane, showing us just how bad things were going to be. In ‘The Bang-Bang Man’ he is even saying that the present isn’t so brilliant – playing a CIA agent forced to hire Wilder’s psychotic assassin to clear up a mess after an agency wetjob goes wrong. But the plot is almost irrelevant, there just to facilitate granite faced with mercury; Heston’s manly snarl against Wilder trying a little too hard to be funny (and he does try a little too hard, which has the effect of making his character even more deranged and frightening). This is jittery and nervous young America facing off against its wonderful and macho history.
We are in the shadows here, with covert operations, counter covert operation and operations which are probably confused about whether they covert or not. There are assassinations, car chases and angry confrontations. There’s Susan George as a possibly rogue British agent, seemingly enjoying a highly unlikely sado-masochistic relationship with – of all people – Roy Kinnear (Veronica Salt’s father in ‘Willy Wonka’). There’s Angie Dickenson as the chanteuse with a secret and Joseph Cotton as the senator who probably commits three corrupt acts before breakfast. You get the picture. It’s moody and atmospheric, has no faith in any of the structures and players of government, and every single frame just drips with paranoia.
And it really says something for the paranoia of 1970s America cinema that even Gene Wilder and Charlton Heston could be affected by it.
Wednesday 19 February 2014
Shadows of the Aliens (1984)
D. Phillippe Noir
Colour
It’s sad that this French science fiction film didn’t garner a bigger audience, as it’s a visually innovative, sharply political, gripping thriller. Whether one would describe it as enjoyable is a question we’ll throw into the air with little heed to its safety, as there are car crashes which are less bleak. But how often do you get to pick up a croissant and a glass of red wine and sit down to a science fiction movie which has something to say and is saying it in a French accent?
Our setting, as the opening caption tells us is the future, although very little is done to indicate the future. The cars, the buildings, the haircuts all scream the 1980s, so that is where we are. (Clearly Goddard’s ‘Alphaville’ is an influence.) Our setting then is the present, but not quite the present. Jean Poiret, pulling on his policeman’s overcoat, is a government sanctioned hunter. He stalks the streets of Paris hunting down aliens, who are then rounded up and taken to who knows where. Of course this being science fiction, these aliens are humanoids from outer space (recognised by their two sets of eyelids and no toes) rather than immigrants. But for the social message of the film, these are one and the same. The aliens are not wanted by France, they have never been invited in and now they have to leave.
The first half of the film then is chasing these aliens (they are never given a name) around Paris, trying to catch them but sometimes being forced to terminate them with maximum force. In the first half hour alone we have a creature thrown off a tall building into the path of a juggernaut; and one dropped into a vat of handily placed acid (of the kind which only ever exist in the movies). Poiret seems to be the type of investigator Napoleon would like, as whenever an act of violence needs to be committed, a luckily placed fire-axe or lift-shaft is nearby.
Some movies would have been content with this cat and mouse, this human and humanoid alien, some movies would have left their ambition there. But ‘Shadows of the Aliens’ decides to push things much further.
Halfway through a giant spaceship arrives on Earth, or more precisely in Paris. (The film is French, therefore Paris is the centre of the world and quite probably the universe). These are the Vervoids, a powerful alien race which hates the original aliens as much as the French do. Initially we only see the Vervoid leader, a giant and sweaty ball of rippling flesh, unable to express the simplest emotion without its entire body rippling. Realised with the aid of a puppet, this is an alien leader who is striking and menacing and bears an unmistakable resemblance to the older Orson Welles. The Vervoids are hailed as saviours. (The fact that these first aliens are never named may cause problems in this review, but not in the film. We simply have The Humans, The Vervoids and – lastly – the aliens). With the French government’s approval – in the form of uber-efficient administrator, Gerard Depardieu – they take over Paris and work together to rid these aliens on a more industrial scale. Suddenly we have gone from problems of immigration to the Vichy government and everything has turned terrifying and strange.
There is no US/British allied force to the rescue this time (this isn’t ‘Adrienne and the Astronaut’ though, such creatures as Americans do still exist). We’re told that worried phone calls have been made by the President and Prime Minister, although the tone of Depardieu’s voice makes it seem like they’re easy to ignore. Instead the Vervoids and the humans are allowed in win. Indeed at the conclusion, with most of the original aliens dead, it’s clear how much the Vervoids and humans now look like each other. They are one and the same.
Post Star Wars there were a lot of science fiction films which didn’t really want to say anything, they just wanted to entertain with their brilliant light shows. This one though is desperate to say things, it wants to shout them from the rooftops, and is happy to bring in juggernauts, acid vats and rubbery Orson Welles just to get some attention. Maybe the end result is too dark to grab a huge audience, but this is undeniably a tense and thought provoking film.
And, really, where else are you going to see a giant rippling Orson Welles dominate Gerard Depardieu?
Colour
It’s sad that this French science fiction film didn’t garner a bigger audience, as it’s a visually innovative, sharply political, gripping thriller. Whether one would describe it as enjoyable is a question we’ll throw into the air with little heed to its safety, as there are car crashes which are less bleak. But how often do you get to pick up a croissant and a glass of red wine and sit down to a science fiction movie which has something to say and is saying it in a French accent?
Our setting, as the opening caption tells us is the future, although very little is done to indicate the future. The cars, the buildings, the haircuts all scream the 1980s, so that is where we are. (Clearly Goddard’s ‘Alphaville’ is an influence.) Our setting then is the present, but not quite the present. Jean Poiret, pulling on his policeman’s overcoat, is a government sanctioned hunter. He stalks the streets of Paris hunting down aliens, who are then rounded up and taken to who knows where. Of course this being science fiction, these aliens are humanoids from outer space (recognised by their two sets of eyelids and no toes) rather than immigrants. But for the social message of the film, these are one and the same. The aliens are not wanted by France, they have never been invited in and now they have to leave.
The first half of the film then is chasing these aliens (they are never given a name) around Paris, trying to catch them but sometimes being forced to terminate them with maximum force. In the first half hour alone we have a creature thrown off a tall building into the path of a juggernaut; and one dropped into a vat of handily placed acid (of the kind which only ever exist in the movies). Poiret seems to be the type of investigator Napoleon would like, as whenever an act of violence needs to be committed, a luckily placed fire-axe or lift-shaft is nearby.
Some movies would have been content with this cat and mouse, this human and humanoid alien, some movies would have left their ambition there. But ‘Shadows of the Aliens’ decides to push things much further.
Halfway through a giant spaceship arrives on Earth, or more precisely in Paris. (The film is French, therefore Paris is the centre of the world and quite probably the universe). These are the Vervoids, a powerful alien race which hates the original aliens as much as the French do. Initially we only see the Vervoid leader, a giant and sweaty ball of rippling flesh, unable to express the simplest emotion without its entire body rippling. Realised with the aid of a puppet, this is an alien leader who is striking and menacing and bears an unmistakable resemblance to the older Orson Welles. The Vervoids are hailed as saviours. (The fact that these first aliens are never named may cause problems in this review, but not in the film. We simply have The Humans, The Vervoids and – lastly – the aliens). With the French government’s approval – in the form of uber-efficient administrator, Gerard Depardieu – they take over Paris and work together to rid these aliens on a more industrial scale. Suddenly we have gone from problems of immigration to the Vichy government and everything has turned terrifying and strange.
There is no US/British allied force to the rescue this time (this isn’t ‘Adrienne and the Astronaut’ though, such creatures as Americans do still exist). We’re told that worried phone calls have been made by the President and Prime Minister, although the tone of Depardieu’s voice makes it seem like they’re easy to ignore. Instead the Vervoids and the humans are allowed in win. Indeed at the conclusion, with most of the original aliens dead, it’s clear how much the Vervoids and humans now look like each other. They are one and the same.
Post Star Wars there were a lot of science fiction films which didn’t really want to say anything, they just wanted to entertain with their brilliant light shows. This one though is desperate to say things, it wants to shout them from the rooftops, and is happy to bring in juggernauts, acid vats and rubbery Orson Welles just to get some attention. Maybe the end result is too dark to grab a huge audience, but this is undeniably a tense and thought provoking film.
And, really, where else are you going to see a giant rippling Orson Welles dominate Gerard Depardieu?
Sunday 16 February 2014
Adrienne and the Astronaut (1967)
D.
Jean-Pierre Matisse
Colour
It’s odd that the French film ‘Le Cosmonaute Rend Visite à Adrienne’ was given the English title ‘Adele and the Astronaut’, as the future we are shown seems to be one where the Americans are completely wiped out. An astronaut is obviously a term for an American voyager to space, and yet the spaceman we meet is Terence Stamp and very British. (Very cockney in fact, so cockney that one briefly wonders whether the future will be a nightmare vision of jellied eels and rolling out the barrel). He isn’t remotely American. Indeed Americans aren’t mentioned at any point in the film and so the impression we get is that there are no Americans in the future. So this film, made at the height of the space race, two years before the moon landings, seems to go out of its way to suggest that in outer space there will be no room for the Yanks.
How are we to read this? To theorise that years from now all Americans will have been wiped out is probably a step too far. This is a film which posits a totally idyllic future in store for us, one where all citizens are happy, where their minds are totally open to new experiences, where love and contentment are universal rights. As such it would be odd if such a future was built on the total genocide of the whole American nation. It would be more than a tad icky to think of a future so beautiful built on such brutality to Uncle Sam. But the French film makers do seem to be saying – at the height of Vietnam, with riots right across The States – that true brotherly love can only take place without the Americans there. So if that’s the case, what happened to them? If we discount genocide, then what else is there? Maybe they flew in away in their spaceships and have headed to Mars, where they now have all the wars their blood thirsty souls could possibly desire. Or perhaps they have transcended to whatever giant shakes, chilli cheese dogs, large fries on the side place in the sky Americans call nirvana.
Whatever. The French are making this film and they have decided NO Americans. And that it makes it interesting. After having seen and read so much American science fiction, it is intriguing, as well as somewhat jarring, to see a version of the future from which Americans have been totally excluded.
Catherine Deneuve is a futurist living in swinging London. By any measure she has made quite a good life from this nebulous profession of predicting the future, kitting herself out with a good pad and the fanciest designer clothes. But there’s one thing missing from her life and that’s a lover. That all changes one sunny morning however, when a man arrives from the heavens (actually there’s a blinding light in her bathroom and he steps out of that. So rather than the heavens it’s a toilet, but the principle is the same). He is spaceman, Terrence Stamp. A creature from the future, part of the British stellar expedition force (which isn’t as mad as it sounds, the British were trying to make strides towards space in the late sixties), who has volunteered to be part of the new time travel programme. The technology is still in early days though and so Terrence has found himself transported back to the 1960s and Catherine. The reason for this is that she’s apparently is his true love - even though she was born a couple of hundred years before him, which suggests Cupid has one weird sense of humour.
Terrence takes Catherine to visit his time, so she can compare it to her visions. What we’re given is a very sixties version of the future, where the phones are still the clunky same (and people actually still use phone-boxes for calls, and not just urination), the skirts are much shorter and mop-top bands are very much in fashion. The Beatles though are passé, which must have looked an odd conclusion to reach in 1967. There are also zeppelins, and that’s actually one of the things Catherine predicted correctly. (Seriously, what is it with futurologists and zeppelins? Why do they believe that the future will be filled with them? It’s seventy years now since the zeppelin was last a serious mode of transport, face it: zeppelins aren’t making a comeback). This future is a very 1960s ideal of brotherly love and peace, and it’s all so wonderful and everybody is so happy, and it’s truly and remarkably dull. The future is bright and its lovely, but nothing actually bloody happens. Eventually to add a bit of drama, it’s realised that the gorgeous young lovers can’t sustain their relationship over the timelines and must separate. It’s sad as Terrence Stamp and Catherine Deneuve may be the best looking couple in cinema history, and through their peaceful and non-threatening and non-adventurous adventures, we’ve grown to kind of like them. For those who are still awake, it’s a little bit sad when they part. But at least when Catherine returns to her timeline, she knows that the future is safe and beautiful. And who knows? When she gets married and has kids and grandchildren and so on, maybe Terrence will turn out to be a descendent of hers. (Come on, I was bored. The film wasn’t offering me any spice, so I had to create my own).
It’s a pleasant film, an optimistic film, but it is the kind of film to make your eyelids beg for mercy. Say what you will about the yanks, at least they know to add a bit of action to these things.
Colour
It’s odd that the French film ‘Le Cosmonaute Rend Visite à Adrienne’ was given the English title ‘Adele and the Astronaut’, as the future we are shown seems to be one where the Americans are completely wiped out. An astronaut is obviously a term for an American voyager to space, and yet the spaceman we meet is Terence Stamp and very British. (Very cockney in fact, so cockney that one briefly wonders whether the future will be a nightmare vision of jellied eels and rolling out the barrel). He isn’t remotely American. Indeed Americans aren’t mentioned at any point in the film and so the impression we get is that there are no Americans in the future. So this film, made at the height of the space race, two years before the moon landings, seems to go out of its way to suggest that in outer space there will be no room for the Yanks.
How are we to read this? To theorise that years from now all Americans will have been wiped out is probably a step too far. This is a film which posits a totally idyllic future in store for us, one where all citizens are happy, where their minds are totally open to new experiences, where love and contentment are universal rights. As such it would be odd if such a future was built on the total genocide of the whole American nation. It would be more than a tad icky to think of a future so beautiful built on such brutality to Uncle Sam. But the French film makers do seem to be saying – at the height of Vietnam, with riots right across The States – that true brotherly love can only take place without the Americans there. So if that’s the case, what happened to them? If we discount genocide, then what else is there? Maybe they flew in away in their spaceships and have headed to Mars, where they now have all the wars their blood thirsty souls could possibly desire. Or perhaps they have transcended to whatever giant shakes, chilli cheese dogs, large fries on the side place in the sky Americans call nirvana.
Whatever. The French are making this film and they have decided NO Americans. And that it makes it interesting. After having seen and read so much American science fiction, it is intriguing, as well as somewhat jarring, to see a version of the future from which Americans have been totally excluded.
Catherine Deneuve is a futurist living in swinging London. By any measure she has made quite a good life from this nebulous profession of predicting the future, kitting herself out with a good pad and the fanciest designer clothes. But there’s one thing missing from her life and that’s a lover. That all changes one sunny morning however, when a man arrives from the heavens (actually there’s a blinding light in her bathroom and he steps out of that. So rather than the heavens it’s a toilet, but the principle is the same). He is spaceman, Terrence Stamp. A creature from the future, part of the British stellar expedition force (which isn’t as mad as it sounds, the British were trying to make strides towards space in the late sixties), who has volunteered to be part of the new time travel programme. The technology is still in early days though and so Terrence has found himself transported back to the 1960s and Catherine. The reason for this is that she’s apparently is his true love - even though she was born a couple of hundred years before him, which suggests Cupid has one weird sense of humour.
Terrence takes Catherine to visit his time, so she can compare it to her visions. What we’re given is a very sixties version of the future, where the phones are still the clunky same (and people actually still use phone-boxes for calls, and not just urination), the skirts are much shorter and mop-top bands are very much in fashion. The Beatles though are passé, which must have looked an odd conclusion to reach in 1967. There are also zeppelins, and that’s actually one of the things Catherine predicted correctly. (Seriously, what is it with futurologists and zeppelins? Why do they believe that the future will be filled with them? It’s seventy years now since the zeppelin was last a serious mode of transport, face it: zeppelins aren’t making a comeback). This future is a very 1960s ideal of brotherly love and peace, and it’s all so wonderful and everybody is so happy, and it’s truly and remarkably dull. The future is bright and its lovely, but nothing actually bloody happens. Eventually to add a bit of drama, it’s realised that the gorgeous young lovers can’t sustain their relationship over the timelines and must separate. It’s sad as Terrence Stamp and Catherine Deneuve may be the best looking couple in cinema history, and through their peaceful and non-threatening and non-adventurous adventures, we’ve grown to kind of like them. For those who are still awake, it’s a little bit sad when they part. But at least when Catherine returns to her timeline, she knows that the future is safe and beautiful. And who knows? When she gets married and has kids and grandchildren and so on, maybe Terrence will turn out to be a descendent of hers. (Come on, I was bored. The film wasn’t offering me any spice, so I had to create my own).
It’s a pleasant film, an optimistic film, but it is the kind of film to make your eyelids beg for mercy. Say what you will about the yanks, at least they know to add a bit of action to these things.
Wednesday 12 February 2014
Sticky Back Plastic (2003)
D. Simon Olson
Colour
For those not in the know (which should read in this instance, those of you who aren’t British) ‘Blue Peter’ is a BBC television institution. On air for more than fifty years now, ‘Blue Peter’ has been aiding kids in having safe, parental approved, do it yourself fun for over half a century. Imagine having a really uncool older brother or sister, always enthusiastic, never dressed fashionably, but forever incredibly eager to help you out with worthy and educational projects. Projects like building a birds nest out of twine, or making a Tracey Island from some bog roll and cardboard, or constructing a fully operational Tardis out of some string and a biscuit barrel. If you can picture such a sibling, then imagine him or her shrunk in height and confined to a corner of the room – and there you have ‘Blue Peter’. There are three or four presenters, all of an early twenties vintage, a menagerie of cats and dogs to act as pets, a garden to dig when the weather is good, and safe and uncomplicated educational fun for children from three to fifteen. That’s Blue Peter and every single person in Britain knows it.
‘Sticky Back Plastic’ is a barely released British horror film that exists to take the ‘Blue Peter’ ideal apart.
Although the show is carefully never named throughout the film, we’re clearly backstage at ‘Blue Peter’. But – much as ‘Meet The Feebles’ did to The Muppets – the clean cut façade is torn down to reveal a truly sordid and seedy underbelly. One of the male presenters is gay and spends most of his time backstage in increasingly torrid and masochistic encounters with the crew, the other male presenter likes nothing better than to masturbate in front of porn enacted by a revolving cast of sock puppets; while the blonde and bubbly female presenter is a coked up mess in a very twisted relationship with her boss (the sexual encounter we see involves glue, cotton wool and rubber gloves). The levels of disorganisation and disarray are so high, that when a serial killer strikes the studio, these people are truly helpless.
The set rules of serial killer films mean that those who have morally transgressed are the obvious victims, as such there is no shortage of candidates here. And the bodies do pile up in nice homemade Blue Peter style. The gay male presenter suffers a version of a death of a thousand cuts by being stapled hundreds of times until blood is spewing everywhere. The other male presenter is taught the lesson that you should always get a responsible adult to help you with scissors, when a sock puppet buries one in his eyeball. But the most gruesome death is saved for our perky blonde messed-up presenter, when the show’s beautiful golden Labrador – named ‘Goldie’ – is infected by rabies and rips her to pieces in lingering slow motion. This really is a very gory film.
It’s left to the show’s remaining presenter, the plucky Asian girl (presumably modelled on Konnie Huq, at this point an actual presenter on ‘Blue Peter’) who is untarnished compared to the rest of them, to save the day. The film becomes a battle of wills backstage at BBC Television centre, as our heroine uses all the skills she’s picked up presenting a magazine show aimed at kids, to save her life and save the day. This isn’t the most original film ever made – its novelty lies in its setting – so we all know the path it will take. The mask will be torn away, the bad guy will be revealed and he will fall to his death (although we probably don’t expect him to fall to death into a papier mâché volcano which spews out styrofoam and is lit by a torch with a red filter, that one of the presenters made earlier). The film of course ends with the bloodied heroine staring back ruefully at the carnage that has been wrought.
I’m guessing the reason ‘Sticky Back Plastic’ is almost impossible to get hold of is that the BBC wasn’t happy with this take on one of their most famous and enduring properties, which is a shame as – even though a horror film set in the world of kids TV should be funnier – this is far from the worst cheap, schlocky, gruesome horror with crap acting you could possibly stumble across.
Colour
For those not in the know (which should read in this instance, those of you who aren’t British) ‘Blue Peter’ is a BBC television institution. On air for more than fifty years now, ‘Blue Peter’ has been aiding kids in having safe, parental approved, do it yourself fun for over half a century. Imagine having a really uncool older brother or sister, always enthusiastic, never dressed fashionably, but forever incredibly eager to help you out with worthy and educational projects. Projects like building a birds nest out of twine, or making a Tracey Island from some bog roll and cardboard, or constructing a fully operational Tardis out of some string and a biscuit barrel. If you can picture such a sibling, then imagine him or her shrunk in height and confined to a corner of the room – and there you have ‘Blue Peter’. There are three or four presenters, all of an early twenties vintage, a menagerie of cats and dogs to act as pets, a garden to dig when the weather is good, and safe and uncomplicated educational fun for children from three to fifteen. That’s Blue Peter and every single person in Britain knows it.
‘Sticky Back Plastic’ is a barely released British horror film that exists to take the ‘Blue Peter’ ideal apart.
Although the show is carefully never named throughout the film, we’re clearly backstage at ‘Blue Peter’. But – much as ‘Meet The Feebles’ did to The Muppets – the clean cut façade is torn down to reveal a truly sordid and seedy underbelly. One of the male presenters is gay and spends most of his time backstage in increasingly torrid and masochistic encounters with the crew, the other male presenter likes nothing better than to masturbate in front of porn enacted by a revolving cast of sock puppets; while the blonde and bubbly female presenter is a coked up mess in a very twisted relationship with her boss (the sexual encounter we see involves glue, cotton wool and rubber gloves). The levels of disorganisation and disarray are so high, that when a serial killer strikes the studio, these people are truly helpless.
The set rules of serial killer films mean that those who have morally transgressed are the obvious victims, as such there is no shortage of candidates here. And the bodies do pile up in nice homemade Blue Peter style. The gay male presenter suffers a version of a death of a thousand cuts by being stapled hundreds of times until blood is spewing everywhere. The other male presenter is taught the lesson that you should always get a responsible adult to help you with scissors, when a sock puppet buries one in his eyeball. But the most gruesome death is saved for our perky blonde messed-up presenter, when the show’s beautiful golden Labrador – named ‘Goldie’ – is infected by rabies and rips her to pieces in lingering slow motion. This really is a very gory film.
It’s left to the show’s remaining presenter, the plucky Asian girl (presumably modelled on Konnie Huq, at this point an actual presenter on ‘Blue Peter’) who is untarnished compared to the rest of them, to save the day. The film becomes a battle of wills backstage at BBC Television centre, as our heroine uses all the skills she’s picked up presenting a magazine show aimed at kids, to save her life and save the day. This isn’t the most original film ever made – its novelty lies in its setting – so we all know the path it will take. The mask will be torn away, the bad guy will be revealed and he will fall to his death (although we probably don’t expect him to fall to death into a papier mâché volcano which spews out styrofoam and is lit by a torch with a red filter, that one of the presenters made earlier). The film of course ends with the bloodied heroine staring back ruefully at the carnage that has been wrought.
I’m guessing the reason ‘Sticky Back Plastic’ is almost impossible to get hold of is that the BBC wasn’t happy with this take on one of their most famous and enduring properties, which is a shame as – even though a horror film set in the world of kids TV should be funnier – this is far from the worst cheap, schlocky, gruesome horror with crap acting you could possibly stumble across.
Sunday 9 February 2014
The Curse of Alucard (1973)
D. Alan Gibson
Colour
What kind of pseudonym for Dracula is Alucard anyway? Surely if people are aware of Dracula and what he is – and presumably they are, as why else would he need a pseudonym? – then the good Count could really come up with something a tad more inconspicuous than Alucard. The problem leaps out that it’s such an unusual name itself. It’s a name which is going to make anyone who hears it sit up and take notice. Wouldn’t it be better to go for a Smith or a Jones or even a Jameson? Surely these are better names with which to blend into a crowd. Okay a lot of the times it’s used by acolytes or relations of Dracula, rather than The Count himself, but even then the same problems apply. Look guys, just take a flick through the phone book and see how many Alucards there are in the world and then pick out some other name. Really, it can’t be that hard. I first encountered this ridiculous non de plume ‘Alucard’ as a small child watching Hammer’s ‘Dracula AD 1972’ (although I know it actually comes from Universal’s ‘Son of Dracula’) and even then I didn’t think it was particularly clever. And I was a small child back then, my judgement bar for cleverness was far lower. No doubt that’s the thing which really irritates me about this disguise: that it’s supposed to be clever when it really, really isn’t. It’s no cleverer than that time Mr Burns pretended to be called Snrub, and even the people of Springfield were able to see through that. If Dr Jekyll’s pseudonym had actually been the Welsh (or maybe Polish) sounding Llykej, then the twist for that story wouldn’t have been such a surprise. And okay, Nietsneknarf doesn’t have the catchiness of Frankenstein, but whack a German accent on it and it would probably pass. But no, that doesn’t happen. It’s only Dracula, and the followers of Dracula who decide to be so goddamn obvious with the name.
Here we have Ralph Bates (the face of ‘Hammer – The Next Generation’) as Alucard, the great grandson of the original Dracula (what Alucard’s father and grandfather got up to is never made clear. Perhaps they lived boring vampire domestic lives). In this sort of follow up to ‘Dracula AD 1972’ he builds up a real estate empire in the heart of London, while hypnotising the tasty duo of Caroline Munro and Yutte Stensgaard to be his harem. But Munro’s jilted lover, Hywel Bennett, is stalking them and starts to realise that things are not what they seem with this new man about town in London.
Surprisingly though the name isn’t the first thing that gives it away. It’s almost the end before he twigs what Alucard backwards actually is.
Much like ‘Dracula AD 1972’ there’s a kind of jaded psychedelic to it, a grimness to London in the 1970s that I seem to seem to find myself referring to a lot on this blog. There’s much blood spilling, some nudity (Stensgaard, rather than Munro) and an over the top gory conclusion. Bates is suitably menacing and interestingly, because I didn’t think they became such bogeymen until the 1980s, is first seen working his demonic magic as an estate agent - where this son of darkness fits right in.
And yes Bennett does eventually figure it all out and save everyone, but the audience can’t help thinking that Dracula the Fourth would have got away with the whole thing if he’d just picked the name Harris.
Colour
What kind of pseudonym for Dracula is Alucard anyway? Surely if people are aware of Dracula and what he is – and presumably they are, as why else would he need a pseudonym? – then the good Count could really come up with something a tad more inconspicuous than Alucard. The problem leaps out that it’s such an unusual name itself. It’s a name which is going to make anyone who hears it sit up and take notice. Wouldn’t it be better to go for a Smith or a Jones or even a Jameson? Surely these are better names with which to blend into a crowd. Okay a lot of the times it’s used by acolytes or relations of Dracula, rather than The Count himself, but even then the same problems apply. Look guys, just take a flick through the phone book and see how many Alucards there are in the world and then pick out some other name. Really, it can’t be that hard. I first encountered this ridiculous non de plume ‘Alucard’ as a small child watching Hammer’s ‘Dracula AD 1972’ (although I know it actually comes from Universal’s ‘Son of Dracula’) and even then I didn’t think it was particularly clever. And I was a small child back then, my judgement bar for cleverness was far lower. No doubt that’s the thing which really irritates me about this disguise: that it’s supposed to be clever when it really, really isn’t. It’s no cleverer than that time Mr Burns pretended to be called Snrub, and even the people of Springfield were able to see through that. If Dr Jekyll’s pseudonym had actually been the Welsh (or maybe Polish) sounding Llykej, then the twist for that story wouldn’t have been such a surprise. And okay, Nietsneknarf doesn’t have the catchiness of Frankenstein, but whack a German accent on it and it would probably pass. But no, that doesn’t happen. It’s only Dracula, and the followers of Dracula who decide to be so goddamn obvious with the name.
Here we have Ralph Bates (the face of ‘Hammer – The Next Generation’) as Alucard, the great grandson of the original Dracula (what Alucard’s father and grandfather got up to is never made clear. Perhaps they lived boring vampire domestic lives). In this sort of follow up to ‘Dracula AD 1972’ he builds up a real estate empire in the heart of London, while hypnotising the tasty duo of Caroline Munro and Yutte Stensgaard to be his harem. But Munro’s jilted lover, Hywel Bennett, is stalking them and starts to realise that things are not what they seem with this new man about town in London.
Surprisingly though the name isn’t the first thing that gives it away. It’s almost the end before he twigs what Alucard backwards actually is.
Much like ‘Dracula AD 1972’ there’s a kind of jaded psychedelic to it, a grimness to London in the 1970s that I seem to seem to find myself referring to a lot on this blog. There’s much blood spilling, some nudity (Stensgaard, rather than Munro) and an over the top gory conclusion. Bates is suitably menacing and interestingly, because I didn’t think they became such bogeymen until the 1980s, is first seen working his demonic magic as an estate agent - where this son of darkness fits right in.
And yes Bennett does eventually figure it all out and save everyone, but the audience can’t help thinking that Dracula the Fourth would have got away with the whole thing if he’d just picked the name Harris.
Wednesday 5 February 2014
French Leave (1967)
D. Blake Edwards
Colour
Ah, Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon. The great fun of men in spats pretending to be girls in flapper dresses; gaping at Marilyn Monroe as she wiggles her way down a train platform; “Nobody’s perfect!” Seriously, who doesn’t love ‘Some Like It Hot’? As close to perfect as any film made by humans is going to get! But it’s curious how some films live long in the memory while others just fade away (this blog of course exists for films that fade away). For instance, for all the high praise lavished upon the Paul Newman and Robert Redford pairing, it’s forgotten that Redford has actually made more movies with Jane Fonda (go on, I bet you can’t name more than one). Similarly the great chemistry of Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon was actually spread across three films. There was the magnificent and utterly unimpeachable ‘Some Like It Hot’, there was the really underwhelming and disappointing ‘The Great Race’ and then there was ‘French Leave’ – which sits more at ‘The Great Race’ end of the spectrum, but – given current events - is really worth taking another peek at.
Here’s the set up. On a promotional trip to France, married Hollywood star Tony Curtis encounters Italian sex kitten Claudia Cardinale and begins to pursue her for an affair. At much the same time, married French President Jack Lemmon (with a truly shocking accent, making Inspector Clouseau sound like he’s authentic to every tortured syllable) is introduced to Cardinale at a party and also tries to seduce her. The two men become aware of each other’s attentions and attempt to thwart each other at every turn, the grandeur of the French presidency put into conflict with the largesse of Hollywood as each vies to make Cardinale his bit on the side.
That’s right, they don’t want the gorgeous, delightful, pouting Claudia Cardinale to be their girlfriend or their wife – each man want hers to be his illicit mistress. The first time I saw this film it made me feel a bit “Uck!” This loud and brash farce where married men try to capture a woman to serve their sexual needs away from their wives, just felt like part of the swinging sixties we were happy to discard. The gender politics could be politely described as antediluvian. But looking at Francois Holland’s travails in the last few weeks has made me revisit ‘French Leave’. It seems that even today – even if you’re the socialist new broom there to clean up the system – it’s the done thing for French Presidents to keep mistresses. Mitterrand of course had his, there were always rumours about Chirac and now Holland finds himself an international scandal. (Not necessarily a national one though, the French press and the French public seem really accepting of this kind of thing. They just give a Gallic shrug and go back to their coffee and baguettes. Imagine, as a comparison, if this was David Cameron with a mistress and Sam Cameron in hospital after an overdose of sleeping pills. The tabloids would sing loud and ebullient praises to the god of mammon from the rooftops, and even Nick Robinson would tear out his remaining hair in excitement). On the other side of the coin nobody thinks movie stars are unimpeachable. It’s downright naïve to believe that Hollywood types don’t have affairs. And so suddenly this film, which I initially dismissed as a sexist relic of a less enlightened time, feels like it could be a free-wheeling docu-drama of NOW where the names have been changed to protect the guilty.
And if I’m honest it’s not that bad. I like Jack Lemmon a lot, but find he mugs too much in broad comedy (and I hate his over the top accent here, but I also hate his equally over the top accent in ‘The Great Race’). I like Tony Curtis a lot, but the laziness in his performance evident here would soon kill his big screen career. And in common with all straight men, I like Claudia Cardinale a lot and will not hear a word against her. So two thirds of the performances could be better, but Blake Edwards does execute the farce quite well. The old money of Versailles against the nouveau riche of Bel Air has good comic potential and everything gets bigger and bigger (if not necessarily that much funnier). It’s a very 1960s movie, which does have a few genuine laughs and has more to say about the morals and peccadillos of certain people today that I initially – in my prudish British way – realised.
Colour
Ah, Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon. The great fun of men in spats pretending to be girls in flapper dresses; gaping at Marilyn Monroe as she wiggles her way down a train platform; “Nobody’s perfect!” Seriously, who doesn’t love ‘Some Like It Hot’? As close to perfect as any film made by humans is going to get! But it’s curious how some films live long in the memory while others just fade away (this blog of course exists for films that fade away). For instance, for all the high praise lavished upon the Paul Newman and Robert Redford pairing, it’s forgotten that Redford has actually made more movies with Jane Fonda (go on, I bet you can’t name more than one). Similarly the great chemistry of Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon was actually spread across three films. There was the magnificent and utterly unimpeachable ‘Some Like It Hot’, there was the really underwhelming and disappointing ‘The Great Race’ and then there was ‘French Leave’ – which sits more at ‘The Great Race’ end of the spectrum, but – given current events - is really worth taking another peek at.
Here’s the set up. On a promotional trip to France, married Hollywood star Tony Curtis encounters Italian sex kitten Claudia Cardinale and begins to pursue her for an affair. At much the same time, married French President Jack Lemmon (with a truly shocking accent, making Inspector Clouseau sound like he’s authentic to every tortured syllable) is introduced to Cardinale at a party and also tries to seduce her. The two men become aware of each other’s attentions and attempt to thwart each other at every turn, the grandeur of the French presidency put into conflict with the largesse of Hollywood as each vies to make Cardinale his bit on the side.
That’s right, they don’t want the gorgeous, delightful, pouting Claudia Cardinale to be their girlfriend or their wife – each man want hers to be his illicit mistress. The first time I saw this film it made me feel a bit “Uck!” This loud and brash farce where married men try to capture a woman to serve their sexual needs away from their wives, just felt like part of the swinging sixties we were happy to discard. The gender politics could be politely described as antediluvian. But looking at Francois Holland’s travails in the last few weeks has made me revisit ‘French Leave’. It seems that even today – even if you’re the socialist new broom there to clean up the system – it’s the done thing for French Presidents to keep mistresses. Mitterrand of course had his, there were always rumours about Chirac and now Holland finds himself an international scandal. (Not necessarily a national one though, the French press and the French public seem really accepting of this kind of thing. They just give a Gallic shrug and go back to their coffee and baguettes. Imagine, as a comparison, if this was David Cameron with a mistress and Sam Cameron in hospital after an overdose of sleeping pills. The tabloids would sing loud and ebullient praises to the god of mammon from the rooftops, and even Nick Robinson would tear out his remaining hair in excitement). On the other side of the coin nobody thinks movie stars are unimpeachable. It’s downright naïve to believe that Hollywood types don’t have affairs. And so suddenly this film, which I initially dismissed as a sexist relic of a less enlightened time, feels like it could be a free-wheeling docu-drama of NOW where the names have been changed to protect the guilty.
And if I’m honest it’s not that bad. I like Jack Lemmon a lot, but find he mugs too much in broad comedy (and I hate his over the top accent here, but I also hate his equally over the top accent in ‘The Great Race’). I like Tony Curtis a lot, but the laziness in his performance evident here would soon kill his big screen career. And in common with all straight men, I like Claudia Cardinale a lot and will not hear a word against her. So two thirds of the performances could be better, but Blake Edwards does execute the farce quite well. The old money of Versailles against the nouveau riche of Bel Air has good comic potential and everything gets bigger and bigger (if not necessarily that much funnier). It’s a very 1960s movie, which does have a few genuine laughs and has more to say about the morals and peccadillos of certain people today that I initially – in my prudish British way – realised.
Sunday 2 February 2014
The Scandalous Mrs Brooks (1947)
D. Robert Wise
Black & White
One of the joys of having studied English literature is that it gives you the skills to do perverse readings of texts. I remember in my student library there was a book which proved that ‘Alice In Wonderland’ was a rewriting of The Koran. The author had gone through Lewis Carroll’s classic line by line to prove categorically – and beyond doubt - that Alice’s adventures were a rewriting of that sacred text. Now obviously ‘Alice in Wonderland’ is not a reworking of ‘The Koran’, but you have to admire the gumption of the author for attempting it. Textually he had managed to make a convincing case, even though that case was palpable nonsense. It’s a great example of what mischievous things English students can pull off if they set their minds to it.
So what can I do with 1940s noir melodrama ‘The Scandalous Mrs Brooks’? A tale of the conniving and wily Rebecca Brooks and the trouble she gets herself into. Obviously this film is nothing to do with Rebekah Brooks – currently facing trial at the Old Bailey for what went on in Rupert Murdoch’s UK newspaper empire – but let’s just say, for fun and larks, that buried away there may be hints in this film as to her case.
For starters, the central character is played by Rita Hayworth, so even though we’re looking at black and white, we know that there’s a flame haired lioness at the centre. There’s the fact that a key part of the plot is driven by a conversation that Rebecca eavesdrops over an open telephone line. At her side is an ever supporting second husband (Paul Henreid, playing the role with his normal phenomenal lack of charisma) who when he realises the perfidy of his wife, does all he can to alter the evidence. And then there’s the ruthless investigator, Claude Rains, who Rebecca first tries to charm and then to bully and then stonewall completely. Okay, its set in the 1940s, in a large mansion and the main push factor is the inheritance of your actual gold mine, but there are good reasons why no UK TV channel has shown this in the last few months. Seeing a Rebecca Brooks wriggle and connive and scheme to get herself out of serious trouble, may make jurors stare a little more anxiously at the Rebekah Brooks they have in the dock.
But what could probably be the most damning moment (certainly for any cinephiles in the jury) is when the camera pans onto a photo of Rebecca’s late husband,, Mr Brooks. There he is, played in still image by Orson Welles. That’s right, she finds herself in this movie closely associated with the most famous/notorious media mogul in cinema – Charles Foster Kane himself. Okay, Orson Welles never spoke with an Australian accent, but it isn't too much of a mental leap from bullying and untouchable Kane to bullying and untouchable Murdoch. The way Orson is wrinkling his forehead even makes him look a little like Rupert (although a vastly more handsome version). So there you have it, lies and deception, eavesdropping and obfuscation, and – to top it all - close connections with legendary media moguls. There really are very good reasons why no TV channel has shown this film in the last few months.
Of course any woman would find herself flattered by a comparison to Rita Hayworth, but Rebekah should probably do her best to avoid this film for now. The ending ain’t pretty!
Black & White
One of the joys of having studied English literature is that it gives you the skills to do perverse readings of texts. I remember in my student library there was a book which proved that ‘Alice In Wonderland’ was a rewriting of The Koran. The author had gone through Lewis Carroll’s classic line by line to prove categorically – and beyond doubt - that Alice’s adventures were a rewriting of that sacred text. Now obviously ‘Alice in Wonderland’ is not a reworking of ‘The Koran’, but you have to admire the gumption of the author for attempting it. Textually he had managed to make a convincing case, even though that case was palpable nonsense. It’s a great example of what mischievous things English students can pull off if they set their minds to it.
So what can I do with 1940s noir melodrama ‘The Scandalous Mrs Brooks’? A tale of the conniving and wily Rebecca Brooks and the trouble she gets herself into. Obviously this film is nothing to do with Rebekah Brooks – currently facing trial at the Old Bailey for what went on in Rupert Murdoch’s UK newspaper empire – but let’s just say, for fun and larks, that buried away there may be hints in this film as to her case.
For starters, the central character is played by Rita Hayworth, so even though we’re looking at black and white, we know that there’s a flame haired lioness at the centre. There’s the fact that a key part of the plot is driven by a conversation that Rebecca eavesdrops over an open telephone line. At her side is an ever supporting second husband (Paul Henreid, playing the role with his normal phenomenal lack of charisma) who when he realises the perfidy of his wife, does all he can to alter the evidence. And then there’s the ruthless investigator, Claude Rains, who Rebecca first tries to charm and then to bully and then stonewall completely. Okay, its set in the 1940s, in a large mansion and the main push factor is the inheritance of your actual gold mine, but there are good reasons why no UK TV channel has shown this in the last few months. Seeing a Rebecca Brooks wriggle and connive and scheme to get herself out of serious trouble, may make jurors stare a little more anxiously at the Rebekah Brooks they have in the dock.
But what could probably be the most damning moment (certainly for any cinephiles in the jury) is when the camera pans onto a photo of Rebecca’s late husband,, Mr Brooks. There he is, played in still image by Orson Welles. That’s right, she finds herself in this movie closely associated with the most famous/notorious media mogul in cinema – Charles Foster Kane himself. Okay, Orson Welles never spoke with an Australian accent, but it isn't too much of a mental leap from bullying and untouchable Kane to bullying and untouchable Murdoch. The way Orson is wrinkling his forehead even makes him look a little like Rupert (although a vastly more handsome version). So there you have it, lies and deception, eavesdropping and obfuscation, and – to top it all - close connections with legendary media moguls. There really are very good reasons why no TV channel has shown this film in the last few months.
Of course any woman would find herself flattered by a comparison to Rita Hayworth, but Rebekah should probably do her best to avoid this film for now. The ending ain’t pretty!
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