D. Otto Van De Mille
Colour (although the sex scenes are in black & white, so we can pretend they’re art)
The first Sexy Goth Detective film was like an episode of ‘Columbo’, but the second one is like the weirdest episode of ‘Murder, She Wrote’ you’ll ever see. There’s the small town where everyone knows each other, the dramatic discovery of a body, a cavalcade of suspects, and one lone woman who is prying into everyone’s lives, rustling feathers and generally making sure she’s irritating as hell in her quest for the truth. But what differentiates this from Jessica Fletcher (or Jane Marple) is that this film screams modern.
And sexy.
Sexy and wild in a way that Jessica Fletcher never ever was.
(Well, maybe in her younger days).
The corpse of a 22 year old goth girl is pulled from the lake in the charmingly named town of Girdle. She was an outsider so her death isn’t investigated as thoroughly as it might be by the chief of police, but she has a friend driving to town determined that justice must be done. Enter Liddy D’Eath as the sexy goth detective – there to turn heads and cause discomfort in every way she can.
It really is a tour de force for both her and Von De Mille’s dialogue. All those scenes we’ve seen so many times before: the tense interrogation in the booth of a cafeteria; the leaning on a post office counter to interrogate a witness who is cagy as hell; the car chase on the dark country lanes outside the town; the screaming confrontation with the relative of the deceased who doesn’t think the detective is doing her right. All of that is here and all of it crackles. It of course helps that Liddy has gone full on goth for this, with every harsh line of make-up and elegantly torn piece of clothing screaming that she is part of an alternative culture.
Okay, this may sound tame as hell. “What happened to the edgy promise of the original sexy goth girls film?” you may ask. Well, to counter balance the softness we do have a small town femme fatale who Liddy falls hard for her and goes skinny dipping in the lake with before a long soft-focus sex scene. Those expecting a movie to watch over their cocoa will no doubt choke on their marshmallows at this point. It sticks out as much as a full blown S&M scene would in the middle of Cabot Cove. I’ve always said De Mille would be happier making porn and now he has.
The other characters aren’t well drawn and the plot has not only run away from the director by the end, but gone and hidden, yet thanks to a classy performance by the heroine this is a much watch.
Showing posts with label sexploitation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sexploitation. Show all posts
Sunday, 23 November 2014
Wednesday, 12 November 2014
Atom-Man!!!
D. Stanley Kirby
That really faded and dank colour I am constantly amused and depressed by in 1970s British films
So here we have the second of this week’s ‘man at the centre of a nuclear explosion isn’t blown into a million pieces as you’d expect, but instead absorbs the frightening powers of radiation and becomes something akin to a super man’ movies. The first was a tense, taut cold war thriller, hampered by the fact that the man on the run looked so blatantly suspicious it was like he had a big self-powered neon sign saying “Radioactive man here!” above his head.
So now we come to this, the more heroic and the more moronic version.
The first thing to notice is the date off release, 1978. That’s 19-fucking-78! What this is aiming for is the wild psychedelic James Bond spoof, of the kind that I’ve covered on this blog before. But all those films come from the late 1960s, when Bond-mania is at its height. There are very few of them after that, because James Bond movies started to aggressively spoof themselves – so that if you wanted ‘James Bond thriller’ and ‘spoof of James Bond thriller’ you only needed to buy the one ticket. 1978 is not the time of Bond spoofs
The second thing you immediately notice is who is playing our heroic lead, it’s Oliver Reed. That’s Oliver bloody Reed. I appreciate that after a career playing brooding and sinister outsiders, Oliver probably leapt at the chance of being an actual hero. He has the looks, he has a certain dash to him and he even appears to be sober. But there’s still something so menacing about him, a stillness that makes it seem like, even though he’s the hero, he’s considering randomly killing everyone else in the room.
Atom Man is a world hero who lives in London and has the secret identity of super spy, Gregory Smythe. Yes, the film really is having its greedy teenage geek’s birthday cake and stuffing its face full of it. But he faces a two pronged attack: the Russians have a ray that they hope will render Atom-Man powerless; AND there’s a secret agent who is going to seduce and make Gabriel Smythe switch sides. To be fair it’s more invested in the spy stuff as it actually doesn’t have the budget to do the super hero stuff, being set again and again in boring rooms and having Adam West-esque sound effects when Atom-Man throws a punch. It also has female nipples, which as far as cinema is concerned, were invented in 1969.
It’s interesting to watch this film next to Christopher Reeve’s Superman, which was released a few weeks earlier. One is top quality superhero antics which still resonates today, the other is a cheap British romp – which in its final run around in a nudist camp seems to just give up all pretence and admit to just being a cheap British romp. But in the anti-heroic performance of its hero, you can’t help thinking that there’s a far darker and weirder film completely untapped here. People speak of having a darker Batman, but no one thought of handing it to someone like Oliver Reed. Except that one day in the forgotten mists of cheap British movies, somebody actually did.
That really faded and dank colour I am constantly amused and depressed by in 1970s British films
So here we have the second of this week’s ‘man at the centre of a nuclear explosion isn’t blown into a million pieces as you’d expect, but instead absorbs the frightening powers of radiation and becomes something akin to a super man’ movies. The first was a tense, taut cold war thriller, hampered by the fact that the man on the run looked so blatantly suspicious it was like he had a big self-powered neon sign saying “Radioactive man here!” above his head.
So now we come to this, the more heroic and the more moronic version.
The first thing to notice is the date off release, 1978. That’s 19-fucking-78! What this is aiming for is the wild psychedelic James Bond spoof, of the kind that I’ve covered on this blog before. But all those films come from the late 1960s, when Bond-mania is at its height. There are very few of them after that, because James Bond movies started to aggressively spoof themselves – so that if you wanted ‘James Bond thriller’ and ‘spoof of James Bond thriller’ you only needed to buy the one ticket. 1978 is not the time of Bond spoofs
The second thing you immediately notice is who is playing our heroic lead, it’s Oliver Reed. That’s Oliver bloody Reed. I appreciate that after a career playing brooding and sinister outsiders, Oliver probably leapt at the chance of being an actual hero. He has the looks, he has a certain dash to him and he even appears to be sober. But there’s still something so menacing about him, a stillness that makes it seem like, even though he’s the hero, he’s considering randomly killing everyone else in the room.
Atom Man is a world hero who lives in London and has the secret identity of super spy, Gregory Smythe. Yes, the film really is having its greedy teenage geek’s birthday cake and stuffing its face full of it. But he faces a two pronged attack: the Russians have a ray that they hope will render Atom-Man powerless; AND there’s a secret agent who is going to seduce and make Gabriel Smythe switch sides. To be fair it’s more invested in the spy stuff as it actually doesn’t have the budget to do the super hero stuff, being set again and again in boring rooms and having Adam West-esque sound effects when Atom-Man throws a punch. It also has female nipples, which as far as cinema is concerned, were invented in 1969.
It’s interesting to watch this film next to Christopher Reeve’s Superman, which was released a few weeks earlier. One is top quality superhero antics which still resonates today, the other is a cheap British romp – which in its final run around in a nudist camp seems to just give up all pretence and admit to just being a cheap British romp. But in the anti-heroic performance of its hero, you can’t help thinking that there’s a far darker and weirder film completely untapped here. People speak of having a darker Batman, but no one thought of handing it to someone like Oliver Reed. Except that one day in the forgotten mists of cheap British movies, somebody actually did.
Wednesday, 10 September 2014
Hell-Dogs of the Full Moon (1972)
D. Horatio Jason
Colour
Having looked at ‘Malcolm on Wheels’ at the start of the week and made the point that British bikers are just far less scary than their American Hells Angel counterparts, I’m now going to make the point again by looking at perhaps THE scariest biker gang ever to grace American cinema. In ‘The Wild One’ Marlon Brando is asked what he’s rebelling against and famously responds with “Whadda you got?”. The Hell-Dogs of the Full Moon would see that as a weak and lily-livered answer. They aren’t just rebelling against what you’ve got, they’re rebelling against what you haven’t even thought of yet, what you haven’t even imagined. As this is not just the scariest biker gang in America (we’re told that more than once; so solid a fact is it within the film that I wonder if there was a little award ceremony where they received a plaque), but they’re actual werewolves.
Yes, werewolves.
Riding motorbikes.
Pretty cool, ay?
Interestingly this doesn’t follow the path of the normal werewolf film. In the normal werewolf film Lon Chaney is bitten and then strives against the rising animal urges within him. He is a human being, a civilised man and he doesn’t want the beast inside to take over. In the normal werewolf film the bite and the consequences thereof are terrible things to be fought against. Not here though, the Hell-Dogs of the Full Moon are werewolves and fucking proud!
So we get incredible scenes of them pulling into trailer parts just at dusk, waiting for the sun to go down and then sating their appetites with huge amounts of blood and violence. This is a tremendously gory and gruesome film. It’s also an incredibly sexist film, the women are either chicks who want to be with the gang, or else they’re meat to feed the gang – no other roles but lovers or snacks, both requiring very little clothing. It fits well within the film’s viewpoint though as we see everything through the eyes of the gang; we never see anybody pursuing them, we never see any of their victims until briefly before the attacks. This is all about the Hell-Dogs of the Full Moon and nothing but the Hell-Dogs of the Full Moon.
What defeats them is their own appetites, their own indulgences. The more they change, the harder it is to turn back and those more advanced in their lycanthropy end up on all fours scampering away into the woods, the part of them that was man totally lost. This does lead to a few scenes in daylight of men in werewolf make-up and leathers riding big motorbikes, and the filmmakers clearly don’t realise how funny a sight that is. But the message is that giving into your wildness means that your wildness subsumes you and you can never go back again. And the fact that they’re defeated by what’s within them, as opposed to some gunfight or narrative voodoo, makes this is a lot more subtle and clever a film than it pretends to be.
Colour
Having looked at ‘Malcolm on Wheels’ at the start of the week and made the point that British bikers are just far less scary than their American Hells Angel counterparts, I’m now going to make the point again by looking at perhaps THE scariest biker gang ever to grace American cinema. In ‘The Wild One’ Marlon Brando is asked what he’s rebelling against and famously responds with “Whadda you got?”. The Hell-Dogs of the Full Moon would see that as a weak and lily-livered answer. They aren’t just rebelling against what you’ve got, they’re rebelling against what you haven’t even thought of yet, what you haven’t even imagined. As this is not just the scariest biker gang in America (we’re told that more than once; so solid a fact is it within the film that I wonder if there was a little award ceremony where they received a plaque), but they’re actual werewolves.
Yes, werewolves.
Riding motorbikes.
Pretty cool, ay?
Interestingly this doesn’t follow the path of the normal werewolf film. In the normal werewolf film Lon Chaney is bitten and then strives against the rising animal urges within him. He is a human being, a civilised man and he doesn’t want the beast inside to take over. In the normal werewolf film the bite and the consequences thereof are terrible things to be fought against. Not here though, the Hell-Dogs of the Full Moon are werewolves and fucking proud!
So we get incredible scenes of them pulling into trailer parts just at dusk, waiting for the sun to go down and then sating their appetites with huge amounts of blood and violence. This is a tremendously gory and gruesome film. It’s also an incredibly sexist film, the women are either chicks who want to be with the gang, or else they’re meat to feed the gang – no other roles but lovers or snacks, both requiring very little clothing. It fits well within the film’s viewpoint though as we see everything through the eyes of the gang; we never see anybody pursuing them, we never see any of their victims until briefly before the attacks. This is all about the Hell-Dogs of the Full Moon and nothing but the Hell-Dogs of the Full Moon.
What defeats them is their own appetites, their own indulgences. The more they change, the harder it is to turn back and those more advanced in their lycanthropy end up on all fours scampering away into the woods, the part of them that was man totally lost. This does lead to a few scenes in daylight of men in werewolf make-up and leathers riding big motorbikes, and the filmmakers clearly don’t realise how funny a sight that is. But the message is that giving into your wildness means that your wildness subsumes you and you can never go back again. And the fact that they’re defeated by what’s within them, as opposed to some gunfight or narrative voodoo, makes this is a lot more subtle and clever a film than it pretends to be.
Sunday, 3 August 2014
Two Bouquets, Two Husbands , Only One Bride (1965)
D. Donald Howard
Colour
I got married yesterday!
There’s a fairly loud statement with which to begin a blog-post, but it’s true. I am now a married man.
The thing is though, that I’m writing this piece far in advance as I need a buffer to keep this blog chugging merrily along while I head off on honeymoon, so as I type this I’m not actually married at all. I’m writing in the past tense about things which haven’t actually happened yet. But all will be fine and by the time you read this I will be married and nursing my post-bash hangover with my gorgeous, young bride.
Anyway, this seems a perfect opportunity to look at some of the interesting wedding movies out there.
Why don’t we try this one on for size?
Kenneth Williams and Sid James both finding themselves married to Jayne Mansfield?
A preposterous idea, you say?
It happened on the big screen, my friend.
Kenneth Williams and Sid James were never a comedy double act, in fact they didn’t even really like each other that much (although that actually makes them sound a lot like most comedy double acts). But I can see how the American producers of this British production may have got the impression that they were a comedy double act. They offer a nice line in contrasts: James wiry, tough and wrinkled, against Williams’ smooth, slight figure; James’ crudeness against Williams’ fastidious prissiness; James’ dirty, salt of the earth cackle, against Williams head thrown back, nostrils flared, superior howl of laughter. This movie was an attempt to throw a budget behind them and make them a proper double act, and to really give it zing, faded glamour-puss Jayne Mansfield – the woman who practically coined the word ‘pneumatic’* – was flown over from The States. Her name is obviously the big drawer on the poster, but it truly wasn’t really that big a deal, by this point she was well into the ‘will do anything for money’ phase of her career.
Mansfield is an American gold-digger who simultaneously marries Williams’ spoilt and effete aristocrat, and James’ scrap metal dealer made good. It’s then high farce of the doors slamming, compromising situations, rushed excuses and arms well and truly flailing kind, as she tries to keep them from finding out about each other. When they get suspicious that she’s just in this for their money, all it takes is the innocent wide eyes to Williams, and a sultry pose to James and they’re wrapped back around her little finger again. (I’m sure you can picture it: Williams gurning with excitement and amazement at his bride; James giving his biggest lascivious grin). The real problems come though when she realises she’s fallen in love with both of them.
This could have been a great bawdy 60s farce, but really it’s just not that funny. It relies on the chemistry of the leads to paper over the fact that there aren’t that many good lines, and then doesn’t put the leads together often enough to make it work. Anyone who has seen a later Carry On film will know how good James and Williams are at scraping thin samples of life off even the most stale and putrid material, so it’s galling that most of what we would loosely describe at the best lines go to Mansfield. Really, you don’t want Jayne Mansfield to be your main comic force, her talents rise and fall much more in decoration.
Maybe Williams/James could have become international stars in the Martin/Lewis mould, but it seems odd to think of them in Bel-Air, sipping cocktails and winning honorary Oscars. Theirs is a lot more pleasant, down at heal glamour. This film went nowhere (earning less and being substantially poorer in quality than the same year’s ‘Carry on Cowboy’). They may have been disappointed, but I’m glad things went this way, as they were always a better fit for a nice pair of slippers and a pint of stout at the BBC and Thames TV.
* It was either her or Aldous Huxley, I always get those two mixed up.
Colour
I got married yesterday!
There’s a fairly loud statement with which to begin a blog-post, but it’s true. I am now a married man.
The thing is though, that I’m writing this piece far in advance as I need a buffer to keep this blog chugging merrily along while I head off on honeymoon, so as I type this I’m not actually married at all. I’m writing in the past tense about things which haven’t actually happened yet. But all will be fine and by the time you read this I will be married and nursing my post-bash hangover with my gorgeous, young bride.
Anyway, this seems a perfect opportunity to look at some of the interesting wedding movies out there.
Why don’t we try this one on for size?
Kenneth Williams and Sid James both finding themselves married to Jayne Mansfield?
A preposterous idea, you say?
It happened on the big screen, my friend.
Kenneth Williams and Sid James were never a comedy double act, in fact they didn’t even really like each other that much (although that actually makes them sound a lot like most comedy double acts). But I can see how the American producers of this British production may have got the impression that they were a comedy double act. They offer a nice line in contrasts: James wiry, tough and wrinkled, against Williams’ smooth, slight figure; James’ crudeness against Williams’ fastidious prissiness; James’ dirty, salt of the earth cackle, against Williams head thrown back, nostrils flared, superior howl of laughter. This movie was an attempt to throw a budget behind them and make them a proper double act, and to really give it zing, faded glamour-puss Jayne Mansfield – the woman who practically coined the word ‘pneumatic’* – was flown over from The States. Her name is obviously the big drawer on the poster, but it truly wasn’t really that big a deal, by this point she was well into the ‘will do anything for money’ phase of her career.
Mansfield is an American gold-digger who simultaneously marries Williams’ spoilt and effete aristocrat, and James’ scrap metal dealer made good. It’s then high farce of the doors slamming, compromising situations, rushed excuses and arms well and truly flailing kind, as she tries to keep them from finding out about each other. When they get suspicious that she’s just in this for their money, all it takes is the innocent wide eyes to Williams, and a sultry pose to James and they’re wrapped back around her little finger again. (I’m sure you can picture it: Williams gurning with excitement and amazement at his bride; James giving his biggest lascivious grin). The real problems come though when she realises she’s fallen in love with both of them.
This could have been a great bawdy 60s farce, but really it’s just not that funny. It relies on the chemistry of the leads to paper over the fact that there aren’t that many good lines, and then doesn’t put the leads together often enough to make it work. Anyone who has seen a later Carry On film will know how good James and Williams are at scraping thin samples of life off even the most stale and putrid material, so it’s galling that most of what we would loosely describe at the best lines go to Mansfield. Really, you don’t want Jayne Mansfield to be your main comic force, her talents rise and fall much more in decoration.
Maybe Williams/James could have become international stars in the Martin/Lewis mould, but it seems odd to think of them in Bel-Air, sipping cocktails and winning honorary Oscars. Theirs is a lot more pleasant, down at heal glamour. This film went nowhere (earning less and being substantially poorer in quality than the same year’s ‘Carry on Cowboy’). They may have been disappointed, but I’m glad things went this way, as they were always a better fit for a nice pair of slippers and a pint of stout at the BBC and Thames TV.
* It was either her or Aldous Huxley, I always get those two mixed up.
Sunday, 13 July 2014
The Dracula Twins (1965)
D. Norman Taurog
Colour
I remember as a small child being fascinated by the Hammer Horror film ‘Twins of Evil’. I hadn’t actually seen the movie, but it had been adapted as a comic strip in a horror annual I owned. For those who don’t know it, it’s a gothic set tale of twin raven-haired beauties who become vampires and attack their community. I didn’t realise as a small child that the twins were Mary Collinson and Madeleine Collinson, the first identical twins to appear in a Playboy centre-fold. Nor did I realise until I actually saw the film quite how much nudity there was (although a lot of the violence was included in this comic version for kids). Certainly I didn’t realise how bad the actual film was. The acting is poor, the sets are cheap, the script abysmal and not even the great Peter Cushing can save it.
All in all a bit of a disappointment then, but as an adult I heard about a film called ‘The Dracula Twins’ and for a moment my heart skipped a beat as I thought that maybe – just maybe – I’d found the great twin-centric vampire film I’d been hunting for most of my life.
Made six years before ‘Twins of Evil’, this movie sees another seemingly cut-off community where two young twin sisters, at their most attractively ripe, are turned suddenly into vampires and terrorise those around them. There’s probably even more gore in this than there is ‘Twins of Evil’, certainly lot of that bright red stuff that used to pass for blood in 1960s movies. But oddly, rather than an oppressive European atmosphere, this actually tries for a lighter tone; including comedy, jokes and even a musical number. You see the whole thing is set in Malibu and plays like one of those old Annette/Frankie beach movies, but one where – amidst the Pina Coladas – gruesome, painful death is never far away. That’s a little jarring in itself, but what made my excited heart sink further was the realisation of who is playing the twins.
Yes, it’s Raquel Welch.
Yes, she’s playing both of them.
That really was a blow to the stomach, as Ms Welch is frequently unconvincing in films where she’s called upon to play just one person, let alone two. And somehow, a film about vampires at the beach, didn’t seem like it would be one that would tap into hitherto unseen thespian skills. She plays Margo and Chantel, two gorgeous (although suspiciously mature) teenagers who look great in bikinis. One wears a blue bikini and one wears a red; while one has her hair over her left shoulder and the other favours the right. This isn’t Jeremy Irons in ‘Dead Ringers’ though, even the most perceptive viewer will have difficulty telling the two Raquels apart. After being attacked one night, they became predators in the beach community, both heading out after dark to kill their prey.
This truly is a mess of a movie, too gory to be funny and not funny enough on its own terms anyway. Welch’s favourite pose is to stare with her eyes wide and her lips slightly apart, but that isn’t enough to look truly seductive or truly sexy, and certainly not enough to differentiate one character let alone two.
Another disappointment then, but at least people like me who are hunting down bloodsucking twins films, can cross it off the list.
Colour
I remember as a small child being fascinated by the Hammer Horror film ‘Twins of Evil’. I hadn’t actually seen the movie, but it had been adapted as a comic strip in a horror annual I owned. For those who don’t know it, it’s a gothic set tale of twin raven-haired beauties who become vampires and attack their community. I didn’t realise as a small child that the twins were Mary Collinson and Madeleine Collinson, the first identical twins to appear in a Playboy centre-fold. Nor did I realise until I actually saw the film quite how much nudity there was (although a lot of the violence was included in this comic version for kids). Certainly I didn’t realise how bad the actual film was. The acting is poor, the sets are cheap, the script abysmal and not even the great Peter Cushing can save it.
All in all a bit of a disappointment then, but as an adult I heard about a film called ‘The Dracula Twins’ and for a moment my heart skipped a beat as I thought that maybe – just maybe – I’d found the great twin-centric vampire film I’d been hunting for most of my life.
Made six years before ‘Twins of Evil’, this movie sees another seemingly cut-off community where two young twin sisters, at their most attractively ripe, are turned suddenly into vampires and terrorise those around them. There’s probably even more gore in this than there is ‘Twins of Evil’, certainly lot of that bright red stuff that used to pass for blood in 1960s movies. But oddly, rather than an oppressive European atmosphere, this actually tries for a lighter tone; including comedy, jokes and even a musical number. You see the whole thing is set in Malibu and plays like one of those old Annette/Frankie beach movies, but one where – amidst the Pina Coladas – gruesome, painful death is never far away. That’s a little jarring in itself, but what made my excited heart sink further was the realisation of who is playing the twins.
Yes, it’s Raquel Welch.
Yes, she’s playing both of them.
That really was a blow to the stomach, as Ms Welch is frequently unconvincing in films where she’s called upon to play just one person, let alone two. And somehow, a film about vampires at the beach, didn’t seem like it would be one that would tap into hitherto unseen thespian skills. She plays Margo and Chantel, two gorgeous (although suspiciously mature) teenagers who look great in bikinis. One wears a blue bikini and one wears a red; while one has her hair over her left shoulder and the other favours the right. This isn’t Jeremy Irons in ‘Dead Ringers’ though, even the most perceptive viewer will have difficulty telling the two Raquels apart. After being attacked one night, they became predators in the beach community, both heading out after dark to kill their prey.
This truly is a mess of a movie, too gory to be funny and not funny enough on its own terms anyway. Welch’s favourite pose is to stare with her eyes wide and her lips slightly apart, but that isn’t enough to look truly seductive or truly sexy, and certainly not enough to differentiate one character let alone two.
Another disappointment then, but at least people like me who are hunting down bloodsucking twins films, can cross it off the list.
Sunday, 22 June 2014
Runaway! (1970)
D. Michael Winner
Colour (but a really washed out colour, as if it woke up hung-over that morning)
Reading Robert Galbrath/J.K. Rowling's tale of a down on his luck private eye in Soho, reminded me with sudden incredible clarity (like I’d just eaten a madeleine) of this neglected Michael Caine private eye movie. And that memory gave me particular satisfaction when I realised that Caine's character is actually named - and I'm not making this up - Barry Potter. Not that I’m suggesting for one second that Rowling based either of her recurring characters on this film. Having read ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’, Michael Caine certainly isn’t Comoran Strike. Admittedly I’ve only seen the Harry Potter films rather than read the books, but unless there’s something in the novels about the teen wizard having a porn collection and liking rough sex, he’s not a student of Hogwarts either.
This is a tale about a down on his luck London private eye, but Comoran Strike has nothing on Barry Potter for rough living. Yes, both sleep in their offices and squander their money on booze and fags, but Strike doesn't steal a tenner from the elderly lady upstairs for electric metre money. Nor does he effectively mug a homeless man when said homeless man is cheeky. Nor, indeed, does he steal a chip from a nun in a chip-shop before suggesting flirtatiously that he remove her from the habit. There is an aggressive unpleasantness and seediness to this character - the anti-anti-anti-Philip Marlowe. It's almost as if the filmmakers looked at Caine as Harry Palmer and decided that he was still just too upwardly mobile for their tastes, it was time to bring him down several dirty and greasy pegs. And Caine relishes the part, clearly on paper this is an unpleasant man, but our favourite cockney knight uses all his charm to make sure he still deserves to be the hero.
Philip Marlowe is undoubtedly a (much more noble) background presence, as the plot isn’t far off Raymond Chandler's ‘The Little Sister’ (which had been filmed far more glamorously in Hollywood a few years earlier). A prim librarian type seeks out Potter's help to find her missing sibling, who’s disappeared into the Soho netherworld of strip clubs and pornographers. Before long Potter finds himself up to his neck in sleaze (not necessarily a problem, Potter admits to liking “a bit of naughty”), and murder (more of a problem, particularly when he finds himself the prime suspect). It's up to Potter to stay one step ahead of the police as he tries to solve the crime.
The audience stayed away en mass, which is why the British tough guy Michael Caine picture people remember from the early 1970s is ‘Get Carter’ and that’s fair enough as it’s much stronger and looks far better. However good performances abound: from Ray Milland as a disgraced former copper with an accent so very, very Welsh (so much so I couldn’t work out whether he was putting it on or that was indeed his real accent), surprise guest-star Frankie Avalon, hamming it up as a would be gangster even when he looks a little lost in seedy London, and most astonishing of all Cilla Black – of all people – as a hard as nails prostitute. If those punters who stood excited at her side in the ‘Blind Date’ and ‘Surprise, Surprise’ years had watched this, they’d probably have come armed.
(Casting Director-wise, the movie credits one Phyllis Dunfield, who clearly had a very left-field mind that’s hard not to admire.)
The Rowling/Galbrath book is better, as despite a not bad cast and a suitably muddy storyline, this is a film which – even with Sir Michael’s efforts – is so seedy and depressive it leaves you wanting to have a good scrub down afterwards.
Colour (but a really washed out colour, as if it woke up hung-over that morning)
Reading Robert Galbrath/J.K. Rowling's tale of a down on his luck private eye in Soho, reminded me with sudden incredible clarity (like I’d just eaten a madeleine) of this neglected Michael Caine private eye movie. And that memory gave me particular satisfaction when I realised that Caine's character is actually named - and I'm not making this up - Barry Potter. Not that I’m suggesting for one second that Rowling based either of her recurring characters on this film. Having read ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’, Michael Caine certainly isn’t Comoran Strike. Admittedly I’ve only seen the Harry Potter films rather than read the books, but unless there’s something in the novels about the teen wizard having a porn collection and liking rough sex, he’s not a student of Hogwarts either.
This is a tale about a down on his luck London private eye, but Comoran Strike has nothing on Barry Potter for rough living. Yes, both sleep in their offices and squander their money on booze and fags, but Strike doesn't steal a tenner from the elderly lady upstairs for electric metre money. Nor does he effectively mug a homeless man when said homeless man is cheeky. Nor, indeed, does he steal a chip from a nun in a chip-shop before suggesting flirtatiously that he remove her from the habit. There is an aggressive unpleasantness and seediness to this character - the anti-anti-anti-Philip Marlowe. It's almost as if the filmmakers looked at Caine as Harry Palmer and decided that he was still just too upwardly mobile for their tastes, it was time to bring him down several dirty and greasy pegs. And Caine relishes the part, clearly on paper this is an unpleasant man, but our favourite cockney knight uses all his charm to make sure he still deserves to be the hero.
Philip Marlowe is undoubtedly a (much more noble) background presence, as the plot isn’t far off Raymond Chandler's ‘The Little Sister’ (which had been filmed far more glamorously in Hollywood a few years earlier). A prim librarian type seeks out Potter's help to find her missing sibling, who’s disappeared into the Soho netherworld of strip clubs and pornographers. Before long Potter finds himself up to his neck in sleaze (not necessarily a problem, Potter admits to liking “a bit of naughty”), and murder (more of a problem, particularly when he finds himself the prime suspect). It's up to Potter to stay one step ahead of the police as he tries to solve the crime.
The audience stayed away en mass, which is why the British tough guy Michael Caine picture people remember from the early 1970s is ‘Get Carter’ and that’s fair enough as it’s much stronger and looks far better. However good performances abound: from Ray Milland as a disgraced former copper with an accent so very, very Welsh (so much so I couldn’t work out whether he was putting it on or that was indeed his real accent), surprise guest-star Frankie Avalon, hamming it up as a would be gangster even when he looks a little lost in seedy London, and most astonishing of all Cilla Black – of all people – as a hard as nails prostitute. If those punters who stood excited at her side in the ‘Blind Date’ and ‘Surprise, Surprise’ years had watched this, they’d probably have come armed.
(Casting Director-wise, the movie credits one Phyllis Dunfield, who clearly had a very left-field mind that’s hard not to admire.)
The Rowling/Galbrath book is better, as despite a not bad cast and a suitably muddy storyline, this is a film which – even with Sir Michael’s efforts – is so seedy and depressive it leaves you wanting to have a good scrub down afterwards.
Wednesday, 18 June 2014
Statuesque (2007)
D. Bertrand Shore
Colour
The most decorative part of ‘Mad Men’ these days is Jessica Paré. I mean that both in the sense that she's lovely to look at, but also she’s the lady the programme clearly has the most lascivious interest in. Yes there’s Christina Hendricks and her bosom, and there's the trim figure of January Jones - but Jessica Paré is the actress most likely to strip down to her underwear, or a bikini, and have the camera linger licking its lens-like lips over her shapely form. Obviously the thing with having a young trophy wife is that she should be attractive and willing to show herself off, but it's not only Don who enjoys her, it's the show itself. In fact we’re all guilty, as she's put there on camera for the audience to ogle and – yes – we duly ogle. And as much as I love ‘Mad Men’, I can't help thinking that her character suffers a little through her being so decorative, as sometimes she's not there to add weight to a scene, she’s just there to appear in her bra and knickers.
I guess though the actress is used to it as earlier in her career she appeared in this strange portmanteau spin on the mythic legend of Pygmalion. In a role which must have sounded distinctly weird when her agent described it to her, she plays an ancient Greek statue in a fusty old museum, which actually comes to life when someone sees her and most desires and needs it. So older divorced businessman Elliot Gould gets to take her – her wearing only a slip of a dress – to an event in an art gallery, where he gets to show her (and her lovely, slim legs) off to his workmates who think he's more ancient than a dinosaur fart. Gould to be fair though doesn't require any more than a quick smack on the lips from his Greek goddess. Heather Graham though is a nervous bi-curious girl who has had her heart broken by too many men and needs some company. A girly afternoon of course becomes something hotter and heavier (Heather Graham is another highly objectified actress, with filmmakers seeming to adore pressing her against other girls); while finally Joseph Fiennes overacts horrendously as a mad theatre director who needs a night of sheer naked passion to unleash his genius.
This ridiculously over-qualified cast elevates it above what it really should be, which is of course porn. Indeed the audience most likely to gravitate towards this might be a tad disappointed, as when things do get steamy it’s all decidedly soft-core. Without a doubt though it’s a highly sexist film, and at the centre of this sexism is Jessica Paré – who is simply there to be ogled and lusted over through every frame. She’s literally a doll that comes to life, a perfectly carved pieced of marble which springs into existence when somebody is sad and needy enough to desire her soft and feminine touch. Once alive she can be dressed however the beholder wants, and then undressed on demand. In no way is she a real character, certainly not a real woman and, really, the whole thing is a tad depressing.
Of course it's seedy, of course it's objectifying – but is it really so massively different to Mad Men's approach to the actress?
Colour
The most decorative part of ‘Mad Men’ these days is Jessica Paré. I mean that both in the sense that she's lovely to look at, but also she’s the lady the programme clearly has the most lascivious interest in. Yes there’s Christina Hendricks and her bosom, and there's the trim figure of January Jones - but Jessica Paré is the actress most likely to strip down to her underwear, or a bikini, and have the camera linger licking its lens-like lips over her shapely form. Obviously the thing with having a young trophy wife is that she should be attractive and willing to show herself off, but it's not only Don who enjoys her, it's the show itself. In fact we’re all guilty, as she's put there on camera for the audience to ogle and – yes – we duly ogle. And as much as I love ‘Mad Men’, I can't help thinking that her character suffers a little through her being so decorative, as sometimes she's not there to add weight to a scene, she’s just there to appear in her bra and knickers.
I guess though the actress is used to it as earlier in her career she appeared in this strange portmanteau spin on the mythic legend of Pygmalion. In a role which must have sounded distinctly weird when her agent described it to her, she plays an ancient Greek statue in a fusty old museum, which actually comes to life when someone sees her and most desires and needs it. So older divorced businessman Elliot Gould gets to take her – her wearing only a slip of a dress – to an event in an art gallery, where he gets to show her (and her lovely, slim legs) off to his workmates who think he's more ancient than a dinosaur fart. Gould to be fair though doesn't require any more than a quick smack on the lips from his Greek goddess. Heather Graham though is a nervous bi-curious girl who has had her heart broken by too many men and needs some company. A girly afternoon of course becomes something hotter and heavier (Heather Graham is another highly objectified actress, with filmmakers seeming to adore pressing her against other girls); while finally Joseph Fiennes overacts horrendously as a mad theatre director who needs a night of sheer naked passion to unleash his genius.
This ridiculously over-qualified cast elevates it above what it really should be, which is of course porn. Indeed the audience most likely to gravitate towards this might be a tad disappointed, as when things do get steamy it’s all decidedly soft-core. Without a doubt though it’s a highly sexist film, and at the centre of this sexism is Jessica Paré – who is simply there to be ogled and lusted over through every frame. She’s literally a doll that comes to life, a perfectly carved pieced of marble which springs into existence when somebody is sad and needy enough to desire her soft and feminine touch. Once alive she can be dressed however the beholder wants, and then undressed on demand. In no way is she a real character, certainly not a real woman and, really, the whole thing is a tad depressing.
Of course it's seedy, of course it's objectifying – but is it really so massively different to Mad Men's approach to the actress?
Sunday, 4 May 2014
Agent Marie Lautrec (1964)
D. André Hunebelle
Colour
I’ve read in other guides that this is a French James Bond imitation/spoof, but surely it has as much to do with OSS 117 as it does with 007. We might not want to admit it in our smug Anglo-Saxon way, but Hubert Bonisseur de La Bath actually precedes James Bond in both books and films – so maybe we should salute the French for their own originality in this regard. Although given the popularity of the two franchises, let’s make it a small salute. I can see though why the James Bond element is concentrated on more than anything else; as in this zany, Technicolor, bright, loud, flashy and explosive film, we have not only the over the top quality of 1960s Bond spoofs, but also how untethered from reality and ridiculous James Bond would himself become.
Brigitte Bardot, here the sex symbol to end all sex symbols, is our title character: the stunning, super, secret-agent Marie Lautrec. We know how brilliant she is as everybody in the (unnamed) French secret service keeps telling us. However from watching the film, it seems that her main talent is wearing lots of ridiculously tight and skimpy outfits. There she is doing some espionage work while dressed as a French maid (or maybe in the context of this film, just a maid), a Catholic school girl, in a ridiculously low-cut top and tight shorts as a cow-girl, and even for a brief scene as the kind of dominatrix who would give Emma Peel a run for her money. Beyond taking the odd covert picture or listening in to other people’s conversations, there’s little in the way of espionage involved. But hey, ‘Diamonds are Forever’ or ‘Moonraker’ weren’t likely to be shown as MI6 training films either.
The plot is similarly full of Bond spoof ludicrousness, involving as it does flies with cameras on their backs, de-thawed hibernating Nazis who just can’t get their feet warm, robotic dragons piloted by midgets and an attempt to crash the moon into North America. It’s all stupendously and utterly bonkers. This is a movie which would look at the concept of a mad, bald super villain living in a hollowed out volcano and decide it wanted to steer away from such social realism. But then ‘Agent Marie Lautrec’ doesn’t want you to concentrate on the plot, it exists for loud colours, cackling villains and Brigitte Bardot pouting and playing with her hair while dressed in very little.
But elsewhere in the movie we have the odd contrast of the lovely French chanteuse, Francoise Hardy, as a colleague of Bardot’s and a possible double agent. In the restraint of her performance, in how demure her outfits are in comparison with the star, we have a glimpse of a whole other film.
Whereas Bardot is predicting Bond at its most unrestrained, Hardy seems to want to play a part in a particularly dour John Le Carre adaptation. Her more reigned in performance slows the film down and the scenes between her and Bardot are absolutely beautiful. Yes, its style clashing with brassiness, but it’s also that rare moment when the film allows itself to breathe, giving us something actually tense and interesting. Predictably these scenes also have a distinct lesbian edge, which at the time I thought it might just be the French being the French, although as we’ll see in the next film – it was a trait 1960s female-led adventure films seemed really eager to explore.
Colour
I’ve read in other guides that this is a French James Bond imitation/spoof, but surely it has as much to do with OSS 117 as it does with 007. We might not want to admit it in our smug Anglo-Saxon way, but Hubert Bonisseur de La Bath actually precedes James Bond in both books and films – so maybe we should salute the French for their own originality in this regard. Although given the popularity of the two franchises, let’s make it a small salute. I can see though why the James Bond element is concentrated on more than anything else; as in this zany, Technicolor, bright, loud, flashy and explosive film, we have not only the over the top quality of 1960s Bond spoofs, but also how untethered from reality and ridiculous James Bond would himself become.
Brigitte Bardot, here the sex symbol to end all sex symbols, is our title character: the stunning, super, secret-agent Marie Lautrec. We know how brilliant she is as everybody in the (unnamed) French secret service keeps telling us. However from watching the film, it seems that her main talent is wearing lots of ridiculously tight and skimpy outfits. There she is doing some espionage work while dressed as a French maid (or maybe in the context of this film, just a maid), a Catholic school girl, in a ridiculously low-cut top and tight shorts as a cow-girl, and even for a brief scene as the kind of dominatrix who would give Emma Peel a run for her money. Beyond taking the odd covert picture or listening in to other people’s conversations, there’s little in the way of espionage involved. But hey, ‘Diamonds are Forever’ or ‘Moonraker’ weren’t likely to be shown as MI6 training films either.
The plot is similarly full of Bond spoof ludicrousness, involving as it does flies with cameras on their backs, de-thawed hibernating Nazis who just can’t get their feet warm, robotic dragons piloted by midgets and an attempt to crash the moon into North America. It’s all stupendously and utterly bonkers. This is a movie which would look at the concept of a mad, bald super villain living in a hollowed out volcano and decide it wanted to steer away from such social realism. But then ‘Agent Marie Lautrec’ doesn’t want you to concentrate on the plot, it exists for loud colours, cackling villains and Brigitte Bardot pouting and playing with her hair while dressed in very little.
But elsewhere in the movie we have the odd contrast of the lovely French chanteuse, Francoise Hardy, as a colleague of Bardot’s and a possible double agent. In the restraint of her performance, in how demure her outfits are in comparison with the star, we have a glimpse of a whole other film.
Whereas Bardot is predicting Bond at its most unrestrained, Hardy seems to want to play a part in a particularly dour John Le Carre adaptation. Her more reigned in performance slows the film down and the scenes between her and Bardot are absolutely beautiful. Yes, its style clashing with brassiness, but it’s also that rare moment when the film allows itself to breathe, giving us something actually tense and interesting. Predictably these scenes also have a distinct lesbian edge, which at the time I thought it might just be the French being the French, although as we’ll see in the next film – it was a trait 1960s female-led adventure films seemed really eager to explore.
Wednesday, 9 April 2014
To Hunt A Victim (1992)
D. George Armitage
Colour
I’d say that right now Micky Rourke is our most endurably eccentric movie star. The long hair, the ludicrous muscles, the fact his face resembles a teak cabinet which has unaccountably learned to speak, the army of Chihuahuas he keeps to do his unholy bidding. All of this adds up to an impressive hand of quirks which I don’t think anyone still making major motion pictures can match. But even in the more handsome, early nineties, tail-end of his heyday, his eccentricity was always really close to the surface. Here he is as a Los Angeles detective, one of those guys in a not so good suit and a not so good car, trying to make a decent living as a knight in shining armour. He is a modern day Philip Marlowe or a Lew Archer. (Actually, the young Mickey Rourke would have made a great Lew Archer, and a new Lew Archer is something the world needs. After all, if you take on Philip Marlowe you have to contend with Humphrey Bogart, but with Lew Archer you only have to go toe to toe with Paul Newman.) His name is Peter Locque, and he works the mean streets of Los Angeles. Except Locque has a crucial difference to set him apart from Marlowe and Archer, he hails from Provence, and that allows Rourke to spend the whole film working on the most ludicrous French accent heard since Peter Sellers’ passing. As I said, the eccentricity has never been that far from the surface.
Rourke is hired by the widow of a California land owner, Diane Ladd, to find her wayward daughter, Sherilyn Fenn. This being an early nineties Micky Rourke film, it isn’t long at all before things are getting very hot and heavy, with Rourke and Fenn finding themselves nude and locked in slow-mo artful love-making of the most soft focus kind. And that’s before her troubled friend, Erika Eleniak, gets involved. Fenn is tied in with hard-nosed gangster, the great J.T. Walsh, and it isn’t long before murder occurs and Rourke has to move quickly to clear her name. Amongst those who Rourke has to face off against on his search for the truth are such semi-forgotten luminaries as George Segal, Valerie Perrine, George Takei, Sandra Lockhart and most surreally of all, former Doctor Who, Sylvester McCoy – who is great fun as a particularly cantankerous Scottish librarian. Possibly his appearance is there just to balance things out; saying to the audience that if you think the guy playing the detective is eccentric in this movie, wait until you see who’s in charge of the library.
All the way through Rourke gives us “bonjour”, “merci”, “mon cheri” and even a camply enthusiastic “ooh la la”. The result is to make his detective seem part Lew Archer, part Philip Marlowe, but with a sizeable dash of Hercule Poirot. Probably the presence of the far superior ‘Angel Heart’ persuaded Rourke to take this direction with his accent, to differentiate it from the earlier film. If we’re honest ‘To Hunt A Victim’ isn’t a patch on ‘Angel Heart’, but what could have been your bog-standard early 90s noir thriller – with the predictable lashings of nudity and violence – becomes in the crisp and clear direction of Armitage, and the wonderful over the top eccentricity of the star, something really strange and special indeed.
Colour
I’d say that right now Micky Rourke is our most endurably eccentric movie star. The long hair, the ludicrous muscles, the fact his face resembles a teak cabinet which has unaccountably learned to speak, the army of Chihuahuas he keeps to do his unholy bidding. All of this adds up to an impressive hand of quirks which I don’t think anyone still making major motion pictures can match. But even in the more handsome, early nineties, tail-end of his heyday, his eccentricity was always really close to the surface. Here he is as a Los Angeles detective, one of those guys in a not so good suit and a not so good car, trying to make a decent living as a knight in shining armour. He is a modern day Philip Marlowe or a Lew Archer. (Actually, the young Mickey Rourke would have made a great Lew Archer, and a new Lew Archer is something the world needs. After all, if you take on Philip Marlowe you have to contend with Humphrey Bogart, but with Lew Archer you only have to go toe to toe with Paul Newman.) His name is Peter Locque, and he works the mean streets of Los Angeles. Except Locque has a crucial difference to set him apart from Marlowe and Archer, he hails from Provence, and that allows Rourke to spend the whole film working on the most ludicrous French accent heard since Peter Sellers’ passing. As I said, the eccentricity has never been that far from the surface.
Rourke is hired by the widow of a California land owner, Diane Ladd, to find her wayward daughter, Sherilyn Fenn. This being an early nineties Micky Rourke film, it isn’t long at all before things are getting very hot and heavy, with Rourke and Fenn finding themselves nude and locked in slow-mo artful love-making of the most soft focus kind. And that’s before her troubled friend, Erika Eleniak, gets involved. Fenn is tied in with hard-nosed gangster, the great J.T. Walsh, and it isn’t long before murder occurs and Rourke has to move quickly to clear her name. Amongst those who Rourke has to face off against on his search for the truth are such semi-forgotten luminaries as George Segal, Valerie Perrine, George Takei, Sandra Lockhart and most surreally of all, former Doctor Who, Sylvester McCoy – who is great fun as a particularly cantankerous Scottish librarian. Possibly his appearance is there just to balance things out; saying to the audience that if you think the guy playing the detective is eccentric in this movie, wait until you see who’s in charge of the library.
All the way through Rourke gives us “bonjour”, “merci”, “mon cheri” and even a camply enthusiastic “ooh la la”. The result is to make his detective seem part Lew Archer, part Philip Marlowe, but with a sizeable dash of Hercule Poirot. Probably the presence of the far superior ‘Angel Heart’ persuaded Rourke to take this direction with his accent, to differentiate it from the earlier film. If we’re honest ‘To Hunt A Victim’ isn’t a patch on ‘Angel Heart’, but what could have been your bog-standard early 90s noir thriller – with the predictable lashings of nudity and violence – becomes in the crisp and clear direction of Armitage, and the wonderful over the top eccentricity of the star, something really strange and special indeed.
Sunday, 19 January 2014
Blue Moon Over Soho (1977)
D. Jack Gold
Colour
I always want to like this film more. The three times now that I’ve seen it, I’ve always wished I could find a way to take this film more to my heart. After all, what’s not to like? We have David Hemmings (already distinctly portly after his sixties prime) running a pornography empire in Soho, and after he tries to help a young girl, finding himself being investigated by uptight cop, Albert Finney. Elsewhere we have Patrick MacNee (John Steed of all people) as a strip-show obsessed English gentleman, and Helen Mirren as a tabloid journalist who has more than a little interest in the seedier side of life. I look at that mixture, and say what’s not to love? Surely this should be one of my favourite films. Why then isn’t it?
The flaw can be described in two words “Robin Askwith”.
Not that Mr Askwith actually appears in this film – he’d be well and truly out of place in this esteemed cast – but ‘Blue Moon Over Soho’, for its all lofty and hard-hitting pretensions, bends a little too far towards the Robin Askwith school of British cinema. Askwith, for those of you lucky enough not to know (I almost feel like I’m robbing you of some of your innocence here) was the star of a series of sex comedies in the 1970s, all with the prefix “Confessions”. So we had ‘Confessions of a Driving Instructor’, ‘Confessions of a Window Cleaner’, ‘Confessions of a Neurosurgeon with a Focus on Peripheral Nerves’ (okay, one of those titles I may have made up). The films are a low grade spicy stew of Jack the Lads, bum & tits, a nice bit of crumpet and phwooaaarrr!!! If you’ve never seen a ‘Confessions’ film, but have seen a latter day ‘Carry On’ film then you’ll know pretty much what I’m talking about.
So the problem with ‘Blue Moon Over Soho’ is that it says it wants to hit hard but what it really wants to do is titillate. This tale of one man’s crumbling porn empire and the righteous cop out to get him, becomes an excuse for bouncing boobs and bums, of suspender clad thighs and attractive birds who just want it and want it now. There is no pubic hair, there is nothing that could be classed as penetration, but there is a school boy smuttiness that never lets up. The tone is established in the opening shot of a busty schoolgirl – who, if we’re honest here, must be at least thirty – slowly removing her gymslip. Of course this being Britain in the 1970s, there is a lot more cellulite and round bottoms than one would get if this film was made in California, but it’s still aiming to arouse rather than anger.
Of course the performances are great. If I had to watch an actor’s face as he gazes impassive at the exploitation of a young girl, then David Hemmings would be in my top ten. And he does some of his best work as a man who has his dormant conscience well and truly pricked. Finney is great as the driven and slightly mad copper, Macnee is deeply, but touchingly, weird as the dapper old pervert and Mirren does as much as she can in an underwritten role (and is, of course, given a topless scene). But one gets the impression that the film around them isn’t the one they signed up for, and the film that made it to the screen cries out for the reassuring presence of Robin Askwith.
‘Confessions of a Righteously Genteel Porn Baron’.
Colour
I always want to like this film more. The three times now that I’ve seen it, I’ve always wished I could find a way to take this film more to my heart. After all, what’s not to like? We have David Hemmings (already distinctly portly after his sixties prime) running a pornography empire in Soho, and after he tries to help a young girl, finding himself being investigated by uptight cop, Albert Finney. Elsewhere we have Patrick MacNee (John Steed of all people) as a strip-show obsessed English gentleman, and Helen Mirren as a tabloid journalist who has more than a little interest in the seedier side of life. I look at that mixture, and say what’s not to love? Surely this should be one of my favourite films. Why then isn’t it?
The flaw can be described in two words “Robin Askwith”.
Not that Mr Askwith actually appears in this film – he’d be well and truly out of place in this esteemed cast – but ‘Blue Moon Over Soho’, for its all lofty and hard-hitting pretensions, bends a little too far towards the Robin Askwith school of British cinema. Askwith, for those of you lucky enough not to know (I almost feel like I’m robbing you of some of your innocence here) was the star of a series of sex comedies in the 1970s, all with the prefix “Confessions”. So we had ‘Confessions of a Driving Instructor’, ‘Confessions of a Window Cleaner’, ‘Confessions of a Neurosurgeon with a Focus on Peripheral Nerves’ (okay, one of those titles I may have made up). The films are a low grade spicy stew of Jack the Lads, bum & tits, a nice bit of crumpet and phwooaaarrr!!! If you’ve never seen a ‘Confessions’ film, but have seen a latter day ‘Carry On’ film then you’ll know pretty much what I’m talking about.
So the problem with ‘Blue Moon Over Soho’ is that it says it wants to hit hard but what it really wants to do is titillate. This tale of one man’s crumbling porn empire and the righteous cop out to get him, becomes an excuse for bouncing boobs and bums, of suspender clad thighs and attractive birds who just want it and want it now. There is no pubic hair, there is nothing that could be classed as penetration, but there is a school boy smuttiness that never lets up. The tone is established in the opening shot of a busty schoolgirl – who, if we’re honest here, must be at least thirty – slowly removing her gymslip. Of course this being Britain in the 1970s, there is a lot more cellulite and round bottoms than one would get if this film was made in California, but it’s still aiming to arouse rather than anger.
Of course the performances are great. If I had to watch an actor’s face as he gazes impassive at the exploitation of a young girl, then David Hemmings would be in my top ten. And he does some of his best work as a man who has his dormant conscience well and truly pricked. Finney is great as the driven and slightly mad copper, Macnee is deeply, but touchingly, weird as the dapper old pervert and Mirren does as much as she can in an underwritten role (and is, of course, given a topless scene). But one gets the impression that the film around them isn’t the one they signed up for, and the film that made it to the screen cries out for the reassuring presence of Robin Askwith.
‘Confessions of a Righteously Genteel Porn Baron’.
Sunday, 1 December 2013
The Vampire Witch of St Albans Way (2004)
D.
Simon Olson
Colour
Someone should turn Kelly Brook’s life story into a movie. An enterprising filmmaker should take the phenomenon that is Kelly Brook and forensically examine just what the hell is going on. Why is it that this pretty girl with large breasts has been taken into the collective hearts of the British public? There are after all so many other pretty girls with large breasts, so many other pretty girls with large breasts who strip to their underwear for newspapers and magazines and would die for this kind of public adulation, but would never in their finest dreams get a whiff of it. (Okay, there was Jordan, but her relationship with the British public is a lot more – how should I put this? - estranged these days). What’s more Kelly Brook has managed to retain this affection even though her limitations have been exposed again and again and again. She is a terrible TV presenter, there are hours and hours of footage to attest this. She is a godawful actress, there are masses of both cinematic and televisual evidence to this effect. Furthermore there’s plenty of written testimony as to how poor she has been in her stage roles. She isn’t getting better, there are no lost gems, she just stays the same abysmal level and fails time after time. And the thing is she is never chastised for this, she seemingly never loses the public’s affection. Of course, you will say, the tabloids love her because she is a pretty girl with large breasts who is frequently seen in her underwear, but then there are lots of pretty girls with large breasts who are frequently seen in their underwear, and none of the others are treated like this. How is this happening? Is she some kind of modern day Helen of Troy who bewitches all around her with her heavenly beauty? Well, maybe – but then there are other girls prettier than her, who also have large breasts. Is it then some mass hypnosis she is working on the masses? Bending our minds so that we forget her many failings and instead love her always as that pretty girl with the large breasts who looks so fetching in her underwear shots. Or maybe – and I’m thinking way outside the box here – is it some extra-terrestrial plot to lull us into complacent acceptance of mediocrity and soften us up for ultimate invasion? I honestly don’t know the answer and outlandish and insane theories are the best I can come up with. I’ve no idea how this particular pretty girl with large breasts, who is really at her best posing in her undies in still photographs for calendars each year, has managed to create this on-going career, to achieve this level of fame. It truly baffles me. And that’s why some enterprising director/producer/screenwriter combo has to get to work to explain how this phenomenon is happening. But of course if ‘The Kelly Brook Story’ was filmed, you’d have to find another actress to play the lead part, as I guarantee that if she plays herself we’re in for a very stilted performance.
This modern day Hammer Horror knock-off (bright red blood in the Home Counties) really amplifies Kelly Brook’s flaws as an actress. Here she is essentially asked to play two parts, when most films realise that she is stretched in one. Firstly she is a virginal school teacher (for virginal, see wears a cardigan, a buttoned up shirt and unflattering glasses); then – thanks to being possessed by her ancient witch ancestor – she becomes a bloodsucker in a leather swimsuit and cape. It’s that part, with the curves, the naked legs and the cleavage that’s supposed to bring in the paying punters. Kelly Brook does know that her best assets have to be front and centre. Unfortunately she fails to be even remotely convincing in either role. As a schoolteacher her performance consists solely of a worried look and the occasional frown of frustrated disappointment. While as a vampire she does little more than – well – vamp. There is a lot of standing with her hands on her hips, her thighs slightly apart, pouting at the camera with a wind machine behind her – as if this was a Halloween themed shot for October in this year’s calendar. None of this adds up to acting, none of it adds up to much more than decoratively posing.
Around her the cast of drama school grads runs about and acts scared and gets killed, and its either the case that none of them are any good either or they’ve lowered their level of performance to fit in with the star. There are attempted shocks and thrills, gore by the bucketload, but only the occasional hint of nudity – as clearly the pretty girl with the large breasts wasn’t ready for that at this point in her career, and if the main draw won’t get down to her drawers, then what’s the point?
So the question remains….
How does Kelly Brook’s career survive terrible and almost unwatchable films like this and stand pert and untarnished to this day?
The phenomena needs to be investigated and we must be told the truth.
Colour
Someone should turn Kelly Brook’s life story into a movie. An enterprising filmmaker should take the phenomenon that is Kelly Brook and forensically examine just what the hell is going on. Why is it that this pretty girl with large breasts has been taken into the collective hearts of the British public? There are after all so many other pretty girls with large breasts, so many other pretty girls with large breasts who strip to their underwear for newspapers and magazines and would die for this kind of public adulation, but would never in their finest dreams get a whiff of it. (Okay, there was Jordan, but her relationship with the British public is a lot more – how should I put this? - estranged these days). What’s more Kelly Brook has managed to retain this affection even though her limitations have been exposed again and again and again. She is a terrible TV presenter, there are hours and hours of footage to attest this. She is a godawful actress, there are masses of both cinematic and televisual evidence to this effect. Furthermore there’s plenty of written testimony as to how poor she has been in her stage roles. She isn’t getting better, there are no lost gems, she just stays the same abysmal level and fails time after time. And the thing is she is never chastised for this, she seemingly never loses the public’s affection. Of course, you will say, the tabloids love her because she is a pretty girl with large breasts who is frequently seen in her underwear, but then there are lots of pretty girls with large breasts who are frequently seen in their underwear, and none of the others are treated like this. How is this happening? Is she some kind of modern day Helen of Troy who bewitches all around her with her heavenly beauty? Well, maybe – but then there are other girls prettier than her, who also have large breasts. Is it then some mass hypnosis she is working on the masses? Bending our minds so that we forget her many failings and instead love her always as that pretty girl with the large breasts who looks so fetching in her underwear shots. Or maybe – and I’m thinking way outside the box here – is it some extra-terrestrial plot to lull us into complacent acceptance of mediocrity and soften us up for ultimate invasion? I honestly don’t know the answer and outlandish and insane theories are the best I can come up with. I’ve no idea how this particular pretty girl with large breasts, who is really at her best posing in her undies in still photographs for calendars each year, has managed to create this on-going career, to achieve this level of fame. It truly baffles me. And that’s why some enterprising director/producer/screenwriter combo has to get to work to explain how this phenomenon is happening. But of course if ‘The Kelly Brook Story’ was filmed, you’d have to find another actress to play the lead part, as I guarantee that if she plays herself we’re in for a very stilted performance.
This modern day Hammer Horror knock-off (bright red blood in the Home Counties) really amplifies Kelly Brook’s flaws as an actress. Here she is essentially asked to play two parts, when most films realise that she is stretched in one. Firstly she is a virginal school teacher (for virginal, see wears a cardigan, a buttoned up shirt and unflattering glasses); then – thanks to being possessed by her ancient witch ancestor – she becomes a bloodsucker in a leather swimsuit and cape. It’s that part, with the curves, the naked legs and the cleavage that’s supposed to bring in the paying punters. Kelly Brook does know that her best assets have to be front and centre. Unfortunately she fails to be even remotely convincing in either role. As a schoolteacher her performance consists solely of a worried look and the occasional frown of frustrated disappointment. While as a vampire she does little more than – well – vamp. There is a lot of standing with her hands on her hips, her thighs slightly apart, pouting at the camera with a wind machine behind her – as if this was a Halloween themed shot for October in this year’s calendar. None of this adds up to acting, none of it adds up to much more than decoratively posing.
Around her the cast of drama school grads runs about and acts scared and gets killed, and its either the case that none of them are any good either or they’ve lowered their level of performance to fit in with the star. There are attempted shocks and thrills, gore by the bucketload, but only the occasional hint of nudity – as clearly the pretty girl with the large breasts wasn’t ready for that at this point in her career, and if the main draw won’t get down to her drawers, then what’s the point?
So the question remains….
How does Kelly Brook’s career survive terrible and almost unwatchable films like this and stand pert and untarnished to this day?
The phenomena needs to be investigated and we must be told the truth.
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