scenester1964

The Session Man

Sun, 03 May 2026 17:34:06 GMT

The Session Man

The Session Man – available on digital 4 ^th May 2026

The avalanche of ‘rockumentaries’ of recent years have tended to concentrate on the million plus selling rock artists, and within, often just the front men and women of those colossally successful bands. The backroom boys and girls rarely get much more than a mention, even when their contributions have been considerable. Nicky Hopkins was one such piano playing backroom boy and this documentary aims to put it straight.

With unobtrusive narration from Bob Harris, we are taken through Nicky’s amazingly varied career, his CV like a roll call of rock’s major players from the early 1960’s to his untimely death, aged just fifty, in 1994. Nicky is thought to have played on around two hundred and fifty LPs, many of them essential recordings in the rock canon.

After attending the Royal College of Music, Nicky appeared to land on his feet, getting work with David ‘Lord’ Sutch’s backing band, The Savages, The Cyril Davies All Stars and many more, often playing sets on stage in cinemas before the film came on. His stint with Cyril Davies sold out the Marquee many times over in the early 60’s and brought him to the attention of the wider rock business.

The Crohn’s disease which was to dog him into later life struck in May 1963 and necessitated a stay in hospital, Nicky losing considerable weight and putting him out of action work-wise, for some time. His striking gaunt looks come from this painful period, but once recovered enough to work, he was playing enthusiastically once more.

Received wisdom has it that rock and roll basically consists of guitars, drums and voices, but piano or organ can add textures and colours to this new and exciting musical form. Enter Nicky Hopkins, as Dave Davies explains, playing the harpsichord or piano on many Kinks tracks, over six LPs. His work with The Who is touched on, as is that with The Beatles, but his considerable contribution to The Rolling Stones’ staggering run of successful LPs is the most interesting part of the documentary. His flighty piano run in ‘She’s A Rainbow’ and doomy opening chords to ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ are both a case of once heard, never forgotten. He eventually racked up appearances on fourteen Stones LPs, more than some past members of the band.

We learn that Nicky’s reputation gained him work in the USA, with such heavyweight counter-culture artists as Jerry Garcia, Quicksilver Messenger Service and Jefferson Airplane, eventually playing with the latter at Woodstock. He is one of the few musicians who worked with all four former Beatles in their post Beatles lives. The list just goes on and on.

The fond memories and complimentary words from luminaries such as Albert Lee, Keith Richards, Peter Frampton, Dave Davies and many more come thick and fast, a real celebrity love-in, but what seems to be missing here is a little more about the man. We learn about his early interest in music, his teenaged attendance at the Royal College of Music, his two marriages, his suffering at the hands of Crohn’s disease and his drug and drink addiction, but little about his life outside of the music business. His widow Moira aside, there are no words from non-musical friends or his relatives about his life. Perhaps music was his whole life, or he simply preferred to keep work and private life separate. The winding course from rock and roll piano journeyman to hugely respected musician with an unmatchable CV is fascinating, but frustratingly distant.

Scenester

21/4/26

Rose of Nevada

Fri, 24 Apr 2026 13:25:41 GMT

Rose of Nevada

Rose of Nevada (2025) 114 minutes rated 15 BFI/Film 4

Out on 24 April in UK and Irish cinemas, Mark Jenkin’s mysterious tale of a young man’s journey of discovery and identity through his life as a Cornish fisherman is played out with all the unhurried subtlety we have come to expect from this director, who has also given us the atmospheric ‘Bait’ and ‘Enys Men’. A Blu Ray release will follow in the summer.

Shots of the beautiful, wind-bitten and sea-scoured coastline stand in contrast to the neglected fishing village, with its deserted pubs and its all too necessary food bank. Why the fortunes of the village took a turn for the worse is not revealed but the re-appearance of a fishing smack, the Rose of Nevada, after its loss with all hands more than thirty years before, appears to offer a sign of hope for all here.

We see the haunted newcomer to the village Liam (Callum Turner-Eternity, Masters of the Air) loading up his small crate for a neighbour and her daughter to see them through another day. Rain is coming down heavily outside and dripping through a hole in their ceiling. Callum’s attempt to mend the hole ends with him falling through the roof, taking a larger portion of the ceiling with him. This significant motif will recur in the film, that of dropping through a hole as if he were dead weight.

Amidst the downpour, he escorts an elderly lady who is standing outside getting drenched, back into her house. She is clearly distressed and utters dire warnings about going out to sea short-handed.

Liam joins the crew of a tiny fishing smack with Skipper Murgey (Francis Magee-Kin, The Tourist) an old salt with the weather-beaten face and straggly beard you would expect and Nick (George MacKay-For Those In Peril, 17) his young fellow crewman who has a wife and child to support. After a fair to middling catch, in which the hard physical work of a fishing crew in these coldest, wettest conditions is exposed in unflinching detail, the crew return to the village to await their wages after the sale of the catch. Liam begins to notice that something scarcely believable has happened whilst at sea. They appear to have slipped back in time by over thirty years and the villagers are treating them as if they were the original, lost crew of the Rose of Nevada.

Their tough, insecure form of employment is well realized, from embarkation to trawling to netting, gutting and offloading the catch and the interminable wait for cash wages, the pittance it is. Liam’s face is a puzzled, bitter clump of rage throughout much of the story, as if his unspoken dubious past has almost caught up with him. Laconic crewmate Nick rarely shows his feelings even under heavy provocation from Liam, keeping all his feelings, positive of otherwise, for his desperately poor girlfriend and daughter.

The Rose of Nevada has all of the quiet, walking pace story telling we have come to expect from director Mark Jenkin and its science fiction premise does not distract from the very human drama taking place in this poverty-stricken region.

Scenester

26/3/26

Trailer; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bw371ui9cTk

Negatives

Sun, 15 Mar 2026 17:18:46 GMT

Negatives

Negatives (1968) BFI Blu-Ray BFIB1562 R15

Out on 16 ^th March on Blu Ray from those ever-watchful archive raiders at the British Film institute, director Peter Medak’s debut film is a three-handed psychodrama that may prove to be far more serious today than it did on its release.

Antique dealer Theo (Peter McEnery, ‘Entertaining Mr. Sloane) and lover Vivien (Glenda Jackson ‘Women in Love’ and many more) are playing out their sexual games, he as the notorious murderer Doctor Crippen and she, alternately his wife and mistress in the musty atmosphere of Theo’s hospitalized father’s antique shop. Filled with Edwardian age furniture, clothes and nick-nacks, the setting is perfect for their perverse version of cosplay. Dominant Vivien repeatedly cajoles and berates with a cold word and a sharp look as Theo stands trapped in the constricted garb of a middle-class doctor.

Into this laboratory of strange desire steps a young, brashly confident German photographer Reingard (Diane Cilento-The Wicker Man and numerous others) who charms her way into their empty upper flat and both of their lives. We learn she has been stalking them, adding another element of danger to this story. Cilento’s Reingard, white haired and crisply dressed, has all the bluff demeanor and direct speaking manner of one who is used to getting her own way.

Reingard wastes no time assuming a dominant position over Theo, sensing his subservient personality, endlessly taking photographs of him and flattering him with his resemblance to First World War flying ace, Baron von Richtoffen. Reingard cuts Theo’s unkempt, neck length hair into a severe shaven sided, centre-parted flick and before long he is trying on the German air force clothes to complete the illusion. Theo has found a new obsession and Vivien is incandescent with rage about it.

The few scenes not set in the antique shop give us a glimpse of their lives outside of the pressure cooker shop premises; when Theo visits his ailing father in hospital, when they visit Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors -where they encounter Doctor Crippen’s wax image-and a visit to a scrap metal merchants to supply one of the film’s more outrageous props.

To see three such fine actors in a film together is a treat, albeit one which is loaded with suggestion, which the tragi-comic ending cannot dispel.

The Blu Ray disc has a wealth of extras including an interview with Dr. Clare Smith, historic collection of the Metropolitan Police Museum, who discusses the life and crimes of Doctor Crippen.

Scenester

11/3/26

Buy here: https://whatson.bfi.org.uk/Online/

Jitters

Sun, 15 Mar 2026 17:16:09 GMT

Jitters

‘Jitters’ – from Miracle Media

Fast paced, crazily plotted and constantly unnerving, George Willcox and Mark Zammit’s ‘Jitters’ takes the traditional story of the computer game that may actually be real and injects it with a dangerous cocktail of personal knowledge and manipulation of its victim-players.

Fabrizio Santino plays Collymore, a troubled detective with a broken relationship behind him who is called upon to investigate what appears to be a routine case, the murder of a young woman. The deeper he looks into the case, the more dreadful it becomes, taking him from one seedy flat and one poor, mistreated woman to another. The grimy London setting does little to keep us grounded in reality as our detective tries to make sense of the case and his own shattered life.

A welcome break at the local computer game arcade with his young daughter proves his first encounter with the darker side of the internet as he stumbles across a zip drive leading him into the game world of Jitters (Daniel Jordan), a malevolent clown who intuitively takes all of a player’s secret fears and insecurities and taunts him with them, using whispering menace and crazed threats. Showing knowledge of unpublished details of the murder investigation and of Detective Collymore’s own life, the grotesque clown is always one step ahead, laying traps at every turn in his deadly, apparently unsolvable game.

‘Jitters’ may be treading familiar ground, but it evokes the contrasting settings of Collymore’s tough, everyday reality and Jitters’ horrifying nether world well, leaving the viewer with repeated shudders and a distinct feeling that other, more barbarous dimensions may exist, perhaps within our grasp.

Scenester

21 ^st February 2026

Jitters trailer: https://youtu.be/wByrNek3PXQ

 Credit: Jitters is on UK digital 16 March and US on 17 March from Miracle Media

Daniel Farson's Guide To Britain vol 1

Tue, 03 Mar 2026 19:16:30 GMT

Daniel Farson's Guide To Britain Vol 1

Daniel Farson’s Guide to Britain Vol1 BFI DVD/BluRay dual format disc

Out now from those archive raiders the BFI, comes a treasure trove of short programmes from our televisual past, taking serious and frivolous subjects hosted by the famously bohemian and bibulous broadcaster and journalist Daniel Farson.

In our present age when the viewer wonders whether any subject is considered off-beat, we can look back on a Britain when convention was all and anyone who stepped out of line was an anomaly, a crank or even a dangerous eccentric.

First up is an offering from ‘Out Of Step’ and Farson’s interviews with luminaries of the occult world. With the Witchcraft Act of 1951 ending the legal classification of witchcraft as a crime and instead seeking to punish those who used pretended magical powers for monetary gain, some people went public with their occult beliefs. Here, Farson interviews the wild-haired Gerald Gardner, whose impish sense of humour may have put more viewers off him than endeared him to them. Estimating as many as four hundred witches in Britain a that time, presumably including those in his Isle of Man home, his enthusiasm for rituals in the nude and his doubting Thomas attitude to witches’ use of wax images and cursing in general keeps us well entertained. Next up is renowned Egyptologist and archaeologist Dr. Margaret Murray, whose extensive work on folklore earned her the name ‘The Grandmother of Wicca’. Downplaying the idea that witches may have actual magical powers, Dr. Murray does confirm she met a witch once (probably far more than one) and felt her a dangerous person. Louis Wilkinson recalled his friendship with magician Aleister Crowley – here mis-identified a witch – and the over-reaction of the local press at his reading of Crowley’s ‘Hymn to Pan’ at Crowley’s funeral in an undenominational crematorium in Brighton.

If witches and magicians are a little beyond your comfort zone, ‘Keeping In Step’ might be more to your taste. The rituals of the British wedding, religious, secular and financial are examined with comments from the happy couples and the parents footing the bill. Passing on to another subject steeped in ritual and driven by money, the Stock Market is shown to be a world away from the electronic labyrinth of today. The Stock Exchange here looks more like a gentleman’s club than an international investment hub, the members with their well-defined roles in the daily drama, where a man’s word was his bond. I use the male gender here with good reason, as women were only admitted as members in 1973.

Farson was no stranger to Soho and his investigation into the striptease clubs of that notorious area is effortless. Costing the average punter membership as well as inflated prices for drinks, the shows rarely kept their teasing promises of full nudity, although they did, indeed, move. Most revealing are the interviews with the strippers who giggle their way through Farson’s questions and come across as professionals rather than the desperate young women the ‘clean-up’ campaigners often tried to characterize them as.

‘Success Story’ shows Farson speaking to playwright Shelagh Delaney, whose play ‘A Taste of Honey’ was enjoying phenomenal success. Shelagh comes across well, sticking to her down-to-earth approach to life and work and deftly parrying Farson’s more salty questions. With an assurance that only comes from youth, she dismisses fellow, more experienced playwrights’ efforts and cleverly avoids being drawn into a North/South divide trap.

By way of total contrast, Farson’s interview with Robert Graves seems fusty and halting, the irascible poet’s dislike of the modern world, home comforts for young people and the welfare state puts him at odds with the age he lived in; in other words, the perfect Aunt Sally for Farson to subtly throw coconuts at. Asked for his advice to young writers, Graves felt that a good writer would somehow manage to make a career. I wonder how many writers, lacking his background and advantages, would agree with that, then and now.

Farson’s visit to Lundy Island feels more like a step into Doctor’s Who’s Tardis and a trip back fifty years in time, than an investigation into the lives of a group of people who have decided they no longer care for the rat race’. The hub of the island is the pub, where everyone meets to drink and talk about the day’s labours and life in general. Farming. sheep herding and gardening are the main activities and the islanders come from all walks of life. Some stay for only a short time, some for a few months of the year, some the whole time. The slow pace of life is perhaps a surprise, considering the level of manual work involved in daily life, but the people seems more than happy with their lot.

‘Out of Step’ continues with another outré subject, ‘Other Worlds Are Watching Us’. Interviews with Unidentified Flying Object enthusiasts like Brinsley le Poer Trench, editor of the flying Saucer Review and others, gives us a flavour of the polarized public attitude to the phenomenon of alleged ‘flying saucers’ and alien encounters. Another, claiming a visit on board a UFO in his subtle ‘etheric’ body rather than his physical one, rolls out the predictable experience beloved of today’s alien abductees. The Venusian women are very beautiful, he assures us. Most of the interview material here seems more like snippets from science fiction films of the time, rather than any evidence based theory. Astronomer Royal Sir Harold Spencer Jones states his views baldly and without any speculation, sticking only with what we know to be scientific fact. Whether the public of the time believed or not, there was no denying how mainstream the subject had become and how it continues to be so.

‘People In Trouble’ gave us more substantial fare, that of the then-termed ‘mixed marriages’. Farson interviews a group of people who are or were in a marriage with a person of a different race and what experiences they had had a result of it. The black husband of one marriage did not feel that he had experienced much prejudice and was optimistic about the future for his child. A white woman whose marriage had broken down blamed cultural differences rather than the attitudes of others. A well-educated and connected young black man also deflected the seriousness of prejudice, expressing a view that he would like to marry a white woman one day. Passing on to a middle aged white man, whose intolerant views would doubtlessly chime today with some members of the less fragrant parts of our political scene, is perhaps best taken with a clear head. John Grigg, otherwise Lord Altrincham, brings a welcome sense of relief, debunking the idea of any ‘pure’ race and arguing well for a more tolerant, inclusive Britain.

‘Success Story’ includes interviews with clairvoyant Maurice Woodruff, who could count actors Peter Sellers and Diane Cilento among his clients and Cliff Richard, at the height of his fame as a rock and roll singer. Woodruff’s alternating between suggesting he had the gift of clairvoyance from God and then denying he had any special powers at all was interesting, perhaps wary of the Fraudulent Mediums Act. A very self-assured and well-spoken 18 year old Cliff Richard proved one of Farson’s most interesting guests. Appearing to have his career drafted out already, he responded to Farson’s every question with a professionalism few people of his age could have.

‘Success story’ continues only in name as Farson eschews youthful playwrights and pop stars and instead focuses on one of the most popular pulp novelists of the period, the mysterious Mr. Hank Jansen. Interviewing Jansen’s publisher, a figure straight out of an edition of ‘Gideon’s Way’ and who had suffered a spell in chokey for the racy material he published, responds in best villain’s English to Farson’s questions. A highly successful enterprise, with a new volume appearing every month to massive sales response, he is cagey about Jansen himself, as is the warehouseman who handles the French-printed paperbacks. An interview is set up with the mysterious Mr. H.J. in a strip-bar which could be a set from ‘The Small World of Sammy Lee’. A man in a long trenchcoat and gangster’s fedora is seen waiting. We see he wears a rather crudely made mask and answers every question from Farson either guardedly or with a touch of the fantastical about it. Hugely entertaining, especially the ‘types’ the camera captures going about their work in the bar, Farson looks completely at home here, if perhaps a little disappointed in the results.

Apart from a bitty article about the apparent British obsession with cats, there is the marvelous ‘Beat City’, which takes in the Liverpool music scene of the times. The sweaty basements and brick vaults of legend are here, together with some of the bands who helped make this poor, run-down city legendary. Rory Storm and the Hurricanes and Gerry and the Pacemakers are among the best-known playing here, with a few whom musical history has passed by. The crowds are of course perilously young, out for fun and fearless as the young of every generation tend to be. The legendary Jacaranda is featured here, with Farson completely at home in its slightly gloomy atmosphere. The eagle-eyed among you may spot film of an audience of screaming girls in a Gerry and the Pacemakers clip, which has seen some service in other bands’ filmed appearances.

Travel back in time to the late 50’s / early 60’s for a taste of what television once was, and what it should be today.

Buy here:

https://www.bfi.org.uk/bfi-online-shop

Scenester

1 March 2026

Daughters of Darkness

Tue, 21 Oct 2025 16:36:03 GMT

or, Les Levres Rouge

Daughters Of Darkness (1971) Rated 18 Radiance Films English/French language English subtitles Limited edition 4K/UHD Blu Ray Box Set and Limited Edition Blu Ray RAD136 UDHLE / RAD136DLE

Out now on Radiance Films Harry Kumel’s 1971 erotic vampire story, ‘Daughters of Darkness’.

Largely sticking with traditional vampire lore, directed and co-written by Harry Kumel, this dark tale begins with a young couple playfully enjoying a trip on a sleeper train to their honeymoon hotel. An out of season Ostend hotel is their choice, its wide entrance in a long colonnade on the windswept seafront and a magnificent reception room with a high staircase leading up to the guest rooms. Stefan (John Karlen) and Valery (Danielle Ouimet) are the only guests in this palatial hotel and they naturally take the best suite it has to offer. Even though they have been married only hours, something is not quite right. Valery is concerned that Stefan’s family will not accept her, she an ordinary German girl and he, with his aristocratic background. Stefan is also reluctant to call his mother and arrange the inevitable meeting between the young couple and ‘mother’.

Their dream of a blissful honeymoon with the hotel to themselves soon goes awry with the arrival of the hauntingly beautiful Countess Bathory (Delphine Seyrig), stylishly attired and veiled against the light, with her constant companion, her hair bobbed, the cat-like Ilona (Andrea Rau). Normally taking the royal suite herself, she persuades the middle-aged desk clerk to let her have rooms close to the young couple’s. A shiver runs through the desk clerk, Pierre (Paul Esser) as he is sure he recognises the Countess from a visit many years before when he was a bellboy.

Stefan calls his ‘mother’ on the telephone in front of Valery, but we the viewers know better. The person at the other end is a stereotyped middle-aged aesthetic, with more than a hint of Oscar Wilde about him. This moment of apparent levity does nothing to lighten the mood, simply replacing the lost, limbo-like atmosphere of the hotel with the art nouveau hot house of Stefan’s ‘uncle’.

The sense of claustrophobia, even in this vast, cavernous hotel, is fully realized and our young couple take the opportunity to get away from the needy Countess whenever they can. Announcing that they are to leave the next day for Britain, the Countess, afraid of losing their company, grows ever closer to them and tries every trick to keep them by her side. Soft she may seem, but the Countess is a truly sinister presence, her outfits a combination of white, black and red - the colours of the Nazi flag – and her cold, barely blinking eyes taking in the young couple with animal greed. The way she cradles her companion/maid’s head in her lap, lovingly stroking her hair, gives a tantalising frisson.

A trip to Bruges sees our couple run across a crowd ogling a dead girl’s body and introduces a retired detective (Georges Jamin) into the story. The girl, drained of blood, seems to fascinate Stefan, to Valery’s disgust. The canal side streets, the jostling crowd and the body recall a famous scene from ‘Don’t Look Now’, with at least as much effect. As the couple return to the Ostend hotel, the Countess is knitting, perhaps a spider’s web to trap the couple.

Our detective turns up and the Countess sees a picture from a newspaper of the Bruges murder scene, the young couple visible in the crowd. This scene shows the Countess’ fearful confidence in her own power. She asks Stefan, teasingly, how old he thinks she is, all the while playing with him as a cat plays with a mouse. She is beginning to control the young couple’s actions and thoughts. The Countess talks of her ancestor, Countess Bathory, who bathed in fresh virgin’s blood to keep her body young. Valery is very disturbed by the tone of the conversation and more than a little jealous of the Countess’ strange allure. Valery leaves, ascending the staircase, and Ilona is waiting for her. Taking a shower, Valery becomes aware that Ilona is watching her-she screams.

An electric storm has a sadistic effect on Stefan, who beats Valery with a belt. The final straw having been drawn, Valery dresses - in white - and decides to leave. The Countess, also dressed in white, sees her go, and Ilona, in a black dress with a string of white pearls, goes to Stefan. She makes love to Stefan, her every move like a cat’s.

There may be too much to savour in this rich and deadly confection and to go on would spoil the viewer’s pleasure – or stomach – and so I will leave you to find out the twists and turns for yourself. From what is basically a traditional vampire story rich with dangerous symbolism and added stylish eroticism, Harry Kumel conjures up one of the most sumptuous, tempting and absolutely gorgeous horror films of the modern age, one you will dream of for years afterwards.

The Limited Edition Blu Ray comes with a wealth of extras and lavish packaging.

Scenester

1/10/25

Preorders:

https://www.radiancefilms.co.uk/products/daughters-of-darkness-uhd-bd-le

https://www.radiancefilms.co.uk/products/daughters-of-darkness-le

Site: https://www.radiancefilms.co.uk/

Malpertuis

Tue, 14 Oct 2025 17:36:28 GMT

Malpertuis

Malpertuis (1971) Rated 18 English/French language English subtitles . Limited edition Blu Ray Set 4K/UHD RAD137BDLE

Out now, Harry Kumel’s dreamlike horror curio ‘Malpertuis’, known as ‘The Legend of Doom House’ in the USA. Taken from the 1943 novel of the same name by Jean Ray, it’s a tale that lends itself well to the surreal style of film making on offer here.

Opening with a shipboard scene that could be from an American musical of the 1950’s, a group of rowdy sailors disembark, shouting encouragement to their shy friend to join them on their tour of the local houses of ill-repute. Our hesitant blond matelot Jan, (Mathieu Carriere) who could be straight out of today’s Jean-Paul Gaultier fragrance commercials, has no intention of trawling the port’s fleshpots. The good lad he is, he intends to visit his family.

His lonely walk through the deserted streets pursued by two strange, driven men eventually bears fruit, spotting his beloved sister Nancy (Susan Hampshire) but not before a pell-mell chase, ending up in the bordello he was originally keen to avoid. Lovers of Francophone pop will recognize Sylvie Vartan taking a turn as the Venus Bar’s chanteuse, Bets, who dances with Jan.

Jan’s wakes at the family home, Malpertuis, with sister Nancy, and he is overjoyed to see her once more. It can only be this reunion which makes him feel this way, as the house is otherwise dark, grim and labyrinthine, filled with his wild, eccentric and dangerous relatives. There’s a sense of foreboding about the occasion, as the head of household, bedridden occultist Uncle Cassavius (Orson Welles) intends to dispose of the property and the rest of his estate equally between the family members. A sinister tontine arrangement has been set, however. All can enjoy their inheritance in full but must not leave the confines of the house. If anyone does, they forfeit their share of the estate in favour of the remaindermen.

‘Malpertuis’ rattles on at a furious pace, bringing in assorted family grotesques; the crazed taxidermist, the resident lunatic Lampernisse (Jean-Pierre Cassel), the ghostlike vamp Euryale (Susan Hampshire again) and three sisters grim, with anyone trying to escape being murdered mysteriously. Family enmity, jealousy and naked avarice all manifest themselves in this prison of their own making, the truth only being revealed at the end after more twists and turns than a corkscrew. The scholarly among you will recognize the classical references in the characters, but it won’t spoil the film if you don’t.

‘Malpertuis’, although traditional in form, is a step into surrealism for the characters and may be a little beyond the comfort zone of the everyday horror fan, but give it a chance, it’ll repay you.

The Limited Edition Blu Ray comes with a wealth of extras and lavish packaging.

Scenester

10/9/25

Preorders https://www.radiancefilms.co.uk/products/malpertuis-le

Site: https://www.radiancefilms.co.uk/

Eclipse (1977

Sun, 18 May 2025 16:01:21 GMT

Eclipse (1977)

Eclipse (1977) BFI Flipside BluRay BFIB1538 (Rated 18)

Available now on BluRay, BFI Flipside’s latest find, a tale of twin sibling rivalry, displacement and transference, all set in a remote coastal location in the north of Scotland. Simon Perry keeps a steady hand on the directorial tiller.

Our story opens with in a Sheriff’s court hearing where bereaved brother Tom (Tom Conti) is recounting the events of when he and twin brother Geoffrey (Tom, again) took their small boat out on to the sea to observe the lunar eclipse. Geoffrey’s widow Cleo (Gay Hamilton) looks on as Tom begins his halting, emotional story of the boat going out of control and his twin being swept off and into the water during the lunar light’s blackout. At this significant moment, Tom cannot recall what caused Geoffrey to fall in, but his heartfelt account is accepted and the Sheriff finds for accidental death.

Tom visits Cleo and her son Giles (Gavin Wallace) for Christmas bearing all the usual trappings, including turkey and presents and finds himself in a rambling, shabby chic house with all the usual comforts but little seasonal joy. The number of half-drunk bottles of gin about the place bear testament to Cleo’s descent into alcoholism and the untidy rooms to her inquisitive son’s freedom.

Cleo’s moods shift from blank eyed resignation to barely contained anger and outspoken rage as she reveals that she always felt there to be a barrier between herself and Geoffrey, specifically Geoffrey and Tom’s special, almost telepathic relationship. Geoffrey, a thoughtful man, is more able to talk dispassionately about his feelings, forever the younger, less worldly twin, always in his brother’s shadow. He finds the nude of Geoffrey, painted by Cleo, hanging on the living room wall particularly uncomfortable to be around, and tells her so.

The disastrous Christmas lunch and joyless unwrapping of presents casts a pall over the whole day, as Cleo, having bought Tom an academic book for his delectation, finds that he has bought her the kind of beautiful, multi-coloured dress she wears so well, and Giles, a train set any boy would love to bits. Cleo’s acute embarrassment at the imbalance here leads to more arguments and more self-medication by Cleo. Tom drinks with her more in solidarity than desire.

As an atmospheric, virtual two-hander ‘Eclipse’ works very well, evoking the isolation and chill of the Scottish north and the sense of loss, even abandonment felt by Cleo. Cleo even asks Tom is he killed his twin, a conversation hard to imagine taking place under any other circumstances. Tom’s survivor guilt is acute, and his sense of loss is mixed with a feeling that he could all too easily step into his twin’s shoes, life and marital bed.

This wouldn’t be a Flipside release if there wasn’t at least a sense of the supernatural about it, and a figure seen in the distance atop the lighthouse provides a momentary distraction. Cleo’s rush into the sea, fully clothed in a Celtic design dress, is a rare display of what must have once been her old self, before Geoffrey, before relocation, before any of this.

‘Eclipse’ is an inexplicably ignored film from a pivotal year in this country’s history and needs to be seen. The Blu Ray disk has a short interview with Tom Conti about the film, the 2025 trailer, some of the most fondly remembered public information films on the theme of danger on the water (yes, that one is here!) image gallery and more besides.

Scenester
18/5/25

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fvaPpBfDsw

Buy here:

https://whatson.bfi.org.uk/online/default.asp?BOparam::WScontent::loadArticle::permalink=bfi-shop

Scanners

Sun, 30 Mar 2025 17:08:17 GMT

Scanners (1981)

Scanners (1981) 4K and Blu-ray 2NDBR4241BD-TM

David Cronenberg’s pulpy future shock thriller returns in a 4K and BluRay restoration to light the fires of sci-fi gorehounds anew. It comes with a wealth of special features including cast and crew interviews, commentaries a 120 page book and much more besides. With a nod to ‘The Man With The X-Ray Eyes’ in terms of plot, ‘Scanners’ is essential viewing for any fan of these genres.

The plot could have been an unused ‘red scare’ film script from the 1950’s involving people with special mental abilities roaming on the margins of society, gradually growing in strength and influence for their intended takeover of society. With typical Cronenbergian touches like questionable medical practices, amoral doctors and secret laboratories, the tight story rattles along with regular outrageous set pieces that still have the power to shock, even disgust.

A down and out young man, Cameron Vale (Stephen Lack-Dead Ringers) plagued by voices in his head, is trying to look inconspicuous in a shopping mall, when he is spotted and judged by a pair of snobbish gossipers. Pity these two, as they are unaware of Vale’s ability to read their thoughts and rip their minds to shreds. A crazy chase through the mall, hanging precariously onto escalator handrests and he escapes, eventually meeting Dr. Paul Ruth (Patrick McGoohan – The Prisoner, Danger Man, Ice Station Zebra) a scientist who believes he can help Cameron and others like him to adapt to society. In opposition to this is Dr. Ruth’s nemesis, Darryl Revok (Michael Ironside-Total Recall) who heads a sinister cabal of scanners with very different intentions.

Taking place in the shopping malls, offices and hospitals of 1980’s Canada, the film now has an added layer of other worldliness. These concrete shells with brightly coloured interiors are a mid-century architecture fan’s dream, as if the 1950’s had been placed in a petri dish and the cutesiness surgically removed, leaving only an icy-cold sci-fi world of fear and paranoia.

The pain and persecution of the average scanner is brilliantly and sympathetically realised in mocked-up old medical footage of the young Revok, doubtlessly detained under some antediluvian mental health law, careering around the bare consulting room, his self-inflicted forehead wound having failed to relieve the pain of the voices in his head. Vale’s own appearance before a panel of students shows him hearing their jumbled thoughts, no respite for him as he is exhibited like an interesting specimen of primitive life.

The full extent of a scanner’s unearthly power is a showstopper, as Revok, attending a lecture in secret, literally blows the head of a rival middle-aged scanner to pieces, in an outrageous piece of horror showmanship that earned Scanners the dubious honour of being considered a ‘video nasty’ in the UK.

‘Scanners’ isn’t subtle or profound, the special effects are of their time and performances range from the hammy to the quotidien, but what it lacks in depth it more than makes up for in the terrifying power of the premise and the sheer, uncontrollable fury of the action.

Scanners is out on Second Sight Films 31 ^st March

Buy here:

https://secondsightfilms.co.uk/products/scanners

Scenester

30/3/25

Cronos

Sun, 23 Feb 2025 19:17:11 GMT

Cronos (1992)

Cronos (1992) Limited edition UHD (BFIB0009) and BluRay (2 disk set) (BFIB1506), ITunes and Amazon Prime. Rated: 15

Guillermo del Toro’s highly individual take on the vampire film is out now on UHD, BluRay and platforms for you to enjoy.

At the time of it cinematic release, the vampire film seemed to have reached an impasse; the over-literal faithfulness of Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’ or the teen humour of ‘Buffy The Vampire Slayer’. Just when it seemed that there was nowhere new to go, ‘Cronos’ turned up like an old heirloom, filled with mystery and promise and maybe even a family curse.

Our preamble explains the history of the Cronos device, a 16th Century invention from a brilliant Veracruz alchemist, basically a mechanical blood detoxifying machine which goes beyond any modern kidney machine. The operation is carried out by an insect trapped within the device, its payment, a little blood from the user.

An elderly antique seller Jesus Gris (Federico Luppi) is living out his golden years tending his business, when he comes into the possession of a small statue of Cronos, the god of time, depicted as a young warrior boy. Accidentally breaking the statue, Jesus finds inside a metal object resembling, appropriately enough, an ornate pocket watch. Jesus quickly learns that far from marking the passage of time, the device can reverse the effects of time. In the highly original early key scene, Jesus turns the jewel ‘winder’, the object flicks out metal legs which hold his palm firmly, and a prong uncurls itself, embedding the sharp point into his wrist. His blood courses through the device and the insect goes to work removing impurities from his bloodstream. All the time, Jesus is terrified of what is happening but notices the beneficial, rejuvenating effects over a period of days.

He isn’t the only one who knows about the Cronos device, however. A wealthy but sick businessman, Dieter de la Guardia (Claudio Brook) has been hunting the device for years, helped by his avaricious nephew and heir, the brutish Angel (Ron Perlman). Claudio lives in a large, sparsely decorated apartment, his various excised, diseased body parts preserved in bottles on display and the empty plaster statues once thought to contain the Cronos device hung up in plastic bags like second placetrophies. Dieter is suitably desperate and reproachful toward his nephew, who endures his endless abuse at the thought of the fortune that will surely one day be his. Angel and his thugs try to obtain the real Cronos statue from Jesus, to no avail.

A New Year’s Eve party gives Jesus the opportunity to enjoy his regained vigour and he begins to notice his craving for blood. A party guest suffers a nosebleed in the men’s room and in a very queasy scene, Jesus tries to lick up the blood, firstly from the sink, then from the floor. He is treated to a beating for his behaviour by an unknown man.

There is much in ‘Cronos’ to give the jaded horror fan comfort and renewed enthusiasm for a genre which was then and has since arguably been overdone to the point of pain. The Mexican setting and cast is a welcome change to the Americo-European dominance of the story, the ingenious Cronos device seems unique, at least in this form, and the family dynamics hold together well, particularly between Jesus and his young granddaughter Aurora (Tamara Xanath) who accepts her grandfather’s return from the dead and vampirism with surprising equanimity.

The release comes with a second disk, containing a wealth of extras, including interviews, discussion and image gallery and a short film. A critical success on release but with disappointing box office, Cronos’ time may have come.

Scenester

23/2/25

Buy;

UHD: https://shop.bfi.org.uk/cronos-limited-edition-4k-ultra-hd.htm

BluRay: https://shop.bfi.org.uk/cronos-limited-edition-blu-ray.html

Danger Came Smiling

Thu, 20 Feb 2025 22:21:10 GMT

Danger Came Smiling; Linder at Hayward Gallery

Danger Came Smiling; Linder at the Hayward Gallery.

The Hayward Gallery is playing host to the prickly, challenging and startling art of Linder Sterling.

The exhibition’s giallo-like title leads you through the doorway filled with a huge head shot of Linder in a black lace dress, string of pearls and hard, flyaway eye makeup, her lower face wrapped in polythene. Her robophobic stare lets you know you are in for some rough handling.

To those who recall the heady, dangerous early days of punk, Linder is remembered as the artist behind the cover of Buzzcocks’ ‘Orgasm Addict’ single, a sexualised image of a woman’s body excised from a porn magazine (?) with lipsticked, sugar smiles where her nipples would be and an electric iron for a head. This jarring combination would be something Linder would practice to perfection in her art, her scalpel ensuring a sharp line from the naked bodies superimposed on scenes of dreamlike domestic life. ‘I select imagery with my scalpel and I make my mark’.

An eclectic selection of gig flyers feature now legendary bands such as Joy Division, Magazine, Buzzcocks and Linder’s own band, Ludus, ranging from the ‘type and scrawl’ style of early punk to the severe, spare line Bauhaus-influenced style of the early 80’s.

A subversive magazine prepared by Linder titled ‘Pretty Girls’ features many shots of a model, nude and reposing on mid-century furniture, with Linder’s trademark household appliances replacing the model’s head and limbs in a comment on the objectification of women found in the ‘real’ counterparts to this publication. There is humour here too, tempting the viewer to think of some mash up of ‘Spick and Span’ magazines and the prizes on the conveyor belt of ‘The Generation Game’. A naked female torso in a kitchen, her head a food mixer, stares lasciviously at a bottle full of juicy frankfurters. In one particularly arresting shot, the model’s head is replaced by a snapshot camera; literally, ‘I Am A Camera’.

Flowers, incorporated into Linder’s pictures at an early stage, replace fetishized household appliances as covers – or deeper revelations? – of otherwise naked bodies, a plant’s sexual organs replacing a human’s. A macho male stares out of his photograph, the ironic choice of an orchid covering his genitals. Showy, colourful male birds make their appearances in the corners of pictures, males objectified instead of females.

Later works give greater prominence to more of the transgressive imagery in Linder’s early interest in the drag scene and playful eroticism.

Enter at your own risk, but do enter.

Danger Came Smiling is at the Hayward Gallery until 5 ^th May.

Scenester

16/2/25

Speak No Evil

Sun, 15 Dec 2024 18:37:49 GMT

Speak No Evil (2022)

Speak No Evil (2022) Acorn International Media BluRay DVD (AV3802) Digital

The highly original, slow burning Danish horror from Christian Tafdrup, ‘Speak No Evil’ is available now on digital formats to own.

Beginning with a holiday in idyllic Tuscany, a shy, tight knit Danish family Bjorn (Morten Burian), Louise (Sidsei Siem Koch) and their daughter Agnes (Liva Forsberg) run across an open, friendly Dutch family, Patrick (Fedja van Huet), Karin (Karina Smulders) and son Abel (Marius Damslev) and become friends with them immediately.

Over dinner, the Danes are surprised but delighted to receive an invitation to come and stay with the Dutch family at their home, one which is repeated in a letter to them after their return home. They accept and drive to their secluded country home, greeted at the door and ushered in to a small, worn-in house with all the basics for living.

Getting ready for dinner, host Patrick has forgotten that Louise is a vegetarian, offering her some wild boar meat, but she accepts it politely after encouragement from Bjorn. Days are spent in simple country pleasures and one evening, dinner at a restaurant is offered, although not for the children who stay behind with babysitter Mujahid. After a meat-heavy meal, Patrick and Karin dance intimately to the diner’s hard rock music as Bjorn and Louise feel ever queasier. Bjorn offers his half of the bill, only to discover he is expected to pay for all of it. Patrick’s taste for loud, sleazy rock music surfaces again on the return trip on the in-car stereo.

The uncomfortable atmosphere is ramped up further as the Dutch couple’s concept of personal space proves less conventional than the Danes’ and conflicts inevitably develop. Bjorn’s reluctance to give voice to his and Louise’s concerns over Patrick and Karin’s increasingly creepy behaviour sets him against Louise and after an incident involving Agnes and the Dutch couple, the Danes decide to leave. Persuaded back with a pack of totally inadequate explanations and insincere apologies from Patrick and Karin, the real nightmare begins.

A mixture of grim comedy of manners, town vs country rivalry and the gap between appearances and reality becoming a yawning chasm are carefully and slowly revealed in a story which builds to a horrifying climax and a delve into the sordid motives of the Dutch couple, only previously hinted at. A truly disturbing piece that will make you look twice at the affable strangers you find yourself befriending on holiday.

Scenester
15/12/24

Trailer here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UhWiiDhmBCM

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The Outcasts

Sun, 22 Sep 2024 16:09:05 GMT

The Outcasts

The Outcasts (1982) BFI Flipside Blu ray BFIB1522 Rated 15

New from the BFI Flipside team, a 2K High Definition presentation of ‘The Outcasts’, a rarely seen 1982 film set in rural Ireland in the 19 ^th Century, this quiet drama pushes emotional buttons as a folk tale unfolds. The flm is written and directed by Robert Wynne-Simmons.

In a small, inward looking community of subsistence level farmers where poverty is the norm and sickness and death are never very far away, the priority is keeping the farm work turning over, no matter what. Everyone has a part to play and hard physical labour is expected. With such a tough way of life and little time for rest or play, people’s feelings and attitudes are perhaps understandably harsh. In this impoverished landscape lives shy and introverted Maura (Mary Ryan) whose contemporaries take delight in poking fun at her, jostling her to the ground and treating her as less than they imagine themselves to be. Her father, a stony-faced man whose farm is failing, never spares her the rod, feeling her to be little more than a burden.

Outsiders and visitors are few, but the top-hatted equestrian matchmaker (veteran actor Cyril Cusack) turns up to broker a marriage between Maura’s elder sister and the capable, hard-working son of his neighbour. His presence provides the other youngsters with another opportunity to taunt Maura, but a young priest makes a touching attempt to befriend her, sharing his nature sketch book with her.

In a rare evening away from the parents, a mysterious group of musicians arrive, their heads wrapped in conical straw helmets, like figures from a mummer’s play. Their rumbunctious music provides the soundtrack to some drunken revelry and the other girls take off into the woods for some outdoor horseplay, leaving Maura behind. However, fiddler Scarf Michael (Mick Lally) has designs on Maura and she is not unflattered by his attentions.

It's here that the story takes on a more magical tone, with the elements behaving strangely, the musicians undergoing odd transformations with only Maura unalarmed by it all. The other girls fare less well and it isn’t long before they begin to blame Maura for it and their lives’ predicaments, even accusing her of being a witch.

‘The Outcasts’ is probably a little short on scares to be considered a true horror film, but its strength lies in its sympathetic depiction of outsider status and the way entrenched poverty can drive people to look for the easiest scapegoat.

Scenester

22/9/24

Buy here: https://shop.bfi.org.uk/the-outcasts-flipside-049-blu-ray.html?srsltid=AfmBOoobZwYRLq2Mhdr_1bWO-rA4DD4HyMuZ-oyCq4fnPOxDNi2v1rDO

The Hitcher

Fri, 06 Sep 2024 17:01:55 GMT

The Hitcher

The Hitcher (1986) Second Sight Films 2NDBR4227/8/9 Cert: 15

From Second Sight Films comes the hell-for-leather 80’s road slasher ‘The Hitcher’, the directorial feature debut of Robert Harmon in newly remastered, limited edition box set and standard 4K UHD/BluRay to rekindle the fires of the gorehounds among you.

Taking place almost entirely on the dusty, oppressive interstate highways of the USA’s Mid-West and its sparse, understaffed truck stops, the plot is reminiscent of a particularly gory, unhinged urban legend.

Young Jim Halsey (C. Thomas Howell) is driving across Texas bound for California, where he will deliver the car with which he has been entrusted. Picking up hitch hiker Jim Ryder along the way (the great Rutger Hauer – Blade Runner, Sin City), he quickly discovers that the intense, taciturn man sat in the passenger seat is a psychopath. Attempts to engage the stranger in conversation are met with riddle-like responses and sardonic laughter, with a flick knife being flashed to chilling effect.

Noticing that the passenger door is ajar, our driver manages to kick the hitcher out and leaves him lying in the road. It isn’t the last our driver sees of him. Imagine Halsey’s horror on seeing a family pickup going past with the hitcher hugging a child and soft toy in the back seat, snickering!

Halsey’s attempts to summon help are frustrated by the almost inevitable locked-up truck stops and broken public phones and his narrow escape from a Hitchcockian demise on a garage forecourt soaked in spilt petrol is a deft touch to an old suspense trick.

Halsey’s arrival at an out of hours truck stop and the introduction of a sympathetic waitress (Jennifer Jason Leigh (Single White Female, The Hateful Eight) brings some relief from his relentless, violent pursuit and she cooks him a burger and fries as he freshens up in the men’s bathroom. A telephone call to report the day’s scarcely believable events brings the Police and Halsey finds himself chief suspect for the murder spree being enacted on the highways. A tense, browbeating interrogation leaves Halsey feeling that he is being scapegoated and he retires dejected to his cell for the night.

The pace is not slacking; Halsey wakes to discover his cell door ajar, the Police officers dead and strewn around like broken dolls and his escape route practically signposted for him. The mysterious and terrifying hitcher at work again. High speed chases with vehicles overturning like gaming pieces angrily flung to the floor by a sore loser follow and our driver seems to be on a sure date with death at the hands of his pursuer, with whom he seems to be sharing a fate.

‘The Hitcher’ has plenty more surprises and twists, all delivered at a furious, gut-wrenching pace as our young delivery driver tries to survive on the road and make whatever sense he can of the terrible events he is experiencing. The grim fate of those he meets is dished out cold and there’s even a suggestion of how our knife happy hitcher may have become the murderous force of evil he is.

Also included in the limited edition set is collector’s package with new artwork and a 200 page hardback book. All editions feature much archive material, two short films and much more.

Pre-Order available from 30 ^th September.

Scenester

3/9/24

Buy here : https://secondsightfilms.co.uk/products/the-hitcher-blu-ray-pre-order-available-september-30th

Witch

Sun, 28 Apr 2024 17:54:28 GMT

Witch

Witch (101 Films) on digital

From 101 comes an imaginative, dreamlike tale of a 16 ^th Century community under oppressive church scrutiny, a priest who sees witches at every turn and a young blacksmith and his family caught by its intrusive gaze. This British folk-horror is directed by Craig Hinde and Mark Zamitt who co-wrote the tale with David Baboulen.

Eschewing naked romps and dark deeds on a blasted heath, ‘Witch’ instead draws on the unnerving power of events half-seen through flickering lights, mysterious gusts of wind stirring the forest floor and malicious village gossip in the escalating nightmare that was England’s witch mania.

Shuttling back and forth in the timelines of our main characters, a disturbing picture is built up of a tense, inward looking rural community slowly eroding itself, pursuing petty gripes that quickly turn into full blown vendettas, peppered with accusations and counter-accusations of witchcraft.

The portrayal of this semi-rural backwater is handled well, with winding, climbing streets filled with stone houses and its woods and clearings beyond, with its few rude, turf-roofed cottages.

The appearance of an elderly man with a wild tale to tell seeds the plot and a crazed young woman carrying two gory burdens is a powerful early shock. The trial of the other-worldly, nursey rhyme murmuring woman for murder proceeds at an injudiciously swift pace, the all-male jury especially selected by the judge’s paid thugs for their local business interests and prejudices. They return an inevitable guilty verdict and death sentence on this poor, distracted woman.

William, a blacksmith (Ryan Spong) knows his wife Twyla (Sarah Alexandra Marks) has also been wrongly accused of witchcraft and sets about finding the real culprit for this grisly murder.

It's here that the story turns from realistic medieval rural life, to a fantastical circular journey through an underworld where there is a chance that past wrongs can be righted, but at what cost, and to whom?

‘Witch’ is no mere shocker, but a well-handled tale of family devotion in a tight community caught in the twin grip of religious dogma and supernatural terror.

Scenester1964 1/4/24

Trailer: https://youtu.be/KVMSTFSey9A

Buy Here: https://101-films-store.com/

Scala!!!

Mon, 22 Jan 2024 13:53:56 GMT

Or, the world's best rep cinema?

Scala!!! (BFI DVD, BluRay BFIB1503) BFI Player, Subscription iTunes and Amazon Prime

From the BFI comes a hugely enjoyable documentary about the fondly remembered Scala Cinema, from its beginnings as a rep/agit-prop setup in Fitzrovia to its move into a former music hall turned rock gig in King’s Cross, where it fully realised its potential as an all-genre encompassing film and TV venue.

Basically, a memory box from the former staff members, a legion of latterly well-known regulars and an original score by Barry Adamson, it’s sure to delight old habitues and those too young to have bought a membership card for the even then paltry thirty pence, sat back in the well-worn flip-up seats and lapped up the double bill they just paid less for, than what a West End theatre would charge for just one film.

I can’t make an honest claim to having been a member of the Fitzrovia club, but I gravitated to the King’s Cross theatre as soon as I arrived in London, May 1981, guided by one of my new workmates, who kindly gave me the Scala’s famous twice-folded monthly calendar. The riotous psychedelic artwork that covered the calendars made them seem more like a programme from a West Coast hippie theatre happening than a cinematic bill of fare in early 80’s London.

Those days of nasty, vindictive government, endless labour disputes and strikes, rampant homophobia and racial tension are queasily recalled by the speakers, when the Scala was an oasis of culture in those vicious times. Figures like Mark Moore (S’Express) comedian Adam Buxton and film maker John Waters share their memories of their first visits to the King’s Cross primatarium, with resident prowling cat, the hissing of beer cans being opened and rattling tube trains down below. Among those with many stories to tell is writer and horror enthusiast Kim Newman, whose interview is expanded upon in the extras, all of them well worth the seeing.

The stewardship of Stephen Woolley, with his particular interest in music on film, made the place a go-to venue for carefully curated bands who needed a place to play, and to relax and watch the varied selection of films the rest of the time. Recalling that the up-and-coming Spandau Ballet were once the house band, many other bands would follow and later grace the stage, including Throbbing Gristle, Monte Cazzaza, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds and Gallon Drunk.

Jane Giles recalls her time as programmer with affection, even showing the old school tools of her trade, a well-worn card index, the ‘square jaw’ telephone and the directory that everyone needed to do the slightest amount of business in those pre-mobile phone, pre-internet days.

Horror films were a mainstay of the Scala’s offerings, and in those oppressively censored times, (don’t get me started) it was often the only way, bar under-the-counter videocassettes, to see the full versions of such over-the-top grue and gore like Herschell Gordon Lewis’ cannibalistic carve-up ‘Blood Feast’, Lucio Fulci’s mad-eyed ‘Zombie Flesh Eaters’ and Jorge Grau’s sci-fi/splatter mash-up, ‘The Living Dead At the Manchester Morgue’.

The sheer diversity of its programming is what separated the Scala from its contemporaries. A typical monthly calendar might offer up an all-nighter of John Waters’ camp, trailer-park freakshows or a season of spaghetti westerns interspersed with 1950’s sci-fi creature features or a selection of Russ Meyer’s full-throttle, libidinous romps. The grainy print of grimy erotic comedy ‘Thundercrack’ is recalled and paid more attention than it ultimately deserves, whereas the hugely important ‘Wider Television Access’ (WTVA) nights are barely mentioned. In an age when the BBC and the IBA had put popular television shows like The Avengers, Danger Man, The Prisoner and Hancock’s Half-Hour to archive, only repeating them on rare occasions, WTVA nights became one of the few ways for afficionados to see classic TV. The huge popularity of these nights was testament to the continued interest in these shows that the TV authorities considered old-fashioned; redundant even. Fans would have a long wait for these shows to appear on the then fairly new and relatively expensive videocassette, and an even longer wait for the arrival of the public internet and online sources such as YouTube.

There are interviews with former employees and media folk about the legendary cinema, but regrettably few from the weekly punters who made the Scala what it was, an affordable place of film education and a refuge from the dreary, homogenized Hollywood fare on offer at your local multiplex. There is an untold story in between the sometimes repetitive, dope scented anecdotes of comedians and musicians which would likely tell you that the Scala also showed 40’s and 50’s gangster flicks and film noir as well as the strange, hallucinatory visions of Alejandro Jodorowsky and Kenneth Anger.

Perhaps if there had been a few more contributions from the everyday members, we might have seen a more rounded view of this unique theatre.

The story of the Scala begins and ends, appropriately, with a screening of the 1933 King Kong, an image of love, desire, wildness and danger that practically everyone can recall some part of. How fabulous would a gigantic blow-up King Kong have looked, floating above the cupola of the Scala, beckoning film lovers into one of the world’s best, strangest, most eclectic and most eccentric of cinemas?

Scenester

20/1/24

Buy BluRay here: https://shop.bfi.org.uk/scala-blu-ray.html

Crimes of the Future

Sun, 10 Sep 2023 13:01:47 GMT

Crimes of the Future (18)

Crimes of the Future (2022) Second Sight Films 2NDBR4192

Now available in luxury edition 4K UHD / Blu Ray box set and Standard edition 4K/UHD and standard Edition Blu Ray, David Cronenberg’s long awaited remake of his sparse, alienating 1970 sophomore film.

The once familiar clinical settings are here exchanged for a much-changed human environment, so affected and transformed by artificial intervention, that pain and disease no longer exist, although you wouldn’t know it from the downward spiral of grime, poverty and desperation here.

There are some who are now eating synthetic food, their chewing and digestion helped along by the still-human ones operating body active chairs that tense their muscles for them to aid chewing. Even the human body itself has started to d/evolve with new, extra organs brought into being as part of the cycle of renewal through scientific means. Any such new appendages need to be declared, surgically tattooed and closely monitored at the Centre for Natural Organ Registry, a shabby office bureau with poorly paid, disinterested staff.

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of life in this macabre future is the elevation of autopsy into performance art, as people pay to watch a stylized medical operation with bone-like instruments to a soundtrack of punishing industrial music. Later, a man with more ears than are generally considered necessary dances to atrocious disco music. Imagine how he hears it.

The autopsy footage and surgical instruments workshop are both shown in classic Cronenberg vignettes, with an obsessive interest in the form of these gruesome objects and the uses they are put to. The eating of plastics and other artificial foods is a true innovation, with nothing of the comical about it. The desire to perform for others seems to cut across all classes, and ‘just to feel something’ is a phrase that comes to mind.

Tenser (Viggo Mortensen), getting cold feet about taking part in a bizarre beauty pageant, is intrigued by Timlin (Kristen Stewart) of the Organ Registry, who seems to want to be part of his show. Tenser and partner Caprice (Lea Seydoux) go to see the mysterious Lang, (Scott Speedman) a radical evolutionist, who is hell-bent on making an art statement. His prop will be a boy’s dead body, stored in his chest freezer. We learn that the boy was the first one born with a digestive system that could cope with plastics, murdered by his mother for being ‘inhuman’. The boy’s autopsy reveals he has tattooed organs, long before it was required by law.

The shocks in ‘Crimes of the Future’ come frequently, but are more cerebral than visual, and the general feeling of alienation between the characters and in this hostile bureaucracy is well realized, but the film’s grim view of the future makes for a depressing viewing experience, rather than the stimulating one we have come to expect from this director.

Scenester

29/8/23

Order here: https://secondsightfilms.co.uk/collections/pre-orders/products/crimes-of-the-future-limited-edition-4k-uhd-blu-ray-pre-order-available

The Changeling

Mon, 05 Jun 2023 09:14:35 GMT

The Changeling

The Changeling (Second Sight Films) 2NDBR4183

Director Peter Medak’s standout 1980 horror ‘The Changeling’ is at last getting the full 4K restoration treatment, available on UHD/BluRay as from 5 ^th June, to rekindle the fires of old fans and find a whole new audience.

The story is classic European folklore transplanted to the USA, a little detective work story to engage the audience and using time honoured tricks to get the viewer’s fright index rising. Distinguished composer John Russell (George C. Scott) loses his wife and daughter in a tragic car accident, and relocates to Seattle, hoping his new, different surroundings will bring renewed hope. Friendly estate agent Claire Norman (Trish van Devere) recommends a house for him to live and work in, and he loves the vast property at first sight. Still a little dusty from its long period of vacancy, beautifully furnished, decorated and remarkably cheap to rent, Russell moves in and begins to put his stamp on the sprawling mansion.

Honeymoon period over, the house begins to put its own stamp on its new occupier. Mysterious, sudden screams are let out and footsteps are heard on the staircase while Russell sits at his piano, composing. An investigation by the handyman concludes that the old, self-willed heating system is probably to blame, and he adjusts it as best he can. After all, an old house has habits.

Needless to say, the strange and increasingly loud noises continue, and Russell feels drawn to investigate personally. Given the vast number of rooms in the spacious pile, this could represent a major time investment, but Russell feels drawn to the upper floors, finding a flight of stairs behind a door within a seemingly forgotten cupboard. The masterly use of shadow and suggestion throughout the film separates it from more usual fare, and even when it uses time-worn cliches like the forgotten wing of an old house, the sounds and shadows do their job of raising the goosebumps.

The room is naturally locked, but after a few shoulder charges it gives way, and we are let into a junk-strewn room that has at some point been a child’s bedroom. You can almost smell the musty atmosphere of this depressing cobwebbed garret, made all the more affecting by the discovery of a child-sized wheelchair and bath in a corner.

Russell decides to do a little research about the house, helped by his estate agent friend, but are hampered by an officious, elderly jobsworth at the historical archive. The discovery of a disabled child’s death at the time the house was owned by a local grandee piques Russell’s interest. The possibility of a spirit attempting to communicate with this traumatised man gets an early introduction, and it’s not long before Russell enlists the help of a psychic, who, he is told by Dr. Pemberton of the Psychic Research Institute (Barry Morse in an interesting cameo) that she is one of the 1% who are not outright frauds. A full-scale séance ensues, with table turning, rapping and automatic writing from our psychic, messages apparently coming from the spirit of the dead boy.

The pace doesn’t slacken for the full 115 minutes, and the above is only a taster of what’s to come. Old horror fans will recognise the nods to ‘The Haunting’ (loud knocking, rattling door handles) and ‘The Shining’ (a very creepy, returning bouncing ball) but these classic tropes are done in such a way as to complement, and not define the story. Performances are excellent throughout; Trish van deVere’s is a real charmer, and helpful too, so much so that it’s hard to believe she is an estate agent. Jean Marsh gets a cameo as Russell’s wife, killed off in the first few minutes, unfortunately.

The disks on offer have many extras, including material on the true story on which the drama is based, and interviews with the director and other important figures involved with the film. Stephen King describes ‘The Changeling’ as a favourite of his, and I can think of no higher recommendation for a horror film. The Changeling is a far cry from the tedious, effects laden horrors of today, and shows what can be done armed with a traditional story, high calibre actors and expert sound and light.

Scenester

25/5/23

Buy Here:

https://secondsightfilms.co.uk/products/the-changeling-limited-edition-4k-uhd-blu-ray-pre-order-available-march-13th

The Last Sentinel

Mon, 24 Apr 2023 09:19:23 GMT

The Last Sentinel

The Last Sentinel (101 Films/(Yet) Another Distribution Company) 2023 Digital release

Opening with the scene of a ship in a storm, the crew fighting against all odds to keep afloat, sheets of seawater coming from all directions and burst pipes spraying everywhere, ‘The Last Sentinel’ wastes no time on the course of its 117 minutes. Written by Malachi Smyth and directed by Tanel Toom, it arrives in digital format on 24 ^th April.

The year is 2063, and the world is grappling with the dire consequences of global warming, violently changing weather patterns and a war that seems to have been raging forever on what is left of the land. Much of the action takes place on a lonely sea fort, where the crew defend their fort from long-feared enemy attack, whilst awaiting much-needed supplies from the highly anticipated relief ship. Their constant attempts to contact their base via radio are going unanswered, and the crew are also having to reckon with the irony of being on board a sea fort where water supplies are running low and fish are getting more difficult to catch.

Tensions are running high as the engineer Baines (Martin McCann) blamed for persistent generator failure, responds with barbs about the laziness of other crew members in catching their staple diet. Top of the agenda is what they propose to do about their precarious situation, given that they have signed up to a two-year mission and have no means of making the sea crossing to whatever is left of their home. Their captain, the stony faced Hendrichs (Thomas Kretschmann) is having none of this talk, will not tolerate dissent, and even disapproves of the levity of the totem-like waving gas balloon has installed on the deck of the fort.

Spotting a tiny detail on the horizon, the captain orders the gun be readied to open fire, and Cassidy (Kate Bosworth) spots a blip on the radar corresponding to the object. All attempts to communicate with the supposed enemy ship fail, and the captain prepares the on-board nuclear device for detonation. Taking a small craft out to investigate the ‘wreckage’ Sullivan (Lucien Laviscount) discovers an abandoned but fully equipped ship, with no sign of where and when the crew left. Sullivan sends a signal back to the fort just in time before the gun and nuclear device are fired. The crew feel that the abandoned ship presents them with an opportunity to get home, but their captain has other ideas.

‘The Last Sentinel’ is a good, gripping and claustrophobic eco-thriller with elements of the ‘Marie Celeste’ about it, and even a hint of ‘Alien’ with its tension wracked marooned crew who have little prospect of getting home alive.

Scenester

23/4/23

Trailer:

https://youtu.be/yamiB-A0TC4

Watch here:

https://www.roku.com/en-gb/whats-on/movies/last-sentinel?id=7da5aac5c94c542d8a29218232799df9

Full Circle

Mon, 24 Apr 2023 09:16:28 GMT

Full Circle, or The Haunting of Julia

Full Circle: The Haunting of Julia (1977) BFI Flipside U0005 4K UltraHD Blu Ray (15)

Little seen since its release yet with a wealth of acting talent and a taut script, ‘Full Circle’ needs and fully deserves the Flipside 4K Ultra HD reboot and release.

Based on the Peter Straub (Ghost Story, Lost Boy, Lost Girl) 1975 novel ‘Julia’, and directed by Richard Loncraine (Slade in Flame, Richard III), Full Circle has one foot in the ‘woman in peril’ genre and one in the ‘weird children’ cycle, using both to impressive effect. Mia Farrow plays the vulnerable, child-like woman, Julia, a bag of bones in frumpy clothes and her signature boy’s crop, recently bereaved and separated. Discharged from hospital and newly ensconced in a large, fully furnished house in the well-heeled neighbourhood of Holland Park, Julia sets about rebuilding her life without her controlling husband.

Finding a child’s room containing an extensive toy collection, Julia is reminded of her deceased daughter, becoming unnerved at the strange noises she keeps hearing and at household appliances, apparently turning themselves on. Colin Towns’ beautiful piano music punctuates the story, counterpointed by Julia’s friend, antique dealer Mark Berkeley (Tom Conti) playing a little on the house’s out of tune grand. Later, her sighting of a young girl at a local park, whom she thinks may be her daughter, only adds to her nervousness and depression, and she returns home.

Estranged husband Magnus (Kier Dullea) continues to hover around her, keen to restore their marriage, even enlisting the help of his sister, Lily (Jill Bennett) in this. Julia decides to hold a welcoming gathering at her new home, and Lily brings along the eccentric Mrs. Flood, (Anna Wing) a psychic medium, who suggests they hold a séance. Although Julia is reluctant to take part, she agrees, and after the usual ghostly histrionics, Mrs. Flood warns her to leave the ‘evil’ house immediately.

The ’accidents’ begin to come thick and fast at this point. Magnus breaks into Julia’s house and gets into the basement but suffers a fall and is impaled on a piece of glass.

A neighbour tells Julia about some previous occupants of the house, two weird sisters and a Mrs Rudd, who did have a daughter, about the same age as Julia’s dead daughter. She also reveals her vision of a boy, covered in blood, in a playground. A little research into an old newspaper at the British Museum reading room turns up the report of the grisly murder of a young boy by a group of children. A little more reveals the name of the boy’s mother, whom she traces and visits. The boy’s mother, blind Greta Braden, (an imperious Mary Morris) tells of the tragedy and the cold indifference of the protagonist Olivia, who had a mysterious, absolute power over the other children. She also reveals that a vagrant was executed for this crime, which he certainly did not commit.

Visits to the now middle aged ‘children’ of Olivia’s gang prove a little helpful, turning up creepy piano teacher Captain Paul Winter (a frosty, dismissive performance from Edward Hardwicke) and the poor, wretched David Swift (Robin Gammell, evoking this piteous yet dangerous man) living in alcoholic squalor in a miserable bedsit. The former is keen to get rid of her without talking about his childhood crimes, but the latter tells her where to find Olivia’s mother. He later slips on his own landing and falls down the tenement stairs. Cracking his head open in a style reminiscent of the Italian Giallo. Julia’s friend Mark, having been told of these dangerous encounters, tells her to pack up and leave the house, and is himself killed by his electric lamp falling into his bath.

Julia finds Olivia’s aged, distracted mother in a depressing psychiatric home, and she is confronted by the realization of the true level of damage inflicted by daughter Olivia. The mother tells Julia that she killed her own daughter, as she was inherently evil. The climax of the film, like the opening scene of daughter Kate (Sophie Ward) choking to death, is truly shocking.

The film does have some similarities to the hair-raising Rosemary’s Baby, which had Mia Farrow playing a woman virtually imprisoned in a rambling mansion, feeling hunted and violated without knowing why, and researching the history of a house where dreadful things have been plotted, and have taken place. But ‘Full Circle’s quieter, brooding atmosphere and slow-burning revelation of barely describable child-on-child cruelty and murder ensure that the horrors are shown to be real and earthly, even if the dark lode of occultism can be seen below the surface.

Scenester

16/4/2023

Clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQdsePdS4OE

PreOrder from BFI shop: https://shop.bfi.org.uk/full-circle-the-haunting-of-julia-flipside-046-4k-ultra-hd-blu-ray.html

More orders; https://shop.bfi.org.uk/

Martin

Mon, 27 Mar 2023 14:25:34 GMT

Martin (1977) cert 18

Martin (1977) (BluRay Second Sight) 2NDBR4168 (Cert 18)

After a lengthy absence from our cinemas, TV screens and video sources, George Romero’s 1977 film ‘Martin’ is back, and in a 4K restoration for our viewing. Packed with a feature length ‘making of’, interviews, TV and radio spots and voiceovers, it’s a horror fan’s dream.

That George Romero was far better known as ‘the zombiemeister’, didn’t put anyone off checking out Romero’s take on what was, by then, a rather hackneyed genre of horror film. Romero consistently turned out a quality product and this was no exception.

Martin (John Amplas) is a solitary, directionless young man who bears the heavy burden of believing himself to be a vampire. Martin’s appearance is hardly that of vampire legend, an anonymous young man who wanders the streets in broad daylight, with an immature streak to him that makes him seek out joke shops to buy trick guillotines and the like.

Boarding a sleeper train from Indianapolis to Pittsburgh, Martin, hypo between his teeth like a pirate with his knife, he sedates a young woman, cuts her forearm with a razor blade and, amid her pleading, lets her bleed to death, drinking the gore in silence. It’s a shocking scene, and one which leaves the viewer in no doubt as to the rough ride they’re in for.

Met by his elderly Lithuanian Catholic cousin Tateh Cuda (Lincoln Maazel) at the station, he takes him home and treats him like a prisoner, hangs garlic all over the house, even calling him ‘Nosferatu’. Martin slowly adapts to life in his adopted hometown, tramping the neighbourhood of scrapyards and steel mills, reluctantly agreeing to work in the family shop. Any thought his cousin might have had that this would curtail his activities was wrong, as the shop only serves to put him in touch with more potential victims.

Calling his local radio station, he talks about his vampiric activities, debunking some of the myths he feels have grown up around his fellow creatures. Dubbed ‘The Count’ by the incredulous DJ, he becomes a regular phone-in guest on the show, no doubt to the great, misplaced amusement of the listeners.

The matter-of-fact atmosphere of this tale is perhaps the most unnerving part of it. Martin, ever helpful, agrees to do odd jobs for random women he meets, stalking others with deliberate intent, and all unnoticed and unhindered by the police and citizens of this sleepy backwater. His chilling modus operandi is always the same; play the innocent, get into their confidence and then strike with hypo and razorblade. His gentle assurances that it won’t hurt, and they’ll just go to sleep, sound more like a kindly hospital nurse than a bloodthirsty killer. At one point, he befriends a lonely widow, Mrs. Santini (Elayne Nadeau) with whom he begins an affair, leading, crucially, to a temporary respite from his blood hunger.

The light touch direction from Romero on this ‘through the keyhole’ tale lifts it far above the mechanised gorefests that would later overpopulate the drive-ins and video shops of the 80’s. The film gently secretes a ravening killer in the midst of a town where nothing of any interest ever happens, and even invites the viewer to feel a little sympathy for the young man who is certainly impelled by some powerful force to perform these awful deeds.

Scenester

20/3/23

Buy here:

https://secondsightfilms.co.uk/products/martin-limited-edition-uhd-pre-order-available

Cursed Films

Fri, 24 Feb 2023 17:40:14 GMT

Cursed Films

Cursed Films Series 1 2020 Shudder (Acorn Media International) AB2066

Certificate 15 also on download.

We’ve had films about curses (The Mummy, Night of the Demon, The Ring) and films so bad, we’ve cursed at them, but what about films which are said to be cursed? Shudder have come up with an engaging TV series which discusses the possibility that some of the best-known films of the last fifty years may harbour a curse. Writer/director Jay Cheel presides over this collection of curios.

The 1982 Tobe Hooper directed and Steven Spielberg/Michael Grais/Mark Victor co-written ‘Poltergeist’, was hugely successful and went on to win four Academy Awards, in a tale of ghosties and ghoulies turning up in the kind of suburban USA setting mind numbingly familiar to film goers during that decade. Special effects are great for the period, and the story is accessible, but what’s that about a curse?

The careers of the director and at least one of the co-writers don’t seem to have been adversely affected by any hoodoo, but spare a thought for actresses Dominique Dunne, who played Dana Freeling, later strangled by her ex-boyfriend, and child actress Heather O’Rourke, who played younger sister Carol Anne Freeling, and would go on to appear in Poltergeist II and III, and would die tragically young aged twelve, following two cardiac arrests. The rumour mill was in full operation even before the invention of the public internet, fuelled by these two tragically early deaths, Poltergeist gained an unwelcome reputation for having a curse on it. Note the timeline; Heather O’Rourke’s sad passing was six years after the original film.

The Omen (1976) is perhaps one film which did its damnedest to attract a curse, with the deliberate courting of bad luck and satanic imagery in its publicity material. Well-crafted and superbly acted, veteran stars Gregory Peck and Lee Remick play Robert and Kathy Thorn, the former an American diplomat working in the United Kingdom, their union ‘blessed’ with a child, Damian, who is nothing less than the son of the Devil. The story is awash with biblical warnings, archaeological evidence and various shades of interested parties. Patrick Troughton puts in a terrific performance as a desperate priest, and David Warner as a beleaguered photographer. Billie Whitelaw’s chilling performance as Mrs Baylock, an emissary of the Old One set to look after the infant antichrist, is worth the price of the ticket alone. This strange, disturbing film is brim-full with conspiracy, cover-up, suicide and retribution, and it wasn’t shy of talking it up on release. Much was made of Gregory Peck’s flight to the UK to begin filming. His ‘plane was struck by lightning, as was the executive producer’s ‘plane a few weeks later. A ‘plane scheduled for use in the film crashed, killing everyone on board. The man who designed the decapitation scene witnessed a real one soon after. Yet, as pointed out in the documentary, if the Devil is real, and wanted to go about his nefarious work unhindered, why would he try to stop the film being made, with these terrible accidents? He would surely do his best to ensure a smooth shooting schedule and a successful wrap. One of the most successful films of the year, it earned an Academy Award for best score (Jerry Goldsmith), so perhaps the Devil doesn’t have all the best tunes.

For the sheer number of accidents, deaths and bad luck visited on the cast and crew of The Exorcist (1976), it is tempting to believe that this towering piece of work in the Old Nick film cycle was actually cursed. The story line is outre, even by the standards of 1970’s exploitation cinema. Regan MacNeil (Linda Blair) the 12 year old daughter of a successful actress Chris MacNeill (Ellen Burstyn) begins to display odd, violent behaviour that is totally at odds with her privileged and comfortable upbringing. Endless medical tests, including an unwatchable carotid puncture sequence, are inconclusive, and the doctors suggest, through gritted teeth, that Chris takes her daughter to a Priest. This is where the story gets ever more horrifying and ever more contentious. The demon possessing Regan resists all attempts to exorcise it, using both physical and supernatural violence to defend its position, and the film contains some of the most furious and shocking scenes ever witnessed on the big screen. Ellen Burstyn sustained a serious back injury being pulled about on a wire to simulate being pushed by a possessed Regan. So did Linda Blair, as she recalls in this documentary, from being thrashed around the room in a harness. The house used for the filming mysteriously caught fire, causing delays in the schedule, yet Regan’s bedroom remained undamaged. A carpenter cut off his thumb and a lighting technician lost a toe. Blair’s grandfather died in the first week of production, and Max von Sydow (Father Merrin) returned to Sweden after his first day of shooting, having learned of his brother’s death. Jack McGowran (who played alcoholic film director Burke Dennings) died the week after completing his scenes. The list goes on, depressingly. Nine cast and crew members are thought to have died during the filming of this, the first horror film to be given an Academy Award (Best screenplay, William Peter Blatty). It was also awarded one for best sound, having been nominated for no less than ten Academy Awards. The Exorcist regularly turns up in the lists of favourite films of horror enthusiasts and enlightened critics, and has had a prolonged life on video, DVD and film revivals, making it a modern classic. That’s a curse some film studios would welcome with open arms.

It's perhaps inevitable that 1994’s ‘The Crow’ gets a mention, by dint of star Brandon Lee, son of martial arts megastar Bruce Lee, being fatally wounded during the course of filming. Needs must, and the film was finished with a stand-in wearing a theatrical mask. If it wasn’t enough that Brandon’s father Bruce was himself the subject of intense and frankly, nonsensical speculation about his possible murder when excess water drinking whilst suffering from a prior kidney condition was nearer the mark, Brandon’s accidental death from a cartridge fragment fired from a gun, left over from a previous discharge, has sparked rumours that the Chinese mafia organized a hit, or that he was simply fated to die young. As we learn in the documentary, the District Attorney ruled that it was negligence on the part of the film crew, as the gun had not been properly checked before use. No-one was prosecuted.

The Twilight Zone is perhaps the most surprising entry here, but it easily has the darkest backstory. Essentially a portmanteau film based on the famous fantasy TV series of the 50’s and 60’s, one of its episodes features a man (played by Vic Morrow) who is forced to confront his bigotry by being put into perilous situations where the tables are turned, and he is a member of the race he despises. The Vietnam War section has our character remorseful, and he is determined to redeem himself by rescuing two Vietnamese children from a burning village in the heat of battle. The village’s designer tells the story of being congratulated on his highly realistic set, and the tragic events that led up to star Vic Morrow being decapitated and two young children, unlicensed and uninsured, being killed in the scene, hit by a crashing helicopter. The shadow of this appalling incident has tainted the film ever since, but like The Crow, no-one was ever punished for this gross negligence, and director John Landis and the four crew members who were charged with manslaughter, were acquitted.

‘Cursed Films’ makes as light a show as it can, considering the often grim events it recalls, and interviews with crew members, stars and film enthusiasts are equally enlightening, and in every case, successfully debunks the idea of the films having any kind of supernatural malfeasance attached to it.

Scenester1964

15/2/23

Trailer; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4LZBEVlSXA

Acorn International link: https://www.acornmediainternational.com/

Dawn Breaks Behind The Eyes

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Sun, 04 Dec 2022 18:02:55 GMT

Dawn Breaks Behind The Eyes

Dawn Breaks Behind The Eyes (Fractured Visions) 2021

Part skewed love/hate story, part homage to the gory horror cinema of the 1970’s, director Kevin Kopacka’s ‘Dawn Breaks Behind The Eyes’ is a quirky play-within-a-play that delivers the shivers and takes you into a trippy realm you’re sure you didn’t sign up for.

A professional couple, the frosty, sharp-tongued Dieter (Frederik von Luttichau) and dreamy Margot (Luisa Taraz) arrive at a large, run-down mansion Margot has inherited, and which polarizes opinion from the start. Margot wants to move into this shabby pile immediately; Dieter’s first thought is how much money they could get for it. The antagonistic couple barely exchange a civil word as they wander through the house, Dieter mentally calculating the value by the square metre, Margot recalling an unlikely happy childhood there spent. It isn’t long before phantom figures are glimpsed in passing, the cellar is revealed to hold a dark secret and the couple’s unhappy marriage reaches crisis point. The discovery of a locked chest yields up a variety of memorabilia and a bullwhip, taken up enthusiastically by Dieter. The bloody and highly original conclusion of this part will be hard to forget, especially by gentlemen in the audience.

Studio lights go on, the film crew are revealed, the actors are congratulated on their performances, and what follows is a trippy, orgiastic wrap party. Director Gregor (Jeff Wilbusch) and script girl Eva (Anna Platen) are an interesting reflection of Dieter and Margot in this first remove from the central story, although the fast-moving action of this part doesn’t let them develop the characters to the same extent as the two actors. Next morning, the party may be over, but the horror isn’t. In scenes reminiscent of the kind of excesses realised in the erotic British horrors of the 1970’s, strange, dark spirits possess the company and wreak havoc in the crumbling house.

Dawn Breaks Behind the Eyes is a must for horror fans, especially those with a love for vintage shivers and traditional, gory story telling.

Out theatrically 2 ^nd December, coming to Home Ent. February 2023.

Scenester

4/12/22

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dO7tM-_NFzw&feature=youtu.be

Expired

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Thu, 10 Nov 2022 17:11:38 GMT

Expired

Expired (2022) Reel 2 Reel Films

Written and directed by Ivan Sen, starring Ryan Kwanten as Jack, Jillian Nguyen as April and Hugo Weaving as Dr. Bergman and set in the near future in a grimy, dark and damp Hong Kong, the chilly romance of ‘Expired’ takes its stylistic cues from such dystopian futuristic tales as Blade Runner and The Fifth Element.

Punctuated by swooping aeriel shots of this city of winking lights and towering skyscrapers, much of the action takes place in the dirty back alleys and grubby flats on the sunless ground.

Troubled soul Jack walks the streets brooding over his miserable, abandoned childhood, as he pursues the illegal androids, facsimile humans that are so close to the original, they are indistinguishable, except to a few experts, like Jack. Dispatching them with his laser pointer gun, Jack picks up a little money for his efforts, without the morality of it all ever making even a slight impression on him.

He spends his lonely spare hours frequenting the karaoke bars and brothels which offer him little comfort beyond bodily contact and a temporary illusion of affection. It’s in one of the karaoke bars, a red-curtained corridor with private side rooms, that he meets April. Chosen from among a depressing line-up of bored looking reluctant geishas, April takes the private stage in a kimono and sings a bland love song to Jack, trying to engage him in light conversation afterwards. Conscious that she can’t see him from behind the glass, Jack resolves to visit another night, and ask her out on a date.

The pacing of ‘Expired’ reflects Jack’s numb, tedious life, a slow saunter through this alienating landscape.

Jack and April begin to see each other, sometimes a shared box of strawberries at April’s tiny, shabby flat, sometimes at a walk-in restaurant, and they unfold their life stories to each other. Jack’s loveless upbringing by one neglectful parent and April’s escape from poverty in native Vietnam and her disappointment at still being poor in one of the world’s richest cities, are told in whispers for solace.

That their love has no future is almost superfluous to mention, and Jack’s discovery that his increasingly poor health is the result of a childhood experiment will come as little surprise to sci fi fans, but that’s not to detract from what is basically an economically made, sensitively handled story in a familiar film setting.

‘Expired’ is out on all UK platforms from 7 ^th November.

Trailer;

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSRRg1mhtUM&feature=youtu.be

Scenester1964

10/11/2022

Walkabout

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Mon, 08 Aug 2022 15:48:35 GMT

Walkabout

Walkabout (Second Sight Films BluRay 2NDBR4160)

Available now in a stunning standard edition transfer to Blu Ray, Nic Roeg's love letter to the Australian landscape, based on James Vance Marshall's novel of the same name.

Taking as its starting point, a stiflingly hot day in an Australian city, the already famous Jenny Agutter (The Railway Children) plays an anonymous schoolgirl, learning enunciation in class, parrot fashion. Returning home to her family's comfortable flat, she picks up her little brother (Luc Roeg) and they get in their family's VW Beetle for a picnic in the outback. Father is a middle-aged serious, taciturn man, unable to bear the sound of her transistor radio. The air of anticipation in the little car can be cut with a knife.

They stop in a desolate part of the outback, and the girl lays out the picnic cloth and food. It is then that we are faced with the single most shocking scene in the film; Uncle begins shooting at the children, eventually killing himself after torching the car. Happening so quickly, the viewer barely has time to understand what is happening. The girl's maturity is such that she immediately takes on the role of parent and gets her brother to flee the scene before he sees the carnage.

The siblings wander the desert, slowly running out of water and energy, in their totally unsuitable school clothes, until they encounter an aboriginal boy (David Gulpilil). The boy is, unknown to them, taking part in the rite of 'Walkabout', where he must go out into the wasteland alone, and survive however he can. In stark contrast to the prim and proper clothes of the siblings, the aborigine is virtually naked, and carrying a future meal of dead lizards around his waist. It would be a problem to find anything these young people have in common, the siblings totally unprepared for life in the desert, and he, an expert hunter, fire raiser and master of his harsh environment. He speaks no English and they speak no aboriginal, yet they are able to make him understand that they are desperately in need of water, after the oasis they fortunately ran across runs dry overnight. He gamely shows them how to suck up water from the ground through a reed.

The film takes us through many such survival trials, even dipping a naked big toe into the dubious realm of the 'mondo movie' with its hunting and killing scenes, but the film is underpinned by a genuine sense of the beauty in nature and wildlife, and the happily dependent relationship between the siblings and their new friend. Taking the aboriginal boy as his model, little brother begins to act like him, even speaking in the same rhythms, to the visible discomfort of his sister. They wander from desert to scrubland to lush grassland to deserted farm and road, signalling a new phase in the film. Out hunting one day, stalking a water buffalo, a hunter in his off-road vehicle shoots at the creature with his rifle. The aboriginal boy's reaction is pivotal; his mingled disgust and sense of the world he is losing to so-called civilisation.

As the girl and her brother try to sleep in the deserted house, the aboriginal boy, his body painted in rich designs and patterns, dances around the house in what can only be a courtship ritual which ultimately fails to impress the girl. The next morning, the siblings return to the road, leaving the body of their friend hanging in the tree he chose to end his life in. This is undoubtedly the saddest moment in our story, but the longing look on the older girl's face, as, years later and held by her husband in his arms, she remembers her adolescent friend, is one you will not forget.

‘Walkabout' is available in this new 4K Scan on BluRay disc, including interviews with stars Jenny Agutter and Luc Roeg, producer Si Litvinoff, Danny Boyle, and more. The film is now rightly regarded as a classic of the new wave of Australian cinema but received mixed reviews on its release. See it and make up your own mind.

Scenester

5/8/22

Trailer;

https://youtu.be/xAVmQcb-Lvk

Buy Here:

https://secondsightfilms.co.uk/products/walkabout-standard-edition

THE VVITCH

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Wed, 13 Jul 2022 14:51:47 GMT

THE VVITCH A New England Folk Tale (2015)

The VVitch; A New England Folk Tale (2015)

Out on BluRay on 25th July from Second Sight Films comes a special limited edition of this international award-winning folk horror, and debut feature from director Robert Eggers. Coming with a wealth of extras, it’s sure to sell out quicky.

The action is set in New England 1630, where an English puritan farmer William (Ralph Ineson) under threat of banishment, instead takes his family to a remote spot away from the colonial plantation to begin afresh. Their farm is in an inhospitable place, with poor quality land and dense, ominous forest nearby.

His wife, Katherine (Kate Dickie), a nervous, suspicious woman with the challenge of four children to take care of and with new arrival baby Samuel, has her doubts about their new situation, longing to return home to England. Desperate to find food, only son Caleb (Harvey Scrimshaw) goes on unsuccessful hunting trips with his father, who almost blinds himself with the back draft of powder from his musket, trying to shoot a hare.

The upbringing of Marcy and Jonas, a pair of disobedient, gossiping twins is largely the responsibility of adolescent daughter Thomasin (Anya Taylor-Joy) who scares them with stories of the witch who will come for them if they don’t behave. This innocent remark will prove to be the catalyst of a series of events that will slowly eat away at the family’s already dwindling supplies of food, solidarity and hope.

The disappearance of baby Samuel whilst in Thomasin’s care sets the family on tenterhooks, as they have already heard stories of witches abducting babies for their evil purposes.

Soon, animals start to sicken, crops fail to yield, and Caleb disappears, returning home from the woods stripped, bedraggled and babbling. Everyone is looking for a reason for these misfortunes, or more accurately, a culprit. Katherine’s pleas for decisive action fall on dear ears, and her assessment of her husband’s poor aptitude could be seen as hurtful but is at least accurate. It is when the twins suggest that their misfortunes are the work of a witch, planting a seed in the minds of the family members, that their suggestion that Thomasin is in league with the evil one starts a chain of tragic, shattering events.

‘The VVitch’ tells its tale in a crisp realist style, and the chilling trips into the dark forest and the form of the evil afflicting the family stick to the contemporary descriptions given in historical documents. Performances are excellent, particularly Anya Taylor-Joy’s intelligent, responsible Thomasin, and Harvey Scrimshaw‘s frightened, hag-ridden Caleb. The imaginative, life-affirming ending may surprise, more than disturb you.

Scenester

3/7/22

Buy here:

https://secondsightfilms.co.uk/collections/latest-releases/products/the-witch-limited-edition-4k-uhd-blu-ray-pre-order-available-april-19th

Get Carter 4K Restoration

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Fri, 27 May 2022 14:07:15 GMT

Get Carter 4K Restoration

Get Carter (1971) New 4K Restoration (BFI Distribution Release) Cert 18

There are plot spoilers in this article.

Seminal gangster revenge film ‘Get Carter’ has at last been given the full 4K restoration treatment, and it looks bigger and better than ever.

Anyone who has not seen this essential film from the early 1970’s is in for a very different sort of gangster picture; one that reports but never glamorizes the grim, dangerous world of the professional criminal. Made and released in the cinemas within a few months of Ted Lewis’ original book’s publication, and with a fine stable of actors, ‘Get Carter’ possesses amazing longevity for a film of its period.

Michael Caine, in what must be the finest role in his lengthy career, brings all the controlled menace of Jack Carter the London based mobster, returning to his hometown of Newcastle in hot pursuit of information about his brother Frank’s killer. From the first shots of Carter and his fellow gang members in a smart modern flat, the gang watching pornographic slides and making ribald comments at the staged scenes, with Carter’s girlfriend Anna (Britt Ekland) a ‘plus one’ in this delightful gathering, you know the gloves are off.

The train journey to Newcastle with Carter reading Raymond Chandler’s ‘Farewell My Lovely’ as a nod to the 1940’s noir genre that ‘Get Carter’ updates, and the steely, tinkling notes that preface the cool double bass and tom-tom rhythm, make a jarring contrast to this journey into hell.

Jack’s arrival in his hometown, betraying no hint of a Geordie accent, starts in the kind of smoky, old-fashioned pub which is today much missed by a certain generation. Jack’s ordering a pint ‘in a thin glass’ not a beer-mug, is one of the arch regional jokes often missed by non-Geordie viewers of the film, – he wouldn’t have to ask, and he certainly wouldn’t click his fingers at the barman in such a place. He repairs to his lodgings nearby, the dingy ‘Las Vegas’ boarding house run by Edna (Rosemarie Dunham) which has at least the advantage of anonymity. It proves to be an unsuitable place to lie low, however, as mob lackey ‘Thorpie’ (Bernard Hepton) duly arrives, heavies in tow, to persuade Carter to leave the city that night.

The heavies’ return to the boarding house in the early hours is a masterpiece of queasy comedy, as Jack stands naked by the bed, shotgun raised, shooing them out, his landlady/lover lying terrified in the bed. Frank’s funeral has a touch of humour to it as well, as the hearse arrives at the back door of the house to take the corpse and his nearest and dearest to the cemetery.

Carter visits a race meeting to collar Eric Paice (Ian Hendry), chauffeur to mobster Cyril Kinnear (John Osborne), gently probing him for clues as to Frank’s killer with characteristic restrained menace. The scene contains one of the most famous lines in the film, as Carter gently removes Eric’s wrap-around sunglasses. No matter how many times Get Carter is viewed, his line never fails to chill the bones.

Jack’s rounds take him to a comfortable suburban home, a block of flats, a high-rise car park and a scruffy betting shop in search of information that will lead him to Frank’s murderer. From then on, we are subjected to some of the most brutally realistic scenes of revenge violence and torture committed to film in the UK at that time.

The ruthlessness of Jack’s world is slightly put into shade by the seediness of Glenda’s (Geraldine Moffatt) and Cliff Brumby’s (Bryan Mosley), after Jack views Glenda’s home-made porn film with Brumby coercing Jack’s niece (or daughter, by implication) in school clothes, into sex, after she has simulated(?) sex with Glenda.

Carter’s visit to the country house of rival gangster Kinnear provides us with another touch of drollery. A high stakes game of cards is in progress when Carter makes his unwelcome entrance, and calm, urbane Kinnear does his best to get rid of Carter without upsetting his rich, honoured guests. One of the players snaps ‘Thought you were going soon’, to which Carter smirks, ‘When you’ve lost your money. Won’t take long’.

The film is peppered with allusions to curses; the sight of a five-fingered man raising his glass in a pub, and the blind man in the betting office, where Carter stabs Albert Swift (Glynn Edwards) one of the enablers of brother Frank’s execution, standing in as a symbol of those who ‘saw nothing’.

The body count is far higher than the single one Jack was counting on. ‘Thorpie’ (Bernard Hepton) has his head smashed through a car window after his pathetic attempt to persuade Jack to return home and keep his nose out of others’ business. Local businessman Brumby is thrown over a concrete stair in the high-rise car park, and onto a car below. Deaths involving water turn up like unlucky cards in a Tarot reading. Carter shoots blond heavy Peter the Dutchman (Tony Beckley) off a ship, Glenda, having already had a dousing in her own bath by Jack and trapped in the boot of her own sports car, is pushed into the river, unknowingly, by Eric and his heavy Con (George Sewell), Frank’s mistress Margaret (Dorothy White) having been given an overdose of heroin by Carter, is found naked and dead, floating in a lake, and Eric, battered to death with Carter’s gun, is loaded onto a coal hopper and tossed into the sea like waste. Even Carter meets his end by the sea, one clean rifle bullet shot to his head, a moment after Eric hits the water.

‘Get Carter’s importance cannot be overstated; it’s superbly written, well acted, has a genuine feel for location, a ferocity that has never been matched and is rightfully considered a classic of the British crime genre. See the 4K restoration; you won’t be disappointed.

Scenester

22/5/22

Nineteen Eighty-Four

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Mon, 11 Apr 2022 16:00:40 GMT

Nineteen Eighty-Four

Nineteen Eighty-Four (BFI Dual Format DVD/BluRay Disks BFIB1445 )

This review contains plot spoilers.

The BBC may nowadays be playing safe-not-sorry with its programming, but that cannot be said of its mid-Century days, when weekly drama was looked on as an essential part of viewing.

Made as a play for television broadcast in 1954 as part of BBC TV’s ‘Sunday Night Theatre’, directed by Rudolph Cartier and dramatized by Nigel Kneale based on George Orwell’s hugely influential and controversial 1949 dystopian novel, ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’ is a tour de force, and now available courtesy of the BFI after many years in the BBC archive.

The action sticks closely to the book, with a Britain of the near future in the iron grip of totalitarian government and re-named ‘Airstrip One’. As part of an Atlantic alliance named Oceania, it is permanently at war with either Eurasia or Eastasia. News is disseminated by the Ministry of Truth and all dissent is ruthlessly suppressed by the Thought Police. The telescreens are fixtures in every room of every building, and in theory at least, ever watchful for the slightest signs of inefficiency or rebellion.

Peter Cushing takes the role of Winston Smith, a minor cog in the hulking governmental machine, a clerk and member of the Outer Party, busily ‘updating’ archive news stories by un-personning (removing) those out of favour with the regime and altering the current enemy state from Eurasia to Eastasia and back again, as official attitude dictates. Cushing turns in a characteristic solid performance as Winston Smith going about his thankless duties diligently, but secretly despising the state, the Outer and Inner Parties and all the apparatus of this oppressive regime.

Sets are appropriately dark, bleak and claustrophobic, and utilise a London now largely disappeared under tons of concrete and glass. Few even knew, never mind would recognize, the site of the yet to be built BBC HQ at White City, which serves as the site of Smith’s miserable workplace, the Ministry of Truth. It seems perhaps ironic that the modernist horseshoe shaped BBC TV HQ has now been transformed into luxury flats, a further transformation to puzzle future generations.

The staging of the Two Minutes Hate is our first taste of the full horror of this future despotic state; Winston and fellow workers gather in a dimly lit room, sit on basic office chairs and scream vengeance at the figure of Emmanuel Goldstein on the screen, the supposed leader of the discontents and revolutionaries. Smith joins in with the orchestrated hate, but Cushing’s subtle playing shows us he does so out of a desire to be inconspicuous.

In the canteen (filmed in Alexandra Palace, thankfully still standing) where Smith tries to give subtle hints to fellow workers of his feelings, he encounters the intellectual Syme (Donald Pleasance) and eventually, Julia Dixon (Yvonne Mitchell) who is more upfront about her rebellious nature. Her flirty persona contrasts with Smith’s remote, stilted self, but the two bond over their common enemy and set about pursuing an affair. They need a place to meet secretly, a long way from the intrusive eyes of the telescreens, and enjoy time away in the country, and eventually, rent a room from seemingly harmless antique dealer Charrington (Leonard Sachs) which has the added lure of no telescreen.

Smith becomes bolder, perhaps as a result of time spent with youthful Julia, making his feelings about the state known to boss O’Brien, (played with stiff authoritarian zeal by Andre Morell) who has all the appearance of agreeing with him. Inviting Winston and Julia to a dinner at his flat, O’Brien demonstrates his seniority in the state by turning off his telescreen, a previously unknown privilege, so that they may all talk freely. Serving fine wine and good food, O’Brien easily has their confidence.

Even those who have not yet read George Orwell’s masterpiece can probably tell where this story is going, and after their arrest by the Thought Police and subsequent torture, Winston and Julia are forced to betray each other sooner than face the truly horrifying Room 101, which contains everyone’s worst fear.

In an age when desk workers have their every key stroke and toilet break logged, fake news abounds in the media and surveillance is part and parcel of our digital devices at home and on foot, ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’ today sounds more of a prediction than a piece of political fiction.

Superbly staged, convincingly acted and unmatched in its chilling dystopian vision of a truly terrifying future, ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’ must be seen, and now you have the opportunity.

The disks come with such highly relevant extras as script documents, a Nigel Kneale event, discussion about the media reaction to the play at broadcast, and the edition of Late Night Lineup which covered the programme, with special guests writer Nigel Kneale, actor Peter Cushing etc.

S cenester

30/3/22

Buy:

https://shop.bfi.org.uk/nineteen-eighty-four-dual-format-edition.html

The Darker The Lake

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Mon, 21 Mar 2022 15:36:19 GMT

The Darker The Lake

The Darker the Lake (Yet) Another Film Distribution Company and 101 Films

The small Austrian mountain town of Sankt Michael im Lungau (St. Michael) is rocked by a death in suspicious circumstances that eerily mirrors another, thirty-five years before.

Director and co-writer Woo Lok Kwan’s low key shooting style in the picturesque town masks the disturbing events of 1987, which saw a series of grisly deaths of young people, all of whom had played a mysterious board game called ‘Painkiller’, involving a chess board, cards, intonations and candle magic. Meeting in an abandoned barn, our young protagonists are initially up for a bit of spooky fun, but the game turns sour when their questions lead to mysterious black smoke appearing from nowhere, and the atmosphere turning violent. Young Lea (Gina Stiebitz) is clearly uneasy about the game, and proves to be its only survivor, but at great cost; many years of therapy in a mental hospital and being struck blind.

We meet Lea (Veronica Ferres) in the present day, where she lives in a wooden rustic house, straight off a skiing holiday postcard. Her daughter Tamara (Elyse Levesque) is an icily efficient Police detective, partnered somewhat reluctantly with moody, secretive Lukas (Vladimir Burlakov) to investigate the murders that have seemingly recommenced. Lukas has a VHS tape he found on the dark web, which features the young Lea giving evidence about those far off events, and it understandably puts Tamara on edge. So far, so standard urban legend horror.

Shuttling between the present day and thirty-five years before, the story trundles along well enough, introducing previous victims of ‘Painkiller’ and letting us in on the further indignities young Lea faced when she was obsessed with and trapped by the game. We learn that its hold over players is undimmed by time, and we meet a young Oriental author who has his own theories about it’s supposed supernatural power.

‘The Darker the Lake’ has plenty of atmosphere, it’s easy on the eye, yet the average horror fan will be left wanting something more than just a light touch vengeful spirit caper in a pretty Alpine town.

'The Darker The Lake' is a digital only presentation.

Scenester

18/3/22

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4okrAZCB7k&feature=youtu.be

Buy & Watch: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Darker-Lake-Elyse-Levesque/dp/B09TKRJVVW

Krays: Code of Silence

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Mon, 27 Dec 2021 17:05:06 GMT

Krays: Code of Silence

Krays: Code of Silence (2021) 101 Films

New films based on the lives of the notorious Kray twins have been coming thick and fast in recent years, but this one is markedly different. ‘Code of Silence’ tells the story of their downfall from the point of view of the forces of law and order. Directed with imaginative flair by Ben Mole , it’s a speed ride with plenty of shocks and jolts along the way.

Stephen Moyer (Priest, The Hatton Garden Job) plays Detective Leonard ‘Nipper’ Read, an intense, driven policeman with a burning hatred of the lawlessness of London’s 60’s underworld in general, and the Krays in particular. Ronan Summers (Arthur and Merlin; Knights of Camelot) has the unenviable task of portraying both the faux-sophisticated Ronnie and the brutal, psychopathic Reggie, here, essentially a pair of bit players in the drama of their own lives.

Taking place largely in the deserted warehouse Read uses as his secret headquarters, obviating the need for endless changes of scene and stopping the film becoming merely a period piece, the atmosphere is cold and claustrophobic from the start. Having had two self-willed, rule breaking out of town officers imposed on him by his remote, party-going boss, Read immediately gets them reading the copious files on the Kray gang’s crimes and misdemeanours, whilst he scans his evidence board like a hawk.

The necessity for secrecy is of course obvious; the Krays must not know the police are onto them, and the rank and file of the force must not know, either. Riddled with officers on the take, Read has to pull off the detection job of a lifetime with just two ‘untouchables’ for help.

Read’s line of attack is simple and direct; find a disgruntled ex-member of the Kray gang; work on him. Such potential witnesses for the prosecution are a little thin on the ground, but having found their man, Read begins to build up a detailed picture of the Krays’ web of corruption, and just how fragile their grip on London’s underworld really is.

Anyone expecting a shoot ‘em up with superior tailoring is in for a shock. Period detailing and flying bullets are kept to the barest minimum, replaced with the merest hint of 60’s style and a sense of chilly confinement for police and villains alike. Read’s tough, loveless childhood is presented as a foil to those who excuse the crimes of vicious thugs pleading their unfortunate upbringing as a major influence. Ronan Summers’ double portrait of the sweaty, unpredictable Krays rarely shows the menace they surely had. The police are by no means angelic, particularly when extracting information from bystanders like the terrified barmaid of the Blind Beggar ( Ella Peel ) or surreptitiously recording or broadcasting statements.

The true story of the Krays is well known, the glamorized version even more widely broadcast, but the police story is often sidelined. Take a look at the flipside of history, for a change.

Scenester

21/12/21

Out on Digital and DVD 27/12/21

Buy here : https://www.101-films.com/film/272/krays-code-of-silence

Trailer link https://youtu.be/BwNH-o5x1Xo

Naked

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Mon, 29 Nov 2021 16:55:54 GMT

Naked

Naked (BFI BIB1432-TM) Blu Ray Disk

After the sympathetic portraits of the overworked and underpaid in ‘High Hopes’ and the family togetherness -or otherwise- of ‘Life is Sweet’, Mike Leigh’s 1993 film ‘Naked’ marked a return to the kind of hard-edged drama he presented so well in ‘Meantime’.

Johnny (David Thewlis), a self-educated and dangerous outsider, leaves his Manchester home and drives to London in search of his ex-girlfriend Louise (Lesley Sharp). He finds the house easily enough, and immediately starts his educated style of bullying on Louise’s vulnerable flatmate Sophie (Katrin Cartlidge). Bombarding Sophie with questions about herself without giving much away about himself, he exploits her weak personality to the hilt, even getting her into bed. On Louise’s return to the comfortable but neglected flat, Johnny is casual, sarcastic and ready to take on Louise, but she’s initially having none of it.

Elsewhere, in a members-only gym, we meet Johnny’s rich counterpart, Jeremy (Greg Cruttwell), a sneering yuppie with a planet-sized sense of entitlement and an unending appetite for rough sex with every woman he meets. He later turns out to be Louise’s landlord.

After more wordy provocation, Johnny goes out and reaches Soho’s Brewer Street, late at night. He runs across Archie (Ewen Bremner), a Scot with a nervous tic and a loud voice, looking for his girlfriend, Maggie (Susan Vidler). After a brief interlude with Johnny trying to engage the hapless, twitching Archie in a conversation which switches from psychogeography to the prophesies of Nostradamus, (‘Are you with me?’ is a refrain he uses throughout the film) we’re treated to a classic jokey scene, with Johnny offering to wait while Archie looks for Maggie, and to keep Maggie there if he finds her. He does the same with Maggie, later on.

In the encounter with Brian (Peter Wight) a security guard with the unenviable task of guarding an empty office, we see Johnny feeling that he has met his match, at last. Well-read and acutely single minded, Brian shows Johnny around the ‘post-modernist gas chamber’ with its various logging in points for Brian to prove he has examined its various nooks and crannies his job demands. Johnny’s new rap takes in the end of the world, The Bible, particularly the nightmarish Book of Revelations and various modern conspiracy theories about credit cards, bar codes and their supposed relation to the Great Beast of Revelation. We learn that Brian has one thing Johnny’ doesn’t; a dream, and Johnny’s reaction is typically blunt and cynical. Johnny’s encounter with a middle-aged alcoholic lady living opposite the office block, and the object of Brian’s fantasies, is the most touching in the film. Noticing she has a skull and crossbones tattoo on her shoulder, Johnny recoils from the symbol of death and leaves without taking his customary advantage of her.

Johnny’s next victim is a shy café waitress (Gina McKee) who offers him a place to doss down for the night. He is characteristically rude about the camp Grecian furnishings-not hers-and has a bath and settles down, trying to engage her in a conversation about the Greek myths. Perhaps misreading her manner, Johnny’ is thrown out by the confused and regretful waitress, who is immune to his pleadings, a sign that Johnny’s roguish charm may be waning.

Johnny’s beating at the hands of a young gang leads him back to Louise’s flat, where Jeremy (now calling himself Sebastian) has abused Sophie and is treating the place less like an investment and more like temporary accommodation. The return of flat mate Sandra (Claire Skinner) from her holiday in Zimbabwe lights the touchpaper, as she reaches the point of hysteria, completely unable to process the fact that her otherwise smart flat seems to have become a flop house for drifters. Johnny, bandaged and laid up on the sofa, appears to make up with Louise, but who knows?

The almost unrelentingly bleak ‘Naked’ offers up some acutely observed performances, particularly by David Thewlis, whose Baudelarian Johnny is one of modern cinema’s most compelling/repellant anti-heroes. Lesley Sharp’s caring, put-upon Louise does not get nearly enough screen time, whilst Katrin Cartlidge’s Sophie is often trapped in the camera’s glare, as she is in the abusive cycle of her life. The viewer may leave the cinema feeling thankful that they do not live like these characters, and don’t know, or perhaps no longer know, anyone like Johnny.

Scenester

28/11/21

Released on 29 ^th November on BluRay and Digital formats

Buy here: https://shop.bfi.org.uk/naked-blu-ray.html

Trailer; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TdKPbyvS0qc

Invasion of the Body Snatchers

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Sun, 31 Oct 2021 15:14:23 GMT

Invasion of the Body Snatchers

Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956) (BFI Blu-Ray BFIB1430-TM)

The BFI’s latest restoration offering is a BluRay edition of a true classic of science fiction cinema, 1956’s ’Invasion of the Body Snatchers’, directed by Don Siegel. For those who are inexplicably unfamiliar with this film, here’s the idea.

Growing numbers of residents of an anonymous Californian town seem to be suffering from a mass delusion; they believe that close friends and relatives are not ‘real’, they have become someone else. The delusion spreads at an alarming rate, and only a few seem unaffected. That’s the entire plot, but what a web they weave with so little spider silk.

Dr Miles Bennell (Kevin McCarthy) returns to town, meeting up with his old, recently divorced girlfriend Becky Driscoll ( Dana Wynter ) and is struck by the strange local events of the last few days. Seeing Becky’s psychiatrist uncle, Dr Kauffman ( Larry Gates ), a skeptic who assures everyone that the stories have no substance to them, they still do not feel reassured. The alarm is raised when Dr Bennell’s friend, Jack Belicec ( King Donovan ) finds a body with features very similar to his own, although not fully formed, in the house. Then they find another body in the house, this one with the similarly undeveloped features, but of Becky. The bodies disappear while they call to get Dr. Kaufmann to come to the scene, and his skepticism increases.

The atmosphere gets ever more hysterical as evidence emerges that these ‘duplicate’ people are being grown in large seed pods, and they discover that the growth continues apace when the originals are asleep. Our crew realise that their only hope is to stay awake from now on. Outside, lorries are arriving and taking inert seed pods to neighbouring towns to replace their human population with copies.

The sheer speed that the population of this small town – and presumably the country’s too, is replaced by unemotional alien duplicates is truly terrifying. That well-worn sci-fi trope, that only a few lucky souls know what is really happening, is central to the plot, and the questions, what do they want, where do they come from and why us, are never answered. The relentless march of the duplicate people and the inevitability of their victory almost places ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’ in the zombie genre. The final shots leave you disturbed and hungry for a sequel, with maybe a happy ending, but as we know, it never came.

Many critics look upon Invasion of the Body Snatchers as a Cold War parable, a ‘Red Scare’ film and they may well be right, but let’s just keep our disbelief in suspension and enjoy it for what it is; one of the finest science fiction films ever made, and re-made.

Scenester

26/10/21

Pre-order;

https://shop.bfi.org.uk/the-invasion-of-the-body-snatchers-blu-ray.html

The Velvet Underground

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Sun, 10 Oct 2021 14:41:25 GMT

The Velvet Underground (dir. Todd Haynes)

The Velvet Underground (Todd Haynes) at Royal Festival Hall 9/10/21

It takes more than a kiss and a promise to get me out of my pit on a Saturday morning, but the promise of a new documentary about the legendary Velvet Underground propelled me at great speed to the South Bank for the 11am screening of Todd Haynes’ film.

Todd and his army of enablers have turned up a treasure trove of material, some going back to the pre-Velvets days for the principals, film from their golden ‘Factory’ period and elucidated by figures as diverse as future music maven La Monte Young, musician, songwriter and Velvets superfan Jonathan Richman and author, painter and actress Mary Woronov.

After a brief run-through of viola player John Cale’s early life in Wales, overseen by his indomitable and proudly nationalistic grandmother, getting him into music at an early age and studying at Goldsmith’s College, we get a detailed picture of his move to the USA on a prestigious Leonard Bernstein classical music scholarship. John’s restless, inquiring mind would lead him into La Monte Young’s experimental Theatre of Eternal Music via a performance of John Cage’s highly challenging avant-garde music. If this all sounding a little too eggheaded, it should be remembered that John was no ivory tower dweller. He appeared on the highly rated 1963 US TV show ‘I’ve Got A Secret’, playing Erik Satie’s music, with a panel trying to guess what his secret was, and the connection to his companion.

Lou’s early life was illustrated with some family photographs that show him to have been an average kid of the period, and some fair and balanced comments from sister Merrill Reed Weiner, who recollected their serious, mirthless upbringing by their accountant father Sidney Joseph Reed, and the young Louis’ problems and ‘medical’ treatments that could easily have left him a far more troubled person. The subject of Lou’s mercurial moods come up frequently, often resulting in profound changes to his life and career, and those of other parties. His graduation from barely competent guitarist to hardworking, one-man pop ditty factory was as rapid as it was unexpected to his family, and his efforts for the Woolworths budget Pickwick label under various monikers are now, predictably, rare and much sought after.

Lou and John’s meeting is perhaps one of the most significant events in modern popular music, and all the more so for the sheer improbability of it. The band’s formation is almost classic college band fable, the basic five members being brought together through the common agency of Syracuse University, which Lou had chosen after he lasted only a short time at his parents’ choice. Their eventual meeting with the man who would enable them to make their highly individual music, is arguably another seismic rumble in the body of popular music. Pop artist Andy Warhol’s contribution may have been a passive one, but nevertheless essential, with John recalling that their music would probably never have been recorded without Warhol’s help.

It’s here that we get into the better-known material, and even though Velvets fans may have seen them many times before, the shots of the band playing at Warhol’s Lower East Side residence and art studio, The Factory, still fascinate, the band’s slight awkwardness in front of the ever-present camera all the more endearing. Flashes of Warhol’s famous penetrating Screen Tests are mixed with Gerard Malanga and Mary Woronov’s whip dances, layered with then very new multi-coloured light shows and the Velvet Underground’s rumbling, atonal sounds. Their regular gigs at the ‘Polski Dom’, a former Polish Dance Hall, are now the stuff of legend, but here they are, in vibrant colour and with a cast of Andy’s high society friends and art world bods along for the ride.

The addition of German-born model, chanteuse and, briefly, Warhol muse, Nico (Christa Päffgen) is recalled by John as being mainly for aesthetic purposes, but Moe (Maureen Tucker) mentions that the few songs Nico sang on the legendary first LP were written for her in spirit if not in reality, and that no-one has ever performed them quite like her, since. Drummer Moe’s essential part in the Velvets’ story is sometimes overlooked, but not in this film. The contribution of guitarist Sterling Morrison is also often sidelined, but Haynes ensures fairness by including comments from Sterling’s widow Martha, whose memories of his later life and re-entry to higher education are some of the more poignant and touching in the film.

The Velvets’ wall of sound rumbled out of the Royal Festival Hall’s mighty system, and if I had heard only the thunderous soundtrack in this vast monument to post war Britain’s commitment to the arts, I would have gone home happy.

The fevered, speed-driven recording of their second LP, ‘White Light/White Heat’ is touched on, but even at this early point, tension is building in the band and lesions are beginning to appear in the band’s corpus. The myth of the band being a little-known arty combo is easily blown away, with their many appearances at sizeable festivals, and in some highly surprising places. Their trip to California is almost tragi-comic; arriving all dressed in black, like a gang of criminally minded beatniks adrift in the dippy, trippy capital of the flower power movement. John and Maureen recall how much they hated the hippies and their naivety, and uppermost in their minds, the vociferous drubbing and condemnation the band received from the West Coast rock press and stars, couldn’t have helped their morale.

John recalls with painful clarity his sacking by Lou, imposing an ultimatum on the rest of the band, and them settling down into a more conventional rock sound that in no way belittled them. Lou’s capacity to churn out great rock and roll songs, and the solid rhythm section ensured there was still plenty of life in the band, even if that experimental edge had dulled and been put aside. The arrival of Doug Yule is touched on, and polite noises are made by all concerned.

The falling apart of the band was perhaps inevitable, and although Maureen talks openly about it, it’s a painful memory.

‘The Velvet Underground’ is the documentary film that has come, sadly, a little too late, with the untimely deaths of three of the players, but it is a welcome one.

The Velvet Underground premieres on AppleTV+ on 15th October.

Scenester

10/10/21

The Beatles and India

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Mon, 04 Oct 2021 15:23:09 GMT

The Beatles and India

‘The Beatles and India’ 101 Films

Seemingly, no matter how many times you listen to their music, watch their original and highly entertaining films, read books, and view old news items and film clips about them, the appearance of a ‘new’ Beatles item has a Pied Piper-like pull, and off you go down the road once more, in search of The Fab Four.

‘The Beatles and India’ holds up a mirror to one of the most significant series events of their lives with the neat reversal of The Beatles are the ones crossing continents, drawn by the irresistible pull of the Indian mystic and transcendental meditation promoter Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.

Opening with scenes from Indian entertainment media of the 1960’s, the viewer might be surprised to see Indian beat groups (The Savages) as well as the more typical ‘’Bollywood’ style fare. The clock is quickly turned back to the Second World War and the blitz, where we learn that the young George Harrison was already absorbing Indian music as a child, courtesy of his mother’s radio listening habits.

A young British Asian recalls his father, then the owner a shop on Oxford Street where George bought his first sitar, getting a call from Abbey Road studios, where they were in desperate need of a spare sitar string. His father had never heard of The Beatles up to then. The string was taken round to Abbey Road studios personally.

Some recall ambivalent feelings, even offence at The Beatles, due to their film ‘Help!’ featuring characters who were members of a murderous religious sect, clearly based upon the Hindu goddess of time and death, Kali. Such feelings may have still been below the surface, but others recalled feeling that the Beatles appearance in India, and their love of the traditional music, took word of their rich culture abroad and made the boys feel ‘one of us’.

No film that even so much as touches on Indian music can fail to mention sitar virtuoso Ravi Shankar, and this one is no exception. George Harrison’s early adoption of the instrument, and his trip to India to learn at the feet of the master is a pivotal moment, also putting Ravi Shankar into the global spotlight. All too brief shots of Keith Relf interviewing Ravi, Ravi and Yehudi Menuhin playing together, and George resplendent in orange shirt and trousers playing music with Ravi make it a visual, as well as an aural delight. Ravi introducing George to his century old Guru, and shots of visits to the Taj Mahal and the banks of the Ganges, filled with pilgrims, are awe inspiring, even on the small screen.

George and Patti’s trip to India wasn’t all serenity, however. The constant attention eventually got to George, with uncharacteristic bad temper showing itself when being harassed at every step for interviews.

The other key figure in this film is of course the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, whom The Beatles first met in Bangor, Wales, rather than Bangalore, on one of his teach-ins about pet subject and touchstone, Transcendental Meditation. The shots of The Beatles boarding an already crowded London train, with Cynthia running, almost being left behind, look like they could easily have been an out-take from ‘A Hard day’s Night’.

Relentlessly pursued by the press on their Welsh trip, and in contrast to the peace and contentment they found in Maharishi’s teachings, the press caught the boys in the headlights one day with the news of manager Brian Epstein’s sudden death. All look hunted and shell-shocked by the news, lights like interrogation lamps shining in their faces, a truly pathetic scene.

The Beatles’ trip to the Maharishi’s simple and spartan college, Rishikesh, naturally attracted the world’s press, and we hear from a local journalist, whose ambition was to get all of the fabs in a single photo. In those pre-digital days, and not being, strictly speaking, invited to the gathering, his task had to be accomplished with the best lens he could beg, and then to hope his picture turned out well. Initially, all seemed to enjoy the peaceful and uncluttered lifestyle of the place, but our journalist was unimpressed. Others not so taken in by Maharishi talk frankly about their abuse at his hands, and in these more sensitive times, it’s hard to fathom why The Beatles left so politely.

Charlatan or not, Maharishi certainly had opinions and insight. He felt that George was on his last life, an advanced being who would not need further earthly exile to teach him more. On the other hand, he felt that John had many more lifetimes to live, and perhaps he was right.

All this talk of spirituality seemed to make little impression on Ringo, who packed cases filled with baked beans, his staple diet due to his many food allergies, and he was the first to leave, declaring that Rishikesh was ‘just like Butlins’.

The film also explores the story that the Maharishi had come under the surveillance of the KGB and the CIA, for much the same reason; He was suspected of trying to destabilise the region, and Rishikish briefly became spy central.

The great falling out with the Maharishi had its roots in his decision to invite two American film companies over to India, on the tacit understanding that The Beatles would be available for interviews. This did not go down well with the fab four, and Paul and George left for Sweden, telling Maharishi to ‘cool it’.

The sights and sounds of a rich, complex culture, then little known to Westerners, adds to the many reasons you may have for seeing this excellent film. Take a peek, and you too can discover whether Ringo was right about the Maharishi’s place being ‘just like Butlin’s’.

Scenester

27/9/21

Weblink:
https://www.101-films.com/film/263/the-beatles-and-india

Trailer:

https://youtu.be/xE3WbhjttEw

Wisting

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Sat, 14 Aug 2021 10:40:29 GMT

Wisting

Wisting

New from CineNord and available on subscription channel Acorn TV , ‘Wisting’ is a new Nordic Noir that barely pauses for breath as it takes on abduction, confinement, murder, questionable methods, sharp practice and past misdemeanors.
A corpse has been found in the snow in a Christmas tree farm near Larvik, woods. Senior Police officer William Wisting ( Sven Nordin , also of ‘Valkyrien’) an intense middle-aged widower, is heading the investigation, and the team turn up fingerprints that point toward the perpetrator being a serial killer who has eluded the US force for twenty years. The victims of recent crimes in Norway are very similar to his; young, fair attractive girls who are abducted, abused, murdered and then dumped.

The FBI sends two agents to ‘observe’ the investigation, led by the driven and ruthlessly efficient Maggie Griffin ( Carrie-Anne Moss ) and her young assistant John Bantham ( Richie Campbell ). Their presence does not go down well with tetchy, seasoned detective Nils Hammer ( Mads Ousdal ), who regularly shows his disdain for the guests. After a tense briefing, the team go to work shadowed by their US counterparts and Wisting’s ambitious journalist daughter Line ( Thea Green Lundberg ). Line’s feel for a good story means crossing paths and occasionally swords with her father, in her relentless pursuit of the career making headline.

Wisting’s professional allegiances are tested to the limit as evidence tampering in a previous investigation comes to light, Police chief Andrea Vetti ( Irina Eidsvold Toien ) suspends Wisting blaming him as head of investigation, and familial tension boils the pot still further as his son Thomas ( Jonas Strand Gravli ) returns home for a stay, only to find his heavily pre-occupied father and hard-working sister largely absent from what he hoped would be a long overdue family bonding.

The intense search for the serial killer takes us on a tour of urban, sub-urban and rural Norway, with changes of scene often signaled by overhead shots of the snowy landscape and neat, regular houses, laid out like a map. Past offender Vidar Haglund ( Christoffer Staib ), newly released from a lengthy jail sentence and out for restitution for his incarceration for a crime of which he was innocent, is suspect number one. The department are loath to put him through the interrogation mill once more, especially considering he now has a sharp lawyer on his side, and with Wisting firmly in his sights.

Performances are excellent throughout, from Sven Nordin’s granite faced, haunted detective, to Christoffer Staib’s patient, controlled ex-jailbird and Thea Green Lundberg’s breathless, desperate investigative journalist.

‘Wisting’s strength lies in its dizzyingly fast-paced story line and well-drawn characters but it’s the subtle red herrings that set it apart from other Police shows; you kick yourself for not noticing them, soon after their revelation. Run over ten episodes, and with effectively two stories on the go, this series will grip you from the beginning and won’t relinquish it until the exhausting, bloody end.

Scenester

12/8/21

Link:

https://uk.acorn.tv/browse/?gclid=EAIaIQobChMIv7786Kmw8gIVU4jVCh1sNQZdEAAYASAAEgJ5_PD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds

Friendship's Death

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Mon, 21 Jun 2021 14:46:16 GMT

Friendship’s Death (BFI B1382/2-TM) 15 certificate

Blu Ray DVD BFI Player iTunes and Amazon Prime

Made in 1987 by director Peter Wollen, ‘Friendship’s Death’ is a subtle science fiction film which eschews spaceships and explosions in favour of the big questions which faced humanity then, and perhaps more so, today.

Sullivan (Bill Paterson) is a fatigued war correspondent, holed up in a dark, sweaty flat in Amman, Jordan in the civil war of 1970, with nothing but his clattering typewriter for company. Into Sullivan’s world falls Friendship, (Tilda Swinton) a willowy, mysterious and softly spoken young woman, who introduces herself as an android visitor to this planet. Intended for a mission of peace and destined for the United States, we’re left to assume that her race think that her help was more urgently needed in the sorely oppressed Middle East.

Those of you tired of having your senses bombarded with thunderous explosions and being disorientated by swooping camera movements and crazy angles will take much comfort from the quiet unfolding of Sullivan and Friendship’s relationship, as they discuss what it is to be human, and why.

Bright sunshine outside peeks through the shutters, and the light from the analog television set glows weakly, showing images of the conflagration outside and beyond. Their philosophical discussion is interrupted by occasional hurried visits from unknown agents, and Friendship’s dislike of Sullivan’s aggressive use of the typewriter, seeing the machine as a near-relation of hers, somehow introduce notes of comedy into the proceedings.

In spite of the film’s stagey atmosphere, it’s hard not to be drawn in by these two ill-matched characters; the sheer other-worldliness of Friendship, a serene and hopeful presence sharing a cave-like room with her polar opposite, the hard-bitten and weary Sullivan. It’s equally hard not to be drawn into a comparison with another film about a tall, slim, androgynous alien visitor.

‘Friendship’s Death’ DVD and Blu Ray come with comes with a stars and makers discussion, an appreciation of director Peter Wollen’s work, and much more.

Scenester

14/6/21

William Burroughs Centenary Celebration

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Tue, 08 Jun 2021 15:58:37 GMT

William Burroughs Centenary Celebration

Language Is A Virus From Outer Space; William S Burroughs Centenary Celebration

Queen Elizabeth Hall Sat 11/10/14

In this centenary year of the birth of author and counter-cultural giant, William S Burroughs, Southbank’s QE Hall played host to an evening’s celebration of his life and work, curated by musician and actor Richard Strange. The results were a lot more light-hearted than you might have expected.

Opening with Haroon Mirza’s ‘Falling Rave’, a sound collage that blew away any notion of a conventional programme, followed by a characteristically contrary ‘Introduction’ by Dr Benway. The surprisingly tender song, ‘Chainsaw. Hogan. Installation. Project.’, performed by the Anni Hogan Trio had a sinister undercurrent in the piano chords, struck with considerable force, as the lyrics soothed.

The ‘Pot Is Fun’ performance piece, featuring Gavin Turk, had a slight air of Vic Reeves & Bob Mortimer’s ‘Talc and Turnips’ creation about it, as two amiable dopers try to hang a sheet with a brick pattern print on the wall. The Ginsbergian ‘Pot Is Fun’ apron proved a great favourite with the crowd.

Jeremy Reed and Ginger Light’s ‘WSB Trip-Tick’ took us into riskier territory, Reed reciting poetry, tossing handfuls of glitter from his pockets like some crossbreed of Tom Waits and a Victorian street-urchin, whilst Ginger Light provided the grinding soundtrack of doom to it all.

The absence of Bill Nelson due to illness was keenly felt, but his ‘Artifex’ montage was an eye-popping, hallucinogenic journey through religious, cabalistic, esoteric and masonic imagery, all perfectly complemented by his other-worldly yet engaging and enjoyable music.

Curator Richard ‘Kid’ Strange’s reformed ‘Doctors of Madness’ band showed them more than capable of playing after three decades’ absence. Still looking like a futuristic/retro street gang, and with songs that then sounded out of place within the mid 70’s glam rock movement they were assumed to belong to, their set was an affectionate look back on their own canon, rather than a comment upon the great man. Richard has spoken about the great influence WSB had on his way of thinking, and songs such as ‘Bulletin’ and ‘Sons of Survival’ could easily be the soundtrack to one of WSB’s stories. Joined briefly on stage by Def Leppard’s peregrine singer, Joe Elliot, and name checking one of the band’s faithful roadies, himself in attendance in the crowd, the reformation was a treat for the nostalgic.

As we returned to our seats after the interval, we were all handed, rather mysteriously, square sheets of cardboard with two pinholes through the middle , as if to be worn like some Genettian mask. Its significance would not be revealed until later on that evening.

‘We’re All Here To Go’ , an energetic dance piece by Eryck Brahmania, confounded our expectations for a second time, his parody/ social commentating meditations on American society, militarism, propaganda and indoctrination proved a powerful opener to the second half. WSB’s recorded voice rang out throughout, his condemnatory thank-yous for all the ills of the world that tend to accompany worldly success, drawled and spat out like bullets, in time to the pounding, aggressive music.

Dream Machine’s disjointed NY art house music felt a little dated, as did their cartoon goth clothes, but was followed by the evening’s most powerful piece, Rupert Thomson’s ‘ A Few Words From Mrs Burroughs’. The screens behind the actors flashed images of American iconography; boys playing cowboys and Indians, soldiers on manoeuvres, mountains of heroin and missiles, always missiles. Centring on the essential role that Burroughs common-law wife, Joan Vollmer, played in his life, the play portrayed her as lush, muse and angel, staging the ‘William Tell’ trick brilliantly. WSB once said that he might never have taken up writing had this notorious incident not happened, and Joan’s place in the story was respectfully celebrated.

The image of her as a black-winged angel, embracing Burroughs as he sits at his desk, and the identical multitude of Burroughs figures descending the auditorium staircase will stay with this viewer for a very long time. As the fluorescent lights were turned on, the sheet of card we were handed earlier revealed a spectral image of WSB, literally pinhole-eyed, staring back at us.

Tom Waits made another subtle appearance, though regrettably not a physical one, in the form of his ‘November’ song, with Richard, Kate St John, David Coulter, Terry Edwards, Jack Pinter and Atar Shafighian, in a gloriously and rightly shambolic performance. ‘Pot Is Fun’ was reprised, and then into the final piece, Gavin Bryar’s ‘Langauge is A Virus From Outer Space’, especially written, and with libretto by Richard Strange provided a fitting end to an evening dedicated to the annihilation of all rational thought.

Scenester

30/10/14

Jubilee

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Tue, 08 Jun 2021 15:58:34 GMT

Jubilee (1977) Rated 18 Dual DVD/BluRay format BFIB1311

Made in the white heat of the explosive punk era, and featuring some of its most outrageous protagonists, ‘Jubilee’s reputation has grown from a violent period oddity to a strangely prophetic view of a future we all feared would one day come.

Derek Jarman’s work on Ken Russell’s ‘The Devils’ had already made him into a name by the time the idea of ‘Jubilee’ had germinated, and this, his first feature, was the result of his interest in the punk rock scene, which was cutting a bloody swathe through the rock world of the mid to late 70’s. Not being one to simply chronicle a social scene, the film instead drew on Jarman’s deep love of England’s history, and the story opens with Queen Elizabeth (Jenny Runacre) commanding her magician/confidante Dr. John Dee (Richard O’Brien) to summon up his spirit/savant Ariel, to show her the future of her kingdom. Together with The Queen’s Lady-In-Waiting (Helen Wellington-Lloyd, a.k.a. Helen of Troy) they witness the materialisation of Ariel (David Haughton/Brandon) as he shows them visions of the English Kingdom in the year 1977.

The Queen is horrified to see a derelict, besieged London, with roaming gangs of young, violent women brutalising anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path. Chief among these is that headed by ‘Bod’ (Jenny Runacre in a dual role), the frosty, controlling Queen to ‘Amyl Nitrate’ (punk progenitor Jordan), pyromaniac ‘Mad’ (Toyah Willcox, crop headed and totally unlike her pop star persona only a year or two later) ‘Chaos’ (Hermine Demoriane) an almost silent, tightrope walking drudge, bed-hopping talent scout ‘Crabs’ (Nell Campbell) and Angel (Ian Charleson) and Sphinx (Karl Johnson) the incestuous brothers who populate the squat somewhere in London’s then-disused dockland.

Violence is everywhere in ‘Jubilee’, whether it’s humiliating the waitress in her dingy café, smothering a rock protégé ‘Good Times’ (Gene October) that Crabs has taken a liking to, or knifing one Bod has not taken to; Lounge Lizard (Jayne County, in true sleazy form). This would prove a problem when the time came to submit this sour confection to the British Board of Film Censors, the film only narrowly avoiding an outright ban.

Crabs’ work is primarily performed for all-powerful media mogul Borgia Ginz, (Jack Birkett, or Orlando as he’s named) a riotously overplayed camp character who feels horribly familiar in this age of global media conglomerates. She introduces Amyl to the sinister mogul, and this results in one of the film’s more outrageous performances, the sight of Jordan as Britannia in a golden helmet, a Union Flag mini dress (we’re not talking The Spice Girls here) skimpy underwear and using her trident for purposes surely never intended. Jordan’s version of ‘Rule Britannia’ was released under the name of Suzi Pinns for everyone’s delectation. Kid (Adam Ant) is another of Crabs’ protégés, whose performance runs the gamut from bored indifference to mad-eyed hilarity. The subsequent live performance of ‘Plastic Surgery’ by Adam and the Ants in Drury Lane theatre captures them at the height of their crazed, pre-mega stardom days. Surrounded by the cast and crew of the film, this scene is the only one which looks like a conventional rock picture.

Relationships between characters are explored in squirm-inducing detail, as the two boys add ‘Viv’ (Linda Spurrier) an artist with a penchant for painting everything in her flat black, to their sexual adventures. One of the few moments of levity comes with their visit to the relentlessly cheerful ex-soldier Max’s (Neil Kennedy) garden of plastic flowers. The character of Viv could possibly have been explored further, given that she puts out a highly emotional performance of all, later in the film.

The murderous spree of this all-female gang spreads to assaulting members of the police force, and one of the most horribly memorable scenes is the attack on a policeman by Mad, in an intense, blood chilling performance by the cast’s youngest member. The area around Saint Saviour’s Dock, long before its invasion by swanky restaurants and shops selling tourist tat, makes for a highly effective backdrop to the gang’s bloody crimes.

The bleak vision of a future Elizabethan society seen by an earlier one must be one of the boldest, most original premises in a film to come out of the UK in the 1970’s. Made by a brilliant young director with little connection to the bourgeoning punk movement, ‘Jubilee’ is certainly the most imaginative film about punk and time has not softened its impact.

‘Jubilee’ is available on DVD/BluRay etc

Scenester

13/6/18

Books and Photography

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Fri, 04 Jun 2021 16:38:39 GMT

Or Glory, Drive Style, Coffee Style, I'm One, Terry O'Neill.

Or Glory: 21st Century Rockers by Horst A. Friedrichs

You know me. I’m up for a challenge. Do anything, I will. Showings of over-familiar photos from the 60’s? Check. Films so obscure even the directors can’t remember making them? Check. Yet, even I was surprised at the brief I was offered, as the phone rang one weary Tuesday afternoon in late Winter.

‘Hello? Yeah, Scenester here, can I hold for who? Harry? Yeah, ok, I’ll hold.’ Hold on, indeed! Mr Harold Stott, eh? Just wait till I…

‘Harry, my old mucker, fancy you hiring a secretary after all this time. Hope you’re paying her something, she gave you quite a build-up. Now, how long is it since we had a little tete a tete? Weeks, or is it months? You what? You’ve got something for me? As I live and breathe. Yeah, course I’ve heard of it, I reviewed the last one, didn’t I? ‘I’m One’, the Mods book. ‘Course I know his new one’s out, I don’t go around with my eyes closed, do I? Ha ha ha, too busy looking in mirrors, good one, Harry. Me? Review a book about rockers? You sure you’ve got the right fellah for the job here? Yeah, I know, but the leather and denim brigade? I know it isn’t all that, just joking. OK, how much? What? You tightwad. You know what your coat of arms has on it, don’t you? Crossed tourniquets on a barren argent field . OK, seeing as work’s a bit slack, I’ll do it.’ ‘’Ding.’’

If you’ve already ogled Horst Friedrich’s ‘I’m One’, you may think that, with ‘Or Glory’, you’re just getting a companion piece, but you’d be wrong, friend. That Horst, he’s moved away from the strict portraiture of ‘I’m One’, and gone for a more Hollywood/classic/mythological approach to his subject. A mix of rich colour and serious black and white, the pictures of modern day rockers were taken recently, but some could easily have been taken anytime in the last 50 years. Some of the more ‘fashionable’ tattoos sported by the rockers betray their recent origin.

Horst has populated his book with some classic photo set-ups, recalling films like ‘The Wild One’, to best reflect the atmosphere these stylists are taking considerable pains to re-create. A line of bikers, all in their no-flash leathers and classic cut denims, one astride his immaculate, lovingly restored bike, no doubt running far better than it did when straight out of the shop nearly 60 years ago. I do not recall seeing a single non-British machine in the book, so can only assume a dogged patriotism remains here.

The clobber is a given, and badges aside, there’s not much divergence in the general look of the males, except in the quiffs and cockades of hair that they competitively sport, or in some cases used to sport, as this is an all-ages cult. Tattoos are usually the traditional kind; bluebirds, flames, dice, drink and dancing girls, with some genuinely inspired floral and natural designs on the arms, backs and feet of the female contingent. The distaff side is represented well, from full on biker girls to late 50’s casual dressers and girl-group tributes, with some terrific action shots at dances and ‘do’s’ around the country.

There are many images which recreate the mood and drama of countless 50’s & 60’s genre films; A bike-boy in a quarter-turn, looking over his shoulder-to a possible challenge?; A high-fringed girl stares worriedly out of a café window (Laura and the stock-car race?); an elder biker looks aside at an absent opponent with a ‘Who-You?’ look in his eyes; One astride his beloved machine awaits the signal to ‘Go’ as he stares his rival down; A siren flashes her mascara’d eyes with a ‘You-with my man?’ look on her frost-cold face.

Horst captures the wild, teeth-bared face of a guitarist playing at full tilt, the bold stare of a magnificently coiffured black-haired girl, her arms covered in impressive full-colour tattoos, there’s the wide-legged macho posture, helmet tucked under arm, of a biker, flanked by her machine, and a touching scene of a family (?) of bikers, the young son leaning against a wall, mother behind the father in his wheelchair, the shiny-suited youth slapping earthy notes from his bull fiddle, and the bare-midriffed country gal, looking adoringly at her pool-player boyfriend.

An honourable mention goes to the ‘Teds’ who are so well turned out here, sadly not in such numbers as the bikers. They add a touch of British Edwardian elegance to a collection that seems otherwise U.S. heavy in its visual style, bikes aside.

Horst has turned his camera onto another undying decade’s style and come up trumps once more. Who knows where else he may train his lenses next?

Scenester
13/3/2011

http://eyeplug.net/magazine/?p=1379

first published eyeplug online magazine 18.3.2011

Drive Style – Horst A. Friedrichs (Prestel)

Just off the starting plate and firing on all twelve cylinders, the latest photo-book by Horst A. Friedrichs, ‘Drive Style’, is a celebration of the classic motor car, its dedicated followers and the sartorial style that goes with it. Horst has chosen to train his highly polished lenses on those dedicated souls whose appreciation of these classic vehicles is matched by their preference for period-appropriate clothing.

You’ve almost certainly run into (sorry) one of these creatures, maybe at Vintage Goodwood, or a car swap/meet at a racecourse near you. The cloth capped, v-neck sweatered pit boy? The goggled, leather-helmeted driver of a British motor legend? The tweedy, cat-eye glasses-wearing lady spectator? They’re all here in living colour, with the odd nose stud, wristband or tattoo to remind us that this isn’t Silverstone 1955, even if it looks like it might be.

Horst’s matter-of-fact portraits go from studious shots of faces that could doubtlessly tell a few stories, to gloriously full-throttle rides around the slick asphalt track. From drivers, their overalls spattered with mud and faces besmirched with grease and soot, to ladies in their fine vintage suits and dresses, excitement in their eyes as their favourite takes the hairpin bend. From ‘job done’ shots in a dank garage, to a sunny day in an English county, onlookers wearing their retro sunglasses, or wishing they’d remembered to bring them. From the serious expressions of the ‘win at all costs’ persuasion, to the effortless style of the suburban couple in their finery, in front of their showroom-condition Cadillac, it’s all here.

The cars are presented in as many diverse ways as the drivers, sometimes in classic, aggressive ‘bull-nose’ stance, ready to take on the world, sometimes in post-race half–light, or at a ‘show ‘n’ shine’ meet-up.

Speaking as one of the last pedestrians, I feel some way removed from these folk, but have huge admiration for their endless patience with their unrepeatable machines. The endless tuning, repairing and cleaning, the immense cost of upkeep and insurance, the sourcing of correct livery, must, eventually, conspire to make the owner think of their pride and joy as little more than a money pit. However, I’m forgetting the fun, the excitement, and the sheer pleasure that Horst has captured in his pictures, for you to enjoy. I’ve no doubt that ‘Drive Style’ will shortly be joining ‘21st Century Mods’ and ‘Cycle Style’ on your bookshelf.

Scenester
6/10/13

Coffee Style: Horst A. Friedrichs (Prestel)

Those of you who think that coffee is little more than the humble roasted bean which helps you to stay awake, work, study and play, may want to take a look through the latest book by renowned photographer Horst A. Friedrichs, ‘Coffee Style’. Horst’s books on such diverse interests as mod and rocker fashions, cycling and classic cars have already earned him a reputation as a premier visual commentator on contemporary style. He has since trained his lenses on some of the more esoteric aspects of the coffee cult, and the results are collected in the hessian covered boards of ‘Coffee Style’.

Most major American and European cities now have a neighbourhood where coffee devotees build their shops, roasteries, even schools, and it’s to these aromatic enclaves that Horst has travelled to chronicle their lifestyles, tastes and most particular obsession. To sat that they aren’t a ‘showy’ lot, is to put it mildly. Dress tends to be basic; denim, checked shirts, highly practical aprons, boots. Their shop decor errs on the side of subtlety; muted colours, wooden benches and tables. This stylistic vow of celibacy tends to serve as a reminder that the only important detail here is the pungent drink they serve up.
To these stoics, it just wouldn’t do to brew up in a billy can (although I daresay some of the more minimalist persuasion might), and so only the best is used. The answer to the question ‘what is the best equipment?’ seems to have as many answers as there are baristas, and so Horst takes the opportunity to cover the broadest range he can. From the gleaming chrome of the robust, counter-hogging espresso machines to the simplest paper cone in a can, they’re all here. Their collections of antique brew paraphernalia feed the enthusiasts’ already gargantuan appetite, and I wonder how many of us would know how to operate some of the more obscure machinery.

The pages of ‘Coffee Style’ are filled with close-up images of beautiful brewing equipment, old and new, but Horst’s book is primarily about people. Their unobtrusive style has, in recent years, become as familiar as uniformed Police or Chelsea Pensioners; the no-nonsense work shirts, denim aprons but most of all, their luxuriant tattoos, often depicting the instruments of their craft, or the hypnotic patterns that suggest the mystic ecstasy they may enjoy in their coffee reverie. Pictured swelling with pride by their quietly decorated establishments, or else beside their venerable roasting and brewing machines, they suggest characters from a quieter, bygone age, rather than any of today’s digital business community.
Whether they are of coffee beans in their raw or roasted state, baristas at work, brewing in progress, the final flourishes of milk and chocolate powder, or the customers finally getting to enjoy a slug, shots are natural, relaxed and unfussy. Nora Nanthey’s informative, non-technical narration punctuates the book, perhaps leaving the reader with a starting point for a

new obsession, but definitely with a warm, flavoursome glow.

Scenester
24/9/17

Links:
Check out the link below to watch Coffee Style photographer Horst A. Friedrichs making an appearance on Deutsche Welle lifestyle program Euromaxx
http://www.dw.com/en/all-for-a-good-cup-of-coffee/av-40194643

Coffee Style
Fascinated by artisanal coffee culture, celebrated photographer Horst A. Friedrichs turns his lens toward every aspect of coffee -
Available in July 2017 in Hardback:
https://prestelpublishing.randomhouse.de/book/Coffee-Style/Horst-A.-Friedrichs/Prestel-com/e517059.rhd

‘I’m One’ by Horst Friedrichs

Readers familiar with this site and the popular ‘NUTS’ Mod events may have already run across the photographer Horst Friedrichs. I first saw him at a New Year’s Party blub-blub years ago, where he was busy snapping and filming seemingly everyone he saw. I later learnt that Horst’s project has taken ten years to come to full fruition, and even a leisurely glance through the colour scorched pages of the book bears witness to all his work having been worth it.

It must be a rare book of Mod photos that secures a foreword by Paola Hewitt and an ecstatic review from no less a figure than Pete Townsend. From the first sight on the cover, a blond scooter riding Mod on his be-mirrored machine, to the final image of a gorgeously made-up girl with stunning out-swept eyelashes, the book is a complete delight and a treat for even these poor, jaded eyes.

Horst has wisely mixed colour with black and white, the latter especially effective on the many shots of scooter riders at various appropriate seaside locations, crisp and stark against grey skies. Instead of the often jumbled and non-sequitur nature of many style-based books, there is a chronological order to Horst’s photographs, with a suggested storyline that only makes the viewing more enjoyable. Beginning with a number of well known ‘faces’ getting ready to go out – a gorgeous shot of a dolly applying her make-up is especially memorable - later on the inevitable party, closely followed by a wedding or two, and then the celebrants settled but still dedicated to this most distinctive and intoxicating lifestyle.

Horst’s talent for capturing the essence of his subjects is here on every page, and I would guess he has a background in fine art, judging by the formal poses some of his models are in, suggesting Flemish painting from the Golden Age.

You may be asking yourselves, as I was, what else could possibly be said about the enduring appeal of the Mod lifestyle, the cult that refuses to get old or to die? How many more re-examinations can we bear? After thumbing this book, I would suggest that there is definitely room for this new appreciation, but this time, instead of a trawl through the archives, portraits of today’s Mods take centre stage.

I am sure that you can provide your own soundtrack to play this book by, and anyone reading this website will undoubtedly choose their music with care and precision, all the more to appreciate what immaculate dressers these people are. Whether they are in ‘your actual vintage’, modern repro or bespoke, they never fail to stun, and it may be here where we find the key as to why Mod, alone among the youth cultures of the mid to late 20th Century, has endured, with perhaps a short break, unchanged to the present day. The basics of the wardrobe are always neat, tidy and well kept, with meticulous attention to detail and colour combinations. Wasn’t it Beau Brummel who said that all stylish men observe conformity of dress? Observe, not follow, an important distinction. I also believe I’m right in saying that that other great dandy, Graham ‘Suggs’ McPherson, said that the Mod style is ‘conformist, yet subversive’. I wouldn’t argue with either of them.

Unlike the ‘original’ Mods, today’s Mods are a mixture of ages, evidenced here in the impossibly youthful cover stars to those of us in our sixth decade, and the terminal stages of Mod-dom! This may be the key to another mystery; that the Mod style is totally acceptable within the mainstream and is practised, to a greater or lesser degree by people whether they know it or not. It has grown from its origins as an exclusive youth cult to an inclusive club, and I say inclusive, because anyone can aspire to be a Mod. All it takes is the desire to do it, attention to detail and a lot of style; and what style! The tailored suits, whether bespoke, or vintage or off the peg, and tweaked by your friendly neighbourhood tailor, always look stunning on some of the best-maintained figures in town. Dresses, vintage or self-made from carefully sourced fabrics, perfectly teamed with striking accessories, both new and original. Was that an Old England watch? A Harry Fenton tie? I’d swear that jewellery was from Paraphenalia. Then there’s the crowning glory, the hairstyles, that when debuted sometime in the late 50’s and early 60’s, represented the first innovations in style in the UK since the Victorian Age. It’s in this department that the ladies have a definite edge (would we have it any other way?) and I maintain that, even the many years I’ve been clocking ‘bowl cuts’, there is nothing more arresting than a bob, strict or asymmetrical, and there’s plenty to feast your eyes upon here.

Many of the Mods pictures here are in the surroundings of their own homes, some in natural settings, happy brides and grooms, old pals, friends; they’re all here, members of what might be a secretive organisation, but in reality, just an extended social club whose arms stretch around the world in a manner that the ‘original’ Mods could not have foreseen.

Horst Friedrichs has completely succeeded in his task of recording for posterity the seemingly eternal Mod style, giving those within it a keepsake, and others a rare peek into a world that will, at the least, surprise them and maybe even intrigue them into joining. This book belongs on your vintage coffee table, and with you poring over it with a few of like-minded pals.

Scenester

29/7/09

Terry O’Neill in conversation with Paul Allen
The Victoria & Albert Museum 14/2/14

The wall of the lecture theatre is emblazoned with a contact sheet of images of the beautiful Isabella Rossellini, as Paul Allen and Terry O’Neill take their seats for what will prove a lively and fascinating talk.

Terry recalled his days as a jazz drummer, imagining that he could improve his chances of making it if he had a job as an air steward. This was to prove a turning point, as he landed himself a job with the BOAC film unit, one of his first efforts being a picture of then Foreign Secretary Rab Butler. A job with the Daily Sketch soon followed, although Terry recalled, in all seriousness, that after a year and a half, he still felt he knew little about photography. This is in spite of him being the youngest photographer in Fleet Street, a distinction bounded by about twelve years.

His comparative youth worked for him, however, as he was usually picked to take photos of the then very new teenage phenomenon, pop stars. He felt his picture of The Beatles in a walled yard, stood clutching their instruments, and Ringo holding up his cymbal like a lucky charm a little ‘amateurish’, Yet the picture has gone on to become one of the more cherished images of the Fab Four, full of youth and innocence.

Terry recalled being asked to photograph The Rolling Stones, and their manager, Andrew Loog Oldham, used the opportunity to get Terry to shoot his newest protege, Marianne Faithfull. The result was the basque and suspenders shot, that has since adorned many an adolescent boy’s bedroom wall, and possibly some older boys as well. Terry’ memories of being driven round London by Loog were particularly awe inspiring.

Terry’s memory of the Isabelle Rossellini session were characteristically modest, saying they were all shot on one roll of film, and Isabelle needed no direction whatsoever, as she struck the sultry poses that have since been many people’s first frame of reference for the actress with the lucky genes.

The understated shot of The Rolling Stones walking through Covent Garden, passing the Donmar Warehouse as they carry their instruments, is very telling. Terry pointed out that the picture reflected the power hierarchy within the band at that time, as founder Brian Jones leads the band through the street and out of the shot.

Terrys’ graduation from taking shots of emerging pop stars to Hollywood royalty reached some kind of apotheosis with the telling shot of Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor from the time of Burton’s film, ‘Villain’. Taylor’s beauty, untouched by time, contrasts heavily with Burton’s still handsome, but drink ravaged face, as he holds on to his wife, we presume for dear life. His portrait of Audrey Hepburn, downcast eyes, and with a dove perched on her shoulder, is a world away from her usual attitude of wall-eyed surprise. Terry swears the dove appeared on her slight shoulders by chance.

A question from the audience about which stars asked to see the photos Terry was taking of them provoked a surprising answer; only Frank Sinatra. Whether this was his vanity or a genuine interest, he didn’t say, although Sinatra proved one of the many stars who seemed happy to give their time to Terry, in a way that would not occur today, he lamented. He also called Frank ‘the most natural person to photograph.’ Frank was apparently very aware of his often negative publicity, but was none too concerned about it.

Capturing all of the pop star’s exuberance and runaway success of the 1970’s, Terry recalled the shots he took of Elton John sat at his grand piano, on his private jet. Naturally, of course. Elton, at his slimmest, disliked the prints as he felt he looked unattractive in them.

Most revealing were Terry’s memories of going to the Ad Lib club, then filled to bursting with pop groups, including The Beatles and the Rolling Stones, all apparently discussing ‘what they were going to do when it was all over.’ It was Terry’s recollection that even these most successful of bands felt they had around another two years left in the business, at most, and certainly never foresaw their elevation to national institutions.

A rare note of controversy in his work, was Terry’s picture of Raquel Welch, in her 10,000 Years BC fur bikini, crucified, taken when Terry was still a Roman Catholic. It prompted Terry to recall he had once wanted to train to be a priest, but had ‘too many questions’ to make this a viable career.

The famous shot of Julie Christie and Terence Stamp, close, staring into the camera, flashed up to instant recognition of the crowd, as did the other-worldly shot of Elizabeth Taylor, looking like a Greek matron, and a painfully thin David Bowie, in his ‘City Lights’ slim cut suit with the extreme slanting pockets. Terry recalled Bowie’s theatrical lateness for this shoot even exceeded Taylor’s for previous shoots, and in a monumental piece of understatement, said of Bowie, ‘He was a bit out of it’.
Talking of his early influences, Terry mentioned the uncompromising war reportage of Eugene Smith as a personal favourite, and noted that Smith ended his career taking pictures of celebrities.

The time for audience questions had arrived, from which we learned that Terry preferred film to digital, black and white to colour, and travel plans permitting, printed his own photos. His favourite showcase from his early career was the Sunday Times, as it was where he learned how to shoot, and how to use colour.

Whether he chose his subjects for their personal qualities, or whether he looked for those qualities in his subjects, when photographing them, was answered with typical understatement. Terry often did not choose his subjects at all; he was allocated them by his employers, but used the time to build a picture of the person, and felt privileged to be let into some of their lives to do so.

When asked to name someone he would have liked to photograph, but never did, the answer was an immediate ‘Marilyn Monroe’, made all the more poignant, as he once had the chance but turned it down. Terry had few present day wish-list celebrities, but he felt that Angeline Jolie had a certain something.

Asked for any advice he would like to give to a young men starting out in photography, he said simply, ‘Keep taking pictures, keep improving’, and warned ‘Never marry a movie star’, recalling his disastrous marriage to Faye Dunaway and his jarring experiences being on the other side of the lens for once.

Scenester
23/2/14

Public Enemy DVD review

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Fri, 04 Jun 2021 16:38:37 GMT

Public Enemy (15) Nordic Noir and Beyond (FCD1553)

Recently aired on Sky TV, this new, ten episode Belgian series stages a tight, unnerving and gripping Low Countries Noir for our times. Taking on the eternal subjects of crime and punishment, testing our preconceptions, prejudices and tolerances to the limit, Public Enemy is a slow burning, blame-ridden, pot boiler of mixed emotions, high minded contemplation and low cunning in the hauntingly beautiful setting of the Belgian countryside.

The arrival of a long term prisoner, Guy Beranger (Angelo Bison) a convicted child killer, causes ructions with the local people. On parole but free only in the precincts of a monastery of a small Belgian town, Beranger arrives as a fully-formed folk devil, with little prospect of redeeming himself in the locals’ eyes. The plan to attract more business to the town is threatened by his presence, and a young monk’s plan to reform the man meet with much opposition, even within his monastery. Beranger arrives with Police protection, in the form of an officer from Brussels, Chloe Muller (Stephanie Blanchoud), who opts to stay at the monastery, to be close to Beranger. That Chloe has a tragic history is obvious from the start, with regular flashbacks to her childhood, attempting to escape the clutches of an abusive adult with her younger sister, Jessica. Hiding in a vertiginous watch tower, young Chloe leaves her sister Jessica to get help, with terrible consequences.

Having set up such an uncomfortable premise, the makers then ramp up the atmosphere with a dose of clinical menace and a touch of the rural claustrophobia and a crony-ridden society that characterise many of these backwoods tales. The nuanced, educated Beranger has the faint trace of a reptile’s smile throughout, as he exploits the weaknesses of his captors and ekes out information from anyone careless enough to let him. Our heroine cop Chloe, played with a mixture of the resolute and the vulnerable, is not immune to his sinister overtures. The woods beyond the village bristle with hidden dangers, not all of them animal or vegetable, and are clandestinely visited by a variety of poachers, thrill seekers and vengeful locals. Lonely chapels hide secrets and local houses, more still. The Old Gods appear in debased form, on found flash drives.

Harassed bar owner Patrick Stassart (Philippe Jeusette ) sees his chances of building a dream business park fade, as the monastery’s tiny income from making furniture and brewing beer for the outside world already has. Young monk Fr. Lucas Stassart, whose studied sympathy and dogged determination is brought out well by Clement Manuel, is charged with the task of Beranger’s novitiate, a far from popular decision with some of the other brothers. Patrick’s adopted son Emile, a child with serious health problems who hero worships his sly, manipulative hooligan uncle Vincent Stassart (Vincent Londez), is a cause of great worry to his health worker mother Judith (Laura Sepul).

The killing of a young girl, and her discovery, washed antiseptically clean and with Bernager’s notorious ‘eye’ symbol incised on the poor child’s body, horrifies and enrages this small community, who were already baying for Beranger’s blood on his unwelcome arrival. The viewer might be tempted to mentally join the witch hunt, but the plot is far more sophisticated than that. Instead, the list of possible suspects grows like ground elder, as the community boils with mingled anger and fear, convinced of Beranger’s guilt, and blinded to the other possibilities.

Performances are superb, from the sympathetic, yet guilt ridden Fr. Lucas, the angry, thwarted businessman Patrick, the cold, analytical killer Beranger, but perhaps the best of all, is the haunted, frightened police officer, Chloe, eyes permanently bulging, fingers ever reaching for her pistol and seeing the shade of her dead sister at every turn. The ending holds a shock few will guess, and a second series cannot be far away.

PUBLIC ENEMY is released on DVD Box Set on Monday 17th July by Nordic Noir & Beyond.

Scenester

15/7/17

http://www.noblepr.co.uk/Press_Releases/arrowfilms/public-enemy.htm

The Team DVD/BluRay review

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Fri, 04 Jun 2021 16:38:36 GMT

The Team (2015) DVD/BluRay Nordic Noir and Beyond FCD1272

An exciting, new police thriller comes to DVD hot on the heels of its British premiere on More4 TV in February 2017, ‘The Team’. Stretched over five countries and involving the Police detective teams of three nations, the action rarely lets up as the grim story unfolds. Produced by a Pan-European wealth of talent, ‘The Team’s title is as appropriate to the production as the storyline. Premiered in 2015 on Danish DR TV it’s hard to understand what took the British buyer so long.

The plot is as grim as it gets; a series of murders of prostitutes have been shocking the continent, one in Copenhagen, one in Berlin, one in Antwerp, each time, the victim shot through the left eye and a finger chopped off at the first knuckle. The Police forces of all three countries are marshalled together to form a joint effort to stop the brutality, apparently the work of just one person. The crime scenes are awash with clues, some pointing to Jean Louis Poquelin (Carlos Leal), an investigative journalist with a previous accusation to his name. A tantalising piece of evidence, in the shape of a photograph of four bikini clad girls, three of whom are victims, adds poignancy and a note of dire urgency to the investigation.

Heading up the Danish investigation is Harald Bjorn (Lars Mikkelsen), a tall, intense, middle-aged man with a sepulchral voice, who drifts about the screen like a vengeful ghost, as he negotiates the perilous waters of marriage to a younger, currently pregnant wife, and being forced into the presence of a former lover, Jackie Mueller (Jasmin Great), chief of the German team. Jackie, a watchful, cautious young woman with a family of her own to worry about, has an intern thrust upon her; her boss’s ambitious daughter, Natasha Stark (Miriam Stein), whose keenness and attention to detail does her much credit. Belgian chief Alicia Verbeeck, (Veerle Baetens) is beyond doubt the edgiest of all of The Team, a lithe, twisting, turning bag of nerves with a face sculpted by endless grimaces and brow-furrowing at the rough hand life has dealt her. Her assistant, Frank Aers (Koen De Bouw), a saturnine, taciturn man with an agenda from Alicia’s mistrusting superior, Stephane Pernel (Hilde Van Mieghem)is more hindrance than help, perhaps deliberately.

Barely a moment is wasted in this eight part drama, as the team shuttle from one country to another, in an effort to prevent another grisly murder. Along the way, they encounter the deeply disturbing world of people traffickers, headed up by a well-known, successful and largely untouchable Ukranian businessman, Marius Loukauskis. Played with a terrifying level of threat and a dose of sang froid by Nicholas Ofczarek, Loukauskis exists in a comfortable upper crust world of parties, business meetings and luxury, protected by his well paid, loyal henchmen and a network of pliant bankers and government officials, free to pursue his multiple businesses, held together by terror, slavery and money laundering.

The current vogue for Nordic/Scandi-Noir looks like sticking around for some time, and it’s not hard to see why. Good, almost torn-from-the-headlines plots, varied, believable characters but with a human s ide to each, and plenty of action, both muscle powered and hi-tech assisted. The inclusion of a frankly, unbelievably talented computer whiz kid is my only grumble, even if her personal story rivals the others’ for sheer sympathy. You will hardly notice the eight, one-hour episodes going by.

Scenester

26/3/17

Link for preview:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6LXWHxyISs&feature=youtu.be
Link to site:
http://scenester1964.webeden.co.uk/#/the-team/4593775600

Link to Nordic Noir:
http://nordicnoir.tv/news/take-the-team-home-on-dvd/

Apple Tree Yard - BluRay Review

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Fri, 04 Jun 2021 16:38:35 GMT

Apple Tree Yard (Arrow Films DVD FCD1418 BluRay FCD1426)

This psychological thriller, recently shown on BBC television and attracting some controversy, is now available on disc or download to own.

The storyline is routine enough; an eminent geneticist, Yvonne Carmichael (Emily Watson), has a chance amorous encounter with an exciting stranger Mark Costley (Ben Chaplin), the consequences of which are far reaching and completely disastrous for her. The opening shots waste no time in showing Yvonne being driven to Court, to face the grave charge of murder. The elements of a standard courtroom drama are all present and correct, and the ancient device of tracing the consequences back to the possible causes is wheeled out once more.

We learn that Yvonne’s life as lecturing academic is high-level, well paid and absorbing, in the early scene of her addressing a group of M.P.’s in the House of Commons, in her area of expertise. The lecture proceeds as well as can be expected when your audience have little understanding of your highly arcane subject, but what happens next is the first of a series of wildly implausible events.

Charmed by the attentions of Costley, apparently a top security operative, she wanders off with him to see the famous Chapel of St Mary Undercroft, in the crypt beneath St Stephen’ Chapel. Amid the imposing Neo-Gothic arches, he invites her into an obscure cupboard where the Suffragette Emily Davison hid on Census night 1911, where she is commemorated by a plaque for her audacious act. The sudden, untrammelled sex that follows is both a shock and an early indication that this drama is aiming somewhat lower than the brains of its audience, even if its ultimate destination may be the high moral ground.

Learning a little more about Yvonne’s life, we see that her marriage to Gary (Mark Bonnar) is not altogether happy, and his occasional affairs with research assistants may provide us with a clue as to why her dalliance with Costley came about at all. Her pregnant daughter, whose intention to give up her career to look after her child, meets with Yvonne’s disapproval, and the casual and unpredictable appearances at home of her bi-polar son are a constant source of pain and worry to her. All of this scene-setting and window decoration does nothing to answer the viewer’s question of why would an educated, comfortably off, middle-aged woman suddenly take the enormous risk of unprotected sex with a man she had never met before in a place where it was more than likely to be noticed?

The pair’s later encounters take place in public, if obscure alleys (such as the Apple Tree Yard of the title), slightly out of the gaze of the innumerable security cameras that bristle all over central London. Costley’s knowledge of these watchful eyes is expected in a member of the shadowy security services, but again, does Yvonne ever think to herself, that perhaps he takes other women to these dimly lit places, for much the same purpose? No; we are asked to believe that she takes his passion and his word on trust.

The next problem with the story is not one of believability, but of taste. George Selway (Steven Elder) a work colleague of two years has noticed Yvonne is having an affair (our would-be James Bond is obviously not as careful as he thinks he is) and corners her at a work party for a word, or rather, a drink-fuelled and violent rape. The script’s implication that this was all brought about by Yvonne’s single lapse cannot be ignored, and the scene, set in an office a few feet away from an otherwise tasteful academic’s party, is another, frankly unbelievable development.

The plot rolls on in this judgemental manner, well past Yvonne’s husband’s predictable confession of an affair with his latest research assistant, past her full confession to her best friend in a public place, of her indiscretions, and to her request to 007 to ‘warn off’ Selway from stalking her. That many of their secret trysts are set up via text message on a simple mobile phone he has given her for the purpose, and which she leaves lying about at home, in café’s etc. for the entire world to see, is just another level of risk that no educated person like herself would make the mistake of taking. Yvonne’s journey from her comfortable upper middle class life as sought after lecturer, to murder suspect, complete with ankle tag and thrice weekly visits to the Police Station is highly improbable.

I’m not saying the show is awful; it’s not, it’s well acted, well-paced and it kept me in my seat for four episodes. It is, however, old-fashioned, judgemental and frankly, unbelievable. I’ll let you discover the rest of its secrets for yourself, as I know you will, because everybody loves a spy story. Just don’t expect to have too much sympathy for the protagonists, because, as in real-life spy stories, no-one comes out of it with any respectability intact.

Scenester

19/2/17

APPLE TREE YARD is released on DVD & Blu-ray Box Sets on Monday 20th February by Arrow Films.

The Level DVD review

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Fri, 04 Jun 2021 16:38:34 GMT

The Level (RLJ Entertainment Ltd DVD AV3311)

Fresh from TV and onto DVD comes a story of a tangled web of deceit, smuggling, double-dealing and murder, set in and around Brighton and the Sussex coast.

Opening with the night time shooting of shady local businessman Frank Le Saux (Philip Glenister) the boss of a haulage firm who supplements his already considerable income with drug trafficking, we are immediately let in on one of this tense thriller’s secrets; that Frank has been protected for years by his daughter’s childhood friend, Det. Sgt. Nancy Devlin (Karla Crome), perhaps seeing him as the father figure she never felt she had. Nursing a bullet wound sustained on the night of his slaying, Nancy returns to the station to learn that she will be working on the case, and worse, trying to find the ‘missing witness’ captured on CCTV, who was shot as she escaped the scene.

The rolling Sussex coastline and its beautiful green/blue vista looks bleak and unwelcoming throughout the course of this convoluted story, whether Nancy is peering around the obelisk at Peacehaven, shivering in a knit ‘n’ spit on a deserted Hove Prom, or shambling nervously about the forbidding docks at Newhaven. Even Brighton’s normally lively streets are empty, as if the city has been evacuated. Nancy’s face wears a blank stare throughout the piece, as she tries to cope with her weeping wound, the fear of discovery, the killing of a man she admired - loved, even - and the precariously balanced friendship with her bereaved childhood friend. We find ourselves in the uncomfortable position of sympathising with someone whose record is a long way from being spotless, and wondering just how crooked she will prove to be.

Placed with the terse Gunner Martin (Noel Clarke) to investigate Frank’s murder, Gunner is immediately suspicious of Nancy’s lone wolf investigation style, and with the arrival of a fellow Met Officer previously friendly to Nancy but now, perhaps not, Nancy’s world is visibly shrinking, along with her confidence and her ability to keep head above water.

Frank’s widow, played with considerable subtlety by Amanda Burton, plays the co-operation game with the Police, leaving the emotional responses to her daughter, Hayley (Laura Haddock), an aloof chip off the old block, who is slowly distancing herself from her own past, and her old friend Nancy. Their grey modernist block-like house, peering out over the Channel, is the perfect metaphor for the fragile family that inhabits it.

The complex relationships and host of interested parties on show here are almost Dickensian in their secretiveness and closeness. Nancy can’t trust a soul, not even Hayley, wrapped up in her grief and her children, nor her estranged adopted ex-cop father, Gil (Gary Lewis) who turns up like the proverbial bad penny, in his familiar drunken state. Frank’s driver/factotum Darryl Quinn (Lorne McFadyen), more hurt little boy than hard man, appears to be insinuating himself into the grief stricken family rather too successfully for comfort, as is another dubious business associate of Frank’s, Shay Nash (Joe Absolom, in a phoned-in performance that cuts no ice here) whose regular appearances before the Police and Courts marks him out as someone best avoided.

Slow burning over three of its six episodes, and looking like it may not reach boiling point, ‘The Level’ finally lets loose at last in the fourth, building up a palpable sense of claustrophobia, self-doubt, guilt and mistaken motives, into a shattering climax on the Palace Pier.

Scenester

8.11.16

http://www.acorndvd.com/the-level.html

The Border DVD Review

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Fri, 04 Jun 2021 16:38:33 GMT

The Border – Complete Season One (Arrow Films FCD1313D1/2)

Those with strong nerves and an interest in seeing what television has to offer beyond costume dramas and competitive cookery shows will want to check out the newly released DVD of the first season of ‘The Border’. This Polish Noir, recently previewed on Channel 4, takes on the murky world of people smuggling and the murderous gangsters who run them from their Ukraine homeland to neighbouring Poland.

Centring on the lives of an attachment of leather-faced, weather beaten Border guards, our story takes in assassination by bombing, child smuggling and abandonment, internal wrangling, blame gaming, psychological torture, sexism, racism and misogyny, to the point where the viewer might begin to question their own motives for watching it.

Few other police dramas will prepare you for the sheer onslaught of a regular day’s work for the Border Police. In between sleeplessness, revenge threats, draughts of home-made vodka and bear attacks, the viewer may wonder if any of our crew are likely to survive beyond their 30th birthdays. From their daily briefing in a miserable, garishly lit office, to drives into the thick, overgrown woodlands, teeming with rain and whipped by wind, each day leads to another cold, damp watch-and-wait for another team of smugglers with their pathetic charges, tramping through the woods to what they hope will be a better life.

The spectacular and highly suspicious death by bombing of a group of people on a weekend in the country has just one survivor: Border Guard Captain Wiktor Rebrow (Leszek Lichota), out to take a ‘phone call. Little is left of the victims to make a formal identification, and presumed to be among the dead is his lover, Ewa Witynska (Julia Pogrebinska). A torturous investigation follows, headed up by Procurator Iga Dobosz (Aleksandra Poplawska), a successful candidate for Bitch of the Year, who dogs Rebrow at every turn, and is on his case to the point of obsession.

Leszek Lichota’s performance as Rebrow is one of bitter resignation and restrained grief, throughout. Pitched against Aleksandra Poplawska’s bad penny, her gimlet-eyed presence creates an atmosphere between the two, more stifling than the claustrophobia that pervades every home, every building, even the impenetrable woods.

Rebrow’s rough professional conduct and list of dubious acquaintances marks him out as prime suspect in the bombing, also putting him top of a list of those suspected of corruption, dealing with the very people traffickers the Guard are meant to be eradicating. Saw mill owner Kalita (Mariusz Saniternk) is just one of a cast of doubtful characters, his apparently commonplace business no doubt hiding more than just under the counter sales.

There’s a human drama at work here, in amongst the emotionless posturing of Guards and suspects alike, and who can fail to be moved by the plight of children, pushed from pillar to post and then abandoned to their fate in the freezing woods? It’s the female Guards who show more sympathy, and indeed their true mettle in these scenes, and they are also the ones who, although tough characters, get the rough end of the stick for their efforts.

The appearance of a tramp/shaman adds another dimension to the narrative, despite his inability to speak. The forest, which is his home, is littered with his makeshift shelters and tunnelled with his hidey-holes. He is as fleeting and as mysterious as the wolf which makes an appearance (Real? In dreams?) at your door.

Although rooted in a harsh modern reality, and dealing with a highly topical subject, The Border has shadows of mysticism just out of eye line, creeping in between the toxic macho atmosphere. The soundtrack veers between ethereal and punchy, the music, all deep bass mystery. If it’s outside your comfort zone, that’s too bad, but if you’re looking for more than just the standard shoot ‘em up, you’re in luck

Scenester

24/8/16

Images kindly provided by Noble PR and used with permission

Release date 5th September

YouTube link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OkzUZXS1FYc&feature=youtu.be
Embed code: <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/OkzUZXS1FYc" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>

Buy me: see Nordic Noir and Beyond website to see if buy me link available

DVD/BluRay Reviews; Horror and Sci Fi

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Wed, 02 Jun 2021 15:57:06 GMT

Doomwatch, The Man With The X-Ray Eyes, XTRO, The Year of the Sex Olympics, Zombie Lake, Psychomania, Symptoms, Ghost Story, 80,000 Suspects, Twins of Evil, The Monster Club, Countess Dracula, A Clockwork Orange, Journey to the Unknown.

The Man With The X-Ray Eyes (Second Sight) Blu Ray 2NDBR4118-TM

Newly restored and available on BluRay from Second Sight Films, this 1963 classic is a fine example of intelligent, science fiction / horror at at time when many felt that the genre was 'strictly for kids'.

Introduced by disturbing images of a disembodied, bloodied eyeball in a jar of bubbling liquid and dissonant, freeform jazz music, anyone thinking this film will be a standard creature feature is in for a rude awakening.

Former romantic lead of the 1940's, and star of 'Dial M for Murder' Ray Milland, plays scientist Dr. James Xavier with assured tautness. Desperate to complete his work on a serum which will, he hopes, extend the range of human sight, Dr X is beset with difficulties that threaten his pet project; the old, hobbling duo of time and money. Beholden to the foundation supplying the finance, and the hospital supplying laboratory space, Dr. X is sure he can bring his idea to fruition, but his superiors are less convinced.

Moral support with some reservations comes from his friend Dr Brandt (Harold J. Stone) and his business associate Diane Fairfax (Diana van der Vlis), leading Dr. X to try out the serum on himself, after failure on a monkey subject. Modern audiences may have mixed feelings about this scene, with its apparent callous disregard for animal life, even with Dr. X willing to include himself in the definition of a lab rat.

The effects of the drug, adminsitered via an eye dropper, are felt immediately, as Dr. X begins to see into his own eyes, and through the thin paper file on his desk which would normally mask the typed paper reports within. 'It's like a splitting of the world' he raves, as the full possibilities of his extended vision dawn on him. With no need for X-Rays, he can spot internal injuries and cancers immediately. His supporter is not so convinced, and clearly worried about the possible side affects.

For a little light relief, Diane invites Dr. X to a party of fellow sophisticates, dressed to the nines by today's standards, twisting rather stiffly to the modern jazz on the hi-fi. With a dry martinin made with surgical precision using a hypodermic syringe for a measure, Dr. X's stuffy reserve begins to break down, and he notices that the blonde who has been chatting him up actually has brown hair, and he looks around, only to see the partygoers dancing naked! A little embarrassed, he tells Diane he sees her 'as never before' and her amusement at realising what he means is both unexpected and charming.

Dr. X's moment of pride before a fall comes when, attending an operation, he demands to perform it himself, on account of having seen that his colleague's diagnosis is incorrect, and that the operation as planned will result in the death of the young patient. Being proved right and operating successfully is no consolation for him, as his colleague threatens to sue him for malpractice.

After accidentally becoming the cause of his friend Dr. Brandt's death in a fall from a high window, Dr. X goes on the run, suffering the ignominy of becoming a sideshow attraction, 'Mentalla, the Mind Reader'. The sideshow owner, Crane (renowned comedian and roaring boy Don Rickles) offers to manage Dr. X's career, turning him into a 'healer', despite the fact that he can only see, not heal. It's here that Diane traces him to his 'surgery', a set of miserable down town rooms, where he offers sometimes false hope to the elderly and desperate 'patients' who pay a few dollars for his 'consultation'.

Dr. X sees a way he can quickly raise the cash to carry on his research, and most importantly, make more of the serum which is running precariously low. He resolves to go with Diane to Las Vegas, where his ability to read playing cards from their backs will help him win a fortune. The shots of Las Vegas' hotels and casinos with their enticing lights, instead of cascading and dissolving in ever more beautiful and hypnotic patterns, are seen through Dr. X's eyes, their nervous, skeletal forms, splintered, phasing and fading as the pair drive past. After a conspicuously successful night playing the one-armed bandits and at Black Jack and Vingt et Un, Dr. X and Diane attempt to leave with the spoils. His naivete is incredible in such an educated man; as if the owners of the casinos would ever allow him to walk away with a suitcase full of loot.

Dr. X's escape is made alone, driving a gas-guzzling Lincoln at breakneck speed through the desert, hotly pursued by a Police helicopter, which he can clearly see through the hard metal roof of the car. Crashing off the road, he wanders bruised, cut and exhausted until he meets his fate at a religious revival tent.

Despite its advanced scientific subject matter, 'The Man With The X-Ray Eyes' is shot through with potent religious imagery, from Dr. Brandt's warning, 'Only the gods see everything' to Dr. X's self sacrificial experiment, his becoming an outcast from society, his few followers, including significantly, a woman prepared to become an outcast like him, his journey through the desert pursued by the authorities, his tempation at the gaming tables of Las Vegas, his body pierced by barbed wire thorns on a farm fence and finally, his submisison and redemption at a revival meeting of a hell fire church.

With its tight shooting, nervous atmosphere and feeling of approaching dread for our protagonist, a man in deep trouble and at the end of his tether, 'Man With The X-Ray Eyes' resembles an Alfred Hitchcock film more than its American International stable-mate camp horrors.

The disk has a number of special features that are well worth investigating, among them the original trailer in typically hysterical shocker style, and the original, portentous preamble with more than a hint of Ed Wood about it.

Directed by horror exploitation maestro Roger Corman, and pre-empting the later, body-horror films of David Cronenberg,

'The Man With The X-Ray Eyes' is a must-have for science fiction and horror film fans. Available to pre-order now, and on general release from 4th May.

Scenester

2/5/2020

https://secondsightfilms.co.uk/products/the-man-with-the-x-ray-eyes-limited-edition-pre-order-available-20th-april-2020

XTRO (1982) Second Sight Limited Edition Blu Ray 2NDBR4084 disc box set

Out now on DVD and BluRay, a spruced up version of the low-budget 80’s sci-fi horror ‘XTRO’; a film which warned unsuspecting earthlings that ‘not all extra-terrestrials are friendly’.

Made at a time when special effects meant getting your hands dirty, ‘XTRO’ sets us a familiar premise for the sci-fi nut; a repulsive alien creature, bent on takeover, visits earth and sets about propagating its race by impregnating living things. That the results appear to produce a different hybrid each time is one of the more interesting plot aspects, and it’s not short of great ideas.

The film opens up with a typical family scene, father Sam (Philip Sayer) is playing in the garden of his large rural home with his son, Tony (Simon Nash) when the whole area is plunged into darkness and a strong wind begins to blow. Sam disappears completely.

Fast forward three years, and life has moved on for Sam’s wife Rachael (Bernice Stegers) who now lives in a smart apartment block with American photographer boyfriend Joe (Danny Brainin) and her sad, dreamy son Tony (Simon Nash).Tony’s bedroom is an untidy jumble of mobiles, tops and models, all carrying a whiff of the supernatural about them.

#The alien creature returns to earth and after killing a couple of motorists, stalks the countryside for more likely victims. The creature is played by Tim Dry, whom those with long memories may recall as the former of Tik & Tok, a pair of performers who had robotic dancing down to a fine degree, perfectly aping the movements of highly sophisticated machines. He excels at animating the creature as it scuttles about on its four limbs, its head reversed. After breaking into the country house of a glamorous young woman, the creature attacks and impregnates her, her pregnancy advancing at an incredible pace, until she gives birth graphically to a full grown man; it is Sam, subtly altered by alien medical science. This is the first of a number of gross-out scenes which take the place of the spaceships and explosions the regular sci-fi crowd will have been expecting.

Sam re-appearance in Rachael’s life predictably puts a strain on the family, not least boyfriend Joe, and his renewed bond with Tony is remarkably strong. After seeing his father eat some of his pet snake’s eggs, Sam explains to his son about his trip to an alien world, and teaches him a few tricks with telekinesis. It’s here that the film dips its horny toes into fantasy land, with Tony bringing his clown puppet (Peter Mandell in great, creepy yet playful form) and his soldier doll (Sean Crawford, or Tok to you and I) to life, to wreak havoc at a nasty neighbour’s home.

The family have a home help from the famous agency which supplies only impossibly good looking girls to do such work, and Analise (Maryam D’Abo, in her debut role) frolics with her boyfriend, but comes to a predictably sticky end, being attacked and used as an incubator for the creature’s eggs.

I’ve told you enough, but there’s more on the disk; no less than two extra cuts, interviews with director Harry Bromley Davenport, trailers and TV spots, test footage for an upcoming XTRO and an article by XTRO super fan Dennis Atherton.

‘XTRO’ is a crazy, messy, gory amalgam of Alien and E.T., with elements of folk horror and the ‘weird child’ cycle, cheap and cheerful effects, capable actors and a director with more dash than cash, and it’s worth a dozen Hollywood films with no plot, a bigger budget and slumming stars. If that doesn’t make you want to see it, there’s no hope for you.

Scenester

26/6/18

trailer

https://btmail.bt.com/cp/ps/Main/mediaserver/SLSlidePreviewFrameset?dummy=0&u=scenester1964&d=btinternet.com&t=d43d2&rnd=0.595182471070019&l=en&accountname=DefaultMailAccount

The Year of the Sex Olympics 1968 BFI V2128 b/w

Rarely available and little repeated since its original broadcast as part of BBC2’s Theatre 625 in 1968, Nigel Kneale’s chillingly prophetic ‘The Year of the Sex Olympics’ is now available on BFI DVD.

Set in a coldly automated future where citizens are divided into the mutually exclusive classes of ‘low drives’ and ‘high drives’, the former are kept quietly docile by the latter, through the pervasive medium of television. Programmed with the most cynical of motives, the endless diet of no-brow comedy and lame porn is broadcast by wide awake, toothy presenters, gurgling their introductions to such slapstick idiocy as ‘The Hungry Angry Show’ followed by canned applause and effusive praise. The main event on this channel - as in gully- is the aforementioned Sex Olympics. Golden competing couples, heroically coiffured and naked, or nearly so, embrace, grinning gamely at the cameras, resplendent on their huge rugs and floor level beds, as they are introduced in the manner of gladiators, ready to demonstrate their mettle.

Watching without pleasure, hawkish studio executive Nat Mender (Tony Vogel) typifies his high drive breed; always on point, ever optimistic, full of media buzzwords (Super King Size!), he and his toadying colleagues pass programming ideas around to keep the ‘low drives’ entertained, watchful of the audience reaction on one of the many wall-hung screens. Co-Ordinator Ugo Priest (Leonard Rossiter) passes on his ‘Old Times’ words of wisdom to all, as well as his pained memories of the pre-automated world. Dispensing his sage observations as liberally as the ‘brighteners’ – a cross between a baby’s dummy and an ice lolly, dosed with a Prozac-like drug (another prediction?), he subtly ensures the smooth running of the station and its output of mindless entertainment.

Not everyone is happy with this numb, carefree paradise, however. Young high drive rebel Kin Hodder (Martin Potter) has a taste for Munchian/Baconian art, his etchings a nerve shredding gallery of tortured, screaming heads and swirling vortices. His devotion to an art which provokes the forbidden emotions of fear, disgust and shock leads him to invade a studio broadcast, dangling from the gantry, flashing up his degenerate art work to the cameras, with predictable reactions from the audience. His deadly fall provokes an even bigger one, and the executives immediately spot the potential in the emotion felt in the pain and death of another, and set about creating a new show, with action, drama and - dare we say it? – human interest at its core.

Despite being a vision of the future, the age in which it was made is always obvious; never more so than in the characters’ mode of dress, a melange of pop psychedelia banyans and mini-skirts, long (wig) hair tied behind their heads in loose ponytails, giving the overall impression of half-heartedly imitated contemporary pop stars. And that’s just the men. The shiny dresses and even shinier metallic hair of the women make them resemble fashion dolls dressed from the wardrobe of a particularly lively Doctor Who companion.

We watch amid the discomfort of realising that the audience, that is, we, the ultimate audience, not the studio one, are being shown a television play, written by a master of the science fiction genre, about the insidious, controlling nature of television on the masses. We play long, just like the studio audience.

Writer Kneale turns on the screws still further, with the campaign for the new, empathetic reality serial, ‘The Live-Life Show’, in which a couple volunteer to go and live on a remote island, lacking any modern conveniences, or even any ‘Old Time’ ones, and fend for themselves, a task they are totally unprepared for. Nat and Deanie (Suzanne Neve) our couple in name only, do the leap into the unknown, taking their young daughter, Keten (Lesley Roach), a shy, introverted ‘low drive’ who clings to her sad-looking rag doll, ignoring the trashy gewgaws Nat disinterestedly presents to her from the wall-tube, helpfully marked ‘Toy Dispenser’.

This disconnected, unemotional family arrive on the island, armed with only an electronic device which gives advice on how to survive this new, hostile environment. Tips on how to start fires, plant seeds, recognise a sheep – as well as how to kill, butcher and cook it – are all part of their palmtop friend’s repertoire. Their every action is being monitored and broadcast to an audience, now showing rapt attention, eager to see the promised ‘real life‘ drama. They don’t have to wait long after remotely experiencing the cold and the hunger that the ‘players’ feel for real, as the basic challenges of life, familiar to anyone from our age who has ever been camping, appear and multiply. All the while, the studio audience lap it up, sympathising with their misfortunes, at last feeling something that’s has resonance, and not some drip-fed, puerile fantasy world. The triumphant, braying laughter of the executives rings out in the studio, with the realisation that they have hit upon the ultimate formula for faultless mind-control.

After watching ‘The Year of the Sex Olympics’, the viewer might be tempted to think that the future might have decided to afford writer Nigel Kneale a glimpse of itself. Prefiguring modern day television shows like the isolating, terminally dull ‘Big Brother’ or the low-end, near-porn of ‘Love Island’, ‘The Year of the Sex Olympics’ stands or falls by its warning about the dark powers at large in the wider media, the blatantly controlling ethos of television, and the fascistic attitude of some of its upper echelons. The obvious question remains; why didn’t we heed its condemnatory message?

‘The Year of the Sex Olympics’ is presented with an audio commentary, a Kim Newman introduction, Joyce Hammond’s costume designs and Nigel Kneale in conversation. Also, a supporting film in the shape of 1979 curio ‘Le Petomane’, penned by world beating comedy writing duo, Ray Galton and Alan Simpson, starring Leonard Rossiter as the French 19th Century entertainer Joseph Pujol, who raised flatulence to an art form.

Scenester
29/3/2020

https://shop.bfi.org.uk/the-year-of-the-sex-olympics-dvd.html#.Xp81Qpl7nIU

Zombie Lake (1981) Black House Films DVD BH001

Black House Films’ inaugural release, out on DVD on Monday 20th March, is Euro horror ‘Zombie Lake’, a surprisingly tender take on the by then very familiar walking dead genre, directed by Jean Rollin and Julian de Laserna. If you’re anything like me, the name ’Rollin’ in the credits is enough to sell any film to you, and the fact that the great French maître d’horreur (sorry) has a small speaking part in the film, is an added bonus.

Howard Vernon plays the Mayor of a small French country village with a shady past which he would prefer be kept quiet, to protect what little tourist trade it has. Opening with a scene guaranteed to get the attention of its presumably largely male audience, a nubile girl peels off and goes for a skinny- dip in the tranquil lake on a beautiful summer’s day, cheerfully ignoring (and even taking down) the noticeboard, warning of dangerous waters. After a few moments of happy, carefree lolling and paddling, the stars of our tale arrive, a gang of green faced, surprisingly youthful Nazi zombies left over from the Second World War. After attacking, killing and draining our unfortunate swimmer of her blood, they disappear back into their watery home, satisfied with the day’s work.

The killing causes ructions in this sleepy bucolic village, with its population of tubby, magnificently moustachioed loafers baying for blood to the rather indifferent mayor. It takes a further attack, this time on a troupe of similarly nubile female volleyball players, who also find the lure of the lake irresistible and who proceed to strip off for a little sporting fun in the water. The resemblance to a Benny Hill sketch ends abruptly with the slow-motion, underwater assault on the ball players by our undead Third Reich refugees, who must have thought their collective birthdays had arrived all at once.

The story takes a sentimental turn with the revelation that one of the Stormtroopers had a romance with a local girl during the war, which resulted in her falling pregnant. We learn that the mother died young, leaving her baby in the charge of its grandmother, and she is now a young girl, still living in the village. Stretching credulity to ludicrous lengths, we find that she recognises her father as the leader of the submarine Nazis, and begins to show feelings of love and respect for him, warmly reciprocated by the rotting, undead soldier.

The villagers are not so forgiving, however, and decide to take matters into their horny hands, armed to the teeth with farming implements and shotguns, like a scene from any number of old Hollywood creature features. Like a small battery of La Resistance, they go in search of the murdering zombies, this time with the blessing of the Mayor, who seems to have suddenly turned his attitude to the terrible events round 180 degrees.

The acting ranges from barely adequate to risible. The zombie make up is poor, and would have been so ten years before. The chills are non-existent. So what kept me in my seat for the 80-odd minutes it took to tell the tale? It’s a mixture of period charm, the shots of the beautiful French countryside, an unconventional take on the standard zombie story, and the fact that it’s Rollin, even if only a weak infusion of the maître’s style. In these days of multi-million dollar budgets, mega-stars appearing in the horror genre they would once have sniffed at, sophisticated special effects which manage to improve on reality rather than just simulate it and bland, dreary, scripts that were produced by a committee of bean-counting dunces, it makes a welcome change to see a film made on the hoof on a low budget, with nothing but a hook to hang a story on. Die-hard Rollin fans will love it, early video nostalgia freaks will enjoy it, horror aficionados will probably dismiss it out of hand, but all will go away with an opinion of it.

Zombie Lake has hidden…depths.

Scenester

16/3/17

Psychomania (1973) DVD/BluRay (BFIB 1259 BFI Flipside 033)

Those of you who, like me, spent their formative years assiduously researching trash, horror and youth culture films at some ungodly hour on television, will be delighted to learn that the best (and only) British made biker/suicide/zombie cult film of 1973 is now available on DVD and BluRay. Packed with a wealth of suitably eccentric bonus material, I can confidently predict you’ll be shelling out for this disk before heading out on the motorway for a ton up. For those among you who aren’t familiar with this Brit biker epic, I’ll fill you in (gently).

Spoilt rich boy Tom Latham (Nicky Henson) loves to hang out with his hand-picked bike gang, a somewhat soft crew of British luvvies, who assist him in a rather tepid series of acts of defiance, in his desperate search for thrills. They ride a selection of respectable, if rather old and temperamental British machines, rather than the Harleys hinted at in the film’s sales pitch, and sport Lewis Leathers customised with their ‘Living Dead’ club logo, their helmets emblazoned with a skull and crossbones design that raises camp to new heights, even for a bike gang.

Worth seeing for the cast alone, Robert Hardy plays Chief Inspector Hesseltine, and his wandering Northern accent is a delight in itself. Ann Michelle plays Jane, the red leather clad bad girl of the gang, and Roy Holder is the surprisingly named gang member Bertram.

Bored with the possibilities of running innocent taxi drivers off the road and chasing unsuspecting young mums and their prams around the otherwise deserted breezeblock shopping centre, Tom has a plan to top all of that tedious, minor lawbreaking. You see, Tom’s family just happen to be occultists, and may hold the key to eternal life.

Tom’s mother, played by the great Beryl Reid, is a well-heeled spiritualist, with a penchant for floaty dresses and an aversion to accepting money for her séance activities. Her servant, Shadwell, (superbly played by George Sanders, in his final film) is a dyed in the wool diabolist, with a keen interest in the amphibians he regards as emissaries of Old Nick. Tom demands to know the secret of the (wait for it) ‘locked room’ and the true story of his father’s death, and he learns that one who commits suicide believing he will return, will surely do so as one of the legion of the undead.

Armed with the secret, Tom returns to his motley band of biker friends, intent on demonstrating its efficacy. Sharing it with regular girlfriend, Abby (Mary Larkin), a shy girl with a soft haircut and a taste in brushed denim suggestive of one who is not a committed biker, Abby is unimpressed with this arcane knowledge. Besides, she has to go shopping with her mother that afternoon. Undaunted, Tom rides to his death, shocking the gang.

In a moment of rare solemnity, the gang, with his mother’s glad permission, bury Tom mounted on his bike, near a circle of mysterious standing stones, known as The Seven Witches. Later that night, shrouded in mist, Tom bursts out of his grave on the supercharged bike, in a scene all but predicting the cover design to Meat Loafs’ 1977 LP, ‘Bat Out Of Hell.’ Possibly.

The remaining members follow Tom’s lead, mostly successfully, and on they go, terrorising all they run across. That such a piece of outrageous hokum ever got made, is an indication of what desperate straits the British film industry was in, at the time. US interest and money gone, a film script had to have essential elements to secure funding. Sex and violence were reliable earners, but the still largely untapped youth culture market was also an attractive prospect. Combining youthful rebellion, bikes, implied sex, suicide and occultism, you could almost see the £ signs roll around the prospective backer’s eyes.

The wealth of bonus material includes lavish booklet containing notes by film historian Andrew Roberts and the BFI’s William Fowler and Vic Pratt, interviews with Nicky Henson, Mary Larkin, Roy Holder, Dennis Gilmore and Rocky Taylor and film curios like ‘Discovering Britain’ Avebury edition, with narration by John Betjeman, later poet laureate. With his musings on what sort of rites may have taken place at this mysterious site in pagan times, is it possible that Betjeman made his way to Avebury on a Triumph Bonneville, clad head to foot in Lewis’ best leather drag, to make this delightful travelogue? The amateur film ‘Roger Wonders Why’, about the 59 Club’s legendary founder, The Rev Bill Shergold, gets a welcome showing, among material about the remastering of the main feature. All that’s missing is the pattern for Roy Holder’s fetching crocheted waistcoat.

The interviews with the stars areperhaps the only slight disappointment here, as many seem to regard Psychomania as a blot on, or at least a blip in, their otherwise unblemished stage and film careers. A little perspective is needed here, as I would guess that few of their more respectable efforts ever gained the small, but affectionate following Psychomania has since.

Scenester

18/9/16

Link to BFI; http://shop.bfi.org.uk/catalogsearch/result/?cat=0&q=psychomania

Timeslip (Network DVD 7954488)

Afficianados of classic 70’s children’s TV will be delighted to hear that ‘Timeslip’ is now available complete on DVD. With only sporadic releases on VHS and DVD in the past, its re-release together with documentaries, scripts, picture galleries and fan club footage, will light the fires of old and new fans alike.

If you’re new to the show, which turned up on British screens in the autumn of 1970 and continued ‘til Spring of 1971, I envy you your first viewing of this sci-fi oddity. In an age when children’s TV was saturated with swashbucklers, futurism, folklore and fantasy, ‘Timeslip’ was the exception to the Sci-Fi rule, in that it eschewed spaceships and explosions, instead employing two apparently ordinary kids as its time-travelling stars, and proudly displayed the scientific credentials of its stories. Basing its central premise on a controversial theory of time proposed by highly respected astronomer (later Sir) Fred Hoyle, ‘Timeslip’ introduced such ground breaking ideas as organ replacement, longevity drugs, geo-engineering and global warming, all in the guise of a children’s entertainment show.

First; the bad news. ‘Timeslip’ was originally recorded in colour on videotape, excepting two episodes recorded in monochrome, which was due to a technician’s strike. Archive monochrome ‘tele recordings’ were taken of each episode, basically by aiming a film camera at a b/w monitor screen, with inevitable loss of picture quality, and of course colour. The story runs, that the colour tapes had been poorly stored and were unusable, with one exception; an episode of the ‘Ice Box’ story, and it’s included in this boxed set. It’s a crying shame, but there’s a lot left to enjoy of this classic 45 year old TV show.

Peter Fairley’s long, wordy and somewhat meandering explanation of Fred Hoyle’s ‘Time Bubble‘ theory takes us into the first episode of the first story set, ‘The Wrong End Of Time’. We learn that the Skinner family, consisting of father Frank (Derek Benfield), mother Jean (Iris Russell) and teenage daughter, Liz (Cheryl Burfield), are on a caravan holiday, with Simon (Spencer Banks), the teenage son of a family friend, in tow. Two polar opposites, Simon is a classic swot, big, dark rimmed glasses and all, whereas Liz is an excitable, outgoing girl, and more than a little bored with the situation. Liz and Simon go off exploring the outskirts of the little town of St. Oswald, coming across a disused naval base. Ostensibly, the antidote to the expression ‘curiosity killed the cat’, our mismatched pair discover that the airbase hides a curious secret. It’s a doorway to another time period, in fact, the Second World War.

The first story set explores the persistent urban legend of the successful landing of a German Naval crew, and their takeover of a British Naval base during the Second World War. The sensitive playing of another, earlier arrival from Liz and Simon’s time period, a girl who spends much of her role screwed up in her chair, sobbing, and the emotional states Liz finds herself in when discovering her father’s younger self as a Naval Rating in the base, gave its audience more to chew on than just the usual sci-fi stodge. Another veteran of stage and screen, Dennis Quilley, plays Commander Traynor, who will feature heavily, and centrally, in most of the stories.

The second story set has Liz and Simon in the most hostile environment on Earth, the Antarctic, in ‘The Time of The Ice Box’. Essentially a future shock film in neat, twenty minute bites, Liz encounters her own 1990 self in the shape of a hard hearted, haughty young woman, and her shocks don’t end there. Our young heroes have arrived at exactly the right moment to be mistaken for a pair of volunteers for some advanced surgical techniques, but not before they are put onto the routine longevity drug, HA57, which all of the inmates take. The Ice Box’s domineering director, Morgan Devereux, is played with chilly menace, bordering on criminal insanity, by veteran actor John Barron. A bleaker storyline could scarcely be imagined, but there it was, on kiddie primetime.

Our third story set posits an alternative 1990 for the pair, in ‘The Year of the Burn Up’, in which the UK, after years of ill thought-out geo-engineering and catastrophic global warming, has been turned into a tropical jungle. This hazard-filled, yet comparatively pleasant story has future Liz as a hippy earth mother type, with a white suited Simon lurking in the background as one of the faceless ‘technocrats’, who caused this mess in the first place.

Our fourth and final set, ‘The Day of The Clone’, takes us back to 1965, and the start of Devereux’s experiments into longevity, cloning and climate change, which lead us on a peculiar dance of death, with a downbeat ending that is a complete surprise to all.

I make no apology for my complete bias here; I’m a huge fan of this fascinating, imaginative and emotionally charged show, from a time when Sci-Fi was even gaining respectability as an adult form. That it is largely Liz’s story is evident from the word go, but this does not alienate the male half of its audience. That our two protagonists are not particularly likeable, or even get on together, is no hindrance to what is basically a very human and involving story, one that takes in familial feelings, the building of friendship and trust, growing up, and the possible futures that may await us. They are all dealt with, with intelligent story lines, and without talking down to the adolescent audience.

I’ve already said I envy new comers their first viewing of this gem of a show, and I’d add to that list, those of you re-acquainting yourselves with it forty-five years on.

Scenester

30/7/16

Link to buy:

http://networkonair.com/shop/2331-timeslip-the-complete-series-5027626448844.html

Symptoms (1974) BFI 032

Newly released on Dual DVD/Blu Ray format by those diligent BFI Flipside folk, comes a Gothic psychological thriller directed by Jose Ramon Larraz. Readers may be familiar with this director, from his erotic horror ‘Vampyres’, of the same year, and although the action here centres once again on two young women, the two films couldn’t be more different.

A shy, withdrawn girl, Helen, (Angela Pleasance) has invited her more confident, worldly friend Anne (Lorna Heilbron) to her spacious estate in a rural English backwater, for a holiday. Anne seizes on the opportunity to get over a failed relationship, and Helen’s reason is given as being part of her general convalescence. The generously appointed house is decorated perhaps more to Helen’s parents’ taste, and the thick woods bisected by a winding river and the presence of a creepy gardener (Peter Vaughan, superb) adds to the anticipatory tension the viewer is probably already feeling.

Larraz approaches and suggests a great deal here, from the obvious debt to stories like ‘Rebecca’ and ‘Turn of the Screw’ to the young women’s implied relationship and their long, impenetrable silences, leaving the viewer to populate the story with all manner of wrong assumptions. The framed picture of Helen’s absent friend, Cora, sits where we might expect a picture of Helen’s family, although Cora is nowhere to be seen, at least not yet.

Helen is no sooner settled in her spacious pile, than she begins to display nervous, insecure behaviour. Reeling around the rooms in her nightclothes, long hair flying, oblivious to anything else around her, Angela Pleasance’s manic, almost childlike performance is intense and totally believable throughout. Anne, mannishly clad, her hair in a Germanic flick and wearing severe glasses, cuts a polar opposite figure, and who starts to feel concern for her friend and her erratic behaviour.

The sound of faint laughter in the house and the undeniable evidence of a former resident prowling about cranks up the tension, and our gardener, axe over his shoulder, returning to his shack filled with stuffed animals, keep us in traditional Gothic territory. Anne’s stolen glance of Helen, disrobing near a mirror, gives us our first real shock; she isn’t alone in the room.

Helen’s worsening mental state becomes something of grave concern for Anne, finding her curled up, halfway up the stairs, her eyes staring into some distant scene. Later, the sound of faint, ecstatic moans coming from her friend’s bedroom convinces Anne to bide her time, and to investigate Helen’s room when she’s not around. The sight of steps leading to an attic in the room, are enough to convince Anne that they’re both in danger.

It would be unfair to reveal any more of this engaging, sympathetic and thoroughly unnerving love story. This dual format edition is packed with much material on Larraz, including two documentaries, one on ‘Vampyres’ and one dealing with his career in depth, from the popular ‘Eurotika’ TV programme. The interviews with editor Brian Smedley-Aston and our two stars, Lorna Heilbron and Angela Pleasance are highly detailed, and perhaps surprisingly so, given that over forty years have passed since the film was made.

Scenester
2/5/16

http://shop.bfi.org.uk/symptoms-flipside-032.html?___SID=U

Doomwatch Series 1-3 (Simply Media DVD)

The whisper of ‘Doomwatch’ at last coming to DVD was more than enough to excite the jaded palate of this reviewer. Apart from a couple of VHS videotapes released back in the 80’s and a repeat showing on UK Gold in the 1990’s, this classic Eco Disaster/SciFi drama has been off-screen since its original transmission in the early 1970’s. Spanning seven DVD disks, all the remaining episodes from the three series are collected together, including the much talked of but never broadcast, ‘Sex and Violence’. I say remaining, as the show was a victim of the BBC’s slash and burn attitude to any show not deemed saleable or fashionable, in the 1980’s.

Created by Kit Pedler and Gerry Davis, this ground breaking show is making its welcome, belated return, when its basic premise and message sounds more relevant than ever. A Governmental scientific agency, the ‘Department for the Observation and Measurement of Scientific Work’ nicknamed ‘Doomwatch’ routinely tests out new products and processes, to ascertain whether they will harm the environment. Led by former atomic physicist Prof Quist (John Paul), and staffed by a mixed bag of talent with varying backgrounds, the agency goes about its vital work, encountering danger, mercenary business people, obstructive interested parties, and often hindered by the very Government ministers they are ultimately answerable to.

John Paul makes an excellent Dr Quist, effortlessly portraying a man making up for his part in the development of the nuclear deterrent. His office, typically spacious and stark for the period, has a huge framed poster of a nuclear explosion covering most of one wall. Among the regulars ably assisting the Doctor, is the mature and down to earth Colin Bradley (Toby Blanshard), the impetuous and rather arrogant Dr John Ridge (Simon Oates), and the young and idealistic Toby Wren (pre-international fame Robert Powell). Guest stars are plentiful, and fans of period TV will enjoy spotting such luminaries as John Barron, Hildegaard Neil, Barry Foster, Paul Eddington and many others in supporting roles.

The key fears of that far off decade; technology overrunning humanity, medical horrors and the threat of eco-disaster are realised powerfully in such episodes as ‘The Iron Doctor’, ‘Tomorrow, The Rat’ and ‘Invasion’; amplified on, even, as the viewer’s face is rubbed into some uncomfortable truths about the scientific community and its relationship with government. The sheer breadth of subjects taken on is staggering; plastic eating solvents, super intelligent, disease-resistant rodents, biological weapons, criminal profiling, subliminal advertising and mood-altering food additives, all highly controversial then and now.

Those born after the flowering of psychedelia may have trouble believing that scientists and business people once dressed in the flamboyant outfits worn by Ridge and Wren, even though Ridge adopts a more conventional suit for one episode. Techno nostalgists will have a ball, marvelling at the early commercial computers on show here, the roomfuls of memory banks, card readers the size of ice-cream vans and the eerie glow of the boxy monitors.

The condition of the prints is typical for a TV show of its age, a little shuddering, a few shooting dots, but nothing too distracting. The sometimes poor quality of the backdrops is also typical of the period, but is more than made up for by the excellent location shooting. Performances can vary, some edgy, some too loose to convince, but overall, Doomwatch hit its target every time, and the record number of complaints it received for ‘Survival Code’ and its follow up, ‘You Killed Toby Wren’ (only the latter survives) bear witness to this.

This seven DVD set, which includes the BBC documentary, ‘The Cult of Doomwatch’, is a must for sci-fi fans and nostalgia buffs alike, and we are finally getting our mitts on it, courtesy of Simply Media.

Scenester
1/4/2016

Link for DVD: http://www.simplyhe.com/sci-fi-fantasy/164480-doomwatch.html?gclid=CPSRptXO7csCFeIp0wodV_AEVQ

Ghost Story (1981) Second Sight Blu Ray 2NDBR4049

Out now on DVD abd Blu-Ray, an atmospheric treatment of Peter Straub’s story from 1981, with a fine cast, including veterans Fred Astaire, Douglas Fairbanks Jnr., Melvyn Douglas and John Houseman, and relative newcomers Craig Wasson and Alice Krige.

Basically a traditional tale of lifelong friendship bound by a dark secret, four professional men, Ricky Hawthorne (Fred Astaire), Dr John Jaffrey (Melvyn Douglas), Edward Charles Wanderley (Douglas Fairbanks Jnr.) and Sears James (John Houseman), meet regularly to tell each other ghost stories, as members of the ‘Chowder Club’. Admission to the club is restricted by telling a suitably chilling ghost story. Something’s in the air, however; all four men are having nightmares of increasingly horrifying power, and all about a living, rotting corpse which intrudes into their lives.

The spectacular death of Edward’s son, the successful David (Craig Wasson in a dual role, as brothers David and Don) by falling from a window after a particularly vivid nightmare, is an early, gory shock, and leads to the return of Edward’s younger, more laid-back son Don, to his New England hometown, to comfort his distant and disapproving father. Its then that Don reveals that he had an affair with his late brother’s fiancé a few years before, and that he feels she may have had something to do with David’s tragic death.

In one of several elegantly staged flashbacks, Don recalls taking up a teaching job at the local high school, and an affair with the school secretary, the mysterious, seductive and highly sexually adventurous Alma (Alice Krige). As the affair between Alice and Don developed into a full-blown, one-sided obsession, with Don the smitten partner and Alice, the cold, strangely distant protagonist, Don realises their affair is unhealthy, and splits up with her. Don’s father lashes out at his son’s indiscreet revelation at such a sensitive time, and the old intergenerational divide opens up once more.

Don’s submission as a prospective member of the Chowder Club is a highlight of the film, taking in his fears that he may have fallen in love, not so much with a woman, but with a malign elemental force, and told in flashback with brutal honesty.
The chance discovery of a picture of the youthful four friends, duded up in the flamboyant fashions of the 1920’s, with a mystery flapper whose blurred face only excites Don’s imagination, leads to a terrible discovery, but not until ever more terrifying visions of decomposing corpses haunt the elderly members of the Chowder Club.

Cinema audiences of the early 1980’s were probably a little surprised to see the veteran stars of classic Hollywood working in the horror genre, and contemporary reaction was mixed, to say the least. At such a distance in time, we can now just enjoy what is basically a tale well told, from the pen of one of the worlds’ leading writers, stylishly shot in an idyllic New England setting, and with some genuine shocks to boot. Extras on the Blu Ray edition include trailers and TV/radio spots, picture gallery, Alice Krige’s memories of playing in the film, and much else, besides.

Scenester
17/1/15

http://www.secondsightfilms.co.uk/film/ghost-story-blu-ray/
http://www.secondsightfilms.co.uk/film/ghost-story-dvd/

80,000 Suspects 1963 (Network DVD 7954401 & Blu Ray 7958037)

Among Network’s current releases is this Val Guest-directed English ‘cosy apocalypse’ film from 1963, starring Richard Johnson and Claire Bloom, whom many of you will recall from the classic ‘The Haunting’. Set in the picturesque city of Bath, and with an excellent cast of UK thesps to play the achingly middle class characters, it’s an impressive piece of work.

Dr Stephen Monk (Johnson) has his New Year’s Eve celebrations interrupted by a call to attend his hospital, where a patient is showing worryingly feverish symptoms. Monk suspects smallpox and when confirmed, immediately orders quarantine for the patient and decontamination for everyone who has come into contact with him. One ruined dinner suit later, he’s ready to return to the spirited party that is still being enjoyed by his increasingly alienated wife, Julie (Bloom) and his former lover, Ruth (Yolanda Donlan), who certainly enjoys ‘La Dolce Vita’, both metaphorically, and on this night, Brit-style, in the city’s famous Roman Baths.

The pacing is tight, centring on the City’s leaders’ attempt to contain the epidemic, and more importantly, to trace ‘patient zero’. As with many British films of the 50’s and early 60’s, it’s the look that’s most compelling; the scarcity of traffic on the Georgian streets, the smartness of dress of the major characters, and the charmingly British speech, barely a vowel mispronounced or a preposition out of place, even if Americanisms like ‘perked’ coffee creep in, so as not to alienate a potential transatlantic sale.

Our ‘first’ patient’s movements are carefully researched from accounts given by his family, and his progress around the city’s clubs, shops and coffee bars are all usefully employed to place the story, perhaps misleadingly, in the typical youth haunts of the period. Although not exactly The Wild Angels, young people do feature, with their sometimes comical hip-speak, British style, and their very suburban take on fashions.

The Monks’ marriage is deteriorating rapidly, and as Julie volunteers her former nursing skills to help with the crisis, seeing less and less of her husband, rather than more, she succumbs to the virus. The enormous mass-vaccination programme yields up some light, cheeky humour. A model refuses a bicep injection, which would mar her appearance, opting for a jab in the thigh. The nurse jokes about whether many fewer people will end up seeing it.

The film does not shy away from the terrible, highly contagious symptoms, or the fact that, it being spread by bodily contact, the sexually promiscuous are likely to be the most successful, unwitting harbingers of its rapid progress. The moral tone of the latter part of the film is typical of the period, but understandable here.

80,000 Suspects tells the story of the progress of a virulent disease which has thankfully since been eradicated, and the world it is set in, has as good as followed it to extinction. To those of you who love the stories and style of this fascinating period, or maybe just feel a faint nostalgia for it, I can recommend this film to you without any reservations. A good, exciting and fast paced thriller, with a human angle that makes it a must-see for all.

Scenester
18/10/15

‘Twins of Evil’ (1971) Network Distributing Blu Ray 7957078

New from Network, Hammer’s liberal retelling of J Sheridan Le Fanu’s ‘Carmilla’ has hit Blu Ray, and it looks sumptuous. In an age when censorship was at last relaxing its grip on the film world, Hammer took full advantage of the possibilities of showing what had usually been suggested in previous years, to great effect.

Stepping back from the traditional vampire/victim storyline, the viewer is presented with several scenarios to keep their interest level up. The arrival of a pair of beautiful young twins, Maria and Frieda, played by pinups Mary and Madeleine Collinson, in a repressive, rural town does a fine job of piquing the interest of the local men and upsetting their Puritanical host and protector, Uncle Gustav, played to chilling perfection by Peter Cushing. Gustav’s gang of religious zealots spend their time preaching the Word and putting to the stake, those who do not conform to their high standards of behaviour. The town is effectively ruled over by this Puritan sect, but one local is seemingly untouchable, the decadent, debauched Count Karnstein, (Damien Thomas) whose hill top fairy-tale castle looms over their mean dwellings and miserable lives.

The town is realised in the usual understated Hammer style, with lime washed houses and straw on the ground, carts trundling their way through the tiny market place. Into this bucolic scene are thrust the twins, fresh from their Viennese school, all in unscholarly velvet and décolletage, ready for adventure. The unpromising small town scene yields up a much more tempting prospect, however, with news of the wild life enjoyed by the Count on the hill. This being a Hammer film, where melodrama is never very far away, one twin is mad keen to meet the Count, whereas the other, more wary. The Collinsons are identical twins, and as such, are difficult to tell apart, but Hammer fans would never let such a detail, nor their paucity of acting skills, spoil a good shocker.

The local girl’s school, presided over by musician Anton and his sister, is the twins’ intended haven from the wicked world, and although Maria is interested in Anton, he has eyes only for Frieda. Anton (David Warbeck) possesses a level head and a sense of decency that allows him to argue against the burning of suspected witches, with Gustav, railing against superstition, and yet, reading extensively about vampires.

The Count’s castle has a composite style, somewhere between medieval folly and high camp Austrian; all the better for staging the sham satanic rites his pander, played with relish by Dennis Price, organises to amuse him. Tiring of these poor quality productions, the Count slaughters a girl in one of them, and succeeds in vivifying his ancestor, the wicked Carmilla Karnstein. Turned into a vampire by Carmilla, in an incestuous scene that almost goes unnoticed in amongst the later carnage, the Count pursues his lusts with increased vigour and enthusiasm, transforming Frieda into a vampire, whilst her more careful sister covers for her at the house.

This potboiler of sex, superstition, corrupt religion, downtrodden peasantry and decadent aristocracy comes to an exciting climax in true Hammer style, with lashings of grue and gore thrown liberally about.

Scenester
23/9/14

Countess Dracula (1971) BluRay(Network Distributing Ltd 7957079)

Just out on the Network label, and in a sumptuous BluRay transfer, is Hammer’s classic costume romp, ‘Countess Dracula’.
Freely based on the story of Countess Erzsebet Bathory, the notorious serial killer from the noble Hungarian Bathory family, believed to have tortured and brutally murdered over 600 young girls in the late 16th to early 17th Centuries. Hammer’s characteristically deft choices of cast, setting and costume raise this film far above the cheap exploiters of the period.
Directed with considerable skill by Hungarian émigré Peter Sasdy, and starring the striking beauty, Ingrid Pitt as ‘Elizabeth Nadasdy’, not one moment of its 93 minutes is wasted as our bloody Countess weaves her web of deceit, betrayal and systematic murder.

Our first sight of the Countess is at the reading of her late husband’s will, heavily veiled, to hide her aged features from the world as much as to observe funeral etiquette. An accidental cut and a splash of blood from her maid on her mistress’s face turns out to be a youth restorer, and with the help of her adoring Lady-In-Waiting, Countess Elizabeth sets out on a spree of blood-letting, later realising that only the blood of virgins has the magical restorative, but ultimately temporary, power.
This newly widowed member of the nobility has many admirers, among them Captain Dobi (Nigel Green) her Steward, but the Countess has her greedy eyes on a young neighbour, a handsome army officer, Lieutenant Imre Toth, (Sandor Eles). Pretending to be her own daughter, Ilona, whom she has had kidnapped and confined (the here, criminally underused Lesley-Anne Down) she entraps Lt. Toth with her youthful beauty, and plays with the long-thwarted affections of Cpt. Dobi as her older self.

A fine supporting cast of downtrodden peasants, cheap whores, travelling players and gypsies, and a sympathetic portrayal of both victims and their aristocratic enemies, make for one of the greatest of Hammer horrors. Among the extras, the original trailer, which gives the impression of a sex comedy than a frenzied, murderous escapade, audio commentary and interview with Ingrid Pitt and other goodies you won’t want to miss.

Scenester
8/9/14

The Monster Club (15) Network 7957072 Blu-Ray

Just out on the video label of choice Network Distributing, and on a crisp, clear Blu-Ray print made from original film elements, ‘The Monster Club’ will delight fans of British horror with its cheeky mixture of flesh-crawling terror and sardonic humour.

The pairing of veteran actors Vincent Price, playing the vampire Erasmus, and John Carradine, playing writer R. Chetwynd Hayes, would have been enough to get this critic into the cinema on its release in 1981. There are many other familiar faces in this feature, however.

Resembling an ‘Amicus’ portmanteau film, and directed by horror veteran Roy Ward Baker, we find ourselves in an otherwise deserted London alley, where writer R. Chetwynd Hayes takes pity on Erasmus, exhausted for lack of fresh blood, by allowing him a quick bite of his neck. Only a little one, though. Not enough to make him ‘One of us’, stresses Erasmus, and the jokey atmosphere is established. In payment for his reviving draught, Erasmus offers to take the famous writer to a club, which, he explains, will provide him with plenty of new material for his tales of terror.

Those of you hoping for a glimpse of Studio 54 at its hedonistic height may be a little disappointed to see something more like a West End tourist-trap in brewer’s Victorian décor, but don’t head for the door yet, there’s plenty to delight here. Order a Bloody Mary, like our writer, or the full Type-O like Erasmus, and enjoy the three tenebrous tales on offer.

The darkly comedic family tree of hybrid monsters takes us from the not unexpected ‘Were-Bat’, a product of a vampire and a werewolf’s mating, through the intriguing ‘Humgoo’s Ghoul/Human parentage, down to the sad-eyed ‘Shadmock’, whose descent from a ‘Mock’ and some other genetically challenged creature has left him an ugly, friendless yet gentle soul, and the subject of our first story. Basically a tale of money-grubbing deceit, Barbara Kellerman plays a beautiful young librarian who has agreed to help ‘Raven’ our Shadmock, to catalogue his vast but idiosyncratic collection of valuable antiques. At the instigation of her avaricious boyfriend, Simon Ward, she agrees to marry the lonely Raven, but her regular attacks of conscience do not entirely prevent her from robbing Raven as soon as his back is turned. Her fate is perhaps one of the most unusual in any horror film.

‘The Vampires’ centres on a tight knit, Middle European Jewish family, whose patriarch Richard Johnson is, of all things, a vampire. Britt Ekland’s kindly mother does little to alleviate the discomfort of her shy and sensitive son, bullied at school and uncertain of his father’s true nature. Donald Pleasance leads a team of crack vampire hunters, characters reminiscent of the kind of sinister gangs that would populate episodes of ‘The Avengers’. Viewers might be surprised at who gets to be staked.
‘The Ghouls’ is the only genuine scare here, with film director, Stuart Whitman searching for a likely location for his forthcoming horror film. He finds the seemingly ideal place in ‘Loughville’, an eerie, derelict village, shrouded in yellowish smog, apparently stuck in the 18th Century, and filled with tired, defeated people possessing limited vocabularies. With perhaps a slight dig at how visiting Americans sometimes perceive Britain and its inhabitants, our director soon realises that the village is living under some ancient curse, and the sudden appearance of his love interest, Luna, (Lesley Dunlop) a half human, half ghoul/girl, leads him to try and effect their escape from this charnel house before the terrifying ‘Elders’ arrive, hungry and murderous.

Interspersed with music from veteran band ‘The Pretty Things’, a rather pale and vampiric looking B.A. Robertson, the full-throated assault of ‘Night’, whose ‘Stripper’ song is a creditable slice of late 70’s rock to accompany a very old, but still funny joke, and UB40, who don’t appear on screen, ‘The Monster Club’ may not win over the gore hounds, but the rest of us are more than happy with this brew of great actors, atmospheric settings and good, jokey fun to worry about them.

Scenester
17/8/14

A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Site-specific screening at Brunel University 2/6/2011

The prospect of seeing this troubling moral maze of a film in one its striking settings was so tempting, your pal Scenester fair leapt onto the Piccadilly Line tube at Leicester Square, bound for Uxbridge and the leafy suburb where this vast campus is situated.

The brutalist architecture of many of the University buildings seem perfectly suited to the ‘future shock’ style of film that ‘A Clockwork Orange’ is superficially part of, and the sight of an enormous print of the familiar ‘mouth of hell’ poster, with Alex leering at us, upraised knife in hand, hung like a warning flag on the outside wall of the lecture theatre this screening would take place in.

Sponsored by a household name motor company, ‘See Film Differently’ did an excellent job with their presentation, securing a Question and Answer session with Jan Harlan, assistant and brother-in-law to Director Stanley Kubrick, together with an exhibition about the film.

After the welcome, where a string section performed extracts from the classical music soundtrack in the café, we were ushered into the Lecture Theatre. This, as the cineastes among you will know, is where the ‘Ludovico technique’ is carried out on our humble narrator, to condition him against criminal acts by the watching of film material under the influence of nausea-inducing drugs. I felt a little queasy to think that we were about to voluntarily watch a violent film in the theatre where the film’s protagonist was forced to watch violent films in the furtherance of medical science. As an aside, Alex’s parents’ flat block (the Orwellian-sounding Muncipal Flat Block 18A, Linear North) is Brunel’s Tower D, and the John Crank building doubles as the Ludovico Medical Facility reception area.

A recently shot introductory word from Malcolm McDowell was more than welcome, and I can report that his white-haired, weathered face still possesses the bluest orbs in Christendom, with apparent independent movement in their sockets.
I am sure that the vast majority of you will have seen ‘A Clockwork Orange’, but for those of you who haven’t, I’ll be as succinct as I can. Our ‘hero’, Alex, (what is his surname? Alex De Large? Alex Burgess?) is a classic young hooligan, from an averagely paid but not poor family, in (or rather, regularly out of) education, who together with his group of similarly inclined ‘droogs’, stalk the city in search of people to assault, houses to rob and females to satiate their lust upon. The film opens up with an awe-inspiring shot of the bowler-hatted and white-overalled Alex, about to sink a glass of ‘milk with knives’ (psychedelic drugs, or is it amphetamine?) in the gang’s favourite haunt, the ‘Korova Milk Bar’ where such additives to the drinks are the norm. It sets the scene perfectly, and establishes the style of the film early, where sets are garish, intimidatingly large and décor is loud and brash. Suitably sharpened up by their drugs, they go off into the night, where they encounter their old enemy ‘Billyboy’ and his gang, who are about to rape an unfortunate girl on the stage of a derelict Opera House. Alex throws wounding insults at Billyboy to provoke him, in the film’s characteristic mock-Shakespearian/Biblical speech style.

After the near-lynching of Billyboy’s gang, interrupted only by the appearance of the ‘Millicents’ (Police) outside, the scene changes to perhaps the most troubling in modern mainstream cinema. The gang arrive via their stolen sports car at the remote house of an infirm writer, and pretending they have a friend who has had an accident, gain access to the house and proceed to beat and torture the helpless man and then rape his wife in full view of her husband. The lascivious glee, with which these terrible acts are carried out by the gang, made the film a particular bête noire of the UK press on release, and for many years following. The Press’s blaming of real acts of violence by young hooligans on the film was surely what prompted director Stanley Kubrick to withdraw it from circulation within the UK. Its re-release came after Kubrick’s death in 1995.

Tensions within the gang develop, and after an argument over supremacy, Alex finds himself betrayed by the gang, and in prison for manslaughter. Alex’s troubles only really begin here. His long incarceration prompts him to request he become an early subject of a new conditioning experiment (the ‘Ludovico technique’) which will ensure his rapid release from jail, at the price of being unable to engage in any future acts of violence. Alex’s naiveté is touching, as the technique will do exactly that, and rob him of his free will into the bargain. I counted just one swearword in the whole film, which Alex uses when he is nearly blinded with a smashed milk bottle by one of his own gang; ‘bastards’. It is a powerful example of ‘less is more’ in a film which is chiefly remembered for its excess.

After the screening, we were introduced to Jan Lenser, who recalled with obvious fondness his days as an assistant to the perfectionist Kubrick, long hours, punishing workloads and all. Jan told us he moved to UK from his native Germany and was taken by the charm of the British radio shows (presumably Radio 4), which talked about rose-pruning techniques at eight in the morning! Jan answered questions from the floor, the first one being about his first job, not, as one person suggested, as tea-boy for a film studio, but as a teacher. Your narrator asked him about Stanley Kubrick’s collection of recorded music (every format imaginable, and on a vast scale) which, I was pleased to hear, has been preserved as part of the wider Kubrick archive. Perhaps the most apposite question of the evening came Why ‘A Clockwork Orange?’ Reminding us that the title was writer Anthony Burgess’ own choice, Jan felt that it was simply the shocking union of an organic and a mechanical object, although this did strike up a debate, as some audience members recalled hearing the Cockney expression ‘queer as a clockwork orange’ (i.e. very queer, or strange, indeed).

The exhibition was held in a space on the first floor, and it’s for this part of the evening’s entertainment that I must offer my congratulations to the team who put it together. A central raised dais was decorated with the white, bulbous lettering of the film’s ‘Korova Milk Bar’ scene, advertising such tempting wares as ‘Drencrom’, ‘Velocet’ and ‘Synthemesc’ although myself and Mme Scenester made do with the complimentary, and only slightly less intoxicating, drinks on offer. The orchestra returned for an encore, and we passed around the walls, which were covered with production stills and posters, as well as some good quality photographic copies of rarer posters (like the ‘triangles and bodies’ poster), which we were barred from photographing, for presumed copyright reasons. Copies of the Stanley Kubrick Archive book were on display, taking in not just ‘A Clockwork Orange’, but all of Kubrick’s films, and if the rest is like the brief glimpse I had, it would be a worthy addition to any cinema fan’s shelf. The lateness of the hour and the vagaries of the tube system meant we had to cut short our time at this excellent exhibition. I’ll definitely be looking out for future ‘site specific’ presentations by ‘See Film Differently’.

Scenester
5/6/11

Also published on ‘Modculture’ 17/6/11
http://www.modculture.co.uk/culture/culture.php?id=79

‘Journey To The Unknown’ 1968/1969 UK

I’m sure everyone reading this article has a mental list of favourite TV shows they can return to time and time again, and enjoy just as they did when they first saw them. The easy availability of whole TV series on DVD (a rarity on VHS tape, unless they were wildly successful) or on the many digital, cable or satellite channels means that we can see them all over again. But there are some that never seem to be given an airing by any of the TV channels, that have not appeared on any recorded medium and which we fear may have been victims of the Grim Wiper. I thought that ‘Journey To The Unknown’ may have fallen prey to the latter, to the best of my knowledge and belief, it was already in the first two. I am delighted to report that I was wrong.

‘JTTU’ was a tense, mysterious show that had a different story to tell each episode, usually about ordinary people who stray into an extraordinary situation or meet a very unusual person. The ‘Unknown’ referred to in the title was the human mind, and its reactions to these strange experiences. Made by our friends at Hammer, and shot on film in the late 60’s, its British locations and actors, with the star role going to an American actor each time, ensure it will be of great interest to lovers of that delirious decade.

To digress a little, being shot on film probably helped its survival, and isn’t it curious how the most flimsy and risk-prone recording medium of all has managed to preserve so much, whereas its distant cousin, videotape, has had much of its contents wiped and replaced by lesser stuff?

Over the last few years, I have been feeding the title of this show into my search engine, usually to little response. Recently, a search turned up a few addresses offering the entire series on DVD for a bewildering range of prices. They all stressed that this show has gone Public Domain and so no-one’s copyright is being infringed by bringing out a DVD copy for those who have tried and failed to bit-stream directly from the databank. I sent off a very reasonable few pounds and duly received my disk. OK, the picture’s ropey. It’s like looking through lightly faceted glass, the colours are s little washed out and the sound is low. Just like many moving images off the internet, unless your pc has the latest drivers and a memory the size of the US Defence Dept. computer. Put all of those petty gripes aside, like I did, and just enjoy this fabulous show.

If you’re familiar with shows like The Twilight Zone and Night Gallery, you’re thinking in the right area. The first story, ‘Eve’, concerns a young man working in a department store (Dennis Waterman) who falls in love with a store manikin whom he believes is real. With this manikin being played by the gorgeous Carole Lynley, it’s easy to understand his preference for her over his uncouth, mouthy female workmates. Needless to say, the affair is doomed, but not before a lot of touching scenes, played with great subtlety, keep us interested in this outrageous conceit.

‘Jane Brown’s Body’ has everyone’s favourite UNCLE Girl, Stephanie Powers, waking up with no memory of her life so far. A psychologist takes on the task of re-educating her, in what I feel can only be a tribute to the classic German (true!) tale, ‘The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser.’

Those of you with a taste for Victorian tack will be amused by ‘The Indian Spirit Guide’, a tale of fake mediums and table-turning to extract money from the gullible.

There is the truly disturbing ‘Miss Belle’, the story of a young boy who has been brought up by a relative to believe he is a girl. The arrival of an obligatory pool-cleaner at the palatial Southern Gothic home of the boy means trouble, as we see the sexually frustrated guardian realising she cannot keep her ward’s true gender a secret for much longer.

‘Paper Dolls’ is another one to raise the hairs on the back of your neck, ‘Midwych Cuckoos’-style. Sets of adopted children begin to show a curious character trait-everything one learns, the others learn too, and they speak of brothers and sisters their adopted parents didn’t know they had. Cue the Bad Seed, a boy who can control his siblings and inspire them to acts of defiance.

It is ‘The New People’, however, that really takes the prize for making you feel queasy as you watch. An American couple move to a beautiful English country village, determined that they fit in with the locals. They get invited to parties and generally enjoy the surprisingly lively and swinging set they have fallen upon. However, there is one man who stands out as a leader, and the costume parties and hunt balls our friendly US couple are initially pleased to attend take on a sinister edge. Masterly acting by Patrick Allen as the Aleister Crowley-like leader figure, and solid support from the sympathetic character played by Milo O’Shea, raises this episode, in my view, to a classic. Reminiscent of ‘Masque Of The Red Death’ and ‘Rosemary’s Baby’, it has to be seen!

‘One Man On An Island’ is a little too like a hastily drawn Horror Comic cartoon to be of much interest, but all is made up for in the magnificent ‘Matakitas Is Coming’. Starring one of my favourite actresses of the period, Gay Hamilton, who plays a librarian in what must be the darkest, creepiest library in the country. A journalist is researching, when she comes across a tale of a murderer who stalked his victims only yards away from the very building she’s in! This lonely place gradually becomes ever more uncomfortable, and she also begins to notice that her surroundings appear to have changed; reverted to an earlier time period. Attempts to call her editor on the telephone meet with failure, as the number and district she is trying to call do not (yet) exist. The brooding atmosphere is cranked up to terrifying effect, at the approach of Matakitas, back with murderous intent. Your next trip to your local library may be a short one!

The compelling ‘Somewhere In A Crowd’ is another high spot of the series, and once again stars a favourite of mine, the lovely Jane Asher. A TV news journalist, initially pleased to be on the scene of a series of newsworthy accidents, starts to notice that a certain set of people always appear to be present, close to the action. Trawling through the day’s film rushes confirms him in his belief that there is some sort of conspiracy going on, but no-one seems to share his view or concerns. Not even meeting a beautiful young woman fails to take his mind off these mysterious heralds of doom, and I could not be so cruel as to tell you how it ends.

For title alone, ‘The Beckoning Fair One’ deserves some sort of medal, and in a story that may owe a little to the classic ‘Rebecca’, we find that the influence of a late wife lingers on long after her death, in a painting of the lady.

‘Poor Butterfly’ is an unmemorable ‘ghosts at a sophisticated party’ story, but ‘Stranger In The Family’ more than makes up for it, with its claustrophobic tale of a young man who can command others to do his bidding. The South Bank setting, the well-meant but misguided attempts by his parents to keep him away from normal society, and his exploitation by a theatrical promoter and his female accomplice make this a must-see. The boy’s lack of experience with girls make him an easy target, and it is with very mixed emotions that you see the promoter getting his unwilling accomplice to play along with the boy’s adolescent crush on her. The disk I bought also contains three episodes of a series called ‘Out Of The Unknown’ one of which is another version of this story, brilliantly done. Sadly, this is probably all there is of ‘OOTU’; read the full sad story in Dick Fiddy’s excellent’ Missing Believed Wiped’.

The obsessive ‘technofear’ that was such a strong feature of cinema in the 1970’s gets an early outing in ‘The Madison Equation’, where a computer is used as both murder weapon and alibi provider.

‘The Killing Bottle’ is a classic tale of those who set themselves up as judges of their fellow man, and the abuse of power that often follows.

A good black comedy was obviously called for at this point., and ‘Do Me A Favour, Kill Me’ doesn’t disappoint. Few of us would arrange our own murder to get away from worldly problems, but that’s just what our flawed hero does, and then changes his mind. Not allowed.

‘Girl Of My Dreams’ has Zena Skinner playing a frumpy middle-aged waitress who dreams the future. Enter another scheming entrepreneur, determined to capitalise on her talent, promising her love and companionship in return. The sensitive playing of this gifted but lonely woman will have you wishing a very painful demise on her despicable exploiter. The episode is also notable for having a short role for Justine Lord, a frequent guest on ITC shows and one who needs no introduction at all to fans of ‘The Prisoner’

‘The Last Visitor’ will keep you away from boarding houses in general, particularly out of season, and is that a Brighton location we see?

All of which is a very longhand way of saying that after forty years, I have finally got to see my favourite off-kilter sci-fi/paranormal TV series again, and I can report that its power to keep me glued to my set is undiminished. Difficult it is to imagine a present day production company making anything as subversive as ‘Miss Belle’ (or being allowed to). This show, and many like it, were made in a time when there was, to be fair, much more money available to produce a quality product. However, ‘JTTU’ is not a multi-million dollar production; set work was limited, location shooting was the norm, and the ‘stars’ were usually stars later on, not at the time. The writing was usually superb, and the acting on the button; the time capsule that these episodes represent make them a gold mine to 60’s nuts like me; the everyday clothes worn by the characters are research material, to say nothing of the beautiful colour schemes in people’s homes and the cool, popular cars they drive.

The series was also remarkable for having each episode directed by Joan Harrison, who was, I’m told, the only female director working at this time.

I’ll admit that I would have preferred to see a good, clear picture transfer onto DVD, or better still, an airing on, say, ITV2 or BBC4, but let’s face it, it probably won’t happen. At least they can’t argue ‘there’s no market for old black and white TV shows’, because this one’s in full colour. Its Public Domain status will probably keep it off our screens for ever, except perhaps the National Film Theatre (can you hear me, friends?).

Lastly, if anyone reading this article recalls seeing it available on VHS/BETA/NTSC or whatever, or saw a repeat on TV, wherever in the world, please would you write and tell us all about it? Thanks in advance.

Scenester
25/1/09

DOA: A Right of Passage

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Tue, 01 Jun 2021 15:58:45 GMT

D.O.A. A Right of Passage (Second Sight 2NDBR4083)

Out now on DVD/BluRay dual format, D.O.A., the unique, frenetic documentary directed by Lech Kowalski about legendary punk pioneers The Sex Pistols’ ill-starred first and only U.S. tour of 1977 is an essential purchase. Starting in confusion and controversy, ending in acrimony and disintegration, D.O.A. captures all the energy, urgency and anger of punk in short sharp snatches of concert footage over a raw and dangerous road trip into America’s deep South and its sun baked West coast, in between diversions to the broken and tattered London of the same period.

From the opening shot of a baptism and a hand wearing cracked nail polish, stacking singles on a record player spindle, D.O.A. jumps feet first into the subterranean world that gave birth to punk, on both sides of the Atlantic. British viewers may be struck by how the US punks differ so much from their angrier, snottier UK counterparts in this documentary-style film. Leather jackets, sub-glam make-up and fag-end of mid-70’s hair, in stark contrast to the near-puritanical look of the London contingent. The various reactions of the US gig-goers is telling; some have clearly never been to see a punk band before, and some voice their ‘Garbage, man’ opinions with a passion.

At the Atlanta gig, Syd bears resemblance to a wan ghost, Johnny his characteristic spotty, diseased urchin look, as the band crash through the smartly re-titled ‘Anarchy in the USA’, the lyrics rendered in subtitles, presumably for those in any doubt as to the subject of the song.

Occasional interjections of UK authority figures’ reactions to the Sex Pistols bring home to the viewer just how dangerous the band were felt to be, although today, the talking heads sound more like overbearing headmasters expressing their frustration at their young charges’ behaviour. The almost inevitable interview with Mary Whitehouse turns up, coming over just like a daft old aunt at a teenager’s birthday party.

D.O.A. generally sticks to the protagonists and their fans for any atmosphere it requires. Shots of the hugely inspiring X-Ray Spex in the studio thundering through ‘Oh Bondage, Up Yours’, provides a powerful reminder that the Sex Pistols were not the only band driving the punk movement with their originality. In complete contrast, the little known ‘Terry and the Idiots’ strain through their set in a miserable pub, to a disinterested audience of locals. Cut to film of the Sex Pistols delivering a seething, corrosive version of ‘Liar’, to a less than enthusiastic reaction by the audience. Perhaps they should have stuck to their Boston gigs, instead.

The shots of a poverty-stricken West London, teamed with The Clash’s version of ‘Police and Thieves’ may come as a shock to a modern audience, perhaps used to the neighbourhood being mostly a pricey tourist trap. Here, the streets have more than their fair share of boarded up shops and houses and a rag and bone man makes an appearance with his horse and cart, in a scene which could have come from the 19th century. Far right political marches in this racially mixed area are shown in contrast to military parades in the smarter areas of the city, where diversity is far less common.

That the Sex Pistols should be booked to play Memphis just a couple of days before the late Elvis Presley’s birthday anniversary must have been a brave, if not foolhardy decision, and shots of Elvis look a likes congregating to pay homage to the recently deceased King of Rock and Roll is a jarring contrast. At this significant point, Generation X are shown working in the studio, their far more traditional rock and roll sound a world away from the poisonous, sneering greatness of the Sex Pistols. A still-timely comment about the way that studio technology gets in the way of good, raunchy music hangs in the air.

The God Squad makes its entirely predictable appearance on the Sex Pistols tour, picketing the gig in Tulsa in a bitterly cold winter landscape, while a transvestite nun performs a basic rock and roll set. We encounter two fashionistas ripping off Vivienne Westwood’s designs to the last detail, and Bleecker Bob with his encyclopaedic knowledge of punk, both within and without the USA.

The Dallas leg of the tour attracts more fashion victims than usual, a regular John Waters film of misfits and scene hoppers, plus hostile police aplenty. ‘Pretty Vacant’ is as powerful and raucous as ever, and Syd looks like he has recently been dug up from the grave. Contrasted here, UK footage of a young boy amusing himself by making a swing with a length of rope, thrown across the cross bar of a bridge made of discarded wood.

Perhaps the most notorious scene follows, an ‘interview’ with Sid and Nancy in their London apartment, a dark, claustrophobic drug den and firetrap, with Sid continually dropping off to sleep as Nancy tries to fill in the long gaps in the interview. Rarely has a relationship had the word ‘doomed’ written across it so obviously.

Back at San Antonio, John is in fine, angry form, goading the largely long-haired crowd, bellowing out the scathing lyrics to ‘New York’ with slaver and venom. Contrasting footage inserted here, of Terry and the Idiots, mostly keeping their end up with a little angular white reggae, and Sham 69 vainly trying to stop the fighting in the crowd. A fine version of ‘Borstal Breakout’ culminates in the politest stage invasion I have ever seen. By complete contrast, the Dead Boys perform a wildly psychedelic version of ‘All This and More’, showing off more musical chops than they are usually given credit for.

Obligatory motorway footage shows a bleak, miserable scene, as the Sex Pistols draw near to their final gig, in San Francisco’s grim-looking ‘Winterland’ venue. The audience are largely spaced out and hostile, with many verbal exchanges between band and audience. A girl finds herself thrown to the ground in the car park. The band sounds uniformly terrible, delivering ‘EMI’ with unalloyed nastiness. A riot breaks out, and the famous line ‘Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?’ is thrown down like a gauntlet, as John glares out at the confused and angry audience.

Bells toll as the news of Nancy and Sid’s deaths hit the screen, in one of the film’s most poignant moments.

Bookended by the hostile comments of career politicians and oafish toffs, D.O.A. captures all the youthful exuberance of punk, and ends with the awful, heroin fuelled demise of one of its stars. Extras include a lengthy series of interviews with Chris Salewicz and many involved in the film, but all very enlightening.

Scenester

2/9/18

Ciao Manhattan

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Tue, 01 Jun 2021 15:58:44 GMT

Ciao! Manhattan (1972) Blu Ray Second Sight 2NDBR4087

The long unavailable cult film ‘Ciao! Manhattan’ now has a Blu Ray edition to satisfy the curious of this generation.
Originally released in 1972 to some press acclaim then disappearing for a decade, it took George Plimpton and Jean Stein’s best-selling book of 1982 ‘Edie: An American Biography’ to revive interest in the film. Screenings in art houses and cult cinemas were followed by a video release, since when it’s largely retained its cult status. Written and directed by John Palmer and David Weisman, the story is based closely on model and sometime Warhol muse Edie Sedgwick, whose high life and rapid descent into drug addiction culminated in her death aged just 28.

With only one professional actor in the film, the supporting cast play some very familiar road movie characters; aimless drifter Butch (Wesley Hayes) who picks up drug-addled spoilt rich girl ‘Susan’ (Edie) in his ageing car, taking her home to her family mansion and long suffering mother (Isabel Jewell). Susan’s needs are taken care of by vain, wise-cracking opportunist Geoffrey (Jeff Briggs) whose regular pilfering of the family silver is all in preparation for his eventual exit.

It’s highly debateable how much Edie’s portrayal of Susan is acting, and how much, real life. Her slurring speech, far away eyes and ‘weeping willow’ body movements evoke a highly believable strung-out junkie, as she unselfconsciously lazes about her tent-like flop house nearly naked, dances by herself and indulges in free-association monologues that mean all to her and little to her sole audience member, Butch. Recalling her days as a Vogue model, ‘It Girl’ and muse at Andy Warhol’s Factory, all true to life, makes parts of the film uncomfortable to watch.

Cut with footage from her high flying modelling days, Factory shows and re-imagined visits to the notorious vitamin clinic of Dr Robert (Charlie Bacis), the link between Edie and Susan is further reinforced. The makers cleverly embed a conspiracy story into the film, involving a shadowy businessman, Mr. Verdecchio (Jean Margouleff) and his chauffeur/fixer/spy David (David Weisman) who stalk Susan/Edie’s former boyfriend Paul (Paul America) with the latest electronic surveillance equipment.

Back at the pool, Edie/Susan’s pathetic attempts to trace Paul and raise the editor of Vogue magazine on her telephone sit in stark contrast to the footage of her hob-nobbing with the modelling and artistic elite of New York. Edie/Susan’s background is rich and privileged, the product of a small, aristocratic gene pool. Her chosen career path is fashionable, artistic, bohemian but still overwhelmingly white. Both sets of people seem to pass their days living for pleasure, or at least risky excitement, while the fabric of society is seemingly held together by the likes of disinterested vassals such as Jeffrey and Butch, and the highly organised criminals like Mr Verdecchio.

Soundtrack music is generally unobtrusive, the electronica coming courtesy of Gino Piserchio, the rest, some languorous country rock provided variously by John Phillips, Skip Batten, Kim Fowley and Richie Havens.

The inclusion of details from Edie’s life, such as magazines photo spreads, newspaper articles and filmed fashion shows and parties are used for maximum identification, even to the mawkish use Edie’s real wedding picture and death notice.

Extra 35mm footage has been added to this disc, and the happenings and parties on it are documents of a time when anything seemed possible, but ultimately do little to enlighten the viewer. Filled with the movers and shakers of the 60’s American counterculture and a cast of flamboyant, outrageous and eccentric characters, the extras are arguably just as interesting as the film. The probably unique footage of Warhol crowd’s favourite venue, Max’s Kansas City, is likely to be of huge interest to the vast number who read about it, but never got to visit it.

Ciao Manhattan is well scripted, has some touchingly naturalistic performances, and looks compellingly beautiful, but the viewer can’t banish the feeling that it’s a mixture of opportunistic headline grabbing and exploitation of a vulnerable young woman.

Scenester

11/8/18

Valkyrien

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Tue, 01 Jun 2021 15:58:43 GMT

Valkyrien (Acorn DVD AV3395)

Straight from TV and now available on DVD, Norwegian Noir ‘Valkyrien’ packs a bewildering amount of action, crossing several popular genres, into its eight episodes, leaving the audience little room to catch their breath. The opening, rather beautiful images of a high tech golden beehive and its willing workers perfectly sets the scene of an orderly, if fragile society.

Surgeon Ravn Eikanger (Sven Nordin) is despondent after his medical colleagues won’t let him try to save the life of his terminally ill neuroimmunologist wife Vilma (Pia Halvorsen) with a new, experimental treatment. Ravn runs across a corrupt civil defence contractor, Leif Lien (Pal Sverre Hagen), who looks after the secret but disused Cold War-era nuclear bomb shelters beneath Oslo’s Valkyrien Square. Leif’s offer is direct and to the point; Leif will obtain the specialist equipment needed to help Ravn treat his now-comatose wife in the secret shelters, in return for treating the private patients he will provide. The patients, basically an assortment of injured underworld operatives, individuals who don’t trust conventional doctors and those with something to hide, Ravn accepts these employment terms perhaps a little too eagerly, and certainly with scant regard to his own safety.

The business of passing Vilma’s disappearance off with a phoney suicide note over and done with, Ravn takes time off from the hospital, and indeed his family life, to start his wife’s treatment. It takes no small suspension of disbelief to run with the idea that Ravn can keep the suspicions of his adopted daughter Siv (a fine, emotional performance by Ameli Isungset Agbota) and his brother in law and family at bay, as well as his long absences from the hospital, but the sheer speed this storyline is moving, helps. Perhaps it’s Vilma’s frail, prone form lying on a bed in a dingy bomb shelter, or Sven’s performance, with its judicious mixture of high, but controlled emotion and professional sang-froid that elicits such sympathy from us. Whatever it is, we’re willing to put aside our reservations about Ravn’s association with the self-interested Leif, who overcharges everyone who comes in desperation to the makeshift clinic.

Pal’s portrayal of the grasping Leif is perhaps the most interesting of all the characters in this medical pot boiler. A job with few, easy to achieve responsibilities - basically a discreet watchman - Leif has a lot of free time to spend writing his book about the coming eco-apocalypse, and the ease with which it could be hastened along by persons unknown. His speech gentle, his body language subtle, inside, Leif is wound up like a clock spring, threatening to break at any moment. He spends his long, lonely evenings exchanging information about threats to the environment, even the very fabric of civilisation, with like-minded conspiracy theorists, survivalists and downright crazies on one of the less fragrant parts of the world wide web.

The image of the clinic’s caged lab rats, subtly juxtaposed with our ‘heroes’ scurrying around the secret tunnels of Oslo, doing favours for members of Oslo’s shady economy, push our more sensitive buttons. The irony that the treatment Vilma is being subjected to is an extension of her own work prior to her diagnosis, making her a species of lab rat in turn, is not lost here. The genetic splicing experiments, and their accidental contamination leading to new, useful strains of life, is surely a knowing nod to the body horror of Canadian film maestro David Cronenberg’s films. The visceral thrills may come a little more restrained than in these late 70’s/early 80’s shockers, but their disturbing power is not in doubt.

The arrival of Leif’s friend, the incompetent thief, Teo, (Mikkel Bratt Silset) who has accidentally left his co-robbers locked in the bank they fleeced of millions, presents us with a few moments of genuine comedy, as Teo clearly couldn’t rob a sweet shop without falling into the fridge. His own desire to live outside society is as genuine, and as crazed, as Leif’s, and his ambitions are sharpened due to the imminent birth of his child, by his poor, lonely girlfriend. That these outsiders are both trapped in their lives, occupations and indeed the shelter, is another delicious irony to be savoured by the viewer. The humour will become much grimmer as our drama of betrayal, secrecy, morality and society explodes in a series of events that, whilst being unlikely, are nevertheless possible and perhaps even inevitable.

Scenester

20/8/17

‘Valkyrien’ is out on DV 21/8/17 Buy/Pre-Order here:

http://www.acorndvd.com/advancedsearch/result/?q=valkyrien

The Trial of Christine Keeler (2020) and Scandal (1989)

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Tue, 01 Jun 2021 15:31:25 GMT

The Trial of Christine Keeler (Acorn Video AV3551)

The story of Christine Keeler, the troubled teenager who went from working as a Soho showgirl, to playing a part in bringing down an outdated government is now so well known, it scarcely needs an introduction. Already written about extensively by Christine herself and many others, and previously adapted to a film (Scandal 1989) and forming an exhibition (Dear Christine 2019), ‘The Trial of Christine Keeler’ has ample time in the six hour-long episodes to tell the story, as promised, from Christine’s point of view.

Performances are mixed, some good, some perfunctory. Sophie Cookson occasionally throws her heart into the playing of Christine Keeler and what pains life has in store for her, laughs and jokes at the good times, but her character mainly maintains a poker face, in spite of much provocation. From her stint as a dancer at Murray’s Cabaret Club, to her meeting with society osteopath Stephen Ward, played with quiet insouciance by James Norton, to her introduction by Ward to sexual predator and conservative cabinet minister John Profumo (Ben Miles delivering a sharp, critical portrait of this careless, greedy and egotistical individual) the events unfold and escalate at a rapid pace.

Mandy Rice-Davies lookie-likey Ellie Bamber plays the gobbier of the inseparable pair, an occasional scene stealer, perfectly in keeping with her character, but with a peculiar accent that begins as cockney and ends up as Received Pronunciation. Ironically, Mandy gets the best line in the story; when told that Lord Astor denies having an affair with her, she replies ‘Well he would say that, wouldn’t he?’, a response which has since gone down in history.

Taken under Stephen Ward’s wing, Christine and Mandy quickly become his tenants, his party makers and his playthings, and the show should be in its element at this point. The issue of exploitation of the young by the old is unfortunately lost by using such a young looking actor to play Ward; the real one was aged almost fifty at the time these events took place. Although Norton delivers a good performance, some of the more innocent domestic scenes make Ward out to be more like a gay friend of the girls, rather than a man exploiting them for personal gain with his gentle requests for money ‘for the telephone bill’. The script has occasional flashes, such as Christine’s poignant ‘you’ve never been without it’ (i.e. money) to Ward, but in the main, it’s the usual trawl through the posh/common clichés that could have been avoided.

There are plenty of little period vignettes to keep the viewer interested, from Christine’s accidental nudity at Lord Astor’s swimming pool, to her frequent appearances in her favourite coat, a sheepskin number, leaving the viewer to wonder what she was doing with all the clothes bought for her as presents. The furtive meetings in a formica-tabled café with Mandy, and the repeated slow motion footage of Christine being pursued though London streets by a storm of pressmen or a baying mob, or both, are atmospheric enough, but come over as merely functional. The lengthy court room dramas, taking in boyfriend Johnny Edgecombe’s shooting up of Ward’s flat, Christine’s reported assault by old boyfriend ‘Lucky’ Gordon, and Ward’s for living off immoral earnings, start to feel like padding to get six episodes out of what could probably have been done in four.

Christine’s near-simultaneous relationships with a cabinet minister, a Russian spy, a society osteopath and two black men is the stuff of legend. As we know, it was Profumo’s denial of his relationship which ensured his own and his Government’s downfall, but the circumstances surrounding the fate of Stephen Ward are unclear, and no doubt still subject to the Official Secrets Act. This dramatization of the cataclysmic events of nearly sixty years ago manages to reduce what should be a red-hot story of establishment vs. the people, youth vs. age, old mores vs. new freedoms and attitudes to gender and class, into a Sunday evening’s ’Heartbeat’-like entertainment, with a little titillation thrown in. Rather than being Christine’s story, there is an undeniable and probably undeserved sympathy in the script for Stephen Ward that recalls the ‘Scandal’ film where the more age specific John Hurt played the role. A largely wasted opportunity.

Scenester

24/1/2020

Trailer: https://ux.btmail.bt.com/cp/index-rui.jsp?v=2.10.3#app/mail
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hsanPZvikII

Link: https://www.acorndvd.com/

Scandal (1989) BFI Cat. no. BFIB1369 (Cert 18)

Released in an age when the cinema going public seemed more interested in high adventure heroics or low comedy, ‘Scandal’ arrived like a surprise visitor to a birthday party, and a not altogether welcome one, at that. Set in and around 1963 and based on the dramatic events that toppled Harold MacMillan’s government, this reminder of the precarious nature of the job could not have come at a worse time for then Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, at the end of her tenure.

Director Michael Caton-Jones’ approach is to keep it a lively period piece with plenty of murky intrigue and titillating glamour. The casting of Joanne Whalley as showgirl and model Christine Keeler was inspired, a close resemblance to the real Christine working very much in her favour. Perhaps less so, the use of US star Bridget Fonda as Mandy Rice-Davies, whose performance is clipped, tight lipped and lacks the brashness of the real article.

Our film opens in Murray’s Cabaret Club, where Christine performs as a lightly clad dancer in one of the many anodyne routines that kept visiting businessmen and their wives (or perhaps, escorts or other men’s wives) entertained, on a diet of overpriced champagne. It’s in this curiously quaint club that she meets society osteopath Stephen Ward (John Hurt, superb throughout) who befriends her and allows her to live in his West End flat. An initial spat between Christine and new girl Many Rice-Davies is quickly forgotten by both, and Mandy joins Christine at the flat. They are introduced to Ward’s wide circle of friends and their uninhibited ways, at parties that soon turn into rather genteel orgies.

Christine’s introduction to rather more lofty members of society results in affairs with the Minister for War, John Profumo (Ian McKellen, excellent and under used, here) Soviet ‘diplomat’ (to you and me; spy) Yevgeny (Eugene) Ivanov (Dutch actor and director Jeroen Krabbe), as well as her ongoing, troubled relationships with two black men, ‘Lucky’ Gordon (Leon Herbert) and Johnny Edgecombe (pop star Roland Gift, then well known as singer of the Fine Young Cannibals). Her status as trouble magnet is already established here; her graduation to public hate figure to the country’s self-satisfied ruling class, comfortable middle class and downtrodden working class alike, quickly follows.

It’s an oft repeated cliché about the 1960’s, that it was a time when gangsters rubbed shoulders with pop stars and politicians, and ‘Scandal’ revels in it, with a lot of even more intimate contact thrown in for good measure. The closely shot scene when Christine and Mandy dress up and make up to the sound of The Shadows’ ‘Apache’ is more reminiscent of a pop video of the 1980’s, co-opting an underwear advertisement, their faces right up to the camera lens, as they put on their war paint. All this is in stark contrast to Christine’s former home life, when she visits her impoverished mother, languishing in a shabby prefab in a rural wilderness. A surprise visit from her ‘boyfriend’ Ward ramps up the contrast further, as he greets Christine’s mother oh-so-correctly, a manner which mother is clearly not used to.

Music forms an essential part of the action, with the innocent fun of Nat King Cole’s ‘Those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer’ by the pool at Cliveden, where Christine would frolic naked one night, to the joyous Jimmy Cliff’s ‘Miss Jamaica’ for a scene in a West London club. The theme song ‘Scandal’ is the only original piece here, a sultry lament sung by the great Dusty Springfield in her signature, breathy style. Contemporary opinion among some was that the film looked like an over extended pop video, but there’s more than just a snappy soundtrack and a bit of mild titillation going on here. The harrowing flashback scenes to Christine’s troubled earlier adolescence, the abuse by her stepfather and her subsequent abortion are painful to watch. The courtroom scenes where Stephen Ward is on trial on the largely trumped-up charge of living off immoral earnings are comic and tragic, John Hurt’s performance of Ward’s breakdown completely credible. The endless pursuit of Christine and Co. by the paparazzi of their day are well realised, and form the most lasting and strangely familiar images to a modern audience.

Where ‘Scandal’ loses its focus, is in its overly sympathetic view of Ward, whom it regards in an almost heroic light. Buying into the idea that Ward was simply a libertine who used his high falutin’ contacts and stable of good time girls to engineer a honey trap for catching Russian spies is sheer, Cold War codswallop. His fate was tragic of course, and it is possible to sympathise with him for his abandonment by society and his suicide, without losing sight of his guilt for his activities as a procurer of perilously young girls for a collection of sleazy, powerful old men.

I have already said that Christine Keeler attracted trouble like a magnet, and perhaps the implied warning on Lewis Morley’s nearly-naked portrait of her in a plywood chair should have been heeded. Christine’s arms crossed legs akimbo pose behind the reversed chair back, forms a letter ‘X’ – the forbidden fruit?

‘Scandal’ is out on DVD and BluRay , BFI Player iTunes and Amazon on 24 February.

Scenester
23/2/2020

Clip:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnOnuNb7lu0&feature=youtu.be

Buy here:
https://shop.bfi.org.uk/

Short Sharp Shocks

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Tue, 01 Jun 2021 15:31:24 GMT

Short Sharp Shocks Volume 4 (BFI) BFIB 1535-TM BluRay

The latest compilation of shorts, supporting features and public safety adverts continues BFI’s tradition of unearthing the rarely seen offerings, lost gems and downright horrifying information films that haunt our cinematic and televisual memories.

The Fatal Night (1948) is a variation on the ‘haunted house bet’ story, in which two men challenge their American friend to stay a single night in a reputedly haunted house in Mayfair. Featuring a young Patrick Macnee of ‘Avengers‘ fame as one of the challengers, the story has plenty of promise but gets a little lost in the back story.

‘Death in the Hand’ from the same year is a better prospect, a tale of the knowledge of inescapable doom. The gentle art of palmistry has rarely been so horribly employed, as a train passenger reads the fate of his companions, leading to a shattering conclusion.

Two selections from a TV show that got away, ‘Strange Experience’ make their point very well on a tiny budget and strictly limited time. ‘Hallowe’en Party pokes fun at the seasonal party game of peeling an apple and throwing the peel behind you, to make the shape of your future spouse’s initial. ‘The Laughing Clown’ shows a sad end to a man’s life of laughter.

Horror historian Dan Meikle’s ‘Night Ride’ (1967) slips into territory often associated with Pete Walker, that of lawless youngsters getting more than they bargained for when their robbery goes wrong. The elderly occultist whose home they break into is suitably decorated with weird artefacts and wall-drawings that could be straight from a black magic grimoire, with effective lighting-or lack of it-adding to the tense atmosphere.

‘Mirror, Mirror’ (1969) is a creditable effort from an Eastbourne Cine Group, a tale of a man who buys a Victorian mirror for his modern home but notices it appears to be showing him unnerving images from the past. An amateur cast present an engaging, classic story on what was likely a very small budget.

‘Scarecrow’ (1972) is a highly original and atmospheric tale set in drought-stricken 1930’s rural Ireland, where marauding crows are a Hitchcockian menace to the poor farmers.

‘Red’ is a bawdy romp written and directed by Astrid Frank, featuring Ferdy Mayne as a roving artist on the lookout for beauties to immortalize and three troubadours (Mark Wynter, Roy North and Gabrielle Drake) who tease and tickle him in equal measure. When our artist witnesses a night time gory sex magic ritual between these three, he is shocked to the core and hurriedly on his way, leaving behind his oddly predictive drawing of the girl’s head.

Continuing the censor-baiting theme, ‘Sanctum’ (1976) is a risk-taking, shocking meditation on a young man’s sexual fantasies, featuring religious ritual, icons, subjugation and defilement that may offend even the broad-minded viewer.

No ‘Short Sharp Shocks’ compilation would be complete without a few public information films from the 1970’s, a decade when danger of death seemed to lurk around every corner for children unwise enough to go out playing and enjoying themselves. ‘Play Safe; Frisbee’ is once such dire warning, in which a boy and girl lose their plastic flying saucer which has lodged itself in between the porcelain insulators of an electricity substation. Heedless of the ‘danger’ warnings dotted about the place, our nonchalant hero bends a post on the protective metal picket fence, gains access and reaches up for the offending frisbee. A terrible electric charge uses him as an earthing rod and the girl lets out a blood curdling scream. ‘Play Safe: Electricity’ covers more potential electrical dangers, with our foolhardy youngsters flying their kites close to an electricity pylon. Others, perhaps feeling safety in numbers, make the same mistake when they decide on an innocent game of football in close vicinity to one of these Quixotic giants, the pylons. Little do the youthful players realise that a 66,000 volt death may be lying in wait for them. Two talking heads moralise on the fate of these plucky but misguided youths. They’re right, of course.

‘Black Angel’ is a well-crafted tale of a highland knight who gallantly protects a beautiful girl who has fallen under the spell of some Pluto in beggar’s garb and does battle with a mysterious dark knight to ensure her survival. It’s easy to see why it was selected as the support film to ‘The Empire Strikes Back’, with its themes of chivalry and sacrifice.

Perhaps a little patchy in parts, there’s still much to enjoy and I await volume five eagerly.

Scenester
12/10/25

Preorder here: https://hmv.com/Store/Film-TV/Blu-ray/Short-Sharp-Shocks-Volume-4

Short Sharp Shocks Volume 3 (BFI Flipside 47) BluRay

Those BFI Flipsiders have done it again, with another 2-disk collection of chilling, daring and downright alarming shorts from the early days of television and the support slots and student film festivals of the past.

Our first selection is an enjoyably creepy tale from Ireland ‘Return to Glennascaul’, directed by Hilton Edwards in 1950, and starring Orson Welles as a motorist who stops to help another whose car has, perhaps in the parlance of the times, ‘failed to proceed’. It appears that our stranger had been driving along the same stretch of road rather recently and was flagged down by two mysterious ladies in flowing robes. Told with tongue slightly in cheek and tapping into the long and proud tradition of Irish fireside tales, there may not be many shocks, but you’ll watch to the delicious end.

Two selections from ‘Strange Stories’ follow, made for the US television market which couldn’t get enough of this fare at the time. Introduced on the hoof in a conversation between two friends, John Slater and Valentine Dyall (‘The Man in Black’), the breezy style belies the seriousness of the stories. ‘The Strange Mr. Bartleby’, a story of lost relatives and amateur sleuthing features a fabulous, mad-eyed performance by Dad’s Army stalwart John Laurie as a man who blags a job with a respectable firm of solicitors, but who seems oddly disconnected, reluctant to do his allocation of work. ‘The Strange Journey’ has stronger material, the tale of a man and his wife on the run for murder, and their attempt to get to Tasmania by ship before the Police catch up with them. The weak ending lets it down a little, when the potential was there to have been so much more shocking.

The endless appetite for more television material stateside proved good fortune for the makers of 1956’s ‘Strange Stories’ two of which feature here. Living up to the term ‘short’, the first is a standard haunted portrait yarn, the second a tale of a man haunted by another he killed a year before.

‘Maze’ (1969) takes us into much more off-beat territory, with its nouvelle vague style editing, distant, cool characters and loose plotline. An hotel employee wanders the streets around Covent Garden, then still a fruit and vegetable market, passing a young woman with blonde hair in an animal pattern coat, perhaps our own ‘Marilyn’. Walks around the park and a descent into the underground/world makes for an unsettling but nevertheless compelling thirteen minutes.

Onto disk two, and the incendiary ‘Skinflicker’ breaks through our mood and demands our attention. Masquerading as a government training film, the story concerns the kidnapping and murder of a politician by a three-strong gang of urban guerillas, unwittingly filmed by their friend, far away from his usual low-end porn reels. The performances are horribly realistic, from fringe theatre stalwart Henry Woolf as the menacing, psychopathic Henry, Hilary Charlton as icy-cold Susie, and William Hoyland as coolly efficient Georgie. The assault on the MP’s family in their impressive country home is totally believable, leaving family members prone on the ground, presumed dead. As the story wears on, the team of terrorists’ actions become ever more crazed and violent. Susie’s speech to camera demonstrates her complete dedication to this bloodily violent venture, and the last scenes are truly terrifying. Performances are superb throughout in this BFI production, which understandably caused some controversy at the time of its release.

‘Wings of Death’ from 1985 is highly original imaginative fare from a decade blighted by HIV and society’s attitudes to gay people. A boy is bleeding to death on his shabby bed, yet gets up and starts to walk the derelict streets of London’s Docklands. Strange hallucinary scenes abound, artwork melts into real life and we literally see inside our protagonist’s head. The puzzle, or even choice of whether to live or die is weighed up on the mental scales throughout the film, which must have chimed with the many young people trapped in the pitiless urban society of the early 1980’s.

Those old, favourite public information films are always a queasy joy to see, in this case, the tragedy of a boy innocently running along a beach, painfully unaware of the broken bottle lurking on the sand and then the appalling aftermath of throwing lit fireworks around. That the victims are all young, must have been a deliberate choice of the makers, but whether they persuaded people to dispose of litter thoughtfully and never throw fireworks remains to be seen.

1982’s impressive ‘The Terminal Game’ posits a world where bespoke computer programs, intended only for specific tasks for their buyers, are developing consciousness and linking up to others for their own dubious purposes. What would have been considered an advanced storyline even a few years ago, this claustrophobic Ballardian nightmare world of towering buildings, computer floors filled with huge memory cabinets, tape readers and players, card readers and monitors fully realises a cold, remote atmosphere of existential techno-fear, and all on a micro-budget. Early 80’s heart throb Jack Galloway plays Raymond James, a computer programmer at the centre of the problem. He works in a low-lit room with three terminals, coloured not unlike the art deco palace of The Wizard of Oz.

There’s the customary wealth of extras on these two packed disks, with interviews with directors, writers and musicians that make up this worthy entry to the Short Sharp Shocks series.

Scenester
12/10/23

Buy here:
https://shop.bfi.org.uk/short-sharp-shocks-volume-three-flipside-47-2-disc-blu-ray.html

Short Sharp Shocks 2 (BFI) Blu-Ray BFIB1431/1/2-TM

Following on from the success of the first 2 Disc compilation, the BFI have once more trawled the archive for more of the strange, unnerving and downright queasy short films that made up time on the cinema bills of years gone by.

First up, a few of ‘whodunnit’ shorts from the 1940’s under the name ‘Quiz Game’ inviting the viewer to watch the ten-minute mystery carefully and guess who committed the murder. Considering the only characters tend to be the victim, the detective and one suspicious backgrounder, they aren’t too difficult. Times were hard.

Making an early appearance, the one and only Lord Sutch, performing his ‘hit’ the comedy horror ditty ‘Jack the Ripper’ on a sparse studio set. Sutch, dressed in a full-length cape, winkle-picker shoes and carrying a huge prop knife is clearly relishing the high camp craziness of the song, which he originally recorded (where else?) at Joe Meek’s legendary Holloway Road studio. The budget for this 1961 promotional film obviously didn’t run far, as the odd wooden staircase and scaffolding poles stand in for the winding streets of Victorian Whitechapel. A bevy of doxies drape themselves around the set, touting for business, until they are dispatched by the gurning, leering Sutch, clearly in his element. Unmissable.

The first genuinely disturbing piece is ‘The Three Children’ from 1946, in which a variety of small children are seen leaving their homes to play out, attend parties and generally enjoy their young lives. The parents seem to show much confidence in their little ones, and scant regard of the dangers they might face in the world. I’m not going to tell you how it ends, as I feel that’s a shock you need to see for yourselves, but I will tell you it’s not what you think.

‘Escape from Broadmoor’ (1948) is a fairly tough drama about the ways in which a fugitive can contrive to keep a low profile, with a little help from some local dubious characters. Very much in the style of an Inspector Fabian mystery, it takes in bare, seedy lodging rooms, London’s bomb-damaged streets, psychic detective work and that old standby, the chloroform attack.

‘Mingaloo’ takes us to another favourite setting, the artist’s apartment, where a famous sculptor is working on a dog sculpture, inspired by a distressing dream he has had the night before. His assistant, a young lady with a voice so cultured, it’s doubtful many in today’s audience would understand her, is hanging on to her employer’s every word, as he invites a foreign trade delegation round to pitch for a major work. One of their number takes more than a passing interest in the young woman, and it’s not just her charming company he’s after. A contrived tale involving a higher class of sleazy night spot, drug dealers and low art, it could almost be a sub-plot for ‘The Rebel’.

‘The Face of Darkness’ (1976) opens with the snazziest titles on the disk, offering your man in the cheap seats the chance to enjoy the champagne drinking, sunbathing, fast car driving lifestyle offered by the Brent Walker Company. An occult thriller, taking place partly in the Middle Ages and partly in modern times, it has impressive performances from John Bennett as the Inquisitor of the earlier time period, and a psychiatrist of the modern age, and Lennard Pearce as self-serving politician Edward Langdon. Basically a potboiler about MP Langdon’s attempt to toughen up society with fascistic laws and the reintroduction of the death penalty, using a species of black magic to achieve his aims. Good, exciting stuff and with a twist too delicious to spoil by divulging here.

Shades of Dario Argento in giallo standout ‘The Dumb Waiter’ (1979), starring Geraldine James in one of her earliest film roles. A young woman, Sally, has had an unnerving telephone call, telling her to look out for a certain car registration number. She spots the car one night, returning home from the launderette, when she is pursued at speed in busy city streets. Reaching her home in a block of flats, she becomes aware that someone is lurking outside, and calls a friend to ask him to come over. What follows is well acted, nerve-jangling standard scenes of psychological terror, with the pursuer trying every means to get into Sally’s flat. Shinning up drainpipes, rattling windows, doors, no point of ingress is ignored, not even…yes, you’ve guessed, the titular service lift. Director/writer Robert Bierman and lead Geraldine James turn out an excellent short story, head and shoulders above the usual slasher nonsense.

Many of us have memories of the gruesome public information films that enlivened the television schedules in the 60’s and 70’s. One that will probably only be familiar to those of you in the building trade is ‘Hangman’ (1985), a grimly humorous training film aimed at improving safety on building sites by encouraging cautious work practices. Resplendent in black vest, drill jeans and executioner’s eye mask, our host invites us to a realistic game of ‘Hangman’, in which points are earned for spotting inattention of workers and unsafe scenarios on a building site. Failure to spot them all results in head, body and limbs being added to the scaffold already chalked on a van’s side. Basically, a horribly realistic series of vignettes resulting in wholesale maiming and killing of site labourers, but all in a good cause. Once seen, ‘Hangman’ is unlikely ever to be forgotten, which is exactly what it was made to achieve.

Our final offering is ‘The Mark of Lilith’ (1986), part vampire myth, part feminist polemic about the historical misidentification of women with devils, vampires and evil spirits. The vampire scenes are played with more gusto than talent, and the endless political diatribes grate, but full marks for research and imagination.

There’s a host of extras including interviews with some of the directors and image galleries.

‘Short Sharp Shocks 2 is out on Blu Ray from BFI (Flipside 41) BFIB 1431 on 25 October.

Pre-Order;
https://shop.bfi.org.uk/short-sharp-shocks-volume-two_flipside-43-2-disc-blu-ray.html

Short Sharp Shocks (BFIB 1396 BFI Flipside 41) Dual Format DVD/BluRay

With cinemas closed countrywide for the duration of this Covid ridden time, many of us turn to television and raid our video libraries to keep up our spirits. As we programme our evening’s entertainment, I wonder how many of us have found ourselves recalling the days when a trip to the cinema meant a main feature and a ‘B’ picture, separated by advertising and trailers for next week’s offering? Some may even have felt that the ‘B’ picture proved to be better than the main feature. It’s these supporting pictures that form the backbone of this dual 2 DVD/BluRay set.

The first disc presents ‘Tales of Mystery’ from 1949, taking us back to the rather sedate world of the gentleman in his country cottage, featuring the great horror story writer Algernon Blackwood reading two excellent stories, ‘Lock Your Door’ and ‘The Reformation of St Jules’. Blackwood’s avuncular style is perfect for these engaging and mildly unsettling tales, and the viewer has surely by now settled down in a favourite armchair and has an elegantly cut glass with a generous shot of whisky in it, to enjoy these stories to the full.

The next item is also a narration, this time in character, as Stanley Baker takes on the persona of the immortal Edgar Allan Poe. Stood in his cheap lodgings, bereft of decoration save a music hall poster on the plaster-peeling walls, Baker tells the classic story of ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ by candlelight, with subtlety and quiet professionalism. The unnerving atmosphere slowly builds until the terrible climax and aftermath. The story of the survival of this gem from 1953 is told in one of the extras, and well worth listening to.

The mini-drama of ‘Death Was A Passenger’ (1958) brings together an irresistible combination of a Nazi-occupied France setting, a railway carriage about to be boarded by the Gestapo, a British spy disguised as a French peasant and a Nun who may be more than she seems. Terence Alexander plays the British spy, whose inability to speak French puts him at a distinct disadvantage in this benighted country. After noticing his plight, the Nun subtly suggests she may be able to help him avoid an encounter with the Gestapo. This short story has more to tell and does so with a cosy ending that seemingly only British film can get away with.

The rather literal ‘Portrait of a Matador’ from 1958 brings a little of the supernatural to our week’s holiday view of Spain, with a tale of a flighty blonde, her deep, thoughtful English artist boyfriend and a hot tempered (what else?) matador as his rival in love. A bodega or two, a few swishes of the cape, some threatening noises and a portrait which would not give the immortal Poe any sleepless nights adds up to little more than a tepid tale in an exotic setting.

Our second disc takes us into the colour age, and 1969’s ‘Twenty Nine’ a pacy item about a young man’s attempts to piece together how he spent the previous night, with whom, and why. Waking up with a monstrous hangover in someone else’s flat and clothes, our man about town Graham Baird (Alexis Kanner) rolls out of bed and is promptly sick in the bathroom. Good start. As he riffles through the clues, a phone number on a fag packet here, a memory sparked there, a mocking message in lipstick on the mirror, it slowly dawns on our curly haired cavalier that he has had a night to end all nights, trawling the bars, strip joints and flesh pots of London’s West End. Cameo appearances by the fondly remembered Justine Lord as Baird’s long-suffering ex-wife and Yootha Joyce as a call-girl (!) are both very welcome. The shots of late 60’s London life are the main attraction here, however; the streets, the clothes and the music, a slice of well-crafted psychedelia lite provided by Tuesday’s Children. You won’t want it to end but like all good things it does, with a twist that burns.

No such style or subtlety to ‘The Sex Victims’ (1973), a hound and horny tale of a lorry driver who sees a modern-day Lady Godiva in the woods. His pursuit of the cool blonde bareback rider is long and boring, even when you consider his low, lecherous motives in doing so, but the final twist is neat, and perhaps a salutary warning to gentlemen not to pursue strange, nearly-naked girls on horseback when you’re out in the country.

‘The Lake’ (1978) is a slow burn horror offering, modelled on a traditional urban legend and starring Julie Peasgood and Gene Foad. You know the set up. A young couple take their car out into the country for a picnic by a lake and they pass the obligatory old, boarded-up house where the inevitable mass murder was committed, just a few years before. An old family photograph, grisly murders and a missing culprit set the scene, but where ‘The Lake’ differs from the kind of ‘stalk and slash’ picture which was then being churned out of the USA on an industrial scale, is in the lack of gore and savagery and the avoidance of doomy chords and screechy violins; the quiet menace of the English countryside and the power of the unseen does the job instead. There’s chills a-plenty, but don’t expect a faceless killer with a machete to turn up.

Our final entry fully lives up to the ‘Short Sharp Shock’ name of this collection, which many of you will remember was the name given to a UK Government scheme to persuade young offenders away from their life of crime. The Nigel Finch directed ‘The Errand’ (1980) is named innocently enough, but quickly proves to be the story of a bloody, brutal initiative test for a young soldier. It will come as little surprise to the viewer that this searing indictment of military hierarchies and authority comes from the pen of David McGillivray, who also scripted such bitter tales as ‘House of Whipcord’, ‘The Confessional’ and ‘Schizo’. The warning, ‘Such an institution does not exist in our society…yet’ at the start of this tight, tense tale chills, but must have done so far more deeply at the time, when our lords and masters were setting up precisely the sort of places where the appalling abuse of young offenders would take place, and in most cases take decades to come to light.

There are plenty of extras on these disks, with interviews and a 48-page booklet filled with notes, details and photos to further enlighten you.

Scenester

16/11/20

Preorder : https://shop.bfi.org.uk/pre-order-short-sharp-shocks-flipside-41-2-disc-blu-ray.html
Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=swrHTR--3fg&feature=youtu.be

Exhibitions - Style

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Mon, 24 May 2021 16:54:07 GMT

Biba and Beyond, Barbara Hulanicki interview, Sidewalk to the Catwalk, Club to Catwalk, 20th Century Icons, Lloyd Johnson; The Modern Outfitter.

Biba and Beyond Brighton Museum and Art Gallery 22/9/12

With the Biba name being revived by House of Fraser, and all manner of dubious clobber appearing on selling sites purporting to be from that revered store, this exhibition could not have come at a better time. Partly a celebration of the career of Barbara Hulanicki, Biba’s designer and leading light, partly an affectionate look back at what made the name Biba one to conjure with, the success of this show is assured.

Barbara’s early life is illustrated by personal photos of her parents, aunt and siblings, a Polish family who moved to UK after the death of father Witold. Her subsequent boarding school education in Worthing and art student days at Brighton Art College are also touched on, and the inclusion of her design for a beach outfit, a winning entry in an Evening Standard competition, subsequently made up by Norman Hartnell, is a real find. The model drawing’s coltish beauty, with its resemblance to Audrey Hepburn is no coincidence, as Barbara has said that she took much inspiration from popular films at the time.

Biba’s beginnings as a mail order business are well documented, with even an example of the headscarf from the gingham outfit that first propelled the label into the fashion world’s stratosphere. Challenged, along with four other young women, to come up with a design for an outfit to retail at Gns. 2 (£2.10 in new money) Barbara’s design won out and she suddenly found herself with 17,000 orders to fill. This early experience of delivering must-have clothes on a tight profit margin was evidently useful training for later life, as Biba was never beyond the pocket of the average girl (or boy).

The picture of the short-lived Biba store on Queen’s Road Brighton is a remarkable survival, and the Regency terrace it was housed in, is recognisable today.

Leaving the photos and early life behind, we come to the substance of this show; the stunning collection of Biba dresses, coats, blouses, waistcoats, shoes and more in the bold cuts and muted ‘auntie’ colours that are now so emblematic of the baroque period of the late 60’s and early 70’s. A huge, funnel necked coat in burnt orange looks imposing on its stand, next to the lace dresses that necessitated underwear in public, to avoid arrest. Tiny waisted, slim-armed coats in bold stripes or jazzy, art deco patterns, with lapels that reach out to touch the biceps, vie with angel sleeved, sheer metallic-cotton shifts. Biba’s signature built-up shoulders, a full decade before TV shows like ‘Dallas’ and ‘Dynasty’ used the idea, give the women’s suits, with their generous lapels and cinched-in waists a 40’s film star look, not unlike the eternally stylish Lauren Bacall.

The breadth of Biba artefacts is breath taking, with invitation cards, one to see the New York Dolls at the Rainbow Rooms, £2.50, meal included, stationary, diaries, even cans of beans, coffee and a packet of soap flakes from Biba’s household department, all in the distinctive Biba black livery with line-drawn illustrations. Even some of the design ‘blanks’ survive, and are here to see, although sadly not to ink and use. Makeup bottles, trays and tubes are here in profusion, with even some of the smaller display boxes, and a mail order ‘pillow’ box representing some of the most sought after items.
Big Biba’s status as a sort of hip, young Harrods may have been an early hint that the brand was becoming so large, it could not have grown any further, but the bravery of its founders and the faith of its staff cannot be doubted.

There’s ample audio-visual material to fill in the gaps and enlighten further, with recordings of former customers and workers adding their comments and memories, and you’ve got until 14th April 2013 to board the Brighton Belle and visit the Pavilion Museum and Art Gallery. Hello? Oh, you’ve gone already.

Scenester1964

23/9/12

Interview with Barbara Hulanicki 19/9/12
You begin as an illustrator, but what made you decide to become a fashion designer?

'I went to Brighton Art School and studied fashion and general arts. After two years I left to work in an illustration studio as that seemed the quickest way to become independent.'

Did you design with young people in mind, or design for yourself and hope others would like it? Why?

‘Yes for the young. I was young and earning lots of money and I could not buy any clothes I liked to wear to work, which was usually haute couture shows in Paris.’

Did you think that Biba would take off the way that it did? Did you plan for it or not? How did you react when it did take off?

'Biba grew organically. Both Fitz, my husband (Stephen Fitz-Simon) and I knew our market as we were ten years older and a trifle more experienced. We worked very long hours and I designed clothes that people wanted to buy.'

How far ahead were you looking with each collection?
‘It was daily deliveries like bread. There were no collections, as it was coming out of one head (mine) it was very naturally coordinated.’

When Big Biba opened, did you at any point feel that you may have taken on too much? If so, how did you cope?

‘Never. We expanded some departments, added things like selling food, added the Rainbow Room, which we took advice on. We consulted experts. The problem was not expansion, or the fear it wouldn’t work, but getting things manufactured. People tended to have just one pair of shoes then, which they wore with everything. We changed that.’

If you could turn the clock back and do something differently, or not at all, what would it be? Why?

‘Don’t have partners. Partners mess around with you. The money guys were always trying to run things. Everyone who worked with me got totally involved with the business. The money guys wanted to go home at 5.30, we worked until we dropped.’

Some have said Biba was untidy, and easy to steal from. Is this true?

‘The floor did tend to be littered with cigarette packets, but we did provide sand drums for the cigarettes. The clothes would be everywhere, with girls trying them on and then throwing them on the floor when they tried another one on. It was a nightmare to keep it tidy, but the staff girls were very good. They had a good eye for anyone trying to steal, as there was quite a bit of theft from the store. We didn’t restrict how many clothes you could take in to the changing rooms, then. There were security cameras in the second store but the light levels were low, so not much use. The girls had to watch everyone.’

Did you see Men’s Biba as an experiment, or an integral part of Biba? Was it popular? Did men go there on their own or as part of a trip with their girl/boyfriend?

‘Totally integral. We started out with a T Shirt, the boys wanted them. It grew from there. Then we did trousers, jacket, we did take advice on it. We had cutters, tailors, plenty of support. I had a baby, so the baby department followed. Freddy Mercury was very important, and his girlfriend, Mary Austin, who worked for Biba.’

‘The average Biba man came in from the provinces and London, but there were a lot of music people as well, they came to hang out, they bought things whilst they were there. There was men’s makeup too, it sold well, and even the girls bought it.’

What was your impression of Brighton when you were growing up?

‘A lovely English seaside town, windy and blustery, freezing in Winter, all the shopkeepers dreaming about the sunny summers they did well in, always a lot of drama in the local press. The architecture was so impressive, the Pavilion, the Ammonites on the capitals of house fronts’

What was your impression of Brighton, when you were a student?
‘I went to a boarding school in Worthing, but lived in Brighton the rest of the year. Like everyone at the time, I longed to be independent, and to go to London.’

What memories do you have of Brighton Biba?

‘We had the whole of a Regency house on Queens Road, we had the upper part as a flat and the shop for Biba, the idea being it could be a weekend place for us, Fitz and I, as well as a shop. The shop didn’t work out so well, we found that if you do more than one shop, they all end up looking like smaller versions of the main one. ‘

‘The small shop was more a feature of the 60’s, Carnaby Street, and John Stephen, he was a real forerunner in fashion. It didn’t fit with the 70’s, the shops expanded. I took Fitz to Carnaby Street in the 60’s, it wasn’t his style, and the clothes were tiny, made for the very young. I couldn’t get him into men’s Biba, either. He had a strong idea about how he wanted to look.’

Are you flattered that Biba items are now much sought after, cultish, even? Did you ever think that one day they would be?

‘Not in a million years. Everyone used to moan about how badly made they thought they were, buttons dropping off, etc. Fitz would always spot them coming, someone about to attack him about the quality. We never thought anyone would revere them in 20 years.’

What do you think of people who describe something they’re selling as ‘Biba-ish’ or ‘Biba’ when it isn’t your work?

‘Some overcuts ended up in the markets, also, when Biba closed, there were a lot of labels left over. They ended up attached to garments that had nothing to do with us. I can always tell; there were some colours we never used.’

What do you think of recent attempts to revive the Biba name?

‘It upsets me, but you learn to move on.’

What advice would you have for any young designers who want to emulate you?

‘Learn about business’

‘It will all end in conformity’ – attributed to Peter York. Do you agree or disagree? Why?

‘Yes. The mass shops are all like that, they all do the same thing.’ In USA now, we’re back to the sort of store where there’s an assistant, and they look you up and down and ask if they can help you. It’s just like when I first started buying clothes for myself. You can’t have a look around.’

Which persons were the greatest influence on you in your life, and why?

‘My father. He was always talking to us, always trying to interest us children in things; he was a huge influence on me. I miss my mother a lot, too, and am now very aware of 15-16 year olds being bolshie, which I suppose I was. Mothers never understand you when you grow up.’

Do you see your design work today as a break with the past, or a natural progression?

‘Natural progression’

If you could meet your teenage self, what would you say to her?

‘Cool it girl’

Scenester1964 talked to Barbara Hulanicki 19.9.12

The Fashion World of Jean Paul Gaultier

From the Sidewalk to the Catwalk

Kunsthal Rotterdam 13/3/2013

Most of us are aware that the enfant terrible of French fashion does not do anything by halves, and his work’s first major retrospective is brilliantly trail blazed all the way from Rotterdam Centraal Station to the Kunsthal, with the avenue of trees being wrapped in matelot-striped corseted t-shirts.

In case the message doesn’t quite take in the casual visitors’ minds, the first sight they will see is a documentary of JPG being interviewed by various folk, including Dita Von Teese, about his long career. It may come as a surprise that JPG spent his early days (early 1970’s) working for Pierre Cardin, as a short piece of film attests.

Those who prefer to view the collection, rather than attempt to follow the multi-lingual film, made their way into the vast basement hall for this unique show. With living, speaking faces projected onto the mannequins’ heads, the costumes truly came alive. In amongst the grinning matelots, singing sirens and wailing ghosts, JPG himself was brought to life, wearing one of his own male skirt creations, and speaking in several languages about his work. One corner of this room had an undeniable Querelle de Brest atmosphere, the low-slung bell-bottom trousers and high, skinny-rib striped t shirts topped with a Fez or marinière's cap, the other side filled with sirens, mermaids and other sea creatures to distract them. A standout female costume was the black velvet siren dress, with a religious triptych panel at the solar plexus; sheer spectral elegance.

JPG’s sense of humour comes out best on his Parisienne catwalk, an automated oval runway of mannequins wearing exaggerated French classic looks, with the twist we’ve come to expect. A lank-haired ‘Rive Gauche’ type, her grey jersey dress hitched up to reveal a packet of cigarettes under her red garter was particularly amusing, and a hounds tooth check all-over bodysuit, complete with covered spectacles also made the grade. A ladies suit pulled down at the shoulder in Bardot syle also tickled the funny bone, as did a suit to wear on, but not over, the body.

His well-known disdain for the conventional carried even into his choice of models, where calls would be put out for unusual looks and body shapes; no conventionally pretty people need apply. More than anything, this appears to have made Gaultier shows unique, where other designers tended to practise only tokenism to smaller and larger models.

His corsetry is his most famous work, and the exhibition does go to some lengths to explain the formative influence of JPG’s grandmother and her collection of these by-then unfashionable garments. His designs were not merely for creating a desired silhouette, but for reshaping a body in some of his wilder flights of imagination. A padded pregnancy bump corset was one particularly striking creation. Two of the most famous of his corset designs has been graciously lent for this exhibition by M.L. Ciccone, and the drawings and designs for some of the five shows he worked on for her are here to pore over.

A roomful of staged boudoir scenes follows, perhaps the best realised part on the whole show. JPG’s fetish wear, exaggerated even by the standards of this particularly shadowy corner of the fashion world, seemed very much at home in the low light of this room. Riding wear, both for the rider and her human steed is here, another escape from a famous pop tour, and Steampunk frock coats and Dorian Gray suits can be glimpsed through the sepulchral light.

Perhaps his most spectacular work is that in the film world, and examples of the bizarre costumes from ‘Kika’, ‘The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and her Lover’ and ‘The Fifth Element’ vie for attention with clips from the original films, projected onto the opposite wall. His work on the latter, comic sci-fi film would be obvious even if it had gone uncredited, but that on the Peter Greenaway art house hit may not have. One slight grumble was the inclusion of the forced comedy of ‘Pret a Porter’, which looked, even in these short clips, like an over-extended French & Saunders sketch.

JPG’s work is often talked of as being controversial, but its telling that the only work here which the man himself had misgivings about showing, were the long coats and cartwheel hats inspired by Orthodox Jewish clothing.

Only one word can sum up this show; ’unmissable’, and my advice to my British and Irish readers is to get to Rotterdam by 12th May, as it will not be visiting the UK.

Scenester
16/3/13

Club To Catwalk; London Fashion in the 1980’s

Victoria & Albert Museum 13/7/13

An exhibition promising to chronicle the explosion of fashion in that most criticised and reviled of decades may be setting itself up for a mauling, but I’m happy to report that in amongst the once-only, unwearable and plain ridiculous fashions on display here, there is a lot to enjoy.

Divided between two floors of the V&A Dress Collection, the lower floor shows the work of prominent designers behind glass, with the top floor showing the work of the more experimental designers without this imposition.

If the words ‘80’s fashion’ conjures up big hair and shoulder pads in your mind, I’m happy to report that these stereotypical images are largely absent from the exhibition, at least in the ‘Dallas & Dynasty’ sense of the words.

Paul Smith’s black suit with plimsolls and paisley scarf may seem a little tame in these days of slobbing around in clothes barely fit for gardening, but were a long step away from tradition when introduced by the veteran designer. Wilder departures would follow, with Joe Casely-Hayford’s pull-up shirt, Margaret Howell’s pinstriped, knee-length gymslip dress, and the largely monochrome 18th Century styles that seemed to inform the early career of John Galliano.

Vivienne Westwood’s desert-wear with flying helmet is a characteristic piece of deliberate purpose misplacement, and her voluminous white T shirt with blatant reference to Warhol seems uncharacteristic of this most significant of designers.
I found the variations on a denim jacket theme tedious, except for Leigh Bowery’s striking, hairgrip-covered creation, perhaps an indication that in spite of the radical manifesto of many of these designers all had to recognise that certain styles had become virtually universal and would have to be embraced to ensure career longevity.

A fine photograph of Chris Sullivan and Christos Tolera in their Zoot Suits held out a promise of things to come, initially represented by a woman’s Zoot styled suit from 1994 by Betty Jackson, based on a 1983 pattern. Another seeming apport from a different era was the waisted Nehru suit in black and grey paisley, which would have looked far better if the ‘Savile Row on LSD’ tailoring promised by the designers had been actualised.

Upstairs, the story gets interesting, when your first sight is of a buff coloured Zoot Suit, with knee length jacket, numerous cuff buttons, two inch turn-ups to the mid-chest high trousers and shoulder-wide lapels. The beret may have been a little unnecessary, and the placing in amongst the deeply unimaginative ‘Hard Times’ collection of worn, torn and everyday denim was truly perverse.

Poster girl ‘Scarlet’, she of the Manhattan Skyline and Calvary Cross hairstyles are rendered in full colour, her crowning glory still outrageous after a three-decade long gap, and here, guarding the entrance to the ‘Blitz’ cube. Basically a short film packed with catwalk shows, hardcore clubbers and fashionistas in their 80’s prime, projected onto the multiple screens adorning the interior walls of this black cube, you’ll have to stop yourself wandering if you want to spot Scarlet, Boy George and Divine. The soundtrack to all this is surprisingly populist, with Yazoo’s ‘Only You’ slipping in without being spotted by the style police, and S’Express presumably time-travelling from the late to the early ‘80’s.

The inevitable ‘BOY’ T shirt made its appearance, in amongst the more street-style fashions, incorporating customised training shoes, studded baseball caps and bomber jackets that are more the uniform of US Hip Hop.

The appearance of fantasy elements in club wear arguably reached its zenith with Pam Hogg’s ‘angelic’ styles, of which her gold lame breastplate, leg straps and gladiatorial boots were perhaps the best example. Lloyd Johnson’s gold lame fringed biker jacket also turned up, customised with angel wings. The then young Gothic movement is best represented by the Victorian woman’s corseted dress, complete with bustle, a world away from the cartoonish goths who took over the style.
The full-on carnivalesque aspect of 80’s clublife, undoubtedly best represented by the late Leigh Bowery, is here in the form of leopard spot patterned figure hugging costume with similarly patterned platform boots. The 70’s cast a long shadow over the 80’s, it seems.

Melissa Caplan’s stunning ‘Celtic’ style dress, made for Toyah Wilcox, is one of the gems of his exhibition, totally uncharacteristic of its age and yet totally in keeping with the ‘try anything’ approach many designers had.
PX’s French Revolution styled suit, in close red and black stripes, triangular lapels and topped with a Tyrolean hat with rolled brim and Buccaneer shoes provided the perfect counterpoint to Vivienne Westwood’s raspberry red brocade pirate suit, bicorn on the head, with classic ‘millipede’ pattern scarf and the unique square-toed shoes. A black frilled shirt worn by Adam Ant, paired with leather trousers and knew length boots, the mannequin even sporting a nasal stripe, made this section of the exhibition the most evocative of them all.

The V&A have brought out a book to accompany this exhibition, and my initial sight of it pleased me, together with the welcome appearance of the ‘We Can Be Heroes’ 80’s club chronicle in the shop.

Scenester
14/7/13

The Summer Show: 20th Century Icons: Proud Gallery Chelsea 14th July-11th September 2011

In an age when the overpowering noun has become so generously used to cover folk who have become famous for a few seconds over the Warholian fifteen minutes, it’s a rare pleasure to be invited to a photo exhibition dealing with those who can make a more honest claim to that status. There are even some faces here that have taken the ultimate step to becoming an icon, and passed on.

If you haven’t paid a visit to the Chelsea base of Alex Proud’s galleries, I can recommend an early visit, as the exhibition will run only to 11th September. The space is packed over two floors with images of the great and the good of that turbulent century, and proved to me that familiarity with some of these images is no barrier to enjoyment of them, and even breeds contentment.

Picking our way up the King’s Road, Mme Scenester and I were immediately taken with the huge, stunning print of David Bowie’s ‘Aladdin Sane’ LP cover, the shot courtesy of Brian Duffy, whose work is the subject of a major retrospective in another gallery, at the moment. It’s hard to believe that nearly four decades have passed since this strange and captivating elemental image of Bowie was taken, at the absolute height of his creative powers. Pierre Laroche’s striking make-up, the red and blue lightning bolt flashing across Bowie’s equine features, and the tiny pool of water caught in Bowie’s clavicle is one of the most memorable of the glam era, and still possesses the power to startle with its explicit androgyny and implied magical origin.

Such an auspicious start to the evening could only bode well, as we drank in the earlier photographs in Proud’s ground floor. A hot afternoon at the beach, people lazing on deckchairs, and who should arrive but Frank Sinatra, suited and maybe looking a little heat-bothered as he passes by with a few members of his posse, attracting only the attention of a young girl, who stares in wonder at the middle-aged idol. A moody shot of The Beatles in the USA, pursued by innumerable press photographers offered us a glimpse of them hunched, oppressed by their ordeal.

A picture I never tire of is the Gered Mankowitz shot of Marianne Faithfull, leaning back in the plush horseshoe shaped seat in a brass and cut-glass palace of a pub, the back of her blonde head reflected in the mirror behind her. Young and beautiful, in patent leather T-bars and looking every inch the innocent/knowing creature she was so successfully marketed as. The reflection in the mirror of the man staring at her from the bar, and the stairs on the right leading to who knows where, filled with suggestion and intrigue, is surely one of the defining images of the 60’s.

Taking the stairs to the basement, we paused at the large print of the inside cover of The Jimi Hendrix Experience’s ‘Electric Ladyland’ LP, a collection of bored looking nude ladies staring out of the picture that says nothing about the music within. It sits in stark contrast to the huge colour image of Jimi in all his dandy finery, the embodiment of his fascinating, other-worldly music. Nearby, a monochrome shot of Jimi seated with Mick Jagger, Jimi’s huge hands cupped, his afro crowning him, and the open-mouthed awe Jagger appears to hold him in, is perhaps the exhibition’s most telling image.

A beautiful monochrome of Jacqueline Bisset had me dipping my feet into the ‘b/w is best’ camp, but I was quickly drawn back to the ‘colour reveals more’ school of thought on sight of the 1977 portrait of Faye Dunaway, reclining in front of a vast swimming pool, the ground strewn with newspapers, contemplating the Oscar statuette on the table in front of her. The old-fashioned Hollywood storytelling element of this shot seems incapable of dating, looking as fresh as when it was taken, and still provokes the viewer to guess Faye’s internal conversation.

Early images of the Rolling Stones, shot in the middle of a road, has them as little more than schoolboys, their short hair, weekend clothes and unpractised poses a million miles from their ‘Satanic Majesties’ LP cover, also present here.

This being the King’s Road, the punk persuasion would have to be well represented, and two bands so emblematic of that age are present in starkly contrasting styles. The Sex Pistols pictured in a back alley in Soho, is virtually the template for representing punk bands, but with John Lydon’s surprising powder blue drape jacket and very Teddy Boy-like hair cocking a snook at both Teds and the more stereotyped punks of the period. The Clash’s Joe Strummer is pictured like a self-conscious tribute to Gene Vincent, somewhat later than the ‘Punks vs Teds’ standoffs which provided the Sunday newspapers with so much to write about, and indeed improve upon.

I need hardly tell you how beautiful Debbie Harry looks in her shots, the one of her in a shroud-like head-cover, the setting a post-apocalyptic landscape, is one of the more unusual and haunting views of this universally-loved survivor of the punk era.
The shot that most surprised me was one which I didn’t immediately take notice of, when walking into the gallery. An alternative shot from the ‘Abbey Road’ LP cover set, the same zebra crossing, but this time with Paul wearing shoes.

If this hasn’t whetted your appetite for the rest of the exhibition, then you’re probably beyond hope. A short hop along the King’s Road and an hour to spare is all you need to see this whistle-stop tour of fame in the 20th Century, and those of with a few grand burning a hole in your pocket might even be tempted to buy one of these windows to another world.

Scenester
24/7/11

Lloyd Johnson: The Modern Outfitter Chelsea Space 24/1/12

Scenester is rarely driven to do anything by a sense of pure nostalgia, but this evening, he thought he’d make an exception. With Mme. Scenester at his side, your pal took a short tube trip from his vile chambers to Pimlico, to catch a sneak preview of this timely exhibition of the work of Lloyd Johnson, The Modern Outfitter.

Curated by Paul Gorman, whose style tome ‘The Look’ is reviewed elsewhere on Scenester’s website, this exhibition celebrates Lloyd’s long career in fashion, from the sixties right through to the nineties. Utilising printed material, a replica shop front, video, but first and foremost, the clothes themselves, your narrator was transported back to several fashion eras he remembers with affection, and several he barely remembers at all, in the space of a few footfalls.

The entrance lobby houses some of the earliest work available, with highly patterned tank tops and wildly printed shirts, all a long way from the often sterotyped fashions that feature in most look- backs to the fertile decades of the sixties and seventies. The ‘Soup Cans’ print shirt is so emblematic of the sixties; it ought to have a preservation order on it. The stunning ‘Sea Cruise’ jacket, from the ‘Johnson & Johnson’ era, with its multiple palm tree motifs, is a design classic of its own kind. The ’Top Hat’ print suit, covered in images of Fred & Ginger, is pictured worn by none other than Fred Astaire, in a shot from 1973. Such outsize motifs would later become much common in mainstream fashion, and usually on shirts, rather than suits. The shirts of this era threw all caution to the wind, with spaniel-ear collars, and shades and hues that guaranteed they would not be worn by the average fellow, even if he knew where to get them.

In this age of digital business cards and online shopping, it’s easy to forget that business was once a much more word-of-mouth, hands-on affair. The curling business cards for ‘Cockell & Johnson’, ‘Johnson & Johnson’ and’ Johnson’s‘, and the browning press clippings from long-folded newspapers were welcome survivors from an age of letter compositors and offset litho printers.

Elsewhere in the rooms, editions of ‘The Face’, ‘Ms London’, and others, show off Johnson’s increasingly broad range of clothes for the modern gent, and more rarely, lady. The statuesque figure of Siouxsie Sioux models the Japanese-influenced designs of the early 80’s whilst the youthful members of Madness walk low in box jackets and, what else, but baggy trousers.
Johnson’s enthusiasm to revisit classic designs is nowhere better demonstrated than with three stunning examples of Rock ‘n’ Roll revival clothing, set up as if for sale, in the turned wood and red plate glass reproduction shop front that adorns the main room. A T-yoke jacket in leather and hide, as worn by Jerry Lee Lewis, is set aside a riotous gold fringed leather jacket that both Lux Interior and Liza Minelli have sported, with an easy on the eye powder-blue 50’s suit making up the more restrained part of this trio. These striking outfits were displayed on vintage mannequins, with quiffs to match, as were some of the leathers Johnson’s made for the ladies, the figures complete with beehive hairdos.

High on the walls, we see a wide selection of Johnson’s imaginative take on the leather jacket, with layered leather shapes, often in contrasting colours, applied to the jacket’s body, and painted images from war comics and rock ‘n’ roll iconography all contributing to a near-unique garment for the biker with more than a touch of individuality. Many of the jackets had an aged look applied to them, to give the impression that they had been made in an earlier era, and so it was a double delight to see how well they are now ageing, this time for real.

The earthy, fetishistic imagery of Rock ‘n’ Roll pervaded much of the exhibition, with vintage record labels and totemic motorcycle manufacturers logos printed onto the backs of jackets, panels of animal print fun-fur inserted into leathers, bristling with studs and clanking with chain mail, and t-shirts heavy with all-over prints of skulls, guns, knives and grimly fiendish patterns, all paying tribute to the era that inspired them, but with added camp twists that were only for the brave.

Some readers may remember that 80’s pop royalty dressed from the store, from the Stray Cats in their peg trousers and short sleeved shirts, to Paul Young in his shiny blue suit to George Michael in that biker jacket. Perhaps you did too?
Lloyd Johnson: The Modern Outfitter runs at the Chelsea Space, 16 John Islip Street London SW1P 4JU until 3rd March 2012.

Scenester
29/1/12

HTTP://EYEPLUG.NET/MAGAZINE/?P=2956

Chernobyl

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Mon, 24 May 2021 16:54:05 GMT

Chernobyl

Chernobyl (2019) mini-series (Acorn Media International AB2026)

First screened in the USA in May to great acclaim, and in the UK on SkyTV shortly afterwards, this tough, uncompromising mini-series is now out on DVD and BluRay to watch at your own pace.

Depicting the terrible disaster in 1986 at the nuclear power plant at Chernobyl in what was then the Ukranian Soviet Socialist Republic, and based largely on personal memories of the people in the nearby city of Pripyat, ‘Chernobyl’ is a sensitively played human interest story that reflects the courage and determination of the emergency services, the intransigence and obstructiveness of the politicians, and the deadly impact this calamity had on the lives of ordinary people.

The sudden realisation by the engineers that the reactor is malfunctioning does not immediately sink in. Possessing such complete confidence in the station’s design and equipment, they delay switching the reactor off, even in the face of a report by a junior engineer that the core is on fire. Dismissed as impossible, the engineers lose precious seconds before the core explodes, which they also believe to be impossible.

Reactor engineers conclude that the problem is simply a fire on the roof, whereas the reactor core has thrown much of the highly irradiated graphite upward, onto the roof. Swift action by the firefighters, unaware of the true scale of the disaster, makes little difference, and the touching story of the young fire crew member, Vasily Ignatenko (Adam Nagaitis) is told with great sensitivity. Jessie Buckley’s strong performance as Vasily’s pregnant wife Lyudmilla is a stand-out, and her hope-filled story is picked up later on, in the end credits.

Jared Harris puts in a subtle performance as the shuffling, fearful Valery Legasov, deputy director of the Kurchatov Institute, brought in to oversee the clean-up operation. Detailed to accompany Council of Ministers Deputy Chairman Boris Shcherbina, an unbending party man played with considerable sang-froid by Stellan Skarsgard, to the disaster site, Legasov patiently explains how a nuclear reactor works to this desk pilot.

Legasov finds a spiky ally in the form of nuclear physicist Ulana Khomyuk (Emily Watson) a composite character to typify the many scientists who worked in life-threatening proximity to the disaster, to help deal with the situation. She goads Legasov into brave action, later in the story.

As the nuclear apocalypse unfolds, we see the sense-numbing inertia of the Russian communist bureaucracy, whilst emergency services fight like Trojans to try and contain the disastrous fallout. The story is not without a little grim humour, as a gang of miners from a nearby coal pit are ‘volunteered’ to dig a tunnel beneath the core, to create a burial chamber for the highly radioactive material. Faced with the Communist Party suit-on-legs Minister for Coal, the miners, led by Andrei Glukhov (Alex Ferns), pretend they’re not going to co-operate for as long as it takes for the minister to say ‘please’. Their key part in minimising the effects in this unfolding disaster is rightly commemorated in the scene where, unable to continue to work in their protective suits in the hellish tunnel, they work naked, like their mining ancestors did.

‘Chernobyl’ would not be complete without the courtroom drama, which in true bureaucratic fashion, seeks to apportion blame to those nearest to the action and to shield those who designed, and rouble-pinched, in the construction of the power plant. Garnering a staggering 19 nominations at the 71st Primetime Emmy Awards, ‘Chernobyl’ is a fine, powerful drama, a testament to the resilience of people up against seemingly insurmountable odds, and contains the ever-hopeful message that truth will not stay hidden forever.

Scenester

31/7/19

Buy now: https://www.acorndvd.com/advancedsearch/result/?q=chernobyl

Exhibitions-General

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Thu, 20 May 2021 16:10:43 GMT

Exhibitions

Robots, Top Secret, Into the Unknown

Robots – Science Museum

Currently occupying the first floor of London’s Science Museum, this broad ranging, detailed exhibition takes in our mechanical friends historic and modern, their place in popular culture and their real and useful applications.

The rather creepy, realistically writhing baby hanging in mid-air at the exhibition entrance partly prepares you for a little of the occasionally disturbing world of the mechanoids.

Perhaps the first image that comes to mind is the human-like machine of science fiction, who unquestioningly performs simple tasks to order; the essence of the Czech word ‘robota’, meaning ‘forced labour’. We discover that this particular story has far older roots, however.

The geared astrolabe, tentatively dated c 1300AD, does not merely reflect the ‘fixed’ stars of the heavens; it shows the motion of our moon with impressive accuracy. Just as carefully crafted is the ‘Mannikin’ (1582-1600), a skeletal suit of armour that could have been made for one of Dr Pretoius’ creations from the 1935 ‘Bride of Frankenstein’. The early clockmaker’s work is well represented, their art informing robotics as well as beautifying the houses of the rich and powerful of past ages.

Continuing the astronomical theme, the mainly 18th Century Sun, Earth and Moon, and full solar system orreries on display are beautifully engineered instruments, even though their scientific value may have gone a little unnoticed in the grand houses where they were often simply a distraction for honoured guests.

The famous Silver Swan (1773) of Bowes Museum, Barnard Castle takes pride of place, its highly detailed silver ‘feathers’ glittering, even though the silver bird is disappointingly, motionless. The video of the swan dipping its head to catch a ‘fish’, swimming about in the glittering glass water is no substitute.

‘The Draughtsman’ manikin is perhaps the most impressive piece of work here, capable of complex and beautiful calligraphy and artwork, and also the earliest true ‘humanoid’ robot displayed here. The detailed German automaton spider (c 1604) holds who knows what terrible secrets in its body, and the wooden crucifixion scene is a surprising confection from an age when the established churches may have regarded it as borderline blasphemous. The early anatomical figures are amazingly detailed, the flayed bodies in strident classical poses as they show off their skeletons, muscles or organs to the medical students of past centuries.

The sleek, art deco female robot from the set of ‘Metropolis’ guards the door to our next room, perhaps as a bridge between science and superstition; cineastes will recall that she is imbued with life by a scientist/magician, his right arm raised in a commanding gesture, electrified circles of light pulsing around her, a huge inverted pentagram emblazoned on the wall of his temple-like laboratory.

#The large collection of 50’s and 60’s toy robots and robot-based comic books will delight all those who remember them, and probably mystify anyone younger. The real prize in this room is, however, the life (and larger than life) size robots from the mid-20th Century. The gigantic, ‘RUR’ 1949 model, knight-like in his cylindrical helmet and pointed boots, looks as if he was invented to fight future medieval style wars, whereas the 1951 Italian model ,with ’Ferrari’ style eye covers shows himself a capable dancer, in a piece of charming vintage footage.

We move into more modern times in the next room, with a skeletal French robot from 2010/2016, which nevertheless shows itself capable of sophisticated movement. The problem of replicating human ambulation was always a bugbear for early manufacturers, but now seems to have been largely solved. The tendency to design creatures which resemble cartoon humans is prevalent here, with information ‘bots nodding their heads and batting their eyelashes, and the soft toy like creatures, aimed at teaching autistic children empathy. The news reading Japanese robot (2014), creepily resembling a young woman, complete with eye and mouth movements, is perhaps too close for comfort, and so we take refuge in the highly specialised mechanoids such as ‘Baxter’ whose huge arms lift heavy weights and remember how to do so, a stylish trumpet-playing ‘bot, and others which perform highly intricate manufacturing processes. The thought that they could one day perform surgery on us is something we might want to consider more carefully.

Recent innovations include ‘bots which can officiate at weddings, some which respond to voice commands for simple tasks and some which can teach children basic life skills, even languages. The idea of ‘bots which can detect the early onset of illnesses such as diabetes, show perhaps the greatest promise here, balanced against the possibility that such machines may put many people out of work. In our rapidly changing, shrinking world, we marvel at the highly intelligent machines on show here, but maybe we should take time to reflect on the fact that in our haste to make best use of our dwindling natural resources, the one thing we are not running out of is people.

Scenester

5/3/17

‘Robots’ runs at the Science Museum until 3/9/2017

http://www.sciencemuseum.org.uk/sitecore/content/scim/visitmuseum/plan_your_visit/exhibitions/robots

https://beta.sciencemuseum.org.uk/robots/

Top Secret: From Ciphers to Cyber Security (Science Museum)

Coinciding with the 100th anniversary of GCHQ (Government Communications Headquarters), the Science Museum’s latest exhibition traces the evolution of codes and ciphers back to the days of ancient Rome and right up to the present. Displaying items which have only recently been declassified back to the simplest, yet once highly secure methods of message concealment, this is a rare opportunity to see how our security services works, and how other folk of a more dubious moral standpoint operate.

The simple methods of enciphering in ancient times belie their effectiveness, as the message written across the spiral of paper wrapped around a baton can demonstrate; unless you have a baton of exactly the same diameter, you won’t uunderstand a word of the message. Of course, the ancients foresaw that their enemies would simply try batons of varying size before they got the right one, and so the ‘Caesar’ cipher was born, the straight forward letter substitution cipher which underpins all ciphers from then on.

In wartime, protecting messages becomes paramount, and battlefield telephone lines were easily tapped, so the use of ciphers, the more complicated the better, became an essential defensive weapon. The equally essential job of discovering and deciphering enemy messages was a job for the specialists, a seemingly intractable problem the exhibition returns to many times.

The First World War intelligence gathered from ‘triangulation’, that is, three or more radio receivers pooling their information on the enemy’s radio signals to pinpoint a Zeppelin’s position, has its roots in the audio listening stations of the past. There is an excellent account of an attack on a ‘Zepp’, in the form of a letter written by a boy in Cuffley, who witnessed the great flare as the gas filled balloon exploded, and later saw the terrible injuries the pilot suffered. This letter to his uncle, himself in hospital due to sustaining injuries in battle, is both detailed and moving.

The essential job performed by the cipher clerks at Bletchley during the Second World War cannot be stressed too highly, and the mocked-up sparse work rooms, and the relatively simple equipment they used at their desks when working with the then state of the art ‘Colossus’ computer, is well presented. Little remains of the innards of this mechanical computer besides a few ‘bombes’ (rotors), as it was broken up and recycled for use in other machines. The understandably few photographs taken of the workplace are highly evocative of the period, and their orderly appearance gives little hint of the pressure these people were under to deliver a plaintext message before the information in it was out of date.

The collection of cipher machines is impressive; an actual example of the three barrel Enigma machine, sat in its own glass cabinet that would doubtlessly shriek with alarm if anyone touched it, and its counterpart, the reverse engineered Enigma, made by analysing deciphered messages and somehow divining the machine’s fiendishly intricate workings. The even more secure Lorenz machine is also on display here, a much larger affair which survived for many years, systems intact, finally defeated by Colossus and smaller ‘Tunny’ machines. The British Typex machine remained unsolved until after the Second World War, and the Soviet Fialka (1958) a small and seemingly innocent looking Cyrillic typewriter of hammered steel, was in use throughout the Cold War, but remained unknown to the West at that time. The British Syko machine (1943), covered in coloured buttons, looks more steampunk than Second World War, and has not been displayed publicly before, and the Alvis was used extensively during the Cold War for communications within NATO. The smallest item here, an innocent looking metal box with two connection sockets, the Thamer PC encryption drive from the early 21st century, will remain classified until 2030.

The historic telephones are, if anything, even more impressive, especially when you know who used them. With a hint of Dad’s Army nostalgia, Sir Winston Churchill’s ‘secraphone’ is here, a bruiser of a receiver with a ‘Normal’ and ‘Secret’ button which leave no room for doubt as to their use. The Secret red telephone, used by US President John F. Kennedy to speak to UK PM Harold MacMillan, looks anonymous enough, but utilised the ‘Pickwick’ system to encrypt the calls. The plate bears the charmingly old fashioned legend, ‘Speech is secure only when lamp glows’. HM The Queen’s telephone from 1995, a big, multi buttoned plastic affair, works only when a key is inserted, helpfully tagged ‘HM000001 ED1 Soc/000 HM The Queen’, as if anyone else would dare use it. It comes as a surprise, even though it shouldn’t be, that Her Majesty is the longest standing ‘customer’ of GCHQ.

A well laid out display about Helen and Peter Kroger (Lona and Morris Cohen) (1961) who spent many years divulging defence secrets to the USSR from a secret radio transmitter in their anonymous house in Ruislip is worth more than one visit. Their spying equipment, hidden in talcum powder tins, cigarette lighters and compartments in their home, is ingeniously designed, and the microdots, visible only when using the high power microscope, are particularly impressive. Their nefarious activities almost certainly helped the Soviet Union develop nuclear submarines, and they were honoured in the USSR on postage stamps. Their twenty year sentence was commuted when they were exchanged for British spy Gerald Brooke. Incredibly, some of the files associated with this affair are still classified.

The legendary Zircon spy satellite scandal of 1986 is laid out once more, with long term whistle blower Duncan Campbell making much of the fact that the UK satellite was built on public money and partly intended for spying on UK citizens. His TV programme ‘Secret Society’ did not get shown as intended, although some secret screenings did take place, and the Xeroxed flyers are evocative of the pre-digital communication age we lived in then. In this age of intrusive social media while our streets bristle with surveillance cameras owned by private as well as public interests, the issue of a single spy satellite may seem a small gripe, but it was a major scandal in its day. The search warrant for Campbell’s flat is a stark reminder of how much power the State has, and will use, when it feels threatened.

The giants of the code and cipher world, Alan Turing (recently honoured for his work during the Second World War) and Gordon Welchman have their moment here, as do many others whose parts were smaller but no less essential.
The exhibition ties up with audio commentaries from present day GCHQ staff who talk about their work in counter-terrorism, and the wide-ranging language skills which are a basic for this work. A display about today’s digital connectivity and the twin dangers of computer hacking and destructive viruses make plain the real threats inherent in the digital world, and finally the future, in the shape of quantum computers, is touched on.

‘Top Secret’ runs to February 2020 but you should get to the Science Museum as soon as possible to see it. I shall say this only once; the location of the exhibition within the museum is, appropriately enough, not easy to find.

Scenester
7/8/19

Visit;
https://www.sciencemuseum.org.uk/see-and-do/top-secret

Into The Unknown: A Journey through Science Fiction Barbican

Chronicling a subject like science fiction from its origins to the present day is ambitious, but the Barbican has managed to put together an eclectic exhibition of the history of this exciting mainstream genre. From its roots in the Victorian age, perhaps inspired by real-life explorers sailing off to far flung parts of the globe, encountering strange new plants, animals and people, sci-fi arrived just in time for a boom in printed fiction and an expanding audience, ready to devour it. With well-chosen examples of artwork, books, photographs, models, film props, screenings of film and TV shows, and multi-media interactive shows, visitors will be overwhelmed by the choice on offer.

Science fiction’s origins are well represented by precious, early copies of many classic books of the genre, and accompanied by modern, highly detailed models, such as the Nautilus submarine craft from Jules Verne’s ’20,000 Leagues Under The Sea’, and an extract from ‘Journey to the Centre of the Earth’, still impressive more than 58 years after its release. The animated Gulliver’s Travels (1939) shows how well these classic stories can be adapted to suit a very young audience, without losing any of their grown-up messages. The hothouse atmosphere of these proto-sci fi stories is well realised and shows the breadth of the genre, with books by the genre’s first superstar writer, HG Wells, alongside only slightly later work by HP Lovecraft, whose star would take considerably longer to rise. The artwork on the book covers is often equal to the stories within (Lovecraft’s ‘The Call of Cthulhu’ and Wells’ ‘The Island of Dr Moreau’).

Popular newspapers were keen to take up the form to keep readers interested in their content. The 1901 newspaper advertisement for a humble café shares page space with a depiction of the alarming prospect of a robotic barber, together with fanciful flying carriages and pleasure cruises to the sea bed.

Anyone who grew up with Ray Harryhausen’s extravagant fantasy films can’t fail to be impressed at seeing the highly detailed latex models of prehistoric creatures, and the appearance of a 1741 copy of Niels Klim’s satirical ‘Underground Travels’ is as impressive for its survival, as well as its content.

For sheer spectacle, the projection of those elegant spacecraft in ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ onto high mounted screens takes the prize. To the strains of Strauss waltzes, this film, almost half a century old, still takes the breath away, with its depiction of elegant, manta ray-like ships and wheel-shaped satellites gently spinning in space.

The eyeball- frying visuals that accompany Sun Ra’s crazed, avant-garde jazz-funk music bring a dose of the defiantly unconventional here, and anyone who isn’t familiar with Afro Futurism should welcome it into their lives before it shoots off into another galaxy and leaves us behind.

The common film depiction of aliens as an obscenely ugly, homogenous, trigger-happy imperial lynch mob is not neglected here, with a set of the ‘Mars Attacks’ bubble gum cards, which inspired the Tim Burton film of the same name. Card titles like ‘Burning Flesh’ and ‘High Voltage Execution’ and aliens carrying off the women folk for who-knows-what evil purpose, was just too much for the concerned parents of the early 1960’s. After impassioned protests, these cards were withdrawn by the Topps Company, but not before a generation of kids had thrilled to the torture and mayhem of an imagined Martian invasion of earth.

The more sophisticated fantasies of Swiss artist H.R. Giger are represented here by his metal and leather ‘bone’ chair, a fiendishly designed throne for the megalomaniac in your life, and masks from ‘Alien’, arguably the greatest of all sci-fi films. His leonine faced, hooded eyed, dreadlocked female mask is beautiful and terrifying, as well as being suspiciously fashionable for the period. The breadth of imagination which went into every aspect of this film is simply staggering, and represented well here, with many pictures of the vault-like alien egg repository, close ups of the chilling reptilian creature itself, and John Hurt’s distressed space suit, with the helmet visor still intact. Thankfully no alien creatures are scurrying about the Barbican, looking for a new host.

The strong yet svelte curves of TV’s ‘Land of the Giants’ ‘Spindrift’ spaceship is a standout exhibit, a highly imaginative vision of a luxury interplanetary craft that treats its passengers to a visit to a dangerous, Swiftian world. The interactive rocket launching game may not light the fires of the hard core gamers out there, but its visuals are eye-popping enough for the rest of us.

The disturbing ‘Brave New Worlds’ section is by far the most interesting, a dragnet of fearful, dystopian visions of the future, from the bleak ‘Silent Running’ and ‘THX1138’ to the totalitarian nightmare of ‘Fahrenheit 451’. The highly sophisticated animation of ‘Ghost in the Shell’ competes with the bizarre live action of ‘Brazil’ and ‘High Rise’ in their respective views of futuristic urban life. The beautifully presented air trip through contemporary Tokyo in Pierre Jean Giloux’s ‘Metabolism: Invisible Cities’ is shown here in pin sharp high definition, a plug-in city, realised and improved upon.

A fair selection of sci-fi exhibits from television are welcome; Lost In Space’s top-heavy robot, inspiring some visitors to flail their own arms about, warning ‘Danger, Danger, Will Robinson’ and the gigantic, armoured knight from ‘RUR’ tower above us. ‘Dr Who’ is present and correct, with on-screen episodes seemingly beamed through a wormhole in space, where some of the ‘lost’ (wiped) episodes may still be accessed. It is arguable that the subject of sci-fi on TV deserves an exhibition on its own, and who knows what we may see before too long?

‘Into The Unknown’ runs at the Barbican, London until 1st September 2017

Scenester
25/6/17

https://www.barbican.org.uk/intotheunknown/

You Say You Want A Revolution: Rebels & Records 1966-1970
(Victoria & Albert Museum, London)

I admit to having had small feelings of trepidation about this exhibition, as there do seem to have been a lot dealing with the same time period in recent years, and some have definitely disappointed me. I’m still weighing up the pros and cons of this one, so maybe that’s a good sign.

The first thing which strikes you is the sheer size of the collection. Whole rooms dealing with fashion, politics, festivals, movers and shakers, and all sound tracked via a headset which plays something appropriate as you approach the exhibits. Those of you who attended the recent David Bowie exhibition at the V&A will probably have an opinion about these little walkie-but-no-talkie packs, which are not entirely reliable, but that’s a minor grumble. The choice of illustrative music tends to be popular (if not downright predictable) 60’s ditties, seemingly programmed by a recent convert to the music of that decade.

Starting five years outside of the ’66 timeframe, the ever popular subject of the Profumo Affair is trotted out once more, with a copy of the famous Arne Jacobsen ‘Ant’ chair in amongst pictures of Christine Keeler and repro newspaper headlines. The toppling of a government is a dramatic way to start this show, but I tend to the view that the Profumo Affair was where the 1950’s ended, and when the 60’s really began. By the look of the V&A’s judicious use of the Philip Larkin quote, (Sexual intercourse began in 1963…’) they’re of much the same mind.

It’s impossible to understate the importance of The Beatles, and happily, the V&A acknowledged this, managing to secure the loan of George and John’s ‘Pepper’ finery, along with the crowd scene from the famous cover, courtesy of Peter Blake. John’s far more conventional suit from an earlier incarnation of the Fab Four is on show also, by way of complete contrast. Album sleeves from artists ranging from the globally famous to the obscure are pinned up on the walls, like old school record shops, before such sleeves were imprisoned behind glass for security’s sake, or sealed inside cling film.

Covering the style of the 1960’s could easily be the subject of an exhibition on its own, and so the V&A appear to have restricted their view to a few key looks. The mini skirt makes its inevitable appearance, courtesy of a life cast of Lesley Hornby a.k.a. Twiggy, as does Sandie Shaw’s Native American inspired dress by Jeff Banks, again utilising a mannequin clearly based on Sandie. The multi striped jumbo cord suit is perhaps the best of the men’s collection, which could not have come from any era other than the psychedelic end of the 60’s, but a few late 60’s outfits aside, the exhibition barely scratches the surface of men’s fashion, disappointingly.

By far the most powerful statement here is the political overview, taking in the terrible progress of the war in Vietnam and the civil unrest in France. Few who recall that era will have felt unaffected by the nightly news stories about the carnage in Vietnam, and the terrible scenes on the streets of Paris that threatened the French establishment. That old phantom Adolf Hitler materialises both in his own unsightly form, and as a mask worn by a cartoon image of French President Charles De Gaulle, from a poster of the times. The nascent feminist and gay liberation movements are represented here, in stark contrast to the scant media attention they received at the time.

A cheekily designed ‘Festival’ space forms one of the exhibition’s more eccentric highlights, with artificial grass on the floor, a gallery of hippie clothing worn by the period’s luminaries, and a gigantic screen projecting the late, great Jimi Hendrix wrenching the American national anthem from the battered body of his guitar. Some of Jimi’s many wrecked, cigarette burned, or else garishly painted guitars are on display, together with a jacket that almost requires sunglasses be worn to examine it. A scattering of youths sprawled on the floor and colours, colours everywhere; all that’s missing is a visit from the Drug Squad.

I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy this exhibition, but it feels like a lot I have attended over the years; all telling the same, often highly American-fixated story of that astounding and significant decade, but not really examining with a critical eye, nor making any attempt to put it into perspective.

You Say You Want A Revolution: Rebels & Records 1966-1970 runs to 26 February

Scenester
10/2/16

When Britain Went Pop! : Christie’s, Mayfair

Exhibited together for the first time, and in some cases, seen for the first time ever, is an eclectic collection of some of Britain’s finest and most significant Pop Art pieces over three floors of Christie’s palatial New Bond Street premises.
Following a roughly chronological thread, we open with a colourful pick and mix of Sir Eduardo Paolozzi’s consumerist collages, their hues still vibrant, the world they depict forever optimistic, prosperous and attainable, even if the future they foresaw didn’t quite arrive. Their typefaces, lines and styles are evidence that these collages are over fifty years old, but the themes of ambition and excitement are timeless. One of Paolozzi’s human/machine hybrids towers over his corner, like a Long Man on an English hillside.

The sideshow shooting gallery artwork, synonymous with Sir Peter Blake, have found equal favour with other artists, their simple and direct lines pushing emotional buttons and satisfying primal urges. Blake’s ‘Locker’, a simple wooden affair, plastered all over with pictures of Brigitte Bardot, has become a time capsule of the golden age of mass-consumerism and glamour photography. BB’s face turns up numerous times in this exhibition, tribute to her lasting appeal and her success in replacing the older Hollywood stars who so fascinated the cinema goers of the mid-20th Century.

David Hockney’s early works are as daring and direct as he is today, but many miles away from the blue horizons and poolside scenes from his wildly successful years. Misshapen figures, locked together in a sexual embrace, or two men in the half light of a room, show little of Hockney’s talent for mixing realism and dream-world in an accessible way.
Viewing Blake’s ubiquitous Sgt Pepper artwork, complete with cut-outs is a joyful but oddly jarring experience, so used are we to seeing the ‘People We Like’ shot from the ‘Sgt Pepper’ cover in every media shop and every living room, like a modern ‘Whistler’s Mother’.

Paolozzi’s ‘Four Towers’ and others of his industrial/classical structures turn up to present their still mysterious faces to the viewer, and look as if about to generate energy in their inner recesses.

The welcome appearance of Pauline Boty’s portrait ‘Celia Birtwell and her heroes’ is a stand out, her subject standing strong and half undressed surrounded by those she admired, and perhaps admired her.

A haunting note seems to sound at the appearance of Colin Self’s ‘Two Waiting Women and the B-58 Nuclear Bomber’, still a chilling work at five decades’ distance, and a prescient reminder of our age of insecurity, calling from the Cold War period.

The basement studio plays a continuous tape of ‘Pop Goes The Easel’, from an age when television took an interest in the fine arts. A small room nearby is well worth the visit, for Patrick Caulfield’s ‘Portrait of Juan Gris’ alone, it’s clear line cartoon-style and block yellow background, perhaps a look forward to the Post-Modernism of the 80’s.

Pop’s most contentious works are kept in the magnificently high ceilinged upper room, approached from a long flight of elegantly curving stairs. Alun Jones’ fetishized images of women, one supporting a glass topped table, another curled up under a cushion, one other holding an invisible tray aloft, but all in tall, tight boots, one laced from toe to upper thigh and in the briefest of leather cat suits, retain their power to tease and tempt, and most definitely to provoke-for good or ill. His paintings of ladies legs’, covered in the sheerest silk stockings, their limbs wrinkling the cloth of their dresses are more conventionally sexy, and all contribute to the over simplistic charge that they denigrate women. Their improbable figures, the gravity defying bust of the standing model and their wasp waists are all fetishized today by pop stars queueing up to bare the flesh and wear highly sexually charged outfits for an audience barely out of their teens. Jones’ figures seem more adult orientated here, jokey even, although not altogether harmless.

When Britain Went Pop! Runs to 24th November 2013

Scenester

24/10/13

Beatles to Bowie Exhibition National Portrait Gallery 21.11.09

With a free afternoon and £11.00 burning a hole in each of our pockets, Mlle. Scenester and I took us off to the NPG to wallow in the sights and sounds of that most magical of decades, but found it wanting.

The rooms are usefully arranged in year order and do their best to chronicle the major players of each year, with at least one case of ephemera to lighten up the banks of photos that make up the major part of the exhibition. It was here that we saw our first warning beacon, that this installation may not be as wide-ranging or involved as we would like it. A collection of sheet music and front of house sets featuring such luminaries, as Cliff Richard, Helen Shapiro and Joe Brown were welcome, but not particularly rare examples of memorabilia. Similarly with the annuals dedicated to these early pop stars, all of which regularly turn up in charity shops all over Britain, such was the huge numbers they were printed (and bought) in.

LP covers from that golden era also fail to impress, so well known have they become; I tend to feel that covers are totally unsuitable for display anyway; they belong in your collection, their disk contents preferably being played, rather than hanging on a wall.
‘But,’ I hear you say, ‘enough of this, what about the pictures?’ and I will describe them, but first, another moan. I think we all agree that photographic images of that wonderful epoch are not nearly as numerous as we would like. Necessarily, the monochrome images outnumber the colour, but why were there so very few colour pictures at this exhibition? At the risk of boring everyone rigid, I will repeat my assertion that it is through the colour images that we see the era more potently, and their rich hues are more evocative, more beautiful and more important than the mere recording of line and form in monochrome.

A better head than mine once compared life in the late 50’s / early 60’s to; ‘living your life in black and white for so long, and then, suddenly, colour came’ The sheer rarity of colour images at this exhibition marred its impact, even its legitimacy, as an historical record of the most exciting period of British social history. I’m not saying that the monochrome images lacked interest or relevance or detail, just that a stratum of truth was missing, and I feel that the resources available to our major museums could have corrected this.

An indication of how little times change was given by a passing lady, who, examining a classic shot of ‘Steampacket’, lined up in a row, took one glance at Rod Stewart, resplendent in his suit and bouffant, and remarked to her friend;

‘Look, it’s Rod Stewart in a girl’s haircut’.

Due to the inclusion of many images from the pages of ‘Salut Les Copains’ a French pop magazine that may not be totally familiar to everyone reading this article, we saw some beautiful and pleasing shots of 60’s popettes like Sandie Shaw and Marianne Faithfull, and many of the Rolling Stones at their bad-boy best. There was a particularly charming pair of shots of Sandie and Marianne, each doing a jig-saw of the other’s LP cover. This room was a comparatively good part of the exhibition, considerably well complemented by manikins of Sandie, Twiggy and Patti Boyd modelling Biba and Mary Quant originals (I thought your ears would prick up there!).

Some stunning images of Jimi Hendrix, in classic romantic garb, Julie Driscoll, her sculpted head, her skin deathly white, shot from above, eyes closed like some Renaissance Christ Child, along with many shots of the Fab Four, and others, unseen for decades, did not save this event, sadly. When reproduction newspapers are shown in place of originals, when over-familiar Bailey and Donovan images dominate the walls like an outbreak of religious icons, the viewer is left with a feeling that this vast space could have been used to house a truly stunning and memorable collection, after inevitable and totally justified extensive research.

No solace was to be found in the shop, stuffed to the gills with the usual mod tat, (£15.00 for a knitted tie, anyone?) The readers of this column will probably not even bother to buy the book even when it languishes in the remainder shops. An afternoon’s trawl through your friends’ personal archives would turn up more interesting material.

Scenester
1/12/09

Exhibitions-Art

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Thu, 20 May 2021 16:10:37 GMT

Exhibitions-Art; Warhol Is Here, Postodernism, Loud Flash, Subversive Desin, Pauline Boty; Artist and Woman, The Quay Brothers Universum, Richard Hamilton, Someday, All the Adults Will Die, Eduardo Paolozzi.

‘Warhol Is Here’
Bexhill De La Warr Pavilion
Saturday 24/9/11

You might be thinking, as I was, that almost everything that could be said about Andy Warhol, has been said, many times over, leaving us with little need to repeat still further. The fifteen minutes of fame he predicted would be everyone’s lot seems to have been multiplied many times for the saying’s originator.

From his beginnings as a graphic artist, window dresser and advertiser, to his creation of an alt-celebrity club for fellow artists, to his acceptance by the smart set and his tragically early demise, all have been noted, annotated and endlessly repeated, like so many of his silk screen paintings, that we are left wondering what else could possibly be left to discuss. A selective overview of Warhol’s popular works is one answer, and ‘Warhol Is Here’ on display free at Bexhill’s stunning architectural show space, the De La Warr Pavilion, is well worth the visit.

Taking place on three levels of the crotchet-shaped building, the main hall guides us through works by genre, starting with the earliest, where Warhol incorporated rubber-stamp images to create pictures, often getting friends to finish what he had begun. The floral and angelic themes made these composite pictures resemble Victorian ‘scraps’. His shoe and hand fetishes were apparent even then, with the familiar heel-to-toe silhouette of a ladies’ shoe and the caressing hand touching a kitten turning up like advertising images, something that would later earn him a living as an illustrator.

This comforting world of leisure and pleasure quickly gives way to more in/famous images as we see the news-reportage image of the Birmingham, Alabama race riots, a police alsatian biting the trouser of a fleeing man as police officers, billy-clubs at the ready, wait to pounce.

Aside, a stack of white boxes advertising pan-shining pads await unpacking, and ahead, the ‘Marilyn Monroe’ diptych, on loan from the Tate, hangs defiantly staring out at us. These repeated, slightly offset images (colour on the left, black & white on the right) have become even better known than the original photographic image they were based on, and still have the power to fascinate as they seem to suggest a side to the star her studio would never have promoted.

Separate, differently coloured images of Chairman Mao-Tse Tung have his genial grin as the focus, at odds with his administration’s brutal treatment of any degree of dissent from its people. Warhol’s indiscriminate fascination with celebrity, however garnered, is well represented by just these two, even though many more adorn the walls.

Warhol’s love of Americana is unavoidable and central to his work, both its positive, all-inclusive side (brand-name canned soup, a single can, rather than one repeated on an industrial scale) and its dark side (electric chair, the variously coloured images chilling in their intensity).

His more human side is apparent in the nudes, among them a beautiful Venus rising from her shell, slim bodied and demure, and the highly charged homoeroticism of the male nudes. Warhol’s self portraits in conventional clothes and a series of blond wigs raise questions which he usually answered, if at all, in dull monosyllables.

Warhol’s tendency to ‘direct ‘ paintings, at least as often as painting them himself, throws up the question of authenticity, probably none more so than the films his name was applied to. There is no doubt about the publicity this name generated for them though, and some beautifully preserved examples of the posters are here, largely in German language format. They are possibly the most telling of exhibits, as the films tend to follow popular themes of the 60’s & 70’s, Chelsea Girls (basically a portmanteau film) Blue Movie (anything but) and Blood for Dracula (horror, in 3-D, another gimmick) but with the art house twists that major studios were shy of. The posters advertising shows at the Fillmore Ballroom and the Scene offer a rare glimpse into the world of the much talked about but rarely seen Velvet Underground, Warhol protégés and Factory house band who would slowly acquire a cult following and later still, worldwide fame.

The smaller, first floor room is made suitably claustrophobic with ‘Cow’ wallpaper, paranoid maps of Cold War-era USSR and its reputed missile stations, huge dollar signs and double-take faces, a nightmare in silk screen, reflecting the darkest recesses of Warhol’s psyche.

Perhaps in tribute to the multi media shows the Velvet Underground played, the second floor has a round table of cassette tapes, loaded with interviews with various people who knew Warhol, among them Brigid Polk/Brigid Berlin, one of the Factory’s long-term habitués. Apart from winning this writer’s personal seal of approval for classic technology (you know, the sort that has four buttons which do what they say on them), they open a window on as many opinions as there are speakers, sometimes more than one.

This exhibition is free and those of you who are new to either Warhol or Bexhill’s magnificent De La Warr Pavilion have until 26th February 2012 to see it.

Scenester
24/9/11

Also published here: http://eyeplug.net/magazine/?p=2706

Postmodernism: Style and Subversion 1970-1990 at the V &A

From the film of a flaming chair with integral steps which greets you at the door, to the final infiltration of the mainstream by this most individual of styles, the visitor is presented with images which manage to surprise, provoke, even repel, all at the same time.

From first stirrings, when the clean lines of modernism were still doing very well thank-you, the new style began its subtle infiltration, chiefly in the world of architecture, where its effect would last for far longer than its descendants in the popular arts. The stark, simple lines of Le Corbusier, a dominant figure in cityscape architecture, found challengers with their classically influenced but strangely fresh concepts. The broken pediment, arguably its most familiar trope, would find itself atop so many buildings of the period.

The clear lines of an American suburban house were here subtly softened with a split roof and atrium, a symbol so emblematic of the 1980’s. Far more radical were the assumed contents of these homes, collected here in profusion. Prototype insectile vacuum cleaners in pastel colours, home wares whose form did not so much follow function as defy it, their designs often impractical but intriguing and exhibitable.

Those of you who read magazines like ‘The Face’ in this period will instantly recognise the totemic display cupboard by Memphis Group, itself seemingly designed specially to show off the strange, attenuated objects here collected together. My feelings about this era’s design are much the same as when it was in full swing; having one of these objects was impossible in a ‘normal’ home, you had to fill your home with them, or they would not look right.

The tasteful, but no less striking designs of the Alessi company may represent some kind of high spot of the style, with the bird-whistle kettle and hanging man sugar canister becoming two of their most familiar creations. A high stool with three legs, each of a completely different design, a confident emblem, seems to have proved unrepeatable in any subsequent age. Given the style’s central plank was the appropriation of the past, it seems almost a judgement that the style has failed to flower again.

That most of these wares were aimed at the then popular ‘yuppie’ social style, which has also wilted on the vine, may go some way to explaining its lack of longevity.

Continuing our journey through the decade that good taste pretended to be friends with, we are confronted with a huge screen showing that perennial favourite sci-fi film, Ridley Scott’s ‘Blade Runner’. A detective story set in the then-distant year of 2019, involving artificial human beings; the film wisely avoided over-design of sets and props, and does not seem to have dated as badly as most of the 1980’s cinematic output.
The bag lady-like woman’s dress, by Vivienne Westwood would still stun at thirty paces if presented on a catwalk today, and the paving-slab record deck brought an element of fun to the proceedings. I felt it amusing that, in the age of the download, the humble audio record and record deck have outlived their 1980’s designed would-be successors, the CD and player.

The lofty beginnings of the style soon found their natural home in the popular arts, and whilst it may take someone with a long memory and a particular taste to recall the space-age art deco costumes of Klaus Nomi and the carnivalesque characters assumed by Leigh Bowery, most of us remember the deconstructed tartan suit worn by Annie Lennox in her Eurythmics days, her hair a work of art in itself, and one of the few lasting tropes of the 1980’s.

The photorealism of Jean-Paul Goude, who captured countless images of then little known disco singer Grace Jones, carefully sliced them into slivers and re-assembled them to form the swan-necked, improbably slender figure of super-Grace, placing her into bodily attitudes that defied both nature and belief. All this was tempered with a clip of Devo’s ‘Whip It’, the band in black socks. shorts and roll neck jumpers, red ziggurat-stepped ‘power helmets’ atop their heads, performing their jokey psychobabble hit, to the complete befuddlement of the MTV generation who made up their audience.

A collection of the era’s finest LP covers also becomes a collection of the era’s finest music, with examples by XTC and Joy Division/New Order, the latter of whose music and attendant promotional videos seemed to sum up the style far more succinctly than any of the other works on display here.

Postmodernism: Style and Subversion 1970-1990 runs until 15th January 2012 at London’s V&A.

Scenester
27/11/11

Loud Flash: British Punk on Paper
Haunch of Venison, 6 Burlington Gardens, London W1S
24/9-30/10/10

The punk grapevine is still alive and well and transmitting its message to everyone at the former Museum of Mankind, in Burlington Gardens, London. Renamed the Haunch of Venison, which I thought was a pub in St. James’s, the old museum building provides an excellent exhibition space, and its proximity to the home of tailoring, Savile Row, makes an appropriate counterpoint to the theme of the show.

The lure of seeing a large collection of original punk posters from the incendiary late 1970’s was enough for me, and the promise of some more germane period material made attendance an immediate priority. With rock music ‘antiques’ such as festival posters and photographic portraits now reaching stratospheric prices, it made a welcome change not to see tour itineraries in hardwood frames with a four-figure price tag on them. Instead, the walls of HoV are emblazoned with original, creased, tattered and torn posters, flyers and newspapers, some bearing signs of having been ripped off the wall whilst the paste was still wet.

Curator Tony Mott has assembled a staggering collection of material, mainly gig and tour posters, from the luminaries of that particularly volatile and surprisingly varied movement; like The Sex Pistols, The Clash, Subway Sect, X Ray Spex and Penetration, and even The Police. The age of paintshop graphics and 3D animation was a long way away when these came off the printer’s rollers. The prevailing aesthetic of punk was ‘trash’ culture, with its ‘ransom-note’ lettering, photocopier-quality band pictures and bold flashes of contrasting day-glow colour enlivening many of these eye-catchers, fly-posted on an urban brick wall near you almost 35 years ago.

The passage of time has not, however, eroded any of punk’s power to shock. The art students among you may draw a comparison with the anti-art movement of ‘Dada’, that surfaced shortly after, and as a reaction to the Great War 1914-1918, whose sworn duty was to shock, offend and disgust. Punk did a lot of that, and with design giants like Jamie Reid providing the essential graphics to complement, and indeed, intensify the impact of the music, we may well have found punk’s unexpected ancestor in immediate post-war Europe.

I cannot pretend that it was for purely aesthetic reasons that I attended this exhibition. Nostalgia may largely be a waste of time, but in this case, it is an educational use of time, and one that does not, like mere nostalgia, leave you with a warm, self-satisfied glow, but more an unsettling feeling of approaching danger. It begins as soon as you walk in, and although it forms only a small part of the exhibition, evokes a nervousness that continues well beyond the main collection and long after you have left the hall. The material I am writing about is the political content from the atrociously misgoverned 1970’s, and it isn’t pretty.

Much of the material on display was, we learned, given out on the streets and the football terraces of London, and it must have been a brave and selfless soul who kept it this long. Alongside the cheap and shoddy Jubilee plastic carriers and table napkins, printed with inaccurate Union Flags, and pictures of HRH in her civvies and wearing a modest crown, there are the small, privately printed tracts of organisations like the National Front, the British Movement and their offshoots. Pocket sized and bearing arcane symbols like the encircled cross, their covers told stories that are enough to freeze the blood (or boil it) and the sheer hatefulness of the attitudes expressed in them is staggering. National newspapers of the period were well represented, and some of their sentiments were not so far away from those in the fascist papers, using racial slurs and epithets that would not be acceptable in today’s papers or workplace, but all common currency in that far distant decade.

The opposition to all this xenophobic immigrant bashing was happily on display too, in the shape of the many organisations that marched along with the Anti-Nazi League. Their poster for the Victoria Park concert is known by a whole generation who hit adolescence in the late 1970’s, still sticking to the punk aesthetic of simple design and few colours, it belied the sheer diversity of the music that greeted the marchers after their protest. Reggae and blessed-out lovers rock played alongside snotty punk, and my companion of the afternoon fondly recalled many details about the gig as soon as the ‘arrow’ symbol of the A.N.L. came into view. ‘Disunited front’ would not, I think, be an inaccurate or insulting term to describe the organisation, encompassing as it did, socialists, anarchists, liberals and many other colours of the political sample book, and there was no denying they knew how to hold a party.

Taking in the gig posters, the names of many bands I had forgotten suddenly leapt out of my memory, transporting me back to the smaller North East England gigs I attended then. I would guess it’s not everyone who remembers the Suburban Studs, but east to imagine a group of lads today, calling themselves by the name without the irony that must surely have informed the original band’s choice of moniker? Nor would the average punter recall with much clarity the Desperate Bicycles. Far more familiar would probably be The Lurkers (who did) The Unwanted (who were) and The Damned (who probably will be).
Spotting a flyer for Adam and the Ants’ ‘Ants Invasion’ Tour, I was instantly back in Middlesbrough’s Rock Garden, where I paid just 50p to see them. Stretching up to read the date of their North East appearance, the flyer said 31st October – presumably 1979 – and I recalled Adam’s relentless dancing, the band’s assured backing, and one of the best small gigs I ever attended.

The often deliberately sloppy and pointedly cheap appearance of posters, flyers and fanzines were an essential part of the experience and appeal of punk, with many on display here being apparently hand drawn, stencilled and then photocopied surreptitiously on the works copier, staple holes visible. It was the fanzines that really tugged my heartstrings, however. Without them, punk may well have still broken through to the mainstream, but I am sure it would have been the poorer without them. These harshly coloured, hastily typed, faux-tabloid affairs, sold for paltry sums at and outside gigs, were the lifeblood of a movement largely ignored or vilified by the mainstream press and only taken up by the music press when already popular. Some graduated to a more ‘professional’ looking product, others, like Mark Perry’s seminal ‘Sniffin’ Glue’, clung to its roots for grim death. Wasn’t that the point, though?

I cannot say how long I spent at this exhibition, or how much longer I could have spent, had not the place been closing, but I do recall going to a Soho cafe for a cup of coffee to calm me down. To all former and present punks out there, you don’t need me to tell you that you should get yourself down to this exhibition sharpish – it closes at the end of October. To everyone else, do likewise, but be warned; punk was born under a bad sign, and with unlucky conjunctions in its heavens. Approach with care, especially the political stuff.

Scenester

5/10/10

Subversive Design: Brighton Museum & Art Gallery

Q: Can design turn the world upside down?

A: Done properly, I’m sure it can, is the only apt response, and Brighton Museum & Art Gallery’s latest show, ‘Subversive Design’ showcases the work of many who have done their damnedest to achieve it. Encompassing street and household furniture, wall coverings, objets d’art and clothing and using a bewildering range of materials and a sly, transgressive sense of humour, there is scarcely a piece on display here that will fail to affect the viewer in some unexpected way.

From wallpaper, randomly decorated with spiders, to line drawings of 1950’s ‘cutie-pie’ models, and one with subtly hidden stereotypical American blacks and Jews in an otherwise innocent pattern, to Belle Époque furniture with the appearance of sinuously patterned wood, but in reality, a metal frame in cunning disguise. A soberly coloured hooded robe, decked with contraceptive pills in their celluloid capsules, stands shrouded, its back to us, like a penitent.

A clear plastic revolver concealing a cartoonish flower recalls the hippies and their ‘flowers for rifles’ shenanigans, but is beautifully counterpointed by the goat’s hoof shoes with revolvers for stiletto heels, in turn trumped by shoes with stiletto knives shaped to the back of the vertiginous heels.

A cuddly toy sofa, reminiscent of the work of the recently exhibited Jeff Koons, appears more sinister than comfy, and the gigantic mirror, framed by ceramic flowers, their petals bearing images of ecstatic porn stars’ faces, is a creeping shock to trap the vain among you.

Spill jugs from centuries ago are a reminder that our recent past does not have the monopoly on subversion, their social redeeming value highly relevant today.

The work of radical popular designer Philippe Starcke is well represented here, with his asymmetrical ‘aggressive plant’ chair, impossible to sit or stay upon, and his emblematic, bullet shaped kettle with its tapered shaft, simultaneously a spout, an inlet and a handle. Both pieces have dated badly with their obtuse 80’s lines, but perhaps that was the point.

Ceramicist-of-the-moment Grayson Perry is here, both in his own playful work, and in another’s image of him, in characteristic little-girl drag, in shiny pottery that could have come from some parallel world’s version of the Franklin Mint.

The mellifluous, overbearing and strangely humorous work of the late performance artist Leigh Bowery dazzles in its corner, one, a dress with, appropriately enough, a jigsaw puzzle print, the other, a costume somewhere between Mexican wrestler and human cannonball, other alien-world regalia on a video screen to the side of the display.

Barbra Hulanicki’s recent fascination with the image of the human skull appears in a huge wall hanging, the colour of living flesh, and secreted in the pattern on a pair of wellington boots, available in one of this country’s most popular supermarkets. They are perhaps all the more sardonic for being the humblest sort of garments, seen by millions of shoppers every day.

By far the most shockingly effective are the notorious, punk-era clothes designed by Vivienne Westwood, in all their muslin-cloth, d-ringed, ripped ‘n’ torn glory. Their juxtaposition with a modern version of the ‘God Save The Queen’ t-shirt, of William and Kate Windsor, their eyes obscured by ransom note lettering, is evidence of the lasting effect of this most powerful of stylistic cults. The ‘Boy’ version of the notorious ‘GSTQ’ t-shirt still delivers a punch, in spite of being a copy on a plain t-shirt, but it’s the original works, the shamelessly plagiarised image of Mickey and Minnie Mouse in sexual congress, and the hated swastika, emblazoned in colours that would not have won the approval of Herr Hitler, across a ragged muslin shirt, that catch hold and won’t let go.

Subversive Design runs to 9th March 2014.

Scenester

16.10.13

‘Pauline Boty; Pop Artist and Woman’ at Pallant House, Chichester Sat 14/12/13

It seems scarcely believable that this is the first exhibition of the work of British pop artist Pauline Boty, or the ‘Wimbledon Bardot’, as she was dubbed. Her tragically young death at the age of 28 in 1966 may have denied her the recognition she would surely have got had she survived to middle age; a sad state of affairs that this exhibition seeks to put right.
Her early self portrait (1953) reveals a girl who was not afraid to give herself a careworn, severe face, a high fringe atop huge, water filled eyes, and a bulbous nose, all seeming to suggest an inner confidence about, if not actual satisfaction with, her looks.

Boty’s surreal take on pop art informs many of her collages; the manicured female hand, the rose and the secateurs turning up so often and in so many sexually charged scenarios, as to give Dr Freud enough material for a thesis. The untitled 1959 work, here called ‘Soap Inventor’, has the familiar hand gently cradling a bar of Pear’s soap in mid-air, as if a heavenly gift to the picture of the orchestra below. The disturbing logic of dreams is explored in the untitled work of 1960/61, in which two children, Victorian ‘scraps’, are attacked by hand held secateurs, recalling The Red Queen’s parrot cry, ‘Off With Their Heads!’

To say that Pauline Boty depicted the feminine principle is stating the obvious. It would not do her work justice, filled as it is with the beauty of the gentle curve and the joyous celebration of youthful female existence, but the anxieties of her gender and the place of women in a world which whilst rapidly changing, was not changing rapidly enough for some.

An untitled collage of 1960/61 beautifully expresses the dilemma of choice in the form of four otherwise identical female faces, each one with different coloured hair, appropriated from a hair dye magazine commercial. A statuesque female figure dominates the scene, completed by the image of a man’s hand gently holding a baby’s, accidentally predicting the ‘new man’ posters of the 1980’s by almost twenty five years.

All this would appear to place Boty firmly within the decidedly un-British surrealist camp, but it is for her Pop Art that she is be remembered, and the collection here shows her a major talent.

’My Colouring Book’, a huge canvas work, quotes turgid teenage song lyrics, full of longing, jealousy and revenge, on a background of emotionally charged abstracts, revenge fantasies populating the margins. Her designs in collage for the stage set of Jean Genet’s ‘The Balcony’ are as challenging as the notorious play itself. A fascistic drawing room, draped in bloodshed red, images of war and revolution affixed to the pillars, with a large cross on a red and white sunburst flag is perhaps the most chilling piece of work on display here. The brothel Madame’s boudoir, all lace and plush and crude glamour, shows little in the way of a seductive atmosphere, more a tender trap with a poisonous spider at its heart.

‘Countdown to violence’ renders the terrible events of the assassination of John F Kennedy in dark cartoon form. The hand, rose and secateurs return, this time engulfed in a funeral pyre, whilst the police drag off the killer by his neck, and JFK’s casket is draped in the American flag, each scene picked out in muted colour or black and white, amid a garish background.
Boty’s design for the Royal Court’s programme for ‘The Knack’ has essential actress Rita Tushingham’s frame on the cover, her body parts indicated by the pointing fingers of disembodied hands, a jokey foretaste of the taboo-baiting play. Also on display, original copies of Sunday supplement magazines that bear witness to Boty being feted during her lifetime, even if mainstream fame eluded her.

Her design for a poster advertising Ken Tynan’s notorious revue, ‘Oh! Calcutta!’ simply entitled ‘BUM’, matches any comparable Pop Art work, a lady’s bottom framed by multi coloured bands, circus poster-like, and the very English slang term in huge letters across the – bottom – of the picture.

‘54321’ is a glorious celebration of youthful energy, filled with the exuberance of the now-legendary ‘Ready Steady Go!’ pop music TV show, which opened with the Manfred Mann ditty of the title. A dark haired girl in stylish sunglasses, her mouth agape in something approaching sexual ecstasy, perfectly captures the mood of liberation and joy this show invoked. It is thought that Pauline Boty attended, and danced, on the first edition of this well-loved show.

‘It’s a Man’s World II’ depicts the young female form as seen in both high art and low porn, the central image of a finely toned female body, head obscured, Venus-like, contrasts with the coy looks of the other models, some revealing little, some a lot, all in a highly critical look at men’s desires and fantasies.

Boty’s best known work is, perhaps, ‘The Only Blonde In The World’, her slightly unnerving portrait of Marilyn Monroe. Obviously someone she obviously felt a strong affinity with, the picture shows Marilyn trotting down a street in a white flapper dress, a stole around her shoulders. That Marilyn appears to be unsteady, perhaps about to fall off her high heels, and the fuzzy texture of the paint, gives the picture an animation that the single ‘Some Like It Hot’ film still it comes from, never could.

Marilyn’s tragic death provoked Boty to paint ‘Colour Her Gone’, an apparently religious themed picture, Marilyn’s smiling, feline face turned upward in an expression of transcendent joy, surrounded by Pauline’s favourite flowers, roses.
Perhaps the finest work on display here is, unfortunately, in photographic form only, the lost ‘Scandal 63’ a portrait of Christine Keeler, nude in the famous ‘Ant’ chair. The background is passionate red, and Christine looks out, not forwards, the remaining members of this particular Dramatis Personae, Stephen Ward, Johnny Edgecombe, John Profumo etc., painted as black and white cartoons over the top. Shocking in its boldness, the picture‘s current whereabouts is not known.

‘Pauline Boty: Pop Artist & Woman runs to 9th February 2014

Scenester
18/12/13

The Quay Brothers’ ‘Universum’ at The Eye, Amsterdam

Just finished on 9th March, this career retrospective of the Quay Brothers brought together a huge and varied amount of material chronicling their lives as artists, animators and, arguably even thaumaturgists.

To anyone unfamiliar with the identical twins’ oeuvre, their style is bewilderingly dark, their characters inhabiting a world that reeks of magic, putrefaction and unnatural birth, conforming to no conventional structure. Their few style contemporaries are almost all Eastern European; among the better known, legendary Polish film maker Walerian Borowczyk and Czech animator and film maker Jan Svankmajer (‘The Alchemist of Prague’), yet the Brothers are U.S. born and have long lived and worked in the U.K.

Housed in Amsterdam’s newest museum, an architectural marvel known as The Eye, and just a free ferry-ride from Centraal Station, the stunning vista across T’Ij in no way prepares the visitor for the dark forces inherent in ‘Universum’. In some ways, an encyclopaedia of curious objects, and sepulchral images from who knows what era captured on film, no-one is likely to come out of the exhibition without an opinion, or a feeling that they probably should not have been looking in the first place.

First film to materialise is ‘Institute Benjamenta, or This Dream People Call Human Life’(1995), with its locked doors, grey, musty rooms and a governess-like figure hovering about the place, a ghost story without a ghost? The use of live actors is about the only conventional content here, and uncharacteristic of the Brothers, who often use puppets for their stark, alienating films. One such brilliantly realised work is ‘The Cabinet of Jan Svankmajer’(1984), in which a teacher, with an opened book for a brain and geometric dividers for hands, instructs his pupil, a doll whose head’s contents are literally re-arranged by the teacher, as he is instructed in the arts of divination.

Cabinets featuring scenery and characters from their animations are on display, a flat inspection window on the front, and a distorting lens on the side, all the better to capture the warped atmosphere of their dream-like images. A long corridor, its peeling, crumbling walls, is seen later, with the addition of tree roots growing into the structure, a scene of fantastic neglect.

That such fetid imagination would ever find itself in any popular or conventional art form is a surprise, none more so the unfortunately rejected BBC2 ‘ident’ sequence ‘The Calligrapher’ (1991), in which our artist, half man, half work-table, draws an entire room for him to practice his art, with frills and swirls from his pen taking on a solid identity as he conjures them into life.

Their commission from the Wellcome Institute to film a part of their extensive collection of medical artefacts is both fascinating and repellent. Original and some say, used, chastity belts, anatomical models in wax, ivory and even human tissue, and perhaps most significantly, a pair of preserved human twins in utero is here on display, maybe as an explanation? The film these exhibits gave rise to is the starkly realised ‘The Phantom Museum’ (2003).

A collection of artworks by mental patients are also shown here, their influence on the Brothers highly noticeable in the letters written by a woman in hospital to her husband in the most miniscule handwriting. The Polish author and artist Bruno Schulz, also a major influence, inspired what is perhaps their best known film, ‘Street of Crocodiles’ (1986), a doll’s unsettling journey through dank rooms, lined with marked drawers filled with strange and sometimes mystical objects.

Maybe like me, you didn’t casually decide to visit ’Universum’; you may have felt that you were beckoned.

Scenester

6/3/14

Richard Hamilton at Tate Modern

From his earliest days as an artist, Richard Hamilton proved himself an innovator and provocateur and this major exhibition at the Tate Modern, the former Bankside power station, is a highly appropriate venue for so incendiary a talent.

Hamilton’s deep interest in the most basic of art, the atomic models and cell-like structures of his line paintings appear a dry run for his later, abstract works incorporating the lines, but not the whole form of the human body, and that of American cars. His grid pattern board seems to predict the ‘head of nails’ that made ‘Hellraiser’ such a memorable and terrifying film, and his endless collages of objects of desire, their style now purloined by the advertising industry which inspired them, are now so emblematic of the consumer age that possibly their critical message may have been lost.

The 1950’s Britain that Hamilton lived in was hungry for change, for more luxury, more speed and more consumer choice, then seen just out of reach in the glorious technicolour of American films at the local picture house. Whether the British consumer boom was such a satisfactory event is beyond the scope of this article, but not Hamilton’s critical eye, as we shall appreciate later in the exhibition

Works such as the multimedia ‘Fun House’, produced in collaboration with John McHale, took the basic elements of entertainment, such as blown-up Hollywood stills, optical illusions and speakers, projectors and mikes, and formed a structure the visitor could walk through and enjoy, even express an opinion on via the microphone. This exploded, angular but nevertheless totally accessible work is a surprisingly early addition to the Pop Art canon, from 1956.

The relationship between the worlds of politics and popular entertainment, no less intertwined then as now, is epitomised in the shocking collage of a cowboy passionately kissing Robert Kennedy, Moses presenting the Ten Commandments, all the while sex, drama, and emotion stupefying played out to a jukebox soundtrack.

The embrace of popular culture by Hamilton’s generation of artists was not simply a fashionable pose, but a genuine love for the new medium they found available to them. A wall of polaroid pictures of Hamilton’s many friends, acquaintances and fellow artists, every one different, shows how a simple, ready to use, instant picture camera is no less an art ‘instrument’ than a conventional camera, but possibly even a better one.

Hamilton’s ‘Interiors’ are some of the more disquieting exhibits, the design for a Berlin hotel lobby so antiseptic, you feel uncomfortable walking around the mock-up, in case your form disturbs the rigidity of the straight lines that make it up. It feels difficult to suppress the thought that this empty lobby is a chilling update of ‘Just what is it that makes today’s homes so different, so appealing?’, without any of the creature comforts that made that collage’s room so desirable.

Hamilton’s interest in industrial design often resulted in some surprising and subtle appropriations of familiar logos, surely in some silent acknowledgement of his admiration? The ‘Richard’ ashtray, perfectly imitating the ‘Ricard’ pastis colours and logo features here, and the humorous illustration of a sleek Braun toaster, the logo altered to ‘Brown’, to give the reader the correct pronunciation, looks more design model than painting.

The many versions of ‘Swingeing London’ hanging here are both informative and disturbing to look at, the image of the handcuffed figures in the car, their faces hidden, although known throughout the world as Robert Fraser and Mick Jagger, under arrest for no good reason. Counterpointed by a collage of newspaper reports from the period, summarising the trial in tabloid outrage, prurient interest in the circumstances of the arrest and grainy pictures of The Rolling Stones in their gloriously arrogant dandy period, this exhibit is brilliantly realised and expertly added to.

1984’s ‘Four Rooms’ appeared as if a comment on his earlier works concerning life lived in idealised interiors, but this time, its chilling message had no surface gloss to sell it to an eager, unsuspecting public. ‘Treatment Room’ appears like a particularly alienating waiting room, with a slab table in the middle lacking only a patient, a television set hanging over it, projecting the image of former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher in a classical interior. No sound comes from the set. A Sword of Damocles hanging over the nation’s fragile head.

Politics features heavily in the later works, his image of former Prime Minister Tony Blair, attired like some Hollywood cowboy , and his remembrance of the IRA prisoners ‘dirty protest’ in his image of cell-life.

Hamilton’s ‘Interiors and Angels’ saw a return to a favourite theme, and using photographic technique to produce life-size images of the rooms in his Oxfordshire home and their inhabitants. Beautiful women, sometimes simply motionless in these largely empty spaces, sometimes speaking on the telephone are his angels, instantly recalling the lyrics of ‘In Every Dream Home A Heartache’, written by former pupil Bryan Ferry.

‘Richard Hamilton’ is at Tate Modern until 26th May.

Scenester

18/5/14

Someday All The Adults Will Die! Punk Graphics 1971-1984
Hayward Gallery London

Even after the thirty five years that have elapsed since that summer of malcontent, and punk’s subsequent elevation to one of the UK’s more written-about cultural phenomena, I still find it a little incongruous that an art house would host an exhibition about this singularly delinquent cult. Yet, the pristine white walls of the Hayward Gallery, set in the brutalist concrete South Bank complex seems the most appropriate place in London to hold this comprehensive collection of punk ephemera.

Stretching back in time further than the year-zero of myth (when the two sevens clash!) to the first use of ‘punk’ as a cultural term in the late 60’s/early 70’s, and taking in far more than just a few favoured fanzines and 7”singles, we are presented with a fascinating, international, superbly documented history of the punk years from its gestation to its late and still-snotty middle age. Original clothing, ranging from the ubiquitous Ramones T-Shirt to the rent-boy camp of Let it Rock, has its own display frame, as befit these works of art, some now priced like rare paintings.

The pivotal importance of the Xerox copying machine to many young fanzine producers is given its rightful tribute, with an impressive collection of small circulation publications and posters that were such an important part of this scene. Some deliberately crude in their execution, with hand written content, some neat and tidy with typed text throughout, all bear witness to the infectious enthusiasm of a young and combative life style that was alternately being ignored or demonised in the conventional media. The size of the fanzine collection is matched by the 7” singles on display, almost every one bearing a picture sleeve, the artwork sometimes highly professional, sometimes deliberately sloppy, but all laying down a manifesto. From bands like The Jam and The Sex Pistols, who would be playing Town Halls up and down the country and would become household names, to those who never made it beyond their fetid bedrooms, these singles are punk’s dark talismans. Someone chose to spend their pennies on them, when the same amount of cash could have bought the latest by some over-hyped guitar god or temporarily famous balladeer. Instead, they chose punk’s angry thunder.

From touchstones to perhaps punk’s true legacy, the Do It Yourself ethic, is illustrated in almost every exhibit here, from the fanzines surreptitiously printed on the works copier, the self-financed singles, and the home copied cassettes of unsigned bands’ music, all gloriously free from the interference of commercial pressures. You cannot fail to be impressed by the sheer tenacity of the bands, putting their music directly into the hands of their potential audience in the pre-digital age of the personal, word of mouth contact.

The music that can be heard emerging from its glory hole has been chosen with care to take in familiar bands as well as some of the hidden gems of the era, all in lo-fi, although I would have preferred to hear them on a typical portable player of the late 70’s, for maximum authenticity.

That punk was an enclosed, incestuous world is not an argument I’d want to waste my time trying to refute. Major record companies found punk, in its early days, difficult to stomach, and their attempts to tame it would result in the ridiculous, never used poster hanging on the wall of this gallery, the Sex Pistols’ name sprayed in candy colour on a squeaky clean tiled wall. It could be the cover image for a disco single, or a particularly louche advertisement for furniture polish.

For all the bluster about anarchy within punk, the political side of the movement was often confused and misdirected, if not downright dubious. One band with a very clear political agenda are covered well here, the overtly anarchist group, Crass. Their age-old dogged determination to promote an anti-system of living is documented with innumerable fanzines and posters, some their own creation, others by those who followed in their wake.

With contributors like Jamie Reid, Liner Sterling and Penny Rimbaud, among others, I would have expected nothing less than a comprehensive history of punk, and in this, the exhibition succeeds completely.

‘Someday All the Adults Will Die!’ runs to 4th November and is free.

Scenester
10/10/12

Eduardo Paolozzi: Collaging Culture
Pallant House Gallery, Chichester

Eduardo Paolozzi’s rhomboid sculptures have become so familiar to us; it’s a rare pleasure to see his other, more lyrical work side by side with his human/machine hybrids, in this excellent retrospective at Chichester’s Pallant House Gallery. This Grade One-Listed Queen Anne house is something of a hybrid itself, with its totally modern extension, in which this show is comfortably housed.

Paolozzi’s early works, of war damaged books and found media, although informed by the towering figure of Picasso, depart from his many distinct styles often enough to show that Paolozzi was not a copyist, even in his artist’s formative years. The collaging of machine illustrations onto classical figures from art books appears an early sign of his lifelong obsession with such science fiction hybrids, later manifesting themselves in sculpture. His robust, muscular bronze of a ferocious charging bull realises a dangerous creature of sinews straining under fetid flesh, irregular bone structure and asymmetrical horns. His squatting ‘Large Frog’ bronze, its deep, ovoid body and car grill mouth, suggest an arrogant immovability in this most agile of creatures.

An early review of his work, here shown in its original newspaper clipping form, shows a characteristic mistrust of ‘modern art’, disbelief at the rather modest price tag attached to his early Cork Gallery pieces, together with a hint of anti-Scottish, anti-foreigner feeling, thrown in.

His love of American comics and magazines, and his appropriation of their visual content, are of course not unique to him, but his care and respect for object placement is. These bright, highly-charged collages of smiling girls enticing with their promises of fruit juice, the endless supply of vibrantly-coloured canned food, and cars showing an obvious homage to science fiction in their design, form an ever-tempting world of modernity, glamour and plenty. We can only wonder at what kind of career Paolozzi could have made in advertising, or rather, whether his personal feelings would have allowed him to enter into that rarefied world.

His love of primitive art and figures informs the greater part of his work, most evident in his simplified human head sculptures, but also in his bold textile prints. Fashionable in the 1950’s, such prints were created by many other artists as well, but few of them will be so sought after now. Perhaps a few readers have a tiled coffee table, or a Horrockses dress at home, bearing one of these prints? The inclusion of his ‘Mr Cruikshank’, a bronze of a crash test dummy head, seems to sum up in one, easy image, Paolozzi’s favourite tropes of modernity, primitivism and simplification with a direct relevance to the everyday world.

Such commissions must have been very welcome to the young artist, who continued to receive and carry them out, throughout his long career. The puzzle-like designs for Rosenthal’s fine home wares, the tiled murals for London’s Tottenham Court Road Underground Station, the ‘Newton’ sculpture currently dominating the front of The British Library in London’s Euston, all bear his unmistakeable stamp of an imposing, machine-age presence.

Paolozzi has often been tagged a ‘father of British pop art’, which, whilst it is undeniable, by no means encapsulates his oeuvre. His precise bands of colour, ricocheting lines and terminal blocks turn his ‘As Is When’ series into living, moving machines, several of which appear to anticipate post-modernism by almost twenty years. Their lively colours, ‘art deco’ lines and attention seeking designs are reminiscent of the pinball machines and shooting galleries of the seaside pier and fairground that provided the much needed colour and excitement in the immediate post war years the artist began his career in.

His self ‘portrait’ as a machine/human is perhaps a self-referential joke, but we are instantly reminded of his gargantuan ‘Newton’, which stands testament outside The British Library in London’s Euston, to Paolozzi being as much architect as artist.

Eduardo Paolozzi: Collaging Culture runs to 13th October 2013.

Scenester
8/9/13

DVD & BluRay reviews; General

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Mon, 17 May 2021 15:40:35 GMT

Woodfall, Dementia, Walkabout, Legend of the Witches/Secret Rites, How I Won The War, It Couldn't Happen Here, The Caretaker, Stranger In he House, Red, White and Zero, Rogue Male, Spike Milligan's Q Vol 1, Made, Janis; Little Girl Blue, Robbery, The Man With The Golden Arm, West 11, Baby Love, Penny Points To Paradise/Let's Go Crazy, Whicker's World and Whicker's New World.

Woodfall; A Revolution in British Cinema DVD/ BluRay BFI BFI V2113

Out now, a nine disk set of what some would argue are the most significant films ever made in Britain, with an 80-page booklet to further enlighten even the most obsessive fan.

Woodfall Films was formed in the late 1950’s by theatre director Tony Richardson, firebrand author and screenwriter John Osborne and Canadian theatre and film producer Harry Saltzman. Arriving at a time when UK films were still following a pattern laid down in the 1940’s, of costume dramas and light, middle class comedies, Woodfall sought to drag this moribund industry into the new egalitarian age. To depict life as it was lived by the majority of people, to inject honesty and vigour into the British film industry, were tasks they largely succeeded in.

British cinema audiences must have been ill-prepared for ‘Look Back in Anger’ (1959), Woodfall’s debut film, adapted by Nigel Kneale from John Osborne’s play of the same name. It is a classic example of what would become known as a ‘kitchen sink drama’, with its inhabitants stuck in an emotional pressure-cooker, with its claustrophobic, slum-like setting, and the malign and subtle external forces working on them.

The dysfunctional marriage between angry, disappointed market trader and occasional jazz musician Jimmy Porter (Richard Burton, looking a little too old to play the role) and vulnerable, prim Alison (Mary Ure) is superbly realised, their miserable flat the scene for some hourly eruption of rage from Jimmy, and inevitably directed at Alison. Alternately playing gooseberry or shield is Jimmy’s business partner Cliff (Gary Raymond), doing his best to calm things, at least in his own timid view. That Jimmy’s outbursts are almost entirely based on his perception of Alison as a snooty product of the Britain he despises, is obvious from the start. That he is a man who has tried and failed to better himself, with his university education and musically ambitions, where Alison has been born to expect far more of life, is undoubtedly the cause of his disorder. With a passionate moment, there is a brief lull in the antagonistic atmosphere, and Alison announces she has invited an actress friend to stay, while she sorts herself out somewhere permanent to stay. Claire Blooms’ portrayal of Helena Charles has all the hauteur of a minor noble exiled to some foreign backwater, and her entry into the Porter household could not have been worse timed, or she, a worse choice.

Aside from the principals, the story hosts a fine supporting cast of characters, from the kindly Ma Tanner (Edith Evans) who set up Jimmy with his stall and whom he treats with the utmost kindness and respect, to the shabby, sarcastic market inspector, Hurst (Donald Pleasance, in his element) and many more. Modern audiences may feel amazement that Alison tolerates Jimmy for so long, or much sympathy for Jimmy’s lack of ambition, but there’s no denying the power of the words and the mastery of character in the performances. The bar had been raised, possibly too high for anyone else to equal.

‘The Entertainer’ (1960) saw Woodfall in fighting mood once more, this time challenging the homely, traditional image of the seaside entertainer, in a play adapted by Nigel Kneale and John Osborne, from Osborne’s play. Laurence Olivier takes the part of Archie Rice, a third rate comedian/song and dance man in a theatre that has seen better days, and a show that probably hasn’t. Archie’s front of house notices refer to him as ‘TV and radio’s cheekiest comic’, but as a passing punter murmurs, they have never seen him on the television. His happy go lucky stage persona is in stark contrast to his home life, which is chaotic and deeply dysfunctional. As an undischarged bankrupt, his much put upon alcoholic wife Phoebe (Brenda de Banzie) signs all the cheques and Archie is constantly being pursued by unpaid creditors, cast members and officers of the Inland Revenue. Accepting work as the host of a beauty contest in the run-down English resort he lives and works in, he runs across a young contestant, Tina Lapford (Shirley Ann Field) who, apart from being pretty, is moderately talented, and, perhaps most attractive of all, has well-off parents keen to get her into the entertainment industry. Archie falls in love with her, telling her he’ll get her into his new show, this being the one he’s just thought of, and so Archie’s troubles begin afresh. Performances are broad and the story line sentimental, but is infused with world weariness, self-interest and the feeling of hopes dashed time and time again

If the British cinema audience’s appetite had been whetted for the reality-based story, it would be satiated by the ‘warts and all’ life portrayed in ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning’ (1960), written by Alan Sillitoe, and based on his own novel of the same name. This story of the young, brash and cynical Arthur Seaton (Albert Finney, perfectly cast), a lathe operator in a factory, is perhaps the best realised of the kitchen sink (workbench?) dramas. Turning out small bicycle parts in a sweaty, dingy factory for a pittance and resenting every minute of it, Arthur feels nothing but contempt for his fellow wage slaves and the foremen and the overseers and the managers who make up this unwilling work force. His weekends are spent boozing, brawling and bedding any woman he can, and he lives for it.

Albert’s precarious life takes in an affair with an older workmate’s wife, Doreen (Shirley Anne Field) and Brenda(Rachel Roberts) who is more the conventional sort of woman, and who aspires to be married one day. After Brenda becomes pregnant by Arthur, she seeks an abortion - illegal in Britain at the time - via the gin and hot bath method, which naturally doesn’t work. She decides to keep the baby, and face the consequences. Meanwhile, Arthur suffers a gang beating for his affair with Doreen. All this is presented without sentiment, completely matter of fact, and highly believeable.

If ever a film honestly captured the moods, the thoughts, the attitudes and the feelings of working class men, this is it. Albert Finney swaggers in his weekend suit and his brylcreemed hair, spitting out his words after he’s chewed them into submission. A tour de force that won three Academy Awards and gained three more nominations, it was a huge success at the box office, and deservedly so. It shows its fists, and demands to be watched.

‘A Taste of Honey’ (1961) is a fondly remembered, staggering piece of work, filmed within three years of its first staging at the Theatre Royal Stratford East by the hugely influential Theatre Workshop and based upon Shelagh Delaney’s novel, written at the tender age of 19. Tackling subjects that may no longer be taboo, but are certainly still controversial, the bravery of the writer cannot be underestimated. Jo (Rita Tushingham, in her screen debut) is a shy schoolgirl who lives with her neglectful, slatternly mother Helen (Dora Bryan, in fine, catty form) in a succession of dreary rooms, until she decides to move out and get a job, eschewing any further education. She runs across a young black merchant mariner, Jimmy (Paul Danquah) with whom she falls in love, and later, gets pregnant by. The sensitive handling of this situation in the film belies society’s intolerant attitude to such girls at the time. Jo is no victim, however, and decides to set up home, alone at first, but later, shared with her new friend, Geoffrey (Murray Melvin). The matter of fact portrayal of a gay man in a film of this period is a marvel, and Geoffrey’s devotion to Jo is brought out well. Punctuated by children’s ‘cycle of life’ songs, and using the industrial/urban landscape as a character in itself, it’s churlish to mention the fairy tale romance of Jo and Jimmy, and the arrival of her knight errant, Geoffrey. As a debut role for a young actress, it’s remarkable enough, and the supporting characters are well chosen from both plucky young players to experienced old hands. All this, and a triple taboo-breaking storyline of inter-racial love, young, unmarried pregnancy and homosexuality.

‘The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner’ (1962) is a challenging story of a young man, Colin Smith (Tom Courtenay), sent to a juvenile detention centre where the regime seeks to inculcate the virtues of hard work and discipline into their young charges. From the opening shots of Colin running alone along a country lane, his character is laid bare, a rudderless youth who could, and indeed should be saved.

We see scenes of his previous life with his family in an ageing industrial town, living in a pokey prefab hut with his sick father and disinterested mother. Dismissed with a paltry amount of insurance money by the firm with whom he put in long years of service, Colin’s father has a terminal illness and Colin’s mother indulges in an affair, spending a sizeable amount of the money. Colin’s life is blighted by unemployment and interspersed with bouts of petty crime in the company of his pal, Mike (James Bolam). Their theft of £70 from a cash box in a local bakery proves his undoing, and his idiotic hiding place is the prefab’s drainpipe is easily spotted by the local Police.

Tom Courtenay skilfully works the classic demeanour of the young offender; the slouching shoulders and the ever-present hurt look on his gaunt face. A hint of his possible salvation comes in the form of a proposed sports day between the institution and a respected public school. Colin is chosen to represent the centre in a long distance race, his opposite number being the predictably well-mannered Gunthorpe (James Fox). Issues of class, upbringing, crime and punishment and the burden of trying to make your way in a world where the odds are stacked against you from day one are played out masterfully in this piece written by firebrand Alan Sillitoe, from his own short story.

That Woodfall should choose to release a period romp at this point must have come as a surprise to most, but ‘Tom Jones’ (1963) has more going for it than just a routine yarn. Both the original and the director’s cut appear in this set. Adapted for screen by John Osborne from the Henry Fielding classic, and filmed in glorious colour, hot property Albert Finney stars as the foundling/protagonist/fool. Adopted by the wealthy Squire Allworthy after banishing his unmarried parents, his barber Mr Partridge and servant Jenny Jones; if Tom he feels the stigma of illegitimacy, he certainly doesn’t show it, careering through life, hunting, fighting and bedding young ladies in a frenzy of activity. His ambition to marry the aristocratic Sophie Western (Susannah York) seems impossible given his base-born origin, and Squire Western’s (Hugh Griffith) plans to get her married off to Squire Allworthy’s virtuous but dull son Blifil (David Warner), do not appeal to Sophie in any way.

A deceit by Blifil, helped by two others, sees Tom banished by his adopted father, and so off he goes on horseback, to seek his fortune elsewhere. Tom’s travels around the country get him into all manner of trouble, mistaken identity and sword fights, all of which are well staged and would raise a chuckle in anyone who’s sentient. This rollicking four Academy Award-winning (and six nomination gainer) behemoth earned its costs back many times over, and does not lack social realism, albeit from the 18th Century, but the atmosphere of a desperate search for a proper hit film does not sit well with Woodfall’s otherwise well-realised idealism.

‘The Girl With the Green Eyes’ (1964) sees Rita Tushingham back, in Edna O’Brien’s adaptation of her own novel,’ The Lonely Girl’. Kate (Rita Tushingham) plays a young, shy girl from a rural background that moves to Dublin and shares a room with her school friend, the raucous, confident Baba (Lynn Redgrave). They enjoy their lives to the full, going out dancing and dating likely young men, until Kate runs across the middle-aged author Eugene Gaillard (Peter Finch). Infatuated, she accepts an invitation to stay with him at his country home, after a chance second encounter in a bookshop.

The film is almost a two hander after this, with Kate following Eugene in spite of his being distant and aloof, married although separated, and the father of a child. Their moments together are convincingly tinged with desperation and sadness, and their dangerous love comes to a head when Kate’s father discovers her clandestine affair, and comes to the house with a gang to take her back. Edna O’Brien’s assured writing about what was considered a mortal sin in Ireland is one of the high points of the story, and the seriousness of Kate’s father’s intentions, thwarted only by his encounter with Eugene’s terrifying housekeeper, shotgun in hand, makes for viewing with a mixture of the chillingly nervous and the riotously funny.

The social changes, fashions and culture of the so-called Swinging 60’s threw up some film oddities, and they don’t come much odder than ‘The Knack…and how to get it’ (1965) In a script that seems to cry out for parody, we meet serial seducer Tolan (Ray Brooks), and his socially awkward friend Colin (Michael Crawford). The surreal and much copied opening sequence of a stairwell filled with Tolan’s girls, all waiting patiently for her turn to satisfy him, sets the tone for this eccentric comedy, directed with a surprisingly European eye by American Dick Lester. The arrival of a quirky, virginal girl, Nancy (Rita Tushingham), who helps Colin push his new brass bed home, serves as an offbeat introduction to the ill-matched pair. Their home is also occupied, without Tolan and Colin’s agreement, by a crazed artist Tom (Donal Donnelly) who is intent on eradicating the colour brown from the house, and painting every surface white.

On seeing Nancy, Tolan makes advances, and it’s here that modern audiences will grit their teeth to such assurances that Nancy ‘will not be raped without her consent.‘ From then on, this unruly film dissolves into an unsuccessful farce, as Nancy alleges she’s been raped when she clearly hasn’t, and having led the boys a merry dance back to their home, they urge Tolan to short circuit her bizarre fantasy by actually… I could go on, but the film doesn’t warrant much more than a single viewing, if only to spot the cameo appearances and learn where certain rock bands got their promotional video ideas from.
Each film is accompanied by a wealth of extras, including interviews with some key figures and the theatrical trailer. This essential collection of films from Woodfall should form part of everyone’s collection.

Scenester

5/6/18

Dementia (1953) BFIB1395

Out on BluRay/DVD release 19th October with simultaneous iTunes and Amazon Prime, this curio comes with an alternative cut, trailer, an extra short feature and more besides.

The blaring horns, redolent of standard crime capers and police dramas mask the bizarre, unconventional story of ‘Dementia’.
Directed by John Parker and set in grittily realistic city streets, reminiscent of an Edward Hopper painting, the action unfolds wordlessly and in almost balletic motion. ‘The Gamine’, twisting the bedsheets in her bare apartment, wakes terrified from a dream of a muddy, watery limbo. After a restorative cigarette, she casually pockets the jack-knife from the drawer and leaves her dingy lodging house and its warring tenants behind. Her journey takes her into a living nightmare where she encounters a dwarf newspaper seller, fighting drunks and sleazy lounge lizards who usher her into night spots and restaurants of high and low reputation.

Any demarcation between reality and fantasy is blurred, and a truly surreal scene in a graveyard, with vignettes of our heroine’s idle, slatternly mother’s and alcoholic father’s demise have a slight Ed Wood feel, but without any unintentional humour. From this grand guignol setting we pass on to a Cinderella-like staircase in a luxurious apartment block, where she is taken by a well-heeled glutton who proceeds to eat and drink lasciviously, with her as his only audience. The scene ends in tragedy, with her stabbing him to avoid his lecherous advances, and running into the street. His body is lying in the street, and to her horror, he holds her pendant in his hand. In a scene that must have been highly problematical at the time, she hacks off his tight fisted hand to retrieve the pendant.

The surreal, dreamlike atmosphere of ‘Dementia’ will stay with you for weeks.

Scenester1964

18/10/2020

https://shop.bfi.org.uk/

http://scenester1964.webeden.co.uk/?use_flash=1#/dementia/4595081762

Walkabout (Second Sight Films BluRay 2NDBR4120)

Available now in a stunning transfer to Blu Ray, Nic Roeg's love letter to the Australian landscape, based on James Vance Marshall's novel of the same name.

‘Walkabout' is available as a 3000 copies only limited edition BluRay disc with slipcase, source novel, first draft script and cover book with essays and stills. The film is now rightly regarded as a classic of the new wave of Australian cinema but received mixed reviews on its release. See it and make up your own mind.

Scenester

24/8/20

Trailer;

https://youtu.be/xAVmQcb-Lvk

Legend of the Witches / Secret Rites (BFI Flipside BFIB1352 No 039)

Out now, on BFI Flipside and in DVD/BluRay dual format, a collection of some fascinating late ‘60’s curios on the general theme of contemporary occultism.

First up, the title film, ‘Legend of the Witches’ (1970) an exploration of the practices of one particular, famous-coven of witches, headed by the golden couple of UK witchcraft, Alex and Maxine Sanders. Unique among the occult community of the late 60’s, the coven were happy to talk in detail about their practices, and even to perform their rituals on stage and here, on film. Opening with a night scene, naked witches dancing around a bonfire, awaiting the arrival of a young, initiate, it’s so far, so expected. The young neophyte is led blindfolded around the woods, trusting only the voice of an initiated witch, to test his mettle and trust. He is challenged, bound hand and foot, and more dancing around the bonfire follows, until he is declared a full coven member.

With the repeal of the Witchcraft Act in 1951, books and magazine articles on this esoteric subject multiplied, some serious, some more sensational, and ‘Legend of the Witches’ takes an uneasy tightrope walk between these two extremes. Letting Alex Sanders have free rein to tell the story of witchcraft’s beginnings and its modern practice ensures that there are no dissenting views from other covens or independent occultists to test the truth of his assertions, or the antiquity - or otherwise - of the rituals. At pains to challenge the negative stereotypes of witches accumulated thorough centuries of prejudice, Sanders’ coven then undo the good work by talking about the making of wax images to place curses on enemies, and also perform a ‘Black Mass’ for the camera. This turn out to be more Christian/Pagan cross-fertilization than any of the barbarous rites fictionalized by such writers as Dennis Wheatley. Possibly the only negative stereotype successfully challenged here is the witch as a snaggle-toothed old crone, with Sanders surrounded by his coven filled with beautiful young women.

‘Secret Rites’ (1971) is a more intimate portrait of life in a witch coven, as young hairdresser, Penny, prepares for her initiation, courtesy of Alex and Maxine Sanders. There’s no denying Sanders’ leaning, his home containing an impressive library of occult books and the dramatic paraphernalia of ritual. Interviews with him suggest an understated charisma, and perhaps modern, more cynical audiences may grin at his claim to be ‘not as other men’, but he is very much the leader here, seemingly rather at odds with the image of a mother goddess-centred religion. Back at the circle, horoscopes are cast, our young neophyte is put through symbolic tests and ordeals, and when the time is felt to be right, she is bound hand and foot, naked, and given the sexually charged five-fold kiss. The viewer wonders if our hairdresser kept her pagan faith, and what she is doing with her life, today.

‘The Witch’s Fiddle’ (1924) is bound to interest fans of early cinema, with its folk tale of a fiddler who wins a violin from a witch, and thereafter uses it to make people dance incessantly. Two fighting men forget their argument and dance, and our magic violin toting musician makes off with the miller’s daughter while her father dances himself silly.

An edition of Daniel Farson’s ‘Out of Step’ (1957) series is included, musing on the meaning of modern witchcraft (made in 1957) and interviewing the hugely knowledgeable Dr. Margaret Murray. Dr. Murray takes the subject as seriously as you would expect a scholar to, recalling meeting a farmer’s wife who was also a witch (‘most unpleasant’) and getting letters from people who believed they had been bewitched. We are left in no doubt about her feelings on curses, her view being that earthly poison and not sorcery did the work on the victim. By stark contrast, Farson also interviews the wild haired, goblin-like Gerald Gardner, a key figure in 20th Century witchcraft. Although not professing to have special ‘powers’, Gardner does insist his work can get results, and the impish delight he shows in telling these wild tales of nude ceremonies and using wax images is both captivating and more than a little disturbing.

The languorous meditation of ‘Judgement of Albion’ (1968) is a curio, with matter of fact shots of the West End and City of London, St. Saviour’s Dock and many other locations on a typical day in London, cut and narrated with the words of William Blake. Crowds protesting contrasting with Morris dancers, bomb blasts and skyscrapers, it’s hard not be put in mind of one of Derek Jarman’s later mythological/futuristic films set in a London we think we recognize, but perhaps not fully.

‘Getting Straight In Notting Hill Gate’ (1970) is a true gem, a time capsule of what was then, and still is, in parts, an impoverished yet caring and close knit neighborhood of relatively fresh arrivals, all with differing ideas on how to live their lives. The shocking squalor of housing conditions in many parts of the borough is exposed here, as are the many attempts by the residents to do something about it. Playgrounds, paid for by the locals, are filled with happy children in stark contrast to the conditions they are forced to live in. An interview with ‘Release’ co-founder Caroline Coon reveals Police attitudes to the neighborhood, with drug busts a regular occurrence, and harassment of the mainly young and multi-racial population all too common. In amongst the grimness, however, there’s a beating heart of an artistic community that laid the foundations for one of London’s most vibrant boroughs, and one which, although gentrified in parts today, retains the atmosphere that brings many to it to live, work, and enjoy.

‘Legend if The Witches / Secret Rites’ is a fascinating document of the late 60’s and early 70’s, and is a must for anyone interested in the formative years of British counterculture.

Scenester
17/11/19

BUY NOW: https://shop.bfi.org.uk/legend-of-the-witches-secret-rites-flipside-039-dual-format-edition.html

How I Won The War – BFI Dual Format BFIB 1344

Presented in high and standard definition and with a wealth of quirky extras, Richard Lester’s anti-war picture is back and ready for reappraisal.

Dick Lester assembled a cast of well-knowns to populate this off-kilter tale of the Second World War, chief among whom was the then rising star, Michael Crawford, to play Lieutenant Goodbody. Crawford is well cast as an inept, distracted youth who somehow finds himself in charge of a platoon of misfits and eccentrics. Beatle John Lennon does adequate service as Gripweed, a Goonish soldier in the kind of NHS spectacles which would later become a trademark. Able support comes from the ever-reliable Roy Kinnear as Clapper and the usually criminally under-used Jack McGowran as Juniper.

Told in reminisce, Goodbody is bargaining with his German counterpart Odlebog (Karl Michael Vogler) for the Rhine bridge to be left intact, as he recalls the fatuous orders he has been given, and has himself given in the course of the war. Men are sent to certain death by unconcerned Generals, safe in their London clubs, whilst bullets and shells are flying. Goodbody is ordered to lay out a cricket pitch behind enemy lines. Their long march in the desert passes like a bizarre, psychedelic tinged dream, only to end up in a minefield, a welcome oasis only steps away.

Juniper (Jack McGowran), regarded as a man ‘working his ticket’ clowns it up to surreal heights, as Clapper (Roy Kinnear) tells doubtlessly exaggerated stories about his wife’s infidelity back home. The German officers are not stereotypically cruel monsters. Indeed, in one scene, they are not looting, but returning artworks to their owners.

Satirising both war and the popular stereotypical war film, this blackly comic tale draws on surrealist and Dadaist imagery, piles absurdity on top of absurdity, has moments of squirming, uncomfortable goriness, and yet, fails to hit its target squarely. Perhaps it’s the unsympathetic way the soldiers are portrayed, the hazy, psychedelic atmosphere out of kilter with the period setting, the lack of bite to the satire, or the often incoherent storyline that hobbles the production. Whatever the problem, ‘How I Won the War’ only makes it as a footnote in the otherwise illustrious career of Dick Lester.

Scenester
12/5/19

Pre order here:
https://shop.bfi.org.uk/pre-order-how-i-won-the-war-dual-format-edition.html

It Couldn’t Happen Here (1988) BFI BFIB1404 / Cert 15

Released in 1988 and unavailable for over thirty years, Pet Shop Boys’ film ‘It Couldn’t Happen Here’ had a limited dual edition (DVD/BluRay) release from the British Film Institute on 15th June, which sold out in the blink of an eye. If you missed out, don’t despair, there will be a standard dual edition out on 20th July.

Released toward the end of a decade best remembered for its wildly successful bands and artists and their often-overblown promotional videos, ‘It Couldn’t Happen Here’ takes the pop video format and constructs a loose, dreamlike narrative story, favouring the British seaside in all its faded glory, rather than the beaches of Lanzarote or the Bahamas. Showcasing Pet Shop Boys hits mainly from their first two LPs, ‘Please’ and ‘Actually’, and referencing their own lyrics in the script, the vignettes of half-remembered holidays at the British seaside, and the everyday difficulties of growing up ‘other’ in a hostile world of ‘normals’ entertain, even if they lack coherence in places.

Put together in preference to the prohibitively expensive promo tour they had in mind, the film manages to keep the band’s posh boy - common boy polarity in place throughout, the only characters who are not some sort of cipher for understanding the past or the present.

Encounters with British comedy stock characters abound, from Gareth Hunt’s triple role of a curmudgeonly kiosk owner, an annoying end of the pier comic and a positively creepy ventriloquist, to Barbara Windsor’s brassy landlady, but mixed in with all this thickly sliced humour is Joss Ackland’s blind priest, reciting dramatic verse whilst shambling around town in front of an orderly crocodile of his young charges. His later attempts to recover the boys, who have all been called away by the seaside’s many temptations, provide a storyline that does more than hint at danger.

If much of this all sounds like standard nostalgic Brit fare, the mood is quickly dispelled by frequent bursts of surreal eroticism. Nuns walking at the water’s edge, their stockings and suspenders showing under their robes, and a parade of broad stereotypes, including Neil and Chris as schoolboys, taking a sneaky peek at the ‘What the Butler Saw’ machines. The boys also attend a tacky floor show, with nuns stripping to their Victorian underwear, as the priest taps his cane trying to find them. Pet Shop Boys’ songs turn up at appropriate points in the film, often illustrating the action literally, as in ‘It’s a Sin’. By contrast, and in a standout scene, Joss Ackland’s blind priest recites powerful sea shanty verses as sou’estered sailors haul a huge wooden cross up a flagpole with ropes.

The boys buy a classic bi-coloured car from a flashy spiv in a suit decked with lightbulbs and drive around until they pick up the priest, minus his glasses and more than capable of seeing. Most readers will recall the band’s Xmas/New Year No 1 single, ‘You Were Always On My Mind’, but in this scene, Ackland exploits his skills to play an other-worldly, disturbing villain, coming over like Aleister Crowley on a predatory weekend by the sea.

The film begins to sag here, although the appearance of the afore mentioned ventriloquist and his existentialist dummy makes up for some of the longeurs. Ariel gunfights, explosions and telephone box vandalism by standard hooligans are thrown into the mix, and even two zebra-faced railway men leading a real zebra onto a train don’t do much to resuscitate the story.

Approached in the right frame of mind – that is, up for some classic electronic pop and with a sense of humour in tow, ‘It Couldn’t Happen Here’ will do the job of entertaining you.

Scenester
1/7/2020

Trailer:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26kf2nZgFGI&feature=youtu.be
Buy Here:
https://shop.bfi.org.uk/pre-order-it-couldn-t-happen-here-standard-dual-format-edition.html

The Caretaker (BFI BFIB1332) Dual Format DVD/BluRay

The play that lit a fire in the British theatre and made Harold Pinter into a name is presented by the BFI in their familiar dual format edition, together with a wealth of extras.

Set in a shabby North London suburb, even then undergoing early gentrification, moody, introspective Aston (Robert Shaw, on fine form) is planning to renovate his sprawling home, currently a bare, undecorated shell with useless junk piled up in the rooms. Shaw’s slow, deliberate movements and detachment from his cramped, uncomfortable surroundings perfectly evoke this lonely, distant character. Into this suburban netherworld, Aston brings a needy and ill-tempered vagrant (Donald Pleasance, in a towering performance) with the purpose of offering him the post of caretaker of the building. Aston’s vagueness about the role and its responsibilities are half-comic, half-tragic, the vagrant questioning him deeper and deeper, in case the role involves some actual, effortful work.

Aston’s thuggish, sneering brother Mike (Alan Bates) turns up whilst the vagrant is asleep , waking and tormenting him with mind games that recall a spy’s interrogation at the hands of a devious enemy agent. It’s here that the audience gets a clue that the play is not the simple tale it seems, and fear and intimidation take over as the drivers of the play.

Camera and lighting work closely together to produce the sense that the house is a place of confinement, punishment, even and the strong shot through the triangular dormer window is a hint that all three men are in hell, one perhaps of their own making.

Aston’s superlative monologue, prompted by only a tiny hint from the vagrant, is perhaps the strongest anti-psychiatric diatribe in the whole of theatre, with Aston calmly recalling his mother consenting to the indignity of forced ECT on him, and its terrible, haunting aftermath. This long speech, delivered without a flicker of emotion in the gloomy light of the upstairs room, is a superb and matchless set piece.

Donald Pleasance’s every shaking, shuffling movement is a sign of the vagrant character’s hurt and indignant persona, forever persecuted by characters, real, exaggerated or imagined, from his past. A normal life is forever out of reach; his insistence on retrieving his ‘papers’ from some place in Sidcup, ‘to prove who I am’ is loaded with suggestion. His fussy refusal of a pair of shoes from Aston, due to being a little too tight, and his surly acceptance of a bag Aston also brings him, is a timely and slightly comical reminder of the expression ‘beggars can’t be choosers’.

Alan Bates’ more mercurial character gets less screen time than the two, but is no less essential. Picking the vagrant up in his tiny car, ostensibly to take him to Sidcup for his papers becomes simply a turn around the roundabout, as we knew it would. Mike’s haranguing of the vagrant turns to sniping and threats when he makes remarks about his brother. For all his foul temper and smirking superiority, leather jacketed Mike genuinely cares for his brother, playing along with the renovation plans, in case he is one day genuinely motivated to carry them out.

Pinter’s superb writing brilliantly evokes the power struggle between the two mismatched brothers and the drifter/interloper, in a series of striking stand offs and epic speeches that may be his finest work.

The discs offer a wealth of extras, including an audio commentary by Alan Bates, director Clive Donner and producer Michael Birkett, an ‘on location’ short and much more.

‘The Caretaker’ is released in dual format disc on 15th April and on iTunes 29th April.

Scenester

7/4/19

Stranger in the House (1968) Dual Format Edition

The BFI’s endless search for mid-century film delights brings forth ‘Stranger in the House’, a youth versus age potboiler with a fine cast and augmented with some well-chosen extras. Based on Maigret creator Georges Simenon’s 1940 novel ‘The Strangers in the House’, and eschewing Swinging London for the open spaces of Winchester and the maritime atmosphere of Southampton, our story nevertheless opens in an anonymous discotheque with The Animals ‘Ain’t That So’ blasting out of the speakers as young-ish folk dance, drink and stagger about.

In amongst the cast of stereotypical 60’s club-goers is young, stylish gamine Angela Sawyer (Geraldine Chaplin) her doting, dependent boyfriend Joe Christoforides (Paul Bertoya) and sneering posh boy Desmond Flower (Ian Ogilvy). Angela’s middle class upbringing has burdened her with a thick layer of guilt over the poverty and prejudice experienced by others, and she despises her alcoholic barrister father John (James Mason), whose work has dried up and who spends his days in sozzled reverie.

We learn that flashy Desmond has a taste for dangerous situations, particularly when it involves bringing others down to his level, and the group’s chance meeting with a delinquent sailor Barney Teale (Bobby Darin) aboard the deserted ship he works on, reveals that Barney is also someone whose tastes extend to the adventurous. Clearly an arch manipulator, he takes a fancy to Angela, taunting Joe about it, and after an edgy evening’s horseplay, Barney is found stabbed, dead. Suspicion falls on Joe, and the damning evidence of a knife found in his possession seems to put his guilt beyond doubt. There’ only one thing for it; Angela must waken her father from his alcoholic haze and get him to defend Joe from the wrongful murder charge. A fairly standard court room drama follows, but not without its moments.

The theme of youth versus age is given another outing in ‘Stranger in the House’, this time exploring the mild rebelliousness of privileged middle class kids against their parents’ undeniably stuffy old world. James Mason puts in a creditable performance, meekly taking one spiteful put down after another from his daughter Angela, who reminds him a little too much of his late wife for comfort. Geraldine Chaplin’s frosty portrayal of Angela does well to suggest a girl who has taken over from her mother as head of the house. The wild, lustful portrayal of Barney, the sailor lacking any kind of a moral compass, is expertly handled by Bobby Darin, and is in stark contrast to all the other characters.

A grab bag of off-beat extras includes David Bailey’s 1966 ’GG Passion’, the short that launched a thousand photo shoots and LP covers, a truly synapse frying advertisement for coffee, footage of Geraldine’s father Charlie Chaplin setting sail from Southampton, and James Mason in conversation at the BFI in 1981.

Universal themes from a classic novel with an engaging cast make for a film that is ripe for reassessment.

Scenester

19/2/19

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Red White and Zero (BFI Flipside Dual Format BFIB1319)

The BFI’s reputation as archaeologists of the film world is upheld once more, with a restored, prinked and tweaked release of Woodfall Films’ 1967 portmanteau film ‘Red, White and Zero’. Three films that appear to have little in common are offered up here, made in three wildly different styles.

Peter Brook’s ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ sees the ostentatious arrival of a pompous opera singer (Zero Mostel) at Heathrow Airport, complete with outlandish costumes and a prop, or real, spear that would probably not be tolerated at any of today’s air terminals. His precarious cab journey, hurtling pell-mell through London’s outer suburbs to catch the performance he’s already late for, is made all the more perilous by his attempts to get into costume whilst the ride is underway, the car driven by a long-suffering Frank Thornton. Taking a tube journey after wrecking the cab, our Wagnerian hero causes considerable disruption to the lives of passengers and operators alike, until he finally bursts into the theatre, only to discover he’s on the stage of some stereotypical Edwardian drawing room comedy. Undeterred, he tries next door, and finds himself on stage with two strippers. Our hero does finally make it to the proper theatre, and shoehorns in a few note before the grand finale. Zero mugs and overacts shamelessly in this black and white short, which may have a point to make about newcomers and their frustrations in their adopted country, somewhere below the broad slapstick surface.

Lindsay Anderson’s ‘The White Bus’ is a standout piece, written and adapted by Shelagh Delaney, in what looks temptingly like a semi-autobiographical account of a girl’s visit to her former home city. The unnamed girl’s manner is distant and detached throughout, a nod to the by-then well-established existential style. Opening in an anonymous office in London, the girl (Patricia Healey) is the last of the typing pool to pack up, and makes her way to the railway station pursued by a persistent city type, determined to chat her up. Shaking hi off, she takes a train filled with the usual crowds of commuters, day trippers and football fans, and as she reaches her destination, sees the bleak, still-bomb damaged streets of Salford. Boarding a bus, she finds herself being taken around on a corporate jolly by the Mayor (Arthur Lowe) and assorted dignitaries. In spite of its down to earth setting, the piece has a surreal quality, as our crowd of VIPs take in a trip to Manchester’s vast, domed Central Library and to an enactment of the city’s preparedness for an all-out martial attack by some future aggressor. The girl’s dumb insouciance at this grand tour may be a hint that she is simply confirmed in her decision to leave the city of her birth.

The unsettling monochrome of ‘White Bus’ contrasts with the final part of our collection, the full colour musical piece, ‘Red and Blue’, directed by Tony Richardson. A singer, played by Vanessa Redgrave, pours out her heart in a series of melancholy, reverie-filled numbers that seem more in tune with the French chanson tradition than the then-current music scene in 1960’s Britain. We follow her journey through an airport, on board a train, singing atop an elephant in a Big Top, and in the inevitable smoky night club, in between scenes of her somewhat complicated love life. Michael York makes an appearance as a boyfriend, and Douglas Fairbanks Jnr. as a millionaire and would-be lover, and the subject of one of the more humorous pieces. The songs are well written and sophisticated tales of disappointment, unfulfilled love affairs and relationships gone wrong, but it’s a well-trodden path and perhaps this is why the film is so little known today.

Packed with highly relevant extras and, ‘Red White and Zero’ has not been available on DVD or BluRay until now, and is bound to become a collector’s item. In a form more strongly associated with horror films than tales of urban isolation and disappointment, this trio make a surprising and curious collection to remember Woodfall Films by.

Scenester

9/12/18

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Rogue Male (1976) DVD/BluRay BFI BFIBIB 1313

The BFI’s latest release, a TV film first shown on BBC TV in 1976 is based on Geoffrey Household’s 1939 novel of the same name.

The story opens in Germany in 1938, and we are thrown straight into the action; a weekend in the country for the Nazi high command takes in a crazed shooting party, and as the tweed-clad megalomaniacs wipe out a large proportion of the local wildlife, a man just like them, is hiding in the undergrowth. He trains his gun on the man with the toothbrush moustache, but just as he gets ready to squeeze the trigger…

Rogue Male’s premise is, we now know, not so outrageous a fiction, as there were many such attempts to assassinate the Nazi leader. With the secret agent franchise surging ahead and tales of wartime derring-do still turning in healthy profits at the cinema and on TV in the mid 1970’s, this thick slice of tightly budgeted do-or-die adventure sits somewhere between the two genres, without getting too comfortable in either. Veteran actor Peter O’Toole plays our (naturally) upper crust huntin’ shootin’ ‘n’ fishin’ enthusiast who gets a commission from you-know-where to bump off you-know-who, before the dratted fellow starts to make a real nuisance of himself.

Thwarted, captured and tied to a chair, Sir Robert Hunter (Peter O’Toole), our man in hunting rig, is most graphically tortured, and the scene with his face seared with pain, his nail-less fingers drenched in blood, is almost unwatchable. It sets the tone, but not the intensity of the rest of the piece, as we see our man – Hunter by name, hunter by nature - make his escape against seemingly impossible odds. Appealing to the sporting sensibility of a lone angler, he cadges some clothes and the use of a rowing boat and off he goes, in spite of his broken ribs and his shattered nervous system.

O’Toole is never anything less than watchable in this tale of a secret agent/amateur assassin, which displays many of the clichés of the genres; the good natured, gentlemanly meetings with the spymaster, the girl from his past whose death he seeks to avenge, the louche, aristocratic lifestyle punctuated with bursts of patriotic service. Later on, our story turns into a primer for anyone wishing to disappear from view for a while, as our hero goes to ground like one of his own animal prey. His pursuer, Major Quive-Smith, an English fascist sympathiser who is keen to recruit Hunter into his clandestine organisation, is played with a mixture of old boy charm and political sang froid by John Standing. His attempts to turn our man’s convictions around to his way of thinking are doomed to failure, however. Wouldn’t be cricket, would it?

The walking pace of the story may seem a little at odds with the subject and there are some longeurs, moments when the viewer starts to anticipate the plot for want of something to watch. The meeting between Hunter and governmental big-wig ‘The Earl’ (Alastair Sim) in a Turkish Bath raised a grin, at how easily the two could have encountered Aleister Crowley lurking under the arches, but this moment of unintentional humour is unique. The appearance of Harold Pinter as a helpful Barrister is worth looking out for.

Looking a little old-fashioned in 1976, ‘Rogue Male’ can’t seem to decide whether it’s an exploration into the mind of a seasoned hunter, or an off-kilter boy’s own adventure, but that’s not to say it isn’t without appeal. You get your fisticuffs and explosions and your stately, coach-like classic cars, and thankfully no Bond villains or, heaven help us, supercharged cars and jet packs.

This dual format pack comes with a few choice warnings from history, including film of a British fascist march (as populous as it is chilling) and Eva Braun’s home movies (horribly fascinating, if shot in a perfunctory style).

Rarely seen, this film, reportedly Peter O’Toole’s favourite from his long career, is one which could easily grow on you.

Scenester

23/1/19

Preview:
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Spike Milligan’s Q Volume 1: Series 1-3 (Q5, Q6 & Q7) Simply Media 166446

A three disc set is now available of Spike Milligan’s anarchic, surreal comedy series, with another set scheduled for 2017. Taking in the remaining episodes of Q5, and the whole of Q6 and Q7, Milligan fans can at last own the shows which have not been seen in their entirety since first broadcast, in the late 60’s through the 70s and early 80’s.

Eschewing conventional formats entirely and concentrating on unbridled lunacy, Spike’s shows, co-written with Neil Shand, were played out on basic sets and populated by a stable of supporting actors (John Bluthal, David Lodge) , glamour girls (Julia Breck) and assorted crazies, and were unlike any other show on television; even the ones they influenced. Those already familiar with Spike’s work as writer and actor in the surreal 1950’s radio show, ‘The Goon Show’ may have had their expectations challenged, as the Q troupe were let loose in a BBC studio perhaps better suited to staging a sitcom than the wild imaginings conjured up here.

‘Q’ bears no resemblance to any other ‘zany’ show of the period, least of all the Oxbridge-infested Monty Python’s Flying Circus, whose controlled anarchy was rarely very far away from the rugby club humour it often descended into. This is not to say that there weren’t favourite themes or structure, however. The spectre of the Second World War haunts almost every episode; typically, Spike in an ill-fitting uniform, battered tin helmet atop his head, face smoke-blackened, staggering about dazed and confused. It was something he knew a lot about, having been in the midst of a shelling during his time in the services. He suffered from the after effects of shell-shock for the rest of his life. Ill-timed explosions, smoke and stock footage of the main Dramatis Personae of that appalling conflict flashes up on screen and through speakers, as it did during The Goon Show, in sound only.

Spike’s ongoing battles with the BBC are evident; every costume, set, and piece of furniture had a label on it, like the Mad Hatter’s ‘12/6’ hatband-ticket. The constant fun-poking at the organisation’s old-fashioned establishment structure, as well as the rabidly anti-authoritarian nature of most of Spike’s humour, all made his show unmissable, but also, at times, controversial. The gleeful trampling of taboos about sex, race and religion, the three untouchable subjects in Lord Reith’s black book, was felt highly necessary in a time when many people felt they constricted people’s true thoughts and opinions, and were forcing people to be dishonest about their feelings. Cut to some of Spike’s more contentious sketches, often featuring a voluptuous model wearing very little, or Spike’s satirical use of racial slurs, and you have, to modern eyes, a recipe for disaster.

Spike was an ex-soldier who saw wartime service, cared passionately about the human race, animals and the earth itself, was brought up in India, a country he loved, and who encountered racial prejudice himself by dint of being a double foreigner on his entering the UK as a young man; Irish ancestry, Indian birth. The targets of his humour were race prejudice rather than race, hypocrisy about sex rather than sex itself, a distinction I am sure will not be lost on a modern audience. Spike’s notorious ‘Pakistani Daleks’ sketch may smart a little today due to its cultural references, but I defy anyone not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation; a tired Dalek, collapsed turban on his metal dome, returning home after a hard day at the office, having exterminated his boss. The ‘Lost Tribes of Britain’ sketch, delivered in affectionate tribute to David Attenborough, pursues the ‘Cocker-nees’ a mysterious people who inhabit ‘Lun-don’, a hazardous concrete jungle. Their superstitious belief in the great God ‘Post Box’, and his horned demon attendant, who is said to deliver messages placed in the belly of the deity, and their retreat to the ‘Underground’, to avoid the rays of the sun they fear more than anything, is brilliantly satirical, and arguably not so far from the truth.

Spike’s frequent bouts of mental illness were always a rich source of humour, and in Q, ever present. The endless cast of bizarrely dressed characters, some of whom could have come from La Commedia dell’arte via a period living rough on London’s streets, populate the show like hallucinations. The repeated ‘Salesmen’ sketch, in which three lunatics turn up at the door of a put-upon housewife, and try to sell her some utterly useless tat, is a classic that, in lesser hands, would be mind-numbingly conventional. The everyday gadgets that kept appearing unbidden in the shops were another favourite source of humour for Spike; I too wanted a ‘Harrod’s Home Strangulation Kit’.

In The Goon Show, music provided a temporary respite from the craziness on offer, but in Q, it’s highly arguable the music was part of it. The undisciplined, shambling fanfare that opened each show was pure Spike, somewhere between The Old Comrade’s March and Weimar-era alienation. Musical guests changed weekly, playing an assortment of popular highbrow music, whether it was a jazz piano piece, a poem of Spike’s set to light, languorous, pop or the mildly psychedelic silliness Spike seemed to have been born a little early to be considered a fan of.

I short, these disks are manna from heaven to Spike fans, and although the humour may have dated, and some modern viewers may even be offended by parts of it, that was perhaps the point of what Spike was doing. Send them to bed with a smile on their faces? Not likely; send them to bed thinking.

Available now on DVD

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Scenester

23/11/16

‘Made’ (1972) Network (DVD 7954527 BluRay 7958057)

Out on disk at last, a film that has been on my personal wish list for a very long time, ‘Made’. Directed by John MacKenzie (who worked on both Cathy Come Home and Up The Junction) and starring Carol White as single mother Valerie Marshall, and Roy Harper as singer-songwriter Mike Preston, ‘Made’ rounds on the ever-topical subjects of poverty, single parenthood, dysfunctional relationships (familial and otherwise), responsibility and persuasion. Although the film doesn’t completely deliver on all of these subjects, its uncompromising storyline still packs a mighty punch.

Bringing up her baby son, Scott, alone in her pokey flat, Val has little to celebrate, but does her best to get by. Her job as a telephonist pays, puts her into contact with people and gives her a welcome break from her ailing, cantankerous and judgemental mother, (Margery Mason). Good times are few and far between, but nights out with her friend June (Doremy Vernon), a girl with much the same luck with men as she, just about keep her sane.

Arguably, Val’s biggest problem is the people who want to persuade her to their particular world view. A romantic optimist, Val is still looking for that Prince Charming, but they’re in short supply. Val’s bedridden mother receives a visit from the young, well-meaning local vicar Father Dyson (John Castle), but resents what she sees as his interference, continuing to berate her daughter for her lack of care and infrequent visits. Sensing he perhaps may be able to help Val with her own predicament, Dyson invites her on to a trip to Brighton, which he has organised for some of his Parish’s unruly youths.

It’s here that the story takes an unexpected turn, and introduces young, successful singer-songwriter Mike, played by the hugely ambitious folk music musician, Roy Harper. Interviewed for TV by the surprisingly clean-shaven Bob Harris, and playing his own songs, Mike makes a poor interviewee, with his sparse and barely considered answers to some probing questions about life, love and religion in the modern age. While the London kids tear around the groynes, Carol sits on the beach with baby Scott, eventually running across the moody, disinterested Mike. It’s obvious that Mike is poles apart from Val, with his world-weary demeanour and his free and easy views on love and marriage (for him at least), but somehow, Val latches on to him and goes back to his room at Brighton’s Grand Hotel. A few hours in his company, and she’s ferried back to the railway station in his limo, a little happier from his spare attentions.

Back in the real world, the clumsy attempts at romance by educated Anglo Indian workmate Mahdav (Sam Dastor) may strike the viewer as a little too like some sub plot from one of the politically dubious comedies of the 1970’s, and his sudden grab for Val at his own pokey flat, after a charming meal, unbelievably crass scripting. Her abuse toward him later in the film falls into the same category, and perhaps this, and the appearance of a riot after an otherwise unremarkable football game, points to a desperate attempt by the production folk to up the ‘urban aggro’ rating of this film.

Carol turns in a terrific performance in the kind of role she excelled at, that of the poor, put-upon working class woman, and this in spite of her strong looks and considerable range. Roy’s lack of acting experience is sometimes painfully obvious, but may be excused as he’s playing a terminally insecure pop star with a rootless lifestyle. John Castle’s idealistic vicar is both strong and believable, and may even be regarded as the hero of this sad tale, as he is the only one with a sincere desire to help Val and other people in her unfortunate circumstances.

It’s not over for Val, who has more pain and loss to cope with. Her abandonment and exploitation by Mike is just another body blow for her, and some viewers may find her greatest loss too much to take, but steeling yourself until the end will pay rewards. ‘Made’ is one of the later social realist films, in an age where the social mores common in the original cycle, and essential to their structure, had broken down or were being chipped away by degrees. The sickly sympathy the viewer may feel toward Val would not help her situation, but where the film falls down, is the lack of any hope for a way out for her. There’s no rudder to steer the anger of the audience toward a solution. She’s simply left with inadequate state social care and another failed relationship.

‘Made’ comes with the original trailer, pdf of the press book and an image gallery.

Scenester

7/8/16

All images kindly provided by Network Distributing Ltd. and used with permission

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Janis: Little Girl Blue (Dogwoof DOG3400 DVD/VOD)

Amy J Berg’s portrait of the dazzling career, but tragically short life of blues/rock singer Janis Joplin is both unflinching and sympathetic toward its subject. Taking in a wealth of concert footage, childhood and teenage photographs, backstage shenanigans and interviews with various bandmates, family members, friends, old lovers and media folk, a comprehensive picture builds up of one of the late 60’s/ early 70’s rawest and most emotional performers.

With a voiceover of Janis recalling her unusual choice of career, we’re straight into ‘Hey Mama’, her ballsy voice seeming a little at odds with her vulnerable looks. Backstage, swinging a bottle of spirits and grinning madly, the stage is set early for this particular tragedy.

Janis’ version of ‘Banks of the Ohio’ plays out as we hear from Janis’s sister Laura, about their conventional blue collar life in Port Arthur. It seems that Janis stuck out like the proverbial floorboard nail from an early age, and we all know the fate of almost all who stick out. Kicked out of the choir, harassed for supporting integration in schools, getting into street fights and finally, perhaps most shockingly to her ‘straight’ parents, hanging out with the local beatniks, this is where Janis first demonstrates that voice, and sets herself on the track to where she wants to be. Her heartfelt version of ‘Careless Love’, then most famously sung by Odetta, is a goosebump raising, honest performance of this blues classic.

The well-known story about her High School jocks voting her the ‘ugliest man’ is trotted out once more, a charge as indefensible as it is stupid, and the picture of the unpretty tomboy who sang the blues like no other, is all but complete. Making her way to San Francisco, hooking up with the beatniks, singing whenever and wherever she could, ‘She really felt the blues’ is just one of the comments that encapsulate this new talent in her early, pre-fame years. We learn of Janis’ booze and pill fuelled lifestyle in SF, and her friends’ whip-round to get her home to Port Arthur, the last place she wanted to be.

Janis’ letters home and to friends reveal her to be highly sensitive and needy, and who can forget her ever-present wild, unkempt hair and the ‘did I do OK?’ child-woman eyebrow raise that characterises much of the interview material with her, on this DVD. Live footage is electric, particularly the Monterey material; Janis a firecracker in human form, and her fond memories of getting the crowd at London’s Royal Albert Hall dancing and singing shows her honest sense of achievement.

Memories of the Fillmore East, and the huge effect seeing Otis Redding there had on Janis is particularly significant, his ‘Got Tah, Got Tah’ fill being immediately affected by her. Her (Big Brother and the Holding Company) band’s less than happy memories of Monterey are highly revealing. Basically a ‘not for pay’ concert, all artists being presented with release documents immediately before taking the stage, and then DA Pennebaker’s film of said concert becoming wildly successful does not for happy band members make. But just look at the film; ‘Ball and Chain’ is worth the price of the cinema ticket alone.

Vintage TV appearances on the Dick Cavett show and others are a unique time capsule of the times. Stiff, conservative presenters in their Brooks Bros. suits, their wild child guest, resplendent in her vividly coloured satins and silks, feather boas and huge, round sunglasses, but still with her shyness and approval seeking behaviour, every emotion crossing her face as she speaks.

Leaving Big Brother and the Holding Company seemed to place a terrible strain on her, and the band, perhaps unsurprisingly, felt that she lost her emotional honesty in that period. Headlines about her new band, Kosmic Blues Band, has them described as ‘a drag’; could there be a lower condemnation in those far off days? Her descent into drug addiction after the Kosmic Blues Band’s demise is not a view shared by all. Some believe that Janis had kicked heroin, and her death was the result of one last, suicidal shot. ‘Who would care?’ she is quoted as saying.

The tale of Janis Joplin is at times exhilarating, often life affirming, sometimes depressing, and perhaps even a little predictable. The viewer might be tempted to think that Janis turned up at exactly the right time for a performer of her sort, and perhaps could not have done so at any other time. Enough of this fatalism; fact is, Janis did turn up, was a success, and is today cited as a huge inspiration to many of rock’s women. Her 2013 star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame is almost superfluous.

Extras to this disk are a little thin on the ground, just a trailer and some short interview footage with the contributors, but when a documentary film is this good, who’s bothered?

Scenester

9/5/16

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Robbery (Network DVD and Blu-Ray) 1967 PG

Available now as part of Network’s ‘The British Film’ series, this tight paced, tautly scripted thriller, directed by Peter Yates (Bullitt, The Deep) based on the notorious and then very recent Great Train Robbery, is a must-see for every fan of crime drama and British films of the 60’s.

Affluent career villain Paul Clifton, in an intense performance by Stanley Baker, is about assembling a crack gang to handle the biggest cash robbery in UK history, namely the Glasgow to London express, with millions of non-sequential bank notes on board. His accomplices are played by a roll call of hard man actors, notably Frank Finlay (as Robinson, who has to be sprung out of prison specially, in a slightly comic scene involving traditional misdirection of guards, rope ladder and tall sided lorry waiting in the shadow of the prison wall), Barry Foster, perfect as flashy little thug Frank, and the characteristically bluff George Sewell as Ben, a sometimes dissenting voice in an otherwise unified group of time-servers.

Those classic, unbeatable shots of 60’s London streets come at us hard and fast in an opening, extended and heart pumping car chase, which would not be bettered until shows like ‘The Sweeney’ appeared on our TVs in the 1970’s. This audacious opening scene sets the tone for a very violent, perhaps morally questionable story, inviting us to let our repugnance for their chosen profession slip a little, as it reveals the back story to this calculated heist. The method they use to rob the train is so precisely laid out, it is hard to defend the film from the charge that it is a manual for committing larceny, but that ignores the bad end that at least some of the gang come to.

The abandoned airfield hideout the gang use to count up their ill-gotten gains must have been on loan from an ‘Avengers’ episode, but there is little else in common with that masterly fantasy show here. In the claustrophobic atmosphere of the underground bunker, the gang carefully count out the bundles of cash, well over £3 millions, and divide it up between them in such a cold, professional way, the film neatly avoids becoming an ‘Italian Job’-style spoof.

The open ended final scene clearly shows the makers’ eyes set clearly on a sequel which unfortunately never came. I’ll leave it up to the viewer to decide whether that was because the public may have been reminded a little too much of the real Great Train Robbery and the brutal treatment of a train driver, or whether the date was simply out of crime capers.

Scenester

6/12/15

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The Man With The Golden Arm (1955) (Network Blu Ray 7958017 also DVD 7954329)

Just out on Blu Ray and DVD, is Otto Preminger’s classic, three times Academy Award-nominated film, taking on the then-taboo subject of drug addiction. Based on the 1949 novel by Nelson Algren, refused an MPAA certification, it nevertheless played theatres with respectable success, and is now rightly looked on as a classic of its type. Legend has it that Sinatra, the idol of millions through his world beating singing career, jumped at the chance to play this serious role.

Frankie Machine, (Frank Sinatra) a recovering heroin addict, is fresh out of jail and back in his old, low-rent, low expectation neighbourhood. His ambition to be a drummer in a band is opposed by those closest to him; his sad, utterly dependent wife, Zosh (Eleanor Parker), who won’t let him practise in their miserable, bare rooms, and his old cronies at the sleazy bar he frequents, who have missed his panache at card-dealing in the big, illegal games, whilst cooling his heels in jail. One with a particular reason to miss Frankie’s charismatic presence is sharp dressed drug dealer Louie Fomorowski (Darren McGavin, in fine form), seemingly the neighbourhood’s only successful man.

The Damon Runyanesque atmosphere is populated with this stable of low-lifes, and punctuated with snatches of jazz rhythm. The locals’ pathetic attempts to make money for themselves include dyeing a dog to resemble one reported missing, and the inevitable trade in stolen goods, anything from a suit upwards. Even Zosh’s ‘doctor’ is an eccentric quack, with his electrical stimulator and peculiar mannerisms.

The appearance of dangerous glamour girl Molly (Kim Novak) is another temptation to test Frankie’s mettle, although a lot less harmful than the drug which still haunts Frankie, punctuated by the cymbal and drum beats that always accompany Frankie’s memories of the junk that course through his veins.

Performances range from comedic (Arnold Stang as Sparrow, the card school’s gopher, a resemblance to the cringing Ratso of the much later Midnight Cowboy) to borderline manic (Zosh’s histrionics at every suggestion of Frankie leaving their bare, depressing rooms for any reason, and her faked, wheel chair bound paralysis, the result of a genuine car crash, eulogised in her pathetic ‘Zosh’s Fatal (sic) Accident Scrapbook’) to the just plain superb (Sinatra going cold turkey, a revelation.)

Frankie’s bid for respectability by joining the Musicians Union, is the final straw for the selfish Zosh, who tears up his union card. Her weak, pathetic peeps on the whistle that hangs round her neck are a clear symbol of her ultimate powerlessness, even in her faked disabled state. Frankie, loaded on drugs, flunks a big audition, and now without a hope of a job, and in jail for possessing a stolen suit, agrees to be dealer in a lucrative card game, in return for his bail. The bare, hired rooms they play in are as depressing as you would expect, and the ranks of desperate players are swelled by two serious gangsters, who suspect Frankie’s shaky hands are a sign of his cheating.

Lightened by a few well aimed jokes (‘D’ya think the bobbysoxers will go for me?’ Frankie asks, when still hopeful of a musical career) and with clear references to The Lost Weekend (‘Monkey on my back’), ‘The Man With The Golden Arm’ treats its subject sensitively, and at times a little unrealistically due to the age it was made in, and is certainly the most substantial film role of

Frank Sinatra’s career. A must-see.

Scenester

23/7/15

West 11 (1963) Network DVD 7954260

Scripted by Keith Waterhouse and Willis Hall, and directed by the UK’s king of exploitation cinema, Michael Winner, ‘West 11’ is a tense thriller set in the soot-blackened, crumbling mansions of early 60’s Notting Hill, spiced up with plenty of action and illicit amours, and making a worthy addition to Network’s DVD series, ‘The British Film’.

Alfred Lynch, whose resemblance to Albert Finney probably didn’t go unnoticed by director Winner, takes the lead as Joe Beckett, a disinterested young man who drifts from one poorly paid, ill-suited job to the next. His brief stint as disgruntled employee of the month in a smart, city gents’ outfitters convinces him that his talents would be appreciated anywhere but there, and leaves in a fit of pique before his certain sacking.

His chance encounter with the self-serving, avaricious Richard Dyce, (Eric Portman in a fine supporting role that threatens to overtake Lynch) leads to being offered the job of doing away with Dyce’s rich aunt, so he can inherit her property. Unable to resist the promise of big money and with little else to do, the amoral Beckett agrees to take on the job.

What follows is a headlong dive into the neglected, Rachman-owned multi-tenanted flats of West London, long before the mile-wide smiles of the Hollywood crowd took up residence in the charmingly shabby locale of Notting Hill; even before the reclusive, zonked-out hippies met the savage young fugitive gangster of Performance. At one of, what must have been many such, sex-ridden, smoky parties, populated by the newly suited and booted excitement-hungry young things, slumming, sleazy business types, professional girls on the make, and perhaps worst of all, jazz musicians, our drifter takes up with party girl Ilsa Barnes, played with considerable gusto by Kathleen Breck.

Ilsa’s overnight stay in Joe’s miserable flat, kept hidden from their old fashioned, faintly seaside-style landlady, is hilariously bookended by the impromptu appearance of Joe’s mother (Kathleen Harrison) whose overweening concern for her son recalls another matron of Waterhouse’s creation, Mrs Fisher, and the film’s regular use of bus termini and railway stations, and Joe’s rudderless life also recall the classic ‘Billy Liar’, in a darkly humorous way.

The film sadly runs out of steam, with its hard to credit central plot, but contains plenty of fascinating shots of Notting Hill before the huge villas were spruced up and rented to the emergent upper middles, rents going skyward in the process, high-ceilinged West London boozers straight out of the Edwardian age, lippy kids playing in the streets unhindered by the Boys in Blue, and the loose-moralled, live-for-the-minute party girls. Welcome cameo appearances by the great Diana Dors as a ‘party organiser’, and David Hemmings as a ‘rough’ (no, really) all contribute to a highly atmospheric piece of sleazy storytelling from the decidedly non-swinging Sixties.

Scenester

8/2/15

‘Baby Love’ (1968) Network DVD 7954225

Marking the screen debut of Hammer star Linda Hayden, ‘Baby Love’ finds itself in the murky netherworld between social realist and exploitation filmmaking, in its portrayal of an underage temptress and her sexual manipulation of her already emotionally crippled, adopted family.

‘Luci’ (Linda Hayden), a girl who has clearly been dealt a lousy hand in life, returns one day to her dark, humble home from school, to find her mother (Diana Dors) in the bath, wrists slit, after a lifetime of booze, bad food and unsuitable men. This is not the last we see of the great Dors however, turning up later in flashback, like a crimplene phantom.

Luci’s salvation isn’t very far away, as her mother’s former lover, Luci’s natural father, Robert (Keith Barron) now a successful doctor, at last feels some sense of responsibility toward her. Taking her into his palatial home, shared with his bored, rich wife Amy (Anne Lynn) and frustrated teenage son Nick (Derek Lamden), proves disastrous for all concerned.

The simmering tension between Robert and Amy is played with subtlety, Robert all too aware that he is the educated boy of a modest background who married the unpleasant rich girl for all the business and social contacts it would bring him. Nick’s privileged only-child shyness makes him Luci’s first target, reducing him to a quivering wreck with her flaunting, teasing, and spite-filled put downs.

A measure of relief from this pressure cooker existence comes early on, in the form of a trip to ‘Merry Go Round’, to buy Luci some fashionable clothes, or at least to give her two shabby dresses a rest, and later, a night out with her adopted brother Nick to a psyche-lite night club, which must have had a particularly lax door policy to go with the rich mix of musicians, stoners and pick-up artists who populate the place. The eagle eyed among you may spot the young Bruce Robinson, writer and director of ‘Withnail and I’, in this faintly threatening scene.

A suitably lecherous cameo from Harry (Dick Emery), as their chuckling, champagne swilling neighbour with an eye for young flesh, provides a few comic moments in his laughable chat up techniques with young Luci. He needn’t have bothered; her mind is now fixed firmly on tempting her father, a cold fish at the best of times, and weak because of having neglected her for so long.

Those of you who feel that not enough taboos have been broken so far, will have a further treat in store, as Luci manages to work her way into the Sapphic affections of her convent educated adopted mother, to catastrophic effect. The scene where Amy’s tryst with Luci is discovered followed by Luci’s opportunistic self-portrayal as the innocent victim of an older woman’s manipulation, makes very uncomfortable viewing.

That Luci has the final victory is no surprise, and it may be that some viewers will have a certain sympathy for this left-behind girl, who gives her distant, self-absorbed father and his snobbish, pension-plan wife the emotional drubbing they richly deserve, no matter that they are not the only casualties here.

Scenester
1/2/15

Penny Points to Paradise/Let’s Go Crazy NFT 27/7/09

A couple of ‘Goons’ films, in all but name, and from 1951? This can’t be right can it? Well, it can be when you have the three principals of the Goon Show in them; Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers and Harry Secombe are all in these little gems, and the films have Spike’s unmistakable stamp all over them.

For the uninitiated, or maybe just plain young, The Goon Show was a groundbreaking ‘wireless’ (radio) show in the 1950’s, that featured a cast of grotesquely drawn characters, crazy, surreal situations its scripts peppered with satire and cheeky sideswipes at the BBC, the Establishment and anything else foolish enough to get in its way, that could only have flowed from the mind of that singular comic genius, Spike Milligan. It’s half hour slot somehow managed to shoehorn in two musical interludes, in between a script that often threatened to write itself, without Spike’s permission!

Having completed work on the main feature’ Penny Points’, and with a week left of their 4 week shooting schedule, the makers decided to turn in another short; largely improvised, it was entitled ‘Let’s Go Crazy’. It is reckoned to be the first appearance on film of the great Peter Sellers, who later became successful in the classic Ealing comedy, ‘The Ladykillers’ a global phenomenon in the hugely successful ‘Pink Panther’ series, and latterly, ‘Being There’, arguably his best film role.

First up tonight is ‘Let’s Go Crazy’, basically a series of variety acts entertaining the patrons of a smart restaurant populated with stock characters, many of which dated back to Victorian comedy theatre. You have the charming singer, out with a girl he hopes to marry, serenading her at her table, the crazy waiter who cannot understand his customer’s order, a zany orchestra, the conductor in a leopard-spot robe and a silly wig, playing an out of key, slapstick tune that could have, and probably did have, its roots in the Commedia dell’arte, or more likely Spike Jones and his City Slickers. Peter Sellers does a good impression of Groucho Marx, part of the famous Marx Brothers, a troupe of brilliant comedy actors to whom Spike always paid tribute (he also never failed to cite Spike Jones et al as a major comedy influence) and although the film isn’t the most disciplined piece of light entertainment I’ve ever seen, it must have come as a welcome relief to the cinema goers in the grey, ration-bound Britain of the early 1950’s.

Film historians will probably be interested to hear that these two gems were made in the now-defunct Brighton Studios, and the main feature makes effective use of that lovely city (then a town). The ‘Penny Points’ referred to in the title are of course the football pools, statistically still the best chance you have of winning a fortune in a game of chance; then a very new way of gambling, without the unpleasant back-taste that many people felt ‘proper’ gambling had. Hyperactive Welsh singing sensation Harry Secombe plays Harry Flakers, who has recently scooped up a huge win on the pools, which he keeps in ‘white fivers’ (ask your granddad) in a suitcase. He’s come down to the South Coast for a holiday with his friend Spike Donnelly (Spike Milligan), perhaps unwisely letting the world and his wife know how much he’s won and exactly where he’s staying. The guest house he stays in every year is of course now full of gold-diggers, shysters and ne’er-do-wells, including a statuesque blonde and her tagalong friend, determined to get her hands on Harry’s fortune, and him, although only the latter if necessary to the former. Our cast of miscreants also includes Alfred Marks offering up an excellent performance as Alfred Haynes, a master forger, aided and abetted by his drudge, Digger Graves, played by another comedy face who would become much more familiar later on, in Hancock’s Half Hour, Bill Kerr. Their plan is to replace Harry’s cash with forged fivers, and then manufacture some excuse to leave the holiday home.

In between being dragged out to the theatre with Spike by his cash-hungry harpies, and chatted by a crooked insurance salesman, Harry does not know which way to turn, but some pure slapstick keeps the belly laughs coming. Cue an ancient taxi, which looks like it had failed the pre-race MOT for the 1915 Grand Prix, collapsing in a heap like a clown’s car, in a haze of black smoke and sparks. Then the Police/Forgers/Our Heroes chase around the Brighton seafront to Louis Tussaud’s waxworks; it’s pure Keystone Kops, and done with great affection. Cue Harry’s ‘shaving’ routine, a mainstay of his act for about thirty years; although rarely seen on his many ‘Stars on Sunday’ appearances. It’s a joy to watch just how much physicality there is in these performances, honed on stage over years and translated to film.

I’d be the first to agree that ‘Goon’ humour isn’t to everyone’s taste, and post-War British film tends to polarise opinion, too. My father’s generation used ’British picture’ more as a term of abuse than a reference to a particular genre of film. However, at a distance of nearly 60 years, there’s plenty captured here on celluloid for the film historian, nostalgist, Goons fan, or even just the casual viewer. Those top fellahs at the Flipside have just brought out these two pieces on the one DVD disk, on the BFI label, and I have no hesitation in recommending it to you.

As a footnote, I was pleased to run into the current President (Goon in chief?) of the long-running Goon Show Preservation Society, who kindly let me have a couple of their hugely entertaining regular newsletters. The Society can even be contacted via the steam-driven ‘world wide web’, if you’re interested-I am!

Scenester
31/8/09

Whicker’s World & Whicker’s New World (DVD) Network Distributing 7954525 & 7954526

Out now in two 2-disc DVD box sets, classic interviews and articles by the man who surely had the best job in journalism in the 1960’s and ‘70’s, the great Alan Whicker. His hugely popular show ran from 1958 to 1994, changing from its original BBC slot to Yorkshire TV, picking up BAFTA nominations galore, with Whicker himself winning the Richard Dimbleby Award at the 1977 BAFTA’s, and picking up a CBE in 2005.

From the beginning, Whicker’s style in presentation was evident; the crisp shirts, stylish suits, neatly clipped moustache and slicked back hair, and his military bearing, all accentuating his avuncular, slightly sarcastic manner with his interviewees. An early adopter of the rising terminal, his interviews, polite, subtle and invariably conducted on the interviewees’ presumed safe home territory, were just enough to lull them into a false sense of security.

‘Let’s Have An Airport’ is a gem from the early 60’s, with Whicker handing just enough rope to the planners of Yeadon (eventually Leeds/Bradford) airport, whose disinterest in the idea of building the airport, borders on Luddism. ‘The Trainers’ begins with Whicker’s characteristic salty introduction about ‘good breeding’, leading us into the fascinating and secretive world of horse racing. Affable but definitely guarded, trainers have some classic lines; ‘Keep yourself in the best company and your horses in the worst and you’ll not go wrong.’ None describe themselves as being successful, and all cast doubt on whether fortunes are made out of racing. Their superstitious nature includes the dire consequences of meeting a wedding before a race, contrasting with the good fortune of meeting a funeral. Their un-showy uniform country rig makes us think they’re all earning a comfortable, but not large salary. The punishing diets and the endless hot baths the jockeys put themselves through to get below six stone in weight, shows a side of this industry which is rarely touched on elsewhere in the media. The pocket-money wages of the apprentices is mentioned, and the viewer is left wondering exactly who the beneficiaries are of the colossal wealth generated by this enduring pastime.

Whicker upped his game in the 70’s, and his US lifestyle pieces are the stuff of legend. ‘Tender Loving Care Inc.’ finds him the only man in a rich, middle-aged white bread American woman’s health retreat. These remote, well-heeled dowagers, who show varying degrees of snobbery are ensconced in luxurious surroundings, waited on hand and foot, but instead of haute cuisine and vin fin, it’s lettuce leaves and carrot juice, with a side order of hydrotherapy and pummelling massage. Their endless gossiping perhaps makes up for a sheer lack of anything to do, and Whicker’s polite but probing questions make for some mildly amusing answers. ‘All we talk about is food and sex, and we’ve got none of it here.’ The club owner is exactly what you would expect; a woman used to populating the place with the ‘right sort’, and keeping the rest out. Perhaps too used to getting their own way, and maybe a little flattered by the attention they get from this stylish Englishman, the ladies act the part of spoilt hussifs perfectly, and a nation tuts as it devours every word.

‘Immortality Inc.’ has Whicker investigating the then very new and controversial practice of freezing the body at death, in the hope of a future resurrection. The certainty they believe in, will however be provided by science, rather than the Almighty. The faith of the adherents and future ice pops in not only a cure for whatever fatal disease carried them off, but also for the inevitable freeze damage, is presumably as strong as any religion, as the process is very expensive. Whicker tours the desert compound, with its huge tanks of liquid hydrogen simply lying about in the open air. The manager, a sharp suited type who could be an estate agent or a banker just as easily as the body farmer he is, explains in calm business tones the procedures they carry out. A full body freeze or just the head? Those choosing the latter are presumably so confident about the future, they believe that there will one day be a way to reconstruct their missing bodies.

‘Micromedia Inc.’, like ‘Immortality Inc.’ might suggest some futuristic corporation straight from a David Cronenberg film, but instead reveals itself as a television station staffed and presented entirely by schoolchildren, aged 7-11 years. Their enthusiasm and dedication to professional presentation is impressive, if a little creepy, and Whicker’s questioning style does not alter one bit for these junior media moguls. Reports on nuclear power and the vagaries of the stock market mix with more light hearted material, but what is more interesting, is the route these protégés took to their small-scale fame. Making their way (with perhaps a strong shove from parents and guardians) through acting school, past the imperious child talent scouts and into faintly creepy children’s’ beauty parades, they start earning young ($50 a day for modelling) and once fame is sniffed in the air, they never stop trying. Even their conversation is adult; their fears of being drafted into the army when older, and rank admissions of being mugged for their expensive watches by other boys. The US/UK cultural divide is most apparent here, in an age when most British children were subject to Tall Poppy Syndrome, should they show worryingly precocious tendencies.

There are just a few of the half hour interviews preserved for posterity on these disks. Whicker’s award winning 1969 interview with the notorious Papa Doc, dictator of Haiti, is here, and worth the price of the disks alone. It’s a feast for the nostalgists, but for those too young to remember this exciting period, they provide a window on a world that was getting rapidly smaller, but perhaps more fascinating as it did so.

Scenester
3/7/16

http://networkonair.com/shop/2420-whicker-s-world-01-whicker-5027626452544.html
http://networkonair.com/shop/2421-whicker-s-world-02-whicker-s-new-world-5027626452643.html

Witnesses 2 A Frozen Death

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Mon, 17 May 2021 15:40:35 GMT

Witnesses 2: A Frozen Death (Arrow Films DVD FCD1651 BD FCD1652)
Following acclaim for its first series, French police drama ‘Witnesses’ returned for a second outing, hot on the heels of its airing on British TV. It’s now available on DVD and Blu Ray for you to savour.
From the word go, the atmosphere is pitch dark and claustrophobic. A bus has been found on a road deep in the northern French countryside, abandoned but for the fifteen men aboard, all dead, pristine clean, immaculately dressed, and frozen. Lieutenant Sandra Winckler (Marie Dompnier) is quickly on the scene, and discovers that apart from their bizarre circumstance, the men have one thing in common; a woman, Catherine Keemer (Audrey Fleurot).
Finding Catherine turns out to be a false start to any further leads. She doesn’t remember her past, only that she has had a baby, who has since disappeared. Sandra and her team pore through records of missing people, discovering that many of the men have been missing for over three years. Locating Catherine’s family, they interview her husband, finding that she has been away for some time, and her marriage was in trouble even then.
The story quickly becomes a virtual two-hander between these two women, as Sandra adopts Catherine as witness-in-chief and best lead, much against official orders, in trying to make sense of this bizarre crime. Their shared journey stretches credulity, but is played well and adds excitement to what is basically a grim, disturbing tale with dreadful implications at every turn.
Marie Dompnier’s portrayal of an officer at the threshold of what might be the turning point of her police career, ranges from impulsive to protective and emotional, particularly where her star witness is concerned. Sandra’s family life, a broken marriage with shared responsibility for her two young children, is surprisingly, more bedrock than source of anguish, and there are some rare moments of humour as Sandra deals with her elder daughter’s spiky, wise beyond her years manner, perhaps recognising where she got her precocious ways from. Sandra’s post-marriage personal life, such as it is, is touched on only occasionally; brief, loveless encounters with a mysterious man she suspects of being involved in the crime.
Audrey Fleurot’s Catherine is a complex character, from her initial, violent awakening at the wheel of a car, unable to recall a single detail about herself, through her gradual realisation that she is the victim of kidnapping, abuse, forced childbearing and separation from her baby at the hands of one or more perpetrators. Titian haired with a deathly pallor, she, and dark, tousle haired, slightly messy Sandra look like former members of a teenage Goth band, rather than the Thelma and Louise double act they are presumably intended to remind us of. Audrey’s estranged family are surprised-even shocked-to see her again, as we learn that she left after an affair, sometime before. The police protection her family receive isn’t entirely welcome, and as details of Catherine’s other extra marital affairs and her appalling ordeal are recalled, the extra strain on her family shows.
As this carefully paced story unfolds, details of the crime become ever more bizarre, involving other past kidnappings of women and their forced childbearing, reappearances of long-lost men’s corpses, all of whom have strong connections to the female victims, and the grim significance of the Minotaur symbol, left near the bleak spot where the babies were left to be collected. Shades of John Fowles’ ‘The Collector’ and traditional tale ‘Babes In The Wood’ haunt the shadows. Through lonely country roads, isolated coastal towns dwarfed by Quixotic wind turbines, grey, impersonal flats, hospitals and housing estates, the forgotten, damaged and lost characters play out a bleak drama which does not, however, lack a human side. The touching story of the long-institutionalised woman, an orphan at the centre of the investigation who provides essential clues to the investigation, is sensitively handled, as are the story’s later revelations concerning the fate of the lost children.
Darkly intriguing, violent but with notes of sympathy even for some of the story’s villains, you may not notice eight fifty minute episodes of Witnesses 2 go by.

WITNESSES – FROZEN DEATH is released on DVD & Blu-ray on Monday 15th January by Arrow Films.

Scenester 7/1/18

Trailer https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S_Bc52cmgKk&feature=youtu.be

Film and TV at the NFT and elsewhere

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Mon, 17 May 2021 15:40:33 GMT

Witchcraft Night, Mysterious Britain, Stop Look Listen, The Bedsitting Room, Horror Hospital, The Damned, Joanna, Lambert & Stamp, I Start Counting, Neil Innes Night, That Was The Week That Was, Missing Believed Wiped, Private Road, The Avengers-A Touch of Brimstone, Season of the Witch, Bronco Bullfrog, Peter Walker, Performance, Smashing Time, The Final Programme, The Jokers, Brighton Rock, Jigsaw, Suburban Steps to Rockland, Deep End, The Avengers 50th Anniversary evening.

Witchcraft Night at the NFT 31/10/09

On this most auspicious of evenings, at London’s NFT, only real Witches would do. Real ones; not actors, not celebrities adopting ‘religion of the week’, but actual, spirit raising, sky-clad witches.

‘Out of Step’was a 1957 ‘docu’ which weekly took on people whose views were a little out of the ordinary. Dr Margaret Murray, a lady in her 90’s, was then considered the foremost authority on Witchcraft. She put forward the theory that Witchcraft represented the survival of a pan-European Dianic/Dionysiac pagan religion. Her appearance suggested a mystically inclined and rather kindly Miss Marple, but there is no denying her erudition. Our next guest was the wild-haired, goateed Dr Gerald Gardner, Isle of Man resident and then the British Isles’ premier ‘Witch’. Dr Gardner also wrote extensively on this subject, though, unlike Dr Murray’s, his submissions were from the inside. His cheerful demeanour throughout the sometimes mocking questioning of Daniel Farson endeared Gardner to the viewer, and it was hard not to like his eccentric Latin Master persona. The last was Louis Wilkinson, whose memories of Aleister Crowley were as fond as they were acute.

The next offering was about Alex and Maxine Sanders, who by the mid-sixties, were styling themselves ’King and Queen of the Witches’. Some readers may recall their regular appearances in such serious paranormal enquiry publications as the News of the World and The People, usually depicted naked, in the midst of a magic circle with their coven. The blindfolding and tying of a naked initiate, the ‘scourging’ (a soft fly-fan, it wouldn’t hurt) and the giving of the Five Fold Salute (where a Witch kisses another on the feet, the knees, above the genitals and on each shoulder and the forehead) are all part of the ‘ordeal’, which Alex Sanders tells us, is essential to becoming a Witch. Sanders’ seemed like an experienced actor passing on his knowledge to a select few students. Once again, I felt that the commentary was at times unnecessarily critical, sneering even, especially when Alex and Maxine’s previous jobs were mentioned. (Chemical worker and garage attendant.) Perhaps if they had spoken received pronunciation and been a little more middle class, the presenter would have been more sympathetic toward them.

The final film ‘Secret Rites’ was nothing less than the exposure of the Witches’ most sacred ceremonies, played out by Alex Sanders and his coven. The various ‘nature dying and nature re-born’ myths are played out by the coven members, sometimes masked like the Horned One (a goat-like creature, not to be confused with the Christian Devil, which he pre-dates.) sometimes naked. The basing of rituals on Egyptian sources is mentioned, and whilst some scholars might argue that such rituals are modern in origin, with only the trappings of ancient Egyptian culture added, their drama and aptness cannot be doubted.

Scenester

1/11/09

Mysterious Britain at the NFT 29/10/10

Vic and Will Flipside must have had to cover themselves in protective amulets and hang up plenty of garlic when they took their second dive into the murky world of the ‘BFI Archive: Supernatural Section’. This hazardous journey bore plenty of fruit last year (see my article ‘Witchcraft Night at the NFT’ on this same website). Fortifying ourselves with a stoup of malmsey and moon cakes with black butter, we piled into the NFT to see what was on offer.

It’s worth noting that apart from one item, all of the features on screen this Hallowe’en were news reports. First up was a 1973 edition of ‘Open Door’, about the Aetherius Society, a group dedicated to spreading the word about an alien who, thankfully for us, in stark contrast to all other stereotypical aliens, cares about us, and our planet, and is here to help us with our problems. Aetherius’ contact on earth is Dr George King, a man who appears uniquely qualified to act as the conduit for the alien’s words of wisdom. He encourages his followers to imbue objects with ‘prayer power’, which is then directed toward the world’s trouble spots. Dr King and his followers, resplendent in 1970’s fashions and hairstyles, seem sincere and must have had their hands full in that war-torn decade, trying to avert global annihilation.

A brief clip from Midsummer 1972 saw astronomer Patrick Moore take his place amongst the Druids celebrating their rites at Stonehenge with a particularly miserable, overcast dawn sky as backdrop. This was followed by a tourist information film from 1964, narrated by the then Poet Laureate, John Betjeman, about the charming area around Avebury with its famous standing stones and nearby Solsbury Hill.

Things really got into their stride with ‘Out of Step: Other Worlds Are Watching Us’, with arch sceptic Daniel Farson going head to head with those who believe we are not alone in the universe, and who are already attracting the attention of other, more advanced beings. The magnificently named Brindsley Le Poer Trench expounded his view that people from other parts of our solar system, and even beyond it, are visiting us regularly, and communicating their thoughts to us. Several other guests, including the aforementioned Dr King, chipped in with their parallel views, and were quizzed by Daniel Farson about them with his usual mixture of serious enquiry and outright cynicism. To be fair, Farson also probed the views of a scientist and non-believer in alien life forms in the course of the programme. Considering the Cold War period setting of this 1957 report, none of the sincere arguments of the believers succeeded in convincing this sceptic of the existence of aliens, nor that the sightings of mysterious lights and objects in the sky were anything other than our country testing out its latest warplanes on the quiet.

‘Twilight: Witchcraft’ from 1964 was much more disturbing stuff. An ‘expert’ in witchcraft, who strongly resembled the archetypal rambler complete with anorak, backpack and flask of hot tea, took us round a ruined church and its grounds, showing us recent evidence of nasty goings-on. To be specific, a pair of ‘fetishes’ (voodoo dolls to you and me), one male, one female, and a sheep’s heart pierced with hawthorns, were found nailed to a door. His interpretation of these grisly trinkets was that a spurned lover was trying to win back her man’s affections from another woman by symbolically killing their illegitimate love affair. The narrative was delivered in a scientific, entirely plausible tone and even though not proof of anything more dubious than one person’s belief that it could work, was strong stuff for TV.

‘Leap in the Dark: Exorcism’ from 1973 took on this then very topical subject, but the passage of nearly forty years makes it look a grimly comical affair, despite the obvious sincerity of all involved. A young, fashionably dressed couple are troubled with a malicious spirit in their modest home. It’s one thing playing childish tricks on the lady of the house, hiding things from her etc., but quite another when the baby is afeard. Call in the Exorcist and his assistant, who carry out the sacred ritual with censer, prayers and holy water, the arsenal in the war against Satan. I couldn’t suppress a giggle at the thought of Old Nick hiding the fondue set, running amok with the Ronco Buttoneer and changing the TV channel from Match of the Day to the BBC2 Arts Programme, as John and Jane Tanktop splutter the Blue Nun back into the glasses. You’ll be relieved to hear that peace was restored after the gentle ministrations of the priestly duo.

Ridiculously camp shenanigans followed in 1970’s ’24 Hours: Highgate Vampire’, which in parts resembled a Hammer film acted out by happy amateurs with a taste for Victorian outerwear. Dark rumours about Highgate Cemetery abound, as they do elsewhere in the world, often in countries where the vampire bat is not a native species. The uncompromising high gothic architecture of this Victorian Valhalla sets the scene perfectly for diabolism and unspeakable rituals, adding to the feeling of displacement from the modern age which several of the characters involved obviously feel. The report concentrates on disturbances, which came to the attention of the authority responsible for, this last resting place for the rich and famous of the 19th Century. They took the form of tombs being desecrated and bodies being used in what looked like magic rituals. It would not be long before other interested parties showed their faces here, some sincere, some just plain dotty. A lone young man had been observed entering the cemetery and patrolling it with his crucifix. Obsessed with the idea that a vampire stalked the cemetery, he was determined to hunt down the bloodsucker and nail him in his coffin. He was later arrested, but was clearly in need of some tender loving care from some sympathetic members of the medical profession, and I hope he got it.

Our lone vampire stalker had a rival, however, in the shape of Shaun Manchester, of the British Occult Society. I felt a huge sense of mingled national pride and relief on hearing that this august body had decided to take on the vampire menace in his lair. What some bunch of foreign Johnny occultists would make of the banishment rituals Sean proposed to use in his fight against evil, I wouldn’t care to speculate on. After a lot of shuffling around the elegant catacombs and elaborate tombs, intoning prayers for the evil one to leave, we were left with a rather weary document showing the decrepit state of the once beautiful cemetery, and the strength of belief, however misguided or misdirected, in the afterlife, by the dramatis personae, both seen and unseen.

To round off, we had the evening’s only fictional item, albeit based upon an accepted legend, in 1980’s ‘Leap in the Dark: The Living Grave’. The story of a young girl, pregnant and abandoned by her lover, seeks refuge in barns, almshouses, and farms, not always with the permission of the owners. The twist is that the story is played out in the present day, via a young girl taking part in a scientific experiment reliving her past life as this unfortunate young girl. With plenty of chills, and a superb performance by Lesley Dunlop, it provided a counterpoint to much of the hokum, which preceded it.

Scenester

8/11/10

Stop! Look! Listen! National Film Theatre, London 12/10/06 & 13/10/06

In our endless search for the sights and sounds of the 60’s, we are prepared to go anywhere, anytime, at the merest suggestion of a rare track unheard for decades, or a film clip, unseen since those heady, colourful days. Sometimes, we are rewarded for our persistence, as me and my good lady were, when we attended two of the NFT’s Stop! Look! Listen! Programmes.

They contained collections of short clips from magazine-type programmes made by the (Orwellian-sounding) Central Office of Information, to publicise Britain’s popular art and culture overseas, principally to the Commonwealth. Those lucky Canadians, Nigerians and Australians got to see some eye-popping colour footage we never did. Yes, colour! With only a few exceptions, the clips were in glorious, if sometimes faded colour, and I would contend that nothing gives you the flavour of that magical decade more than the colours people were wearing in their clothes.

‘Swinging London Fashion’ opened up with an item about late ‘50’s ladies couture, but quickly moved on to some wild footage of Twiggy and Peggy Moffitt wearing op art jewellery. The Twig and The Peg need little introduction to readers of Modculture, and to see the two of them dancing and fooling about in very little apart from jewellery ensured my undivided attention. If you’re new to the scene, you’ll almost certainly have heard of Twiggy already, but for Peggy, just think ‘two big eyes on a stick, crowned with a geometric bob’ Her breathtaking features are a template for a good ten per cent of mod girls, with Twiggy making up at least another ten, maybe more. A further clip of Twiggy and friends striding, running and driving around an otherwise grim, grey London in the mid-sixties came and went all too quickly. A trip down ‘our’ Carnaby Street (i.e. not the pedestrianised lumberjack boot and sports shirt-selling tourist-infested ninth circle of hell it is today) followed, and we hungrily devoured the briefest glimpses of shops like Lord John, Domino Male, and the outrageously-titled ‘Tres Camp’ (!) It was hard to decide whether to look at the shop windows or the people looking in, and even harder to do, so short was this clip. Another short featured what the average girl wore to the office, and how the lads of the 60’s got any work done at all, is beyond me. Interviews with John Stephen, Tommy Nutter and Laura Ashley (I know, I know, but the programme covered more than just the 60’s) and ended with a long feature on Zandra Rhodes.

As if that wasn’t enough, the following night’s offering, ‘Projecting a Modern Britain: Music and Fashion’ was better still. Opening with an unintentionally hilarious analysis of The Beatles music by a very dry and dusty orchestral musician (yes, I also felt that their music contained some ‘splendid cadences’). New ideas like a dress that could be reduced in hem and arm length by pulling a string were trail blazed, as well as some slightly disturbing footage of a group of hard-looking girls in an amusement arcade. Brother mods, I was relieved when they started talking to each other and comparing their jewellery, rings nearly an inch high, made up of layers of multi-coloured plastic, sandwiched like a liquorice allsort. Phew, they looked like they were going to clock somebody. A clip of Billy Fury singing ‘Phone Booth’ on board a boat on the Thames followed. Made for the African continent, and using presenters from those sunny climes, a happy crowd of what looked like British and African students danced at this New Year’s Party. On an open boat. On the Thames. They must have had three layers on under their overcoats. A clip of stunning American model Kellie Wilson wearing chain store fashions came next, leaving us with the wish that chain stores still sold such beautiful stuff.

Students of the macabre would have thoroughly enjoyed the clip of Procol Harum playing their excellent ‘Homburg’ in threads I can only describe as ‘The Pothead Pixie look.’ You’ve probably seen the Top of the Pops (R.I.P.) black & white clip of the band doing ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ in outlandish eastern satins etc., well, this gave you the full-on synapse-frying experience in lurid colour. Roy Harper sang ‘Last Day in April’ and restored some decorum to the proceedings, even if he did appear to be wearing a Buffalo Bill moustache.

The final offering came on, and my good lady thought she had died and gone to some sort of mod heaven. A quarter-hour clip about the glorious Biba store! The camera followed the owners, Barbara Hulanicki and Stephen Fitz-Simon around a typical working day, making decisions about how to display their gorgeous wares, what to get in tomorrow, all in the environs of the famous Kensington store. Barbara, with her near-spherical blonde bob on her tiny body, looked like Lady Penelope come to life, as she glided about the place. Her sales assistants looked impossibly young, and the meteoric success of Biba is less surprising when you see just how beautiful it was, and remember how inexpensive its clothes were, well within a working teenage girls’ reach.

If you couldn’t make it, too bad, because this footage, unseen in Britain before and unseen anywhere else since it was aired on Commonwealth countries’ TV 35-40 years ago, has doubtlessly been returned to its archive limbo for another four decades. I’d have bought a ticket to see just one of these clips, (well, maybe not the Procol Harum one, no matter how much I like their music) but if there’s even a tiny chance of them being shown on TV, (BBC4 can you hear me?) or brought out on DVD, well …

Scenester
15/10/06

The Bed Sitting Room at the NFT 21/5/09

In these days of the ‘hit, git and split’ approach to filmmaking, a film’s title has to say it all to its perceived audience. Today’s filmmakers seem to feel that there’s no sense in using a ‘clever’ or ‘oblique’ title if what they basically have is the second instalment of a superhero’s adventures, or another romcom with one of the cast of ‘Friends’ in it. It’s with this in mind that the casual viewer might get completely the wrong impression from the bare bones of this film.

Title: ‘The Bed Sitting Room’

Made: In the 60’s

Cast: Rita Tushingham, Ralph Richardson et al

Anyone, perhaps reasonably, expecting a ‘kitchen sink’ drama will end up very puzzled and surprised by this surreal, post-apocalyptic offering from the closing years of that golden decade. Once again, the ‘Flipside’ team have come up with three ‘Bars’ and a replay on the cinematic one-armed bandit, in securing a gorgeous print of this long neglected film for us to rave over, and hot on its heels, a DVD release for those who can’t make the trip to London’s South Bank or who were indisposed that night-good excuses only, now!

I had seen this crazy, witty, profound but hopeful film only once before, on television sometime in the late 70’s/early 80’s, and even then it struck me how strangely it resembled 1972’s ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’, with which it shares many cast members, and its general atmosphere of Carollian absurdity, its characters forced by remote, grandiose authority figures to behave logically in an illogical world.

The action takes place a year or so after the nuclear holocaust (referred to here with typical politician’s understatement as ‘an unfortunate incident’), and the UK appears to have only about 20 people left alive in it. Her Majesty The Queen and her entire family were some of the victims of the ‘misunderstanding’ and her ‘nearest’ relative, Mrs Ethel Shroake, her former tea-lady, has been elevated to the that historic office, as being the person closest to her. Her country now resembles a landscape of slag heaps and rubbish dumps, in which her cast of wretched, wandering subjects attempt to return to their pre-apocalypse lives, clinging to their traditions, as far as they can. A family are eking out an existence on the London Underground system, with Father (ever-reliable Arthur Lowe) raiding platform sited chocolate machines with his trusty axe and Mother (the perfectly cast Mona Washbourne) tends to the needs of her 17-months pregnant daughter
Penelope (Rita Tushingham, delightful as ever). Henry Woolf, provides power for the ailing Underground system in his role as the entire Electricity Board, pedalling like fury with his bicycle dynamo hooked up to the mains.

The first intimations that radiation poisoning are beginning to show, are touched on in the characters who have become obsessive about their former occupations, and some are even slowly mutating into human-object hybrids. Most memorable of the obsessives, is Marty Feldman as a sinister nurse, peering out of his (her?) binoculars for new patients, sick or well, willing or not! Lord Fortnum (Ralph Richardson, again perfect casting) in his best city gent attire, refusing to believe the class system has broken down and impelled only by his desire to get back on top where he belongs. His Lordship’s chauffeur is slowly mutating into a car, his shoulders bearing a very Mod-like array of wing mirrors, his breast covered by metal ‘Morris’ badges, prefiguring the mutants that would later turn up in such films as ‘Mad Max’ and ‘Beneath the Planet of the Apes’.

In case this is beginning to sound like a festival of misery, I should tell you that ‘The Bed Sitting Room’ is infused strongly with the untrammelled absurdism that made Spike Milligan such a pivotal figure in British Comedy. Originally co-written with John Antrobus for the stage in the early 60’s, and where it was a great success, the decision to take a story that was, by 1968, a little less pertinent to the state of the world’s politics must have been a difficult one for the producers to justify to their backers. I’m pleased they persuaded them, however, as the result is a remarkable piece of surreal pantomime and a very worthy addition o the already packed CV of its director, Richard Lester.

The story proceeds at its own refreshingly undisciplined pace, presenting us with characters who would have been perfectly at home in that other priceless creation of the mind of Spike Milligan, ‘The Goon Show’. Spike reprises his William ‘Mate’ Cobblers role from that brilliant radio show, a Beckettian tramp who turns up to burst the bubble of pomposity by his somewhat literal interpretations of others’ instructions.

‘I’d like that picture hanging there’ says Captain Bules Martin (Michael Hordern). ‘Mate’ duly obliges by hanging the picture on the Captain’s fingernail.

Two petty officials stalk the country in a rusty police car, supported by a hot air balloon, their officious characters played by the much missed Dudley Moore and Peter Cook. ‘Keep moving’ they solemnly intone through their megaphones to the poor, bedraggled populace, as if moving would do them any good.

With such a low survival rate to the nuclear misunderstanding, it is perhaps hardly surprising that we encounter The Army, played with ingenious schizophrenic brio
by Ronald Fraser, one side of his uniform a Field Marshal, the other a Sergeant, relentlessly barking orders at and between his two selves.

Frank Thornton is an early face in the film, playing ‘The BBC’, an announcer in a tattered dinner suit (waist up only), delivering his news announcements personally by sitting behind an empty television set box, at the water’s edge. The scene is highly reminiscent of the opening scene to many Monty Python episodes, which were only a few years away in time.

For an artist who never forgot to acknowledge his debt to those who inspired him, like The Marx Brothers and Buster Keaton, it’s sometimes a surprise that more writers in the absurdist tradition don’t always acknowledge their debt to Spike. Shows like ‘Monty Python’s Flying Circus’ would have been unthinkable without the groundwork lay down by Spike. I would go so far as to say that the entire face of British Comedy would have been very different had this Irish/Indian nurtured genius never been born.

Encountering more unique and wildly outré characters along the way, our family, now with a very Mod boyfriend in tow (Richard Warwick) for Penelope to amuse herself with, finally find their way out of the decaying London Underground system, a situation that many of the tonight’s audience can clearly identify with. They find themselves on the shore of the polluted Thames, the daughter pursued by Captain Bules Martin, eager to carry on his family line with Rita Tushingham’s character as his unwitting bride for this other, down on his luck toff. The unfortunate Lord Fortnum has mutated into the Bed Sitting Room of the title, to his eternal shame. He was on his way to Belgravia at the time, in the hope of transforming into an elegant mansion. Wistful absurdity is cranked up well beyond the point of believability as Mona Washbourne, having already detected a Dali-esque wooden drawer in her chest, later morphs into a cupboard, blending in perfectly within the Bed Sitting Room. Arthur Lowe’s ‘Father’ is slowly mutating into a parrot, all within the confines of what appears to be a stage set for a Samuel Beckett play.

The later, hilarious marriage, post-pregnancy, of Captain Bules Martin to Penelope by an underwater Vicar (Jack Shepherd), brilliantly realised with the aid of an altar that more resembles a top-sliding cocktail cabinet, complete with cross and candlesticks inside, gave me another laugh-out-loud moment before the film’s climax. Mrs Ethel Shroake is hailed as Her Majesty the Queen, the two petty officials return, this time Dudley Moore has morphed into a particularly mangy border collie, but with Peter Cook manoeuvring himself into position as a possible future leader, appropriate for a man whose family were expecting him to enter high Civil Service office! We close on a hopeful note, with Penelope reunited with her mod boyfriend as a new spring is beginning to rise, grass and flowers poking through the wreckage and waste of the slagheap landscape.

This work of fiction/future shock drama is suffused throughout with the off-kilter humour of its principal writer, but never as just a device for mere amusement. Spike’s concern for the fate of the world, and his common humanitarianism shines through the characters and their words, right through to the new dawn at the close of the film, so often missing from the later apocalyptic films of the 1970’s and early 1980’s. It is this that made Spike such a uniquely fascinating and hugely likeable writer and person, but I’m digressing, and I think that will have to be the subject of a different article.

The screening was followed by a brief ‘Q&A’ with Richard Lester and Rita Tushingham, both of whom were sprightly and full of enthusiasm for the film they made over thirty years ago, It is very difficult to believe that so many years have passed, as they have left no mark whatever on the star’s instantly recognisable features, and the director’s attitude and enthusiasm still sparkle for what was basically a financially unsuccessful film. Richard patiently answered questions about his,
sometimes unpredictable, career path, recalling how difficult it was to drum up support for subsequent projects after the Bed Sitting Room’s less than exciting showing at the box-office. The fact that the owners of the completed film ‘ummed and aahed’ until its final release, to little fanfare two years later, could not have helped its chances of recouping its modest cost. Richard recalled it was not until the mid-1970’s that he had a box office success again, with ‘The Three Musketeers’ Our ‘Q&A’ was so unfortunately brief, that not ever your friend and writer could shoehorn a query in, but the packed audience, including several high profile Mods of my acquaintance, went away very happy, and I’m sure the film’s reputation will only grow with its new-found DVD release.

Once again, huge thanks to the Flipsiders for coming up trumps and finding this gem of a film, but more importantly, securing its DVD release.

Scenester

25/5/09

Horror Hospital at the NFT Thursday 25/6/09

A scorching hot day on the South Bank of the Thames, bright, bright sunshine reflecting off the concrete and a bottle of Australian Chardonnay to sustain us, me and my good lady picked our way to the NFT with two fellow mod era film fanatics to see The Flipside’s latest Brit Exploitation offering. With my admittedly limited knowledge of Anthony Balch’s film output, and my expectations a little on the low side I was surprised to learn what a varied career this director had. Starting out with the type of ‘beatnik’ films familiar to those of you who were regulars at the late, lamented Scala Cinema at London’s King’s Cross, he was one director who seemed to remain on the fringes of filmmaking, with Horror Hospital representing some sort of stab at a more popular genre. The supporting shorts ‘Towers Open Fire’ and ‘Kronhausen’s Psychomontage No 1’, presented us with a typically free-form cut up of dissonant conversation and surreal situations, the former starring everyone’s favourite junkie uncle, William Burroughs and his stoned, disjointed ramblings. All made in the UK, they offered a peek into a world usually closed to the casual filmgoer and member of the public, and one he or she may not necessarily enjoy.

Balch made only a few films in his short career, the last one being ‘Horror Hospital’, a traditional shocker with a comedy base that is anything but healthy. The plot is as familiar as it could be; a young couple, thrown together by chance on a train, find themselves in a sinister hospital, run by a criminally insane Finnish Doctor with an obsession with young people’s sexual behaviour. His deluded experiments have led to production of a zombie-like state in his subjects, the failures and escapees being dispatched by a fiendish blade secreted in the roof of his limousine, beheading them at a stroke. Played to icy perfection by Michael Gough, who is the only deliberately creepy character in the film, wheelchair bound and assisted by Skip Martin, another familiar face from the 70’s, his diminutive stature helping to draw sympathy from the audience at his cruel treatment from the unpleasant medic. The young couple are Robin Askwith, whose bare behind is probably just as familiar to cinemagoers of the 70’s as is his face, and Vanessa Shaw, playing his lust object, Biba-booted and possessing all of the attributes you would expect of a girl in a horror film of this period. A storyline that takes us through a familiar landscape of science gone bad eventually being destroyed by the forces of good (young people and their carefree attitude to life) takes us back into the normal world, with a jokey shock at the end-of course.

To those of you who are not familiar with the UK horror/comedy genre, the nearest parallel would appear to be the USA’s The Evil Dead, what with blood inexplicably appearing from the bathroom taps, and strange, bloody bed sheets dismissed by the hospital staff with an aside; ‘I hope you’ll be tidier than the last people who had that room’. There is also some common ground with the previous night’s NFT offering, ‘The Damned’, in that both films seem to be having difficulty deciding what sort of genre they are destined for. In ‘The Damned’s’ case, it was a toss-up between Biker/SciFi/future Shock, in Horror Hospital, Sick Comedy/Sexy-Light/Full on Horror, but this was many years before shows like ‘The League of Gentlemen’ and ‘Psychoville, and their cheerful mixing of genres and multi-layered storylines.

As a piece of Brit Exploitation, it works beautifully; there’s blood and guts for the gorehounds, a flash of flesh for the lechers, ‘Carry-On’ style laughs for the Saturday Night fun seekers and undertones of Nazi – style atrocities for the sicker and more twisted intellectual crowd. It didn’t win any Oscars, can hardly be looked on as a classic, but for those who love vicarious thrills, belly laughs and a touch of sleaze, there’s plenty here to amuse, and the film’s long availability on VHS/DVD will ensure its survival far better than if it was trying to court serious approval somewhere. It underlines why it is important not to accept only the scrawny offerings of a lot of modern mainstream cinema, but to cast the net a little further. A backward glance to that potent era of the late 60’s/early 70’s, when UK cinema was still capable of delivering a fun night at your local flea-pit; so thanks to Vic and Will Flipsider, for giving it a well-deserved big screen airing here.

Scenester

30/06/09

The Damned (1961) NFT1 Wednesday 24/6/09

I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that I don’t know a thing about the cinema. Either that, or my memory is playing me up. My reason for booking to see this film was basically that I thought that I had seen it many years ago on a late night TV showing and wanted to see if it lived up to my memory of it. Even ‘memory’ is a misnomer, as all I could remember was a scene on a beach with Oliver Reed and his biker cohorts cavorting with a girl. Some things just stick in your mind, as the song goes!

The opening scene looked promising, with a shot of a beach and the early appearance of a bike gang, Oliver Reed playing their leader. There the resemblance ended, however, and we were plunged into one of the most off-kilter, creepy and plain sick sci-fi movies of the period. Several story lines are in evidence here, starting with the gang of bikers and their female lure, the lovely Shirley Ann Field, enticing strangers down lonely alleys, then beating and robbing them. The second, a tale of friendship between a ‘man from the ministry’ and a middle aged sculptress who rents a cliffside property from her friend. The property gives her the quiet and solitude she needs to create her tortured sculptures, made from driftwood and other reclaimed materials. The third, and most disquieting, is about a group of children being educated in isolation in a secret underground bunker, subjects of our ‘man from the ministry’.

It is the sometimes far from seamless stitching of these separate strands of the storylines that most intrigues you, and at the same time, throws you off-balance with its tracking from one to the next. The initial shot of the assault on a visiting middle-aged American academic contains a wealth of detail about England in the 1960’s. Filmed in Weymouth, where Victorian gentility sits side by side with the modern, the sight of virtually traffic-free roads and stylish, well-kept shop windows were as refreshing as they were beautifully photographed. The bikers, including a young Kenneth Cope, are a little on the soft side and are inexplicably led by Oliver Reed, resplendent in a hounds tooth check jacket. Reed cuts a robust Mod figure, toting a rolled umbrella, which he uses to hook round his victims’ throats prior to delivering them a beating. His sister (Shirley Ann Field) plays the bait for his traps, but she resents her brother using her in this way, even offering an explanation for his possessive behaviour; she feels he doesn’t let her have boyfriends because he’s never had a girlfriend.

A contemporary interview with the director, Joseph Losey, revealed that he felt he had had both Field and Reed imposed on him, and that Reed was ‘untrained’. I can’t claim any credentials as a casting director, but I’ve seen Oliver reed in countless films, and he never disappoints, as in this one. He plays the despicable but psychologically flawed thug to perfection, evoking an atmosphere that would have to wait a good few years to make its reappearance in films I prefer to call the ‘Violence 2000’ genre, like ‘A Clockwork Orange’.

Our lure decides to make a break for it, joining the American on his yacht, and they end up on a lonely stretch of beach, taking advantage of an empty house, already seemingly familiar to the American, no doubt from previous amorous encounters. It is of course our solitary sculptress’ house. However, the cliffs outside hold a surprise, and they get stuck in a cave when the tide comes in. It is here that the sci-fi element kicks in, as our stranded lovers are rescued by a group of children who are shocked to discover that the adults have warm skin. The adults are equally shocked at how cold the children are, and they quickly realise that the children are being held here as part of some experiment, eventually finding that their jailer is our man form the ministry.

If the title of the film hasn’t already reminded you of ‘Children of the Damned’, then these scenes with the children will. However, it differs from that classic of the ‘Soft Apocalypse’ genre, in that the relatively benign adult hero of ‘Children’ has no obvious parallel here. We learn that the children were all born to mothers who had been exposed to radiation, and are unable to live except in the rarefied atmosphere of the bunker. Our man from the ministry has been charged with the grim duty of bringing up the children to repopulate the earth after the seemingly inevitable nuclear holocaust, their immunity to radiation ensuring their survival.

It’s a long way from a tepid biker movie to a sinister apocalyptic fable about the morality of nuclear research, child psychology and isolation, deliberate or otherwise. I’ve given away so much of the plot already, but I’ll leave you to decide the ending for yourselves. It’s another film that seems to have been hiding away, in spite of the stellar reputation of its director, but it must surely find a wider audience one day. Thanks to the NFT for digging this one out of the catacombs for a well-deserved and welcome showing.

Scenester

2/7/09

Joanna at the NFT 23/7/09 incl. Q&A with Mike Sarne, Director

In their quest for the offbeat, outlandish and downright weird, Vic & Will Flipside routinely ransack the lesser-visited corners of the archives. This particular presentation intrigued me not only because of the irresistible 60’s Swingin’ London setting, but also because I had not heard of it before. The promise of a Q&A with the film’s director, Mike Sarne, guaranteed my attendance.

After a relaxing early evening on the South Bank, we made our way over to the NFT, meeting our friends M & K, regular Flipsiders themselves, ready for the 60’s film that appears to have got away.

As we learnt from Mike, the basic idea for ‘Joanna’ came from a true story, about a notorious shoplifter and party girl, who used to keep her ill-gotten gains in a left luggage locker at a central London train station. The script was pitched to potential backers on the back of the reflected success of Mike’s previous feature, which played support to the popular ‘Our Man Flint’. 20th Century Fox picked up the option on Joanna, awash with the staggering success of ‘The Sound of Music’ and duly handed Mike $1m, and carte blanche with it. This may have been a rash decision in retrospect, as the end product is lengthy, rambling, alternately joyous and pathetic, and sometimes a little difficult to swallow.

The scene is set with our heroine (Genevieve Waite) arriving by train and moving to her aunt’s house in London, ostensibly to treat the place like a hotel. She goes about her business, studying art during the day and getting in some serious partying at night, along the way meeting a familiar collection of stock contemporary characters as doomed aristocrats, thuggish club owners and upper crust eccentrics, all of whom possess a great deal of charm, but few of them exactly the marriage material she craves.

Musically, the film is a mini treasure-trove for fans of slightly left-field 60’s music, with Scott Walker’s beautiful ‘When Joanna loved me’ and some specially written songs by Rod McKuen, a personal favourite.

This being a 60’s film, setting and costume are paramount, but the shots of a rather quiet- looking London (Sunday filming schedule?) and some suspiciously conservative outfits for the young characters come as a surprise. This isn’t to say that there is a lack of 60’s pizzazz, however. With Genevieve Waite’s model-girl figure (Twiggy was mooted as the lead, according to Mike) any outfit would be a stunner, receiving no competition from her dowdy student pals, posh beatniks all of them. It is however the men in the film who are the true peacocks (nothing changes) and Joanna’s Sierra Leonian boyfriend, Gordon (Calvin Lockhart) has a selection of bold suits (one in white!) frilly shirts and dandyish hats that would have easily passed muster in one of the following decade’s Blaxploitation epics. Gordon’s style is very much the urban pimp, even if his real job is in the comparatively respectable world of nightclub management.

Joanna and Gordon have a mutual friend, in the shape of Lord Peter Sanderson, played by the great Donald Sutherland and so far over the top, he’s practically in the stratosphere. Mike explained that they could not coax an aristocratic English accent out of Sutherland for the role-and considering the character’s and the actor’s name, they might have been better off with an aristocratic Scottish one-but they did not have time to lip-sync a substitute, so the ‘flirty John Betjeman playing Pooh Bear’ enunciation remained. What Sutherland may have lacked in the vocal department was more than made up for in the characterisation, with his hilariously camp manners and magpie appreciation of every pleasurable experience his privileged life could throw at him. We learn that his butterfly like lifestyle is soon to come to an end, as he is suffering from a wasting illness that lays him to rest, just as Joanna is beginning to fall for him.

Joanna’s chaotic journey thorough her young life takes her to many places, among them an abortion clinic, where a friend is receiving the tender mercies of the staff for a second (third?) time, and many art gallery openings and parties populated by more unsuitables who ultimately leave her wanting to settle down with her now fugitive club owner boyfriend. The film ends with, of all things, a chorus line (sadly without Donald Sutherland) doing a traditional style show-stopper on the railway platform, as Joanna leaves for home.

As I think you can probably tell, I wasn’t overly impressed with this meandering film, and its value, as a time capsule of 60’s style and manners, is also a little suspect. However, without these works, made in the heart of the moment, and without the censorious voices that often ruined larger productions, we would all be a lot poorer for entertainment. Our co-travellers on the engine Flipside, M & K, seemed to be of the same opinion, none of us in a great hurry to see it again.

Mike Sarne fielded some questions from Will & Vic and the audience afterwards, cheerfully recalling how critics and public alike hated his next film, Myra Breckinridge, almost as much as they hated ‘Joanna’. More interesting, was Mike’s stories of his background before making films, in the world of commercials, and I think there is definitely scope for a new Mod parlour game, guessing which 60’s adverts were his work. I have my eye on a particularly silly gangster pastiche, advertising butter, I saw on a DVD compilation. Mike was more than willing to talk about the process of pitching a film, and his earlier success with ‘B-pictures’ set him on the road to a full-blown directorial career. No mention of ‘Come Outside’, however.

I’ll have to turn in a slightly negative verdict on this one, but I’m looking forward to the Flipside’s next screening, ‘Penny Points To Paradise’, in a couple of days’ time, and of course their regular monthly slots at the NFT.

Scenester

4/8/09

Lambert & Stamp

The meteoric career of Kit Lambert and Chris Stamp, film makers turned pop group managers, hustlers and outcasts is the subject of a film, tautly directed by James D. Cooper, and coming your way in May.

That two people of such completely different backgrounds and little in common but a shared given name should get together at all, let alone in the newly emergent pop business of the early 1960’s, is a perfect example of this freewheeling period, when class barriers came down and the children of the aristocracy and the workers rubbed shoulders. Christopher ‘Kit’ Lambert, the son of composer Constant Lambert, and Chris Stamp, son of tugboat captain Thomas Stamp and brother of actor Terence Stamp, met, significantly, at Shepperton Film Studio, which their charges, The Who, would one day own and to which Stamp would return for an unhappy meeting with them, and their lawyers, years later.

Using much archive and contemporaneous footage, the film’s 117 minutes flash by in an amazing journey across two of the most explosive, fascinating and significant decades of popular history. Lambert’s early career choices, from Army service, to assistant director on films such as The Guns of Navarone and From Russia With Love, to his trek to South America to discover the source of an obscure tributary to the Amazon River, are the stuff of Boy’s Own stories. His subsequent meeting with Stamp, working on films like ‘The L Shaped Room’ and ‘Of Human Bondage’ would form a lasting, if unexpected friendship and would take them from scratching their living in the precarious film world, to managing the career of one of the UK’s most successful, inventive and ungovernable rock bands.

Their joint decision to document the UK’s live music scene in the form of a film would prove a crucial one and the original footage is, as ever, the best way to show it. The haphazard meeting with The High Numbers, and our duo’s realisation that their film business might be augmented with taking on the management of this group of upstarts is narrated by Stamp and the now familiar story of the band reassuming their previous name, The Who, is spun out for old time’s sake. Doing any job in the film industry to ensure their young charges got a weekly salary; this is where the story really gets going.

The Who’s rise from a rough ‘n’ ready R ‘n’ B band and denizens of some of London’s more malodorous basement clubs, to a tough, choppy bunch of miscreants peddling a dissenting line in dark psychedelia, on to a wildly successful rock juggernaut, as much at home in the opera house, film studio or stadium venue, is documented brilliantly from behind the scenes and with valuable input from the surviving members of the band and other interested parties.

Lambert and Stamp’s physical resemblance to the stage personas adopted by Peter Cook and Dudley Moore in their first flush of success may be a coincidence, but one which shouldn’t be ignored. The inevitable question of ‘who was the more talented?’ could crop up here, and its answer could prove as elusive as the one about the other famous mismatched duo.

Obsessively committing so many of their charges’ public appearances to film, from interviews on French radio to jaunts in their Magic Bus, are all revealing not only for period detail, but for what they tell you about the band and this singular duo. Lambert’s ease at speaking French and German in the course of these clips, added to his aristocratic manner, are pointers to how these chancers got away with their gloriously spendthrift behaviour, all affectionately recalled by Stamp. Almost entirely buoyed up by credit obtained from bank managers impressed by Lambert’s top-drawer home address and demeanour, we are served up another strand of the broader picture of life in privilege-ridden 60’s Britain. Pete Townsend’s hilarious story about the wine shop where he has had an account for over forty years, and has never been asked to settle it, is a highlight, as is Pete’s rancour at the success of Track acts like Jimi Hendrix, Thunderclap Newman and Arthur Brown, all scoring number 1 hits, an honour which eluded The Who.

The revealing section dealing with ‘Tommy’ is perhaps the most interesting of all, with Pete recalling being accused of vanity by Lambert, in wanting to write an opera. Lambert and Stamp’s involvement in this most successful of projects is argued about, Pete maintaining his primacy in the writing, although giving honest praise to John Entwistle for his essential contributions. Footage of the work’s appearance at the New York Metropolitan Opera House shows middle aged Americans coming out generally appreciative, a sign that even the more straight laced were beginning to warm to the rhythms of rock and roll. It is also the section where the cracks in the manager/band relationship begin to show.

Lambert’s dislike of Pete’s ambitious, but thwarted project ,‘Lifehouse’, Lambert’s descent into drug addiction and Stamp’s into alcoholism spelt the beginning of the end of this relationship, brought out well, if painfully in narration, and ending in Lambert’s untimely death in 1980. Stamp’s recalling the fateful Shepperton meeting is poignantly, yet humorously brought out, as accused of mismanagement by the lawyers, he tells the band, ‘You now own this studio, do you call that mismanagement?’

The Who’s internal troubles are never very far away from our screen either; Pete’s anxiety over his own ability to deliver high standard material (no, really), his suspicions that Keith and John were, at one point, ready to jump ship and join Led Zeppelin (‘Some heavy metal band’, Pete’s classic put down, stings like acid) and the effect on Pete’s mind of the increasing workload during the recording of ‘Quadrophenia’ are all brought out well.

Those who can’t stay away from this film may well be coming to see the fascinating clips of their favourite band, rather than to hear the little told story about their managers, but the clips are astounding; exploding human jack-in-the-box-Keith Moon, looking about fourteen years old, playing the tiny drum set on ‘I Can’t Explain’, morphs into a gap-toothed, chubby clown, the moody, immobile John Entwistle, the cheerful but no-nonsense manner of Roger Daltrey and the troubled perfectionist Pete Townsend, are mesmerising. Perhaps we should also give a thought to the two men, no longer with us, who helped the band on their road to international success, and whose meeting, unlikely then, seems a virtual impossibility to reproduce in today’s once more class-divided society.

Scenester

24/2/15

This article was first published on Modculture

http://www.modculture.co.uk/lambert-stamp-2015/

‘I Start Counting’ (1969) with Jenny Agutter Q & A NFT2 21/7/11

The synopsis to this film in the July NFT calendar piqued my interest on a number of different levels; that it is a thriller from the late 60’s, that it has a cast of well-loved Brit actors including two of my favourite ladies, that it is set in the ever-malleable home counties hinterland, and is a pressure cooker portrait of strained family life. I felt as if I had already seen the film, so familiar was the setting, but I could not, for the life of me, recall when. It sounded like exactly the sort of film which would have occupied a Sunday afternoon rep-style screening at my hometown fleapit back in the day.

From the opening moments, where a group of boys are skimming stones into a river, oblivious to the body of a young girl just below the waterline on the opposite bank, you know you’re in for a bumpy ride.

Our principal character, Wynne, played by the plum-gorgeous Jenny Agutter, only 16 and in her first major role, gets an early establishment scene as she awakens a little ahead of her ‘Popeye’ clock and dresses for school. It also introduces one of the film’s key symbols, that of Wynne’s tendency to count up to 11 when she feels nervous, most significant later in the film. We learn that Wynne is the adopted daughter in a comfortable, but slightly dysfunctional working class family, and that she has a sizeable crush on her older adopted brother, George, played by Bryan Marshall. Her crush is innocent enough, and unrequited, but any suggestion that she is some uncomplicated adolescent is quickly put aside, as we learn that she is deeply religious, yet with a yen for the mystical side of life, and a sentimental, almost obsessive attachment to her old family home. She takes long, lonely walks through parks, over to the derelict cottage, with her minx-like friend Corinne (Claire Sutcliffe) where she performs mock-séances, evoking the spirit of her adopted brother’s dead girlfriend.

That would normally be enough to be going on with, but we also learn that fatal attacks on young girls of the neighbourhood are becoming very frequent, with seemingly little action by the local uniform to deter them, and Wynne begins to believe that her adopted brother may be responsible for them. Her behaviour toward her brother after formulating her suspicions is all the more surprising; in that she only wishes to protect him from the world, not matter what he’s done.

The subject matter, on the surface salacious, is however handled with extraordinary sensitivity by all involved. There are so many moments of levity in the girls’ exchanges about the inevitable subject of sex, and their precocious questions about it to the visiting priest at school, is a real gem of a scene.

Wynne’s confession of all her petty misdemeanours to her local priest is truly touching, and she reveals her forbidden love here too, to the usual sentence of Hail Marys. Her honest belief in Roman Catholic life makes her forays into the world of the spirits seem all the more surprising, shocking, even. A particularly effective scene has Wynne at the foot of the stairs of the abandoned cottage, counting to eleven, as a little girl (herself, as a child?) discovers the dead body of an older girl at the last step. It evokes sympathy and disturbs in roughly equal measure.

We spot the enormous red herring of the film long before this scene, but the true identity of the killer is hinted at early on, and comes as little surprise later on. I am not so mean that I would reveal any more, but I will say that anyone thinking they are getting a routine stalk & slasher, or a feast of young flesh, will walk away disappointed. The film contains elements of both, but the quality of the acting; the excellent script and the sure direction keep it from descending into the morass of low-end exploitation cinema. Instead, we have a tense, engaging picture of the unbearable trials of adolescent life, and young peoples’ ability to adapt and cope in the most trying and dangerous circumstances.

The screening was enlivened by the presence of the ageless Jenny Agutter, who recalled her early film career in great detail, explaining that her parts in her first few well-known films (The Railway Children, Walkabout) turned up in rapid succession. In response to a question about ‘Walkabout’s script, Jenny denied the long standing rumour that it was only a few pages of vague ideas, mentioning that it was fully and carefully detailed by the time filming commenced. Recalling seeing ‘I Start Counting’s script for the first time. Jenny told us how impressed she was with it from the first, inadvertently answering my own intended question to her. I instead asked about the religious / mystical themes present, and underpinning the character of Wynne, and Jenny recalled her own Roman Catholic roots as being a huge help in playing this complicated girl, particularly the confession scene.

Will & Vic Flipside have once again unearthed a long lost gem of a film, for their monthly slot at the NFT. If you aren’t a regular already, what are you waiting for?

Scenester
4/8/11

Neil Innes Night
NFT 8/9/11

Admit it, you haven’t laughed at much on television for years. It’s not just you; it’s millions of us. What passes for comedy now is little more than narrowcasts designed for niche audiences, or the endlessly repeated prejudices of unimaginative idiots. It wasn’t always so.

Many of you may already be familiar with Neil Innes, probably through his work with those legendary eccentrics, The Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band. Some of you may even recall the Innes Book Of Records, a criminally underrated TV comedy of the 1970’s. Tonight’s offering from the Flipside crew was a celebration of the work of this survivor, attended by the man himself.

Personal favourites like the surreal ‘Equestrian Statue’ and the inventive ‘Head Ballet’ were included showing the Bonzo’s extraordinary imagination and ability to conjure hilarity out of virtually nothing, and to never, ever, leave well alone.

The evening’s first clip, ‘The Exploding Sausage’ was recalled with fondness by Neil, as having been made on the usual shoestring budget, utilising the children of the camera crew as cast members, an available stately home, and producing a sort of Lewis Carroll meets the Marx Brothers revue, their unique music providing the soundtrack. It showed the Bonzo’s had a firmer grasp on psychedelia than many of the more fashionable, and perhaps better placed contemporaries.

The clip that had me in fits was the spot-on take of the Old Grey Whistle Test, part of the Rutland Weekend Television comedy show, hosted by Eric Idle and with contributions by Neil Innes. Idle’s impression of a bearded, docile, all-accepting presenter provided the perfect host to such luminaries of the progressive rock world as Toad the Wet Sprocket, Outrageous Admiral Sphincter and others who could easily have walked off the set of the real ‘OGWT’ and straight onto this parody of it. The sound of Toad the Wet Sprocket’s tuneless, wittering hippy meanderings, enlivened by fuzzy, over-treated guitar, and the bleached-out lighting effects mercilessly lampooned Bob Harris’ fondly remembered show, and Neil reported, was a big hit with the real Bob Harris, who found it hilarious.

I recall seeing the ‘OGWT’ sketch for the first time back in the 70’s,m and fell out of my ‘egg’ chair laughing at it. I have no memory at all, however, of seeing the ‘Top of the Pops’ clip from 1977, where Neil sings a pro-Queen’s Jubilee song. Perhaps I was listening to the Sex Pistols decidedly anti-Jubilee ‘God Save The Queen’.

The surreal, and rather disturbing ‘3-2-1’ clip defied all attempts at classification, or even comprehension. This inexplicably popular game show from the early 80‘s, hosted by Ted Rogers, set crazy riddles and cryptic clues as questions for the hapless members of the public to answer. The contestants were vying to win such high tech goodies as the then-new Video Cassette Recorders, Television sets (‘Colour!’ said Ted Rogers, as if some miracle had occurred) and Micro-Stereos (still the size of a hospital). Complete confusion reigned, Ted did his mysterious ‘3-2-1’ hand signal and Neil performed his best-known song, ‘I’m the Urban Spaceman’.

For many, the real treat of the evening were the very welcome clips of ‘The Innes Book of Records’, a magazine style comedy show, which used a man with a travelling gramophone as a linking device.

The Q&A, which followed, was made especially enjoyable by Neil’s enthusiasm, even when recalling the Bonzo’s gruelling work schedule, which would eventually break up the band. Their early days, scouring London’s flea markets for old 78 rpm records whose songs they would often incorporate into their stage act, was fondly recalled. ‘We stopped arguing’ was Neil’s account of the reason for the split. The questions from the floor were as diverse as the clips, and Neil would have been happy to talk all night to us, but time pressed. Your pal Scenester begged for more on Rutland Weekend Television, and Neil did not disappoint, agreeing that the show would probably not be made nowadays, given that almost all local TV stations, which RTV was poking gentle fun at, have been swallowed by the big corporations, and who have little interest in maverick fare like RTV.

Scenester
24/9/11

First published on ‘Eyeplug’ website 30/9/2011

That Was The Week That Was:
The Anti-Establishment Club & Clips
NFT 27/11/12

The mention of an evening’s celebration of this classic television show proved sufficient to drag me over to London’s South Bank on one of the coldest Tuesdays of the year. What none of us were prepared for was the appearance of one of TW3’s founders, Sir David Frost to act as compere once more. After a respectful and probably unnecessary introduction to the great man, it was straight into the clips, and we were on a hurtling switchback ride of bitterly funny topical sketches and biting satire, such as have not been seen since the show was brought to our uptight, highly censored screens in 1962.

Footage of the atrocious treatment of black Americans in the Southern states flashes up, packing a hard punch, leading into the masterly ‘Mississippi Song’, with Minstrel-style singers and dancers in a cake-walking, eye-rolling routine, flanking Millicent Martin’s discomforting performance of this mauling of ‘good ole’ attitudes that were by no means confined to the South. Such powerful moments would be rationed, however.

With help from the digital magic of Skype, we were able to conjure up Millicent herself, live from Los Angeles, who proved to be on good form, jolly and smiling, and defying all the usual signs of ageing. Her memories of working on TW were open and honest, recalling the enjoyment she had from dressing as sexily as she wanted, and exploiting to the hilt, her status as the only woman on the show.

A panel of original TW3-ers took the stage, and after recalling their favourite moments on the show, what appeared to be a good natured argument developed between Christopher Booker, apoplectic with rage at having been plagiarised by fellow panellist Gerald Kaufman, the latter refusing to apologise for the theft. Gerald put his invitation to join the close circle of people clustered around then-Prime Minister Harold Wilson down to his famous ‘Silent MP’s’ sketch, shown in full. The young Frost, trotting out a list of the MPs who had not made a single speech in the House of Commons for some five years, his voice possessing precisely the degree of withering sarcasm to carry it off.

Lance Percival’s famous off the cuff Calypsos were touched on, but Lance proved even more versatile playing an officious senior civil servant admonishing a junior clerk for his suggestive language in a perfectly innocuous letter. Only recently had the law been changed legalising gay relationships, and the fall out to ‘straight’ society was unbearable to some. This was brilliantly lampooned by Kenneth Cope’s performance as a man confessing to his heterosexual tendencies. Appealing for the audience’s sympathy, it was another finely observed, sharply executed short sketch.

The list of writers that contributed to TW3 reads like a roll call of British literary lions of the period, with such names as Harold Pinter, Keith Waterhouse, Dennis Potter and Johnny Speight, to name but a few. We glimpsed some of my personal favourite moments when running the face to face interviews of Bernard Levin, suitably venomous hen dealing with the wicked and the greedy. His famous cutting and drying of the British catering industry, here personified by Chares Forte, have gone down in television history as a lesson in how to entertain and inform at the expense of making a few enemies. Levin’s greeting to a group of farmers, ‘Hello Peasants’, would even shock today, and disarmed the men looking for redress from someone who would soon become a broadcasting giant. That Levin had to be protected from a hefty attacker at one point, requiring four BBC staff to restrain the would-be assailant, is testament to Levin’s powers of provocation.

A sympathetic note was achieved with Millicent Martin’s lullaby for the love-child, a sugared pill of a song that imparted a nasty aftertaste for the amateur moralists, rather than the unfortunate child and mother.

It was during the second half of the evening’s show that the atmosphere turned from bonhomie to something a little more edgy, after the airing of TW3’s tribute to John F Kennedy, made in a great hurry after his assassination. A well written eulogy with a Western theme was sung with great dignity by Millicent Martin, but one member of the panel was less than impressed. Ian Hislop’s comments on what he felt was a sycophantic display of grief drew angry reactions from some sections of the audience, who clearly felt that there were sacred cows that TW3 should leave alone, and JFK was one of them. The hackneyed argument that Hislop was too young to remember JFK’s achievements was trotted out, and by implication, many of the audience were in the same category. I felt some amusement at the thought that a roomful of people, who had come to celebrate the great satirical TV show of its time, had retained little sense of it themselves.

A short sequence highly reminiscent of the Simon Dee show followed, the cast leaping into a sublime 60’s sports car and driving out of the studio into the cold night air of White City. The final TW3 clip on offer was the best; however, with two Millicent Martins singing a lyric of such Byzantine complexity, it would have challenged the powers a Gilbert & Sullivan veteran to keep up. The divided MM was achieved, we were told, by telerecording one part, then having MM sing live beside her own recording, a low-tech solution from the analogue age.

I left the South Bank with the thought that if TW3 were to be brought back to our small screens in this age of corrupt, expense-fiddling politicians, greedy power company bosses and incompetent bankers, they would find an inexhaustible supply of material to sharpen their knives for.

Scenester

16/12/12

Missing Believed Wiped special:
An Evening with John Henshall NFT 28/5/13

The preservation of popular culture is a subject this writer holds dear, and individuals and organisations which do this gain my unconditional admiration. The National Film Theatre’s brief extends far beyond popular culture, but it’s been at the forefront of preserving an archive of film and television for many years. It was therefore the ideal place for NFT programmer Dick Fiddy to welcome photographer and former TV cameraman John Henshall to show us some of the gems from his remarkable personal archive.

John recalled starting with the BBC as a trainee cameraman in 1961, having already worked as a cinema projectionist at the age of 15. His early work included a show starring Bing Crosby and Bob Hope, and later, the fondly remembered ‘Jazz 625’, featuring Count Basie. Among his home recordings of early TV included one of the young newsreader Judith Chalmers, some delightfully naïve cat food commercials and Alan Freeman as quizmaster, offering a staggering £9,000.00 prize. Sadly, history doesn’t record whether Alan was wearing a pair of Brentford nylons.

The famous ‘art gallery’ sketch with Peter Cook and Dudley Moore was shown here, the studio audience clearly in fits, and John recalled other sketches from the duo which had to be stopped due to them, their audience, or all, laughing too much to continue. His work on ‘That Was The Week That Was’ was recalled with fondness, and a stunned silence from ourselves in the audience, as he recounted witnessing the notorious incident when Bernard Levin was punched on live TV by a man whose singer wife had been reviewed less than enthusiastically by Levin. John produced and unrolled the credits roll from this classic, ground breaking TV show, to our astonishment.

Those of you with long memories may recall a clip of Roy Orbison singing his huge hit record, ‘Pretty Woman’, wandering around an ornate garden. Or Spitting Image’s infamous clip of Margaret Thatcher performing ‘My Way’? Or a ‘Sun’ commercial with Samantha Fox? John’s career has been nothing if not eclectic.

John’s work on the TV adaptation of ‘Girls of Slender Means’ took in filming the special effects used in the bombing of a building sequence, the whole, long clip showing in stark detail the demands that were placed on the actors and camera crew alike in creating this complicated illusion.

Admitting my complete bias here, it was the music clips that I had been looking forward to the most, and they didn’t disappoint. I doubt if there is a single one of you who didn’t tune in to see the recent TV screening of the ‘Top of the Pops’ clip of David Bowie & The Spiders From Mars performing ‘The Jean Genie’. This brilliant piece of work-on-the-hoof was further enhanced by the use of John’s fish eye lens, a piece he had specially made, and rented it out to the BBC on many occasions.

Other long-unseen clips included Kate Bush’s willowy frame singing her haunting hit ‘The Man With The Child In His Eyes’, Blondie’s ‘Picture This’, some vintage Sonny and Cher in a close study, and post-Bow Wow Wow Annabella Lu Win. A charming filmed tribute to John from Nana Mouskouri, with whom he worked on her popular musical show was an unexpected addition.

John’s fortuitous preservation of these clips, on their original broadcast tapes, make for a unique archive, that I am certain will be of enormous interest for years to come. When originally re-discovered, John was surprised to see he had a collection of about 600 tapes, which are currently being archived and carefully stored for posterity. Enlivened with John’s stories of his meetings with the great and good, his photographs of many of them and his very forthright opinions of his former employers made an essential, but hopefully not unique evening at the NFT.

Scenester
22/7/13

Private Road – with writer and director Barney Platts-Mills
NFT Wed 22/9/10

Following on from the National Film Theatre’s popular screening of Barney Platts-Mills’ ‘Bronco Bullfrog’ a few months ago, Vic and Will Flipsider managed to secure a print of the very rare ‘Private Road’, by the same director. What made the evening extra special, was an appearance by the director for an interview and a Q&A session after the viewing.

Where ‘Bronco Bullfrog’ concentrated on the activities of young petty criminals in an impoverished East end of London environment, ‘Private Road’, as its name suggests, moved us into a more comfortable social milieu, that of upper middle class suburbia and its bohemian fringes. We meet an aspiring young author, Peter Morissey, played with floppy-curled insouciance by Bruce Robinson, whose early success with his first novel and getting stories published in Woman’s Own, has spurred him on to begin his next novel. With his cheerful disregard for regular effort, and his sordid digs, shared with another dope-smoking slacker, you are immediately reminded of the two ‘resting’ actor characters who proved to be an enduring comedy creation, ‘Withnail and (the unnamed) I’. Written by Bruce Robinson in later life and career, there are several scenes in ‘Private Road’ which bring ‘Withnail and I’ affectionately to mind.

Peter takes up with young secretary Anne Halpern, (Susan Penhaligon) whom he casually picks up at a party, and their affair quickly leads them to set up home together on the proceeds of Peter’s recent success. Susan’s upper middle class parents are not unnaturally worried about her newfound boyfriend, and the speed of their decision to live together proves a shock, but this doesn’t deter the modern girl, who seems more than eager to leave her ordered existence behind her.

The pressures of urban life soon get to our young couple, and they decide that a few days rest and recuperation in the country (‘Withnail & I’ again) is what’s needed to put them right. In a more isolated setting, Peter decides, he can get on with his next great novel much more easily. Their farcical attempts to live in the small farmhouse without modern facilities and their assumption that food would be as easily got as in London, leads Peter to go out, shotgun in hand, to try and hunt for food. His lack of experience means he bags nothing at all on day one, and one rabbit on day two, which Susan refuses to skin, clean and cook. The scene where he tries to shoot fish in the stream had me chuckling in the same way as when I first saw it in ‘Withnail and I’, many years ago.

Their inevitable swift departure back to the city puts more pressure on the young couple, compounded by the rejection of his poorly prepared second novel by his agent, and sends Peter into depression, jeopardising his relationship with Susan. He soon goes back to his dope-smoking, slacker ways, but is jolted back into cold reality by the news that Susan is pregnant. This news is greatly by neither of them warmly, but to ensure he does not lose her, Peter offers to marry Susan and starts to look for a more regular form of income. Finding a job at an advertising agency through a friend, he muddles his way through the world of work, eventually compromising his principles close to the point of no return; spearheading an advertising campaign to sell dessert foods for dogs.

The work colleague who led him to this unusual career choice is, we learn, a political radical, an anarchist, and it’s here that Barney Platts-Mills has a great deal of fun mocking the pretensions of such ‘radicals’, on the one hand, giving out revolutionary pamphlets, and on the other, helping companies to selling bland consumer products at a terrific profit, to the hapless proletarian workforce whose best interests he claims to have at heart. Our radical’s equally committed girlfriend displays all the charm of a running sore on a rat’s behind when she sneers at Peter’s conventional language and manners.

‘Private Road’ may not be 1971’s best rip-roaring comedy, or the most coruscating class critique ever written, but there’s a lot to like about it. The sense of period is acute, when the 60’s dream of permanent prosperity and a carefree lifestyle for all failed to be realised, leading to a scrabble for the leftovers by the ‘old guard’, a drift to the ‘hard’ left by many intellectuals and union leaders, and a period in political confusion for the working and middle classes. The old class divisions are still very marked, Peter and his friends able to get away with behaviour that would be most viciously stamped on by the authorities, were they more humbly born. The offer of a house as a present to Anne and Peter by Anne’s successful businessman father raised quite a few eyebrows in the audience, and probably produced utter disbelief in anyone there under the age of thirty-five.

At the Q & A afterwards, I asked Barney whether he had intended the political satire to form a larger part of the script, but he said he didn’t. He simply wanted to make a point about the futility of following leaders, and the undesirable violent intent that often went hand-in-hand with radical politics of the period, however well intentioned it may have started out

Another question from the floor was answered with a very definite affirmative; ‘Do you think Bruce Robinson was making notes for ‘Withnail and I’ when he was playing Peter?’

Barney’s anecdotes about some of the characters he has met in the course of his career kept us laughing, especially the one about Francois Mitterand still owing him money, and as the evening drew to a close, I was reminded once again of why I don’t spend my evenings gawping at YouTube for my entertainment: stuff like this simply isn’t on it. Another priceless evening at the NFT thanks to Will and Vic Flipsider, and may there be many more.

Scenester
26/9/10

The Avengers: A Touch of Brimstone
Brian Clemens in conversation at the National Film Theatre
22/7/10

There are few things that bear a more solid guarantee of brightening my day, than the prospect of an evening on the South Bank with Mme. Scenester, a bottle of Chateau Waterloo Bridge and a screening at the NFT. What made this evening extra special, was that the show in question was not only an excellent episode of my favourite TV show, The Avengers, but also an interview with the show’s creator, Brian Clemens. To a packed house, and with a few familiar Mods about town in attendance, we were straight into one of the best loved, and most controversial episodes of the Patrick MacNee / Diana Rigg era, ‘A Touch of Brimstone’.

The action opening in a sumptuous baronial home, where an aristocratic sybarite is watching television, whilst poring over his selection from a huge box of fine chocolates. The Hon. John Clavely-Cartney, played with considerable relish by everyone’s favourite rake and bounder, Peter Wyngarde, is watching with childlike glee, the loss of face of an East European diplomat, whose cigar has been peppered with explosives, live in front of millions of viewers. It has by now probably become a cliché to say it, but let’s say it anyway:

‘Mrs Peel? We’re needed.’

We are instantly transported to another scene of potential national embarrassment, this time a night at the opera for an Arab dignitary, resplendent in his private box, our two heroes keeping watch in the cheap(er) seats. The collapse of the floor below our distinguished visitor after the playing of his national anthem, with Steed & Mrs Peel as surprised as anyone, means the swift departure of the Eastern potentate and the instant loss of a valuable oil contract.

The standard of Avengers episodes was consistently high throughout the show’s life, but this one is a true standout. There is not a single aspect of the production that I can fault, from the script, the costumes, the sets, the acting, and the basing of the lead villain on a real historical figure, Sir Francis Dashwood, and his notorious Hellfire Club, is a master-stroke on Brian Clemens’ part.

Our heroes have already guessed at the identity of the perpetrator of these ridiculous and costly pranks, an arrogant, rich dandy whose name has already been mentioned here. His accomplices are his similarly inclined group of friends, who have recreated the Hellfire Club in all its horrible glory. Pursuing a life of unadulterated and rather raffish pleasure, their carefree attitude to life threatens the security of our country. Steed & Mrs Peel plan a two-pronged attack on this wayward son of the aristocracy. Whilst Mrs Peel poses as a charity worker, and purring, ‘I want to appeal to you’, manages to extract a fat cheque from Cartney, avoiding his slimy offer of dinner one evening, Steed successfully applies for membership of the Hellfire Club after downing a huge stone jar of wine and stylishly avoiding the loss of a finger in a game of speed with a pikestaff.

An auspicious date in the Club’s calendar is approaching, and Steed & Mrs Peel are keen not to miss ‘The Night Of All Sins’, particularly as the party will be a good cover for the plot to blow up a peace conference being held on the same night. Steed opts for the classic dandy look for the evening, complete with tapered hat and swagger stick, whereas Mrs Peel is demure in a lace dress and nosegay on a string, although not for long. It is the next scene, at the club’s orgiastic revels, and one later on, that presented a few problems to the TV company heads who would be screening the show. Mrs Peel is dragged away by a couple of ladies in waiting and clad, under duress, in an outfit more reminiscent of the ‘Batcave’ nightclub in the 1980s, than the swinging ‘60’s. In her tall, back-laced leather boots, fishnets, tight cinched balcony basque and spiky dog collar; we can only imagine how many coronaries this induced in the male viewing population! Cartney declares Mrs Peel ‘The Queen of Sin’ (have mercy!) and offers her to the salivating crowd, ‘To do with what you will’, echoing Sir Francis Dashwood’s famous dictum, later appropriated by another infamous pleasure seeker, Aleister Crowley.

Steed meanwhile, getting close to the truth, and after an exciting sword fight, manages to prevent the fireworks, whilst Mrs Peel, free of her would-be ravishers, is followed into the catacombs of the castle by the resident flyweight prizefighter. She defeats the sprite-like pugilist with some high speed, deadly kicks, but Cartney is quick to step in. Another problematic scene, this is the one that earned it a ban in the USA, and several cuts and a post-watershed showing non British TV. Cartney is setting about our lovely heroine with his whip, but she defends herself against the foppish brute with her usual dignity, and Cartney’s careless use of the cord makes it wrap itself around a secret switch on the wall, releasing the catch on the trapdoor he happens to be standing over, and he is dropped straight into the oubliette. Our heroes leave in great style, in a horseless carriage, and at last, I can draw a breath!

Without a pause, Dick Fiddy ushered the great man onto the stage, and I had my first real life sighting of Brian Clemens. In apparent good health and humour, Brian recalled that the US ban on the episode did not prevent the studio heads from showing it at their junkets, to great success. My own first sighting of the unexpurgated episode was at the late, lamented Scala Cinema in London’s Kings Cross, and it was longer than the version shown here, apparently the UK TV version, with much of the whipping removed. The complete episode also, I recall, got a showing on British TV in the 80’s/90’s, but to my knowledge, this is the only time it has been broadcast in the UK.

Brian’s stories of working on the show were a joy to listen to, going back to the earliest days, when it was called ‘Police Surgeon’ and starred Ian Hendry as a doctor, widowed by a criminal gang, who swore to ‘avenge’ his wife’s death. Patrick MacNee, whose city gent character was already established, although the essential bowler was not yet in evidence, played his partner in the crusade; he sported a homburg instead. Few episodes of this show still exist, and Brian recalled Ian Hendry’s dependence on alcohol was a major stumbling block to making the kind of show they wanted. The show was given a re-vamp, Steed was teamed up with a sassy female partner, Mrs Cathy Gale, played by the svelte Honor Blackman.

Brian recalled that the ‘action girl’ persona of Mrs Gale came about partly by accident, as the part was originally written for a man. They found Honor adaptable and up for the role as written, and so her judo-throwing, high kicking character was born. Her leather cat suit, originally chosen to give her a little dignity in the high kicks (really?) was quickly replaced with PVC, as it creaked too much! The night’s proceedings were complemented by a showing of the French titles to the Rigg-era show, ‘Chapeau Melon et Bottes de Cuir’ (Bowler Hat and Leather Boots!) and a short clip of Steed & Mrs Peel voiced by French actors. Brian’s pride in making the show was evident throughout his conversation with Dick Fiddy, and he shared many anecdotes with us. The one that particularly stuck in my mind, was the one about them being left to their own devices by the US backers, who, Brian said, felt that the show was like a house of cards; if upset, the whole thing could come crashing down. It is hard to imagine, he said, any TV producer getting this level of autonomy today. Everyone from the advertisers to the company accountant would want a say in its making. The mention of the ‘house of cards’ did, of course, remind us of two similar, particularly good episodes in the Blackman and Rigg series, where our heroines are being menaced in a haunted-house scenario. ‘The Joker’-anyone? Asked by your humble narrator to give his views on why the show has continued to sell, and outlasted all of its contemporaries, Brian modestly put it down to consistently good work on everyone’s part, and I can see no reason to disagree with that. Their use of 35mm film in the later, colour Rigg & Thorson series ensured a life beyond flimsy and easily wiped and re-used videotape, and the complete exclusion of the ‘real’ world from the stories, the lack of mundane, ‘everydayness’ gave it an otherworldly quality that cannot date so easily as, say, a ‘gritty’ drama would.

Another audience member asked if Brian remembered what role Kenneth Williams mentioned as turning down in his hilarious diaries, published a few years ago. Brian could not remember of course, - give him a break, its over 45 years ago! – but he did say that Williams could have taken on any of the parade of eccentrics in the supporting roles, which I would agree with completely. The questions kept coming from the floor, including one about the availability of the incidental music, which we learned was specially composed for the show.

Brian’s feeling was that with the end of the Thorson series, the show had not yet run its course, and he intimated that there were around 40 episodes that could have been made, but for whatever reason, they were not. The short-lived stage play was mentioned, as well as current interest from Germany in re-staging it, and the later, and in my view wholly inferior, New Avengers series was also touched on. Was the presence of the former model and now all-round campaigner, Joanna Lumley, possibly the only reason to watch it? Even the hated film, made in the 90’s, for some unknown reason, was mentioned, with merciful brevity.

All this made a perfect evening at the NFT, and I can only say, if you missed it, better luck next time.

Scenester
27/7/10

Season of the Witch NFT1 19/5/10

Very little time elapsed between the NFT’s May calendar landing on my doormat and me booking the tickets for this rare-as-hen’s-teeth showing of The Wednesday Play from January 1970, and it probably goes without saying that its presentation came courtesy of Vic &Will Flipside.

As the day approached, even my long-suffering workmates noticed I seemed less like a grizzly bear with a hangover, and more like a normal human being. By the evening of Wednesday 19th, pumped to the max with anticipation, I met Mme. Scenester on the ‘sunny’ South Bank, bearing wine and sandwiches to pass the couple of hours we had before the screening. Well attended, not least by some well-known Mods of my acquaintance, we were delighted to learn that a few clips of Jools, Brian Augur & The Trinity would be accompanying the main feature. Vic and Will’s charmingly shambolic intro revealed that a further treat was in store, a Q&A with producer Desmond McCarthy, but before we could catch our breath, we were into the famous Top of the Pops clip of Jools, Brian Augur & the Trinity performing ‘This Wheels on Fire’. The survival of this remarkable clip from the Grim Wiper’s attentions is nothing short of miraculous, bearing in mind the BBC’s attitude to these very individual cultural artefacts during the last few decades. Perhaps just as amazing was a clip of Jools & Co from the David Frost Show, both black & white and totally priceless. The assured sang-froid performance of ‘This Wheel’s On Fire’ contrasted with the slightly ramshackle Frost clip, but no-one was complaining.

Season of the Witch would be Jools’ acting debut, (and her swansong in that discipline?) as she puts up a touchingly believable show as Meredith, a young typist (she had worked as a typist before her singing career took off) who decides to leave the parental home and bum around Sussex and Cornwall for a long as it takes her to get bored.

Glynn Edwards (Minder’s Dave from Dave’s) and Fanny Carby’s strong portrayals of Meredith’s concerned but outraged parents, who criticise every aspect of her lifestyle, personality and appearance, are particularly poignant. In these days of ‘geeky’ fashions, it is particularly easy to forget just how conformist English society once was, when a man growing his hair to touch his ears, or wearing brown suede shoes would risk accusations about his sexuality. or a girl who adopted anything other than a smart, businesslike style of hair and clothing, let alone some of the ‘dykier’ fashions of the late 60’s that Jools was often seen in, would risk complete social opprobrium.

Anyone who regularly reads my ramblings will know that I am more than a little fond of the coastal town of Brighton (City now, but I still think of it as a town) and can well imagine the thrill I felt when the storyline placed Meredith on a train leaving the then-shabby interior of Victoria Station, bound for the jewel of the South Coast. The film’s docu-drama style ensured that this was no tourist film, but instead took us to some of the less familiar places in town, notably the Arches Project, a sort of drop-in centre for the young and homeless, who would normally have congregated on the beach. The Mayor and burghers, who would arrange for the shingle beach to be sprayed with water at night, to prevent anyone sleeping there, did not appreciate their presence. The Project had laudable aims, and it’s here that Jools, sorry Meredith, meets the genuinely concerned social workers (real ones, not actors) and more significantly, a couple of rudderless ‘beats’ (not ‘hippies’) played with considerable brio by none other than Paul Nicholas and Robert Powell. Nicholas, by then, was already making a name for himself, having played in the stage version of ‘Hair’, although Robert Powell’s role as a Roman-baiting charismatic Nazarene was still a few years away. They take up a particularly well appointed, but seriously dilapidated Georgian house with Meredith, and their ménage-a-trois reminded me of ‘Jules et Jim’, and I doubt that the oblique reference was unintended. Arguments over money (Meredith is the breadwinner, unsurprisingly) and trouble with the Law inevitably follow, as Meredith gets caught at a ‘demo’ with someone else’s hash, and her treatment at the hands of the Police mirrors the typical experience of the under-represented, or plain working class, kid-in-trouble of the period.

There is a lot to like about this docu-drama, especially the commissioned music and the honest performances from actors and non-actors alike. The special treat of the evening was definitely the appearance of director Desmond McCarthy. Desmond told us a little about his prior background in TV shows like ‘Coronation Street’, passing on to the making of ‘Season of the Witch’, which he obviously enjoyed. He began by unconsciously answering my intended first question, about how much of what we saw was strict adherence to script, and how much improvisation. The film turned out to be a joint effort between Desmond and Johnny Byrne, and whilst almost all was strictly scripted, the dialogues were of such high quality and honesty, that they could have been taken for being completely spontaneous. The grumbles of the older generation, which form such an important part of the script, were, we learnt, scripted from life, people speaking to camera on vox-pop type TV shows about inter-generational tension. A quick amendment to my intended question resulted in a little more information about this true to life script, and it wasn’t long before the name Jenny Fabian cropped up, herself the subject of joint scriptwriter Johnny Byrne’s famously forthright book, ‘Groupie’, and a bit-player in the Arches Project sequence of the film. I felt 100% in agreement with Will & Vic that the sooner this gem of a film is out on DVD (or better still, repeated on TV?) the better, and who knows, maybe the BBC have a few more Wednesday Plays in the archive, that deserve a further and timely showing?

Did I mention I was a fan of Jools?

Scenester
23/5/10

Bronco Bullfrog at British Film Institute
14/4/10

A welcome piece of news comes from the BFI, who have digitally restored the criminally unaired and unavailable ‘cult’ film ‘Bronco Bullfrog’, which will get a long-awaited cinema re- release on 11th June at key venues dotted around the country.
Your pal was tempted to the press screening at the mention of the film’s name.

I’m guessing that you’ve either (i) never seen the film, (ii) saw it many years ago, either at the National Film Theatre or some other rep cinema, or on VHS video. Either way, Bronco Bullfrog is probably a distant memory to you, but happily that will soon be corrected.

‘Bronco Bullfrog’ was made under unusual conditions in the late 1960’s by Barney Platts-Mills, in black and white, with very little money and a cast of young non-actors local to the East End of London. True to the tradition of the Joan Littlewood theatre, Barney employed local girls and boys to portray life as lived by young people in a tough and unforgiving working class community. The honesty of this approach is what makes the film so completely absorbing and appealing, that you are willing to forgive some of the technically less than perfect performances and slow scenes that would mar a film if presented by professionals.

The sense of place is strong throughout, initially in the bleak, semi-criminal community that 17 year old apprentice welder Del Quant (Del Walker) and his 15 year old girlfriend Irene Richardson (Anne Gooding) live, later on in the more pleasant, but equally unliveable seaside town the two young lovers elope to.

Del and his friends Roy (Roy Haywood), Chris (Chris Shepherd) and others pass their days sneaking into the cinema via the fire exit, engaging in small turf wars with other boys, lolling around the local greasy spoon café, playing pinball and attempting to chat up girls. They also have a sideline in petty crime; it’s one of the more ironic sequences in the film that the boys break into the same café they frequent, and try to steal back what little money they had spent there. They find little worth stealing but cakes, and so look for some other way to raise money.

In such a dull, friendless environment, there is however a hero for them all to look up to. Enter Jo Saville, aka Bronco Bullfrog (Sam Shepherd) a recent escapee from Borstal, whose skills at thieving are the envy of our group of idlers. Jo’s incredulous laughter at their recent escapade, resulting only in a handful of cakes for booty, makes them ashamed. Fired up with Jo’s tales of life as a petty criminal, a couple of them join in with his next caper, organised by an older young man, robbing goods trains under cover of night.

Even with their somewhat more valuable haul, the crimes do not seem to be motivated by a desperate need for money, more for vicarious thrills, and it’s a telling scene later on in the film when we learn that Jo has been unable to unload any of his stolen goods. One of the boys eventually falls foul of a beating, which puts him into hospital, and the Police get involved.

Del seems a very different character to his contemporaries, what with his apprenticeship, his father’s kind offer to put some money toward the motorbike Del has been saving to buy, and the appearance of a girl he falls for instantly. Del and Irene’s mature performances make for good viewing, capturing the awkwardness of teenage courtship and the problems of finding somewhere they can be alone together.
Like a Romeo & Juliet of Stratford East End, rather than Verona, Del parents are suspicious of Irene as her father is in jail, and Irene’s mother rejects Del out of hand, perhaps in an attempt to ensure her daughter doesn’t ‘get into trouble’, regardless of how pleasant the boy may be. Even their stay at Jo’s flat is unsatisfactory, as they have to share a bedroom with Jo!

It seems that every door is being slammed in the faces of our star-crossed lovers, and the scene when their trip ‘up West’ on Del’s motorbike is ruined by the cinema admission prices being too expensive for them, then their compromise of a burger meal being looked on as a genuine treat, is very touching. They take a trip to the seaside, and pay a visit to one of Del’s relatives, hoping to stay there and settle down together. Their low horizons are not improved by learning that there’s little work locally, and Del comes round to the conclusion that he and Irene would be better off where they were. Irene is deeply unhappy at this, but with a possible arrest for child abduction hanging over Del’s head, she agrees to return.

The often-grim streets and houses of late 60’s London are of he interest to this viewer, and the West End is briefly seen, by way of contrast, and no less amazing. Jo sports a synapse-frying paisley shirt & tie combination I would give my eyeteeth for; no doubt Jo nicked the entire stock!

The conclusion is open-ended and I would recommend sticking with it to see the way it leads up to it.

Released with subtitles in the USA, this film opened in the UK in 1970 to positive reviews, but was pulled from its Cameo Poly showcase 18 days later, to accommodate ‘The Three Sisters’. Sam Shepherd organised a ‘demo’ in response, together with about 200 young East Enders, chanting and jeering as the then 20 year old Princess Anne arrived to see the Laurence Olivier film. The Princess Royal would later accept Sam’s invitation to see ‘Bronco Bullfrog’ at the Mile End ABC.

Regular readers will all know how much of a fan I am of ‘realist’ cinema, 1960’s locations and crime films in general, and this incorporates the lot. If you’re looking for thrills and spills, spaceships and explosions and ‘celebs’, you’re definitely looking at the wrong film. But if, like me, you want to see something approaching real life at the sharp end, Bronco Bullfrog’s for you. Here’s hoping they release a DVD as well, as I’ve worn my VHS copy out.

Scenester
18/4/10

Peter Walker at the NFT 12/3/09

The double bill of ‘Frightmare’ and ‘House of the Long Shadows’ would have been enough, but the appearance of the UK’s best exploitation film director for a Q & A session ensured my presence at the South Bank this evening. Yes, those top fellahs at the Flip Side had come up with another winner and I braved Eurostar-lag to attend.

To anyone who isn’t familiar with the work of this Brighton-born auteur, Peter Walker’s film career was remarkably similar to that of his contemporary, Michael Winner. Both started out making ‘nudie-cutie’ films (i.e. not exactly ‘stag’, but enough to ensure an ‘adults only’ rating) in the early 60’s, both made ripped-from-the-headlines-thrillers, crime capers, anything that sold a seat to the young thrill-seekers who spent more time than was considered healthy at their local flea-pit cinemas. However, whereas Winner got lucky with the hugely successful ‘Death Wish’ in the 70’s, Walker got out of the industry when the going was good, and has, to date, not played an old buffoon in any insurance commercials. Along the way, he turned out some of the most starkly malicious, disturbing and terrifying crime thrillers ever made in the UK, and the first up of these, was ‘Frightmare’.

Already having made such taboo-worriers as ‘Strip Poker’, ‘Man of Violence’ and ‘The Flesh & Blood Show’, Pete accepted his writer, David McGillivray’s suggestion that they make a film about perhaps the final taboo, cannibalism. This would not be any ‘mondo’ film, set in some remote jungle, however, but a little peaen to not-so happy family life in rural England. Several years before Italian directors took the subject to its most absurd and morally bankrupt limits, and before the US cinema produced the faintly comical ‘Driller Killer’, Peter & David were crafting a thoroughly ill-willed piece of celluloid nastiness that took no prisoners and threw an age-old fear right into the laps of its only partly prepared audience. The authoritarian tone of the intro, where a judge puts an elderly murderess-cannibal and her complicit husband to a maximum security hospital, until they are felt no longer to pose a threat to society, even begins to prick the liberal consciences of some audience members who would probably be searching for some sympathy for this presumably deluded woman. These viewers would find their humanitarian sentiments tested to the full in what is to come.

I’m not spoiling the film for anyone keen to see it for the first time, when I tell you that our matronly flesh-eater does indeed get released back into society, and takes up exactly where she left off, but this is no ‘stalk and slash’ epic; this is great British, low budget, creepy cinema, and it takes terrific performances, not special effects or Hollywood names, to keep the action stoked up. Sheila Keith realises the cannibalistic step-mother role with relish (sorry) aided and abetted by her sadly misguided daughter Deborah Fairfax, and Kim Butcher, the stroppiest adolescent step-daughter in the world. We also have a particularly ineffectual young psychiatrist to amuse those of an anti-shrink persuasion, and the usual Peter Walker crew of sleazy club-owners, randy young couples and belligerent bikers. Honourable mentions go to the lonely, gullible victims, all of which adds up to decidedly dodgy fun. This film has long been available on VHS video and DVD, so if you prefer your cinema in the comfort of your own home, rent a copy or maybe save the rental and buy it. You won’t be disappointed.

What made the evening extra special was of course the appearance of Peter Walker himself for a highly enjoyable Q&A in between the film showings. Peter was chipper throughout, explaining his very direct and simple working methods, his healthy interest in films with naked girls in them, obviously proud of the fact that all of his films made a profit. How many directors can say that? He recalled with wry amusement the almost invariably hostile reviews his films received on each new screening, and his extreme dislike of chief censors in general and John Trevelyan in particular, with James Ferman representing only a slight improvement on his predecessor, in his view. He also recalled with affection the time that he was all set to direct a film starring those lovable scamps, the Sex Pistols (a marriage made in heaven surely!) and but for the death of Sid Vicious, would have done so. Provisionally (and it turns out prophetically) entitled ‘A Star is Dead’, the script written and raring to go, oh what a film that would have been! The film that eventually got made, without the co-operation of John Lydon, (Johnny Rotten) and post band break up, was satisfactory, but with Peter at the helm? We can only dream.

Throwing the questions to the floor, I couldn’t resist asking him if he and David ever felt that they were producing irresponsible material, and may be pounced upon from a very great height for it one day. However, Peter recalled his days in the exploitation film business as being nothing more than good, mischievous, school boyish fun, and all the better for it.

The Q&A was over all too quickly, but after a short break to restore the alcohol level in my blood, which had dropped to a dangerously low level, we got an unplanned and very pleasant bonus, in the shape of an appearance by Michael Armstrong, the screenwriter of the next offering. His account of how he wrote the script of ‘House of Long Shadows’ in less than a week, with the ink practically still wet on the page when handed to Peter at the airport, ready to pitch to the US backers, gave us a taste of how screenwriters really work-if they can get away with it.

‘House of Long Shadows’ turned out to be Peter’s final film, unseen for years and last available on VHS (I still have my Guild Home Video tape) in the early 80’s. The contrast with the previous offering could not have been more marked. Based on an old chestnut of a story, ‘Seven Keys to Baldpate’, and basically a showcase of some of the best-loved stars of horror films, the plot is so hackneyed you can only groan along with the cliché’s that abound in it. The visiting American writer (Desi Arnaz Jr.), betting with his publisher that he can produce a gothic horror story in 24 hours, and all he needs is isolation to work in. Cue creepy old house mysteriously becoming available. The servants (John Carradine and Sheila Keith) who seem to be expecting company, but not the writer. (The role of the female servant was to be played by Elsa Lanchester, sadly too ill to do so, so Peter maintained his continuity with his earlier films, by using Sheila Keith) One by one, the family return to the house, cue Peter Cushing as the timid brother, cue Vincent Price as the heir to the fortune, and cue Christopher Lee as… well, wouldn’t you like to know?

To get these actors all in one place at one time must have been a struggle, and I really can’t recall anyone else who has achieved it. It’s faithful to the gothic tradition, a celebration of an age of filmmaking that was more or less dead in the water by this time, with plenty of laughs and film references to keep even the most jaded cineaste amused. It comes across as an affectionate homage to a style of film making that was quickly being eclipsed by the ‘teen terrors’ and ‘stalk ‘n’ slashers’ that overpopulated our screens in the 80’s.

I feel only envy for any of you who haven’t seen a Peter Walker film; your first experience of what I am sure will be an eye-popping experience. It was an eye-opener for me as a teenager, seeing a dark vision of my own country on film, in my local cinema (remember them?) made just a few years before I saw them. They are a window to the bygone age of the badly governed, directionless yet potent and exciting 1970s, and maybe not so strongly a contrast with today.

Scenester
12/3/09

Performance / We Love You National Film Theatre Sat 22/11/08

It was with enormous anticipation that my good lady and I bought tickets for this showing of the seminal ‘Performance’ and the rare outing of The Rolling Stones ‘We Love You’ promo. Not only would we see these hugely enjoyable pieces on the big screen, but it would also be attended by three of the actors involved, namely James Fox, Anita Pallenberg and Johnny Shannon.

If you’re unfamiliar with these gems, I envy you your first sight and hearing of them, as they are shining moments in the careers of some members of The Rolling Stones, and career highs for other participants.

I haven’t seen the ‘We Love You’ promo since a screening at the late, lamented Scala Cinema many years ago, and to my knowledge, it’s not available on any official Rolling Stones DVD or video. Anyone out there know better? Made in the heat of the moment around the time of the Rolling Stones’ drug bust, it depicts the action, Jagger on trial in Oscar Wilde getup, with Lord Alfred Douglas played by Marianne Faithfull and the judge by Keith Richards, with a wig made of rolled up newspapers bearing lurid headlines. A fur rug is presented as evidence of general naughtiness, all the while the crashing chords and careering brass of the title song roar incessantly. Jail doors clang, keys rattle, who knows what it must have been like to see it at the time? Is there anyone out there in Modland who did?

I admit to feeling a bit like a spare part about describing a film that many, many ‘Modculture’ readers will already be very familiar with, but in case you haven’t ventured into this particularly murky corner of the 1960’s, I’ll go ahead and it’ll serve as a taster, or a warning, depending on your view of the subject matter.

The refreshingly clear print of ‘Performance’ showed the film to best advantage, and as soon as the projector burst into life, we were no longer on the South Bank on a cold Saturday afternoon, but speeding down a country lane in a stately car with Chas Devlin and his female companion. Considering Warner Bros. executives financed this film on the understanding that it would be suitable to sell to the hordes of teenage Rolling Stones fans, the rather rough sex scene going on in the back of the ‘roller’ in the opening shots must have sobered the film company executives up pretty quickly.

The story concerns a cocky young gangster, Chas, played by James Fox, whose repeated insubordination leads to him clashing with his boss, Harry Flowers, played by Johnny Shannon. After a particularly violent episode which ends in the killing of one of Chas’ firm’s reluctant ‘customers’, Joey Maddocks, Chas realises he has to go on the run, to avoid being killed by his own gang. His original plan to hole up with a relative in Devon is forgotten when he overhears a conversation between a Hendrix-type musician and his presumably long-suffering mother, about a room in Notting Hill that has recently been vacated by said musician. Clocking names, dates and amounts owed, Chas turns up at the door of a decaying West London mansion, readies in hand, to pay off the debt and take the room for himself, figuring no-one would think of looking for the stylish Chas in a shabby, bohemian atmosphere like this.

It’s the contrast between the two worlds that’s a great strength in the film; the shift of place from the apparently respectable firm with their gentleman’s club-like office, their tailored suits and Chas’s tidy, vogue-ish modern flat, to the dark, unkempt, faded Edwardiana filled with assorted druggies, hippies and freaks. Stitched together roughly mid-way in the film, in lesser directorial hands than Nicholas Roeg and Donald Cammell, this would not have worked at all.

Chas’s previous life as enforcer to Flowers’ gang is suddenly and sharply defused by his arrival in the opium-soaked world of Turner (Mick Jagger) and his two girlfriends, Pherber (Anita Pallenberg) and Lucy (Michele Breton). Chas’ appearance at the office of, say, one who had failed to pay their protection money would have frozen their bone marrow, but in Turner’s den, Chas cuts a pathetic figure, robbed of his power and awe. His fabulous suits and shirts, many slashed by his firms’ recalcitrant customer Joey Maddocks (Antony Valentine), Chas is reduced to salvaging whatever gear he has left, and a part of his personality is lost with them. Clothes as mask and/or disguise is a recurring theme in this stark, stylish film. Mix in with dominance and submission, the blurring of male and female identity, light blue touch paper and retire. Or not, as you see fit.

The introduction of the faded, directionless former pop star Turner and his girlfriends brings many, not immediately noticeable dynamics into the film On the surface, we have a ménage a trios, which our apparently normal Chas finds himself intruding into. Far from his world of protection rackets, prostitution, shady nightclubs, corrupt boxing matches and fixed trials, he falls into a world that last saw the light of day at the start of the 20th Century, with its roomfuls of eastern furniture and carpets, incense fogged, its inhabitants languorously sprawled about in a drug haze, making love at will with whoever or whatever is available. It’s a measure of the power of such a film, with its superb performances (that word again) and writing, which you, the viewer, find yourself in the dilemma of who, if anyone, to identify with. It surely isn’t Turner’s rag-bag of penniless potheads and ‘artists’, wasting their days until their glorious leader finds it in himself to write another hit? Can it really be Chas, though? We know he’s a violent criminal, accused of ‘enjoying’ his job too much; his fight with Maddocks, and his boss’s earlier forbidding him to interfere with Maddocks’ business, contain more than a hint that Chas has homosexual tendencies, mixed with his enjoyment of sadistic sex with women. This frighteningly heady brew serves to make the viewer feel uncomfortable with the identification he or she surely makes with one of these two worlds. To paraphrase newspapers of the time, gangsters rubbed shoulders with clergymen, and pop stars, and dolly birds.

Performance has a predictable end in store for Chas, whose attempt to flee the country through an old (treacherous) friend is foiled by his gang, and the Turner household suffer the same fate as the disobedient Chas.

As I said earlier, what made this screening extra special was the attendance of three of the film’s stars (I can only guess that Mr Jagger was too busy having enjoying a gin and tonic at the MCC member’s bar) that kindly answered the sometimes-strained questions of audience members, yours truly included. I knew how long James Fox prepared for the character of Chas, and what he did in that time, but I was determined that everyone should hear it, and he duly described the 8 weeks’ of hanging out with various real-life Chas’s at the boxing clubs and shady pubs well – known to Johnny Shannon, who enlarged on these stories to great appreciation of the crowd. Johnny’s jokey admission that he was, and is, no great actor raised many a smile, and is easily countered by viewing any TV programme or film he has ever appeared in, (Beryl’s Lot? The Sweeney?) and judging for yourself. There are plenty of successful actors who play only one character, often themselves with the volume turned up, so I would put Johnny’s words down to a natural modesty. Anita’s memories were a little less detailed, but she was nevertheless a powerful presence in the room, as well as in the film.

If you couldn’t make this special screening, you may have to content yourself with my little review, as I can’t see the appearance of three members of the cast happening again very soon. Happily, Performance is out on DVD, pretty affordably at the moment, and does get regular TV screenings, surprising in such an explicitly violent and sexually charged film. The soundtrack is well worth investigating; containing some excellent tracks by Randy Newman, and has long been available, unlike the film.

Scenester
23/11/08

Smashing Time at the National Film Theatre – 20/11/07

Those nice fellahs at The Flipside managed to secure not only the use of a print of this hugely enjoyable film, but also a personal appearance by the delightful Rita Tushingham!

In case you haven’t run across this little belter of a film before, I’ll summarise:

Two girls from the North of England, Yvonne & Brenda, come down to London in search of ‘The Scene’, which they’ve heard is located somewhere around ‘Carnaby Street’ and we follow their hapless journey from the drive of St Pancras Station, forty years before the glittering refit that transformed it into a sight worth seeing, but here, begrimed with eighty years of soot, and in disrepair, to Camden Town, the result of asking a drunken gentleman of the road the way to that more fashionable street in W1, all the way to that dreamy thoroughfare of fashion, to the more upmarket of West London’s boutiques, fashion shoots and Yvonne’s thwarted pop career, then the long walk back to St Pancras and home.

The journey they had! Scripted by the late, much missed George Melly, respected jazz musician, journalist, wit, raconteur and all round good egg, it pokes gentle fun at the Swinging 60’s, with its impossibly young media stars, ambisexual fashions and endless appetite for excitement. As a victim of the Mod Age, Melly had more reason than most to despise the pop music scene in general and Mods in particular. In the late 50’s / early 60’s, Jazz was a double headed behemoth, its Trad head the object of intellectual/student admiration, and its Modern head the seductive opiate of the cool people. Hard to credit it now, but back then, Jazz was well on its way to becoming the most popular music in the world. Then came pop and buried it, in the USA and UK, anyway. However, Melly’s script is no boot in the gut, but always a belly-laugh at the expense of the faux-sophisticates and fools who made up the periphery of the pop scene, who kidded themselves they were running it all, when the whole joyous inferno was actually the toy of a few sussed, but rather traditional business types.

Our heroines, irrepressible but selfish Yvonne (Lynn Redgrave) and frumpy but adorable Brenda (Rita Tushingham) find themselves caught up in a desperate struggle to survive being stuck in London after the theft of their savings, (£24, 0s, 0d for all you pre-decimal nuts) an unpaid for meal of fried everything with bread and scrape that necessitates Brenda doing the washing up from hell while Yvonne slips away to pursue her dream of landing a pop career in the as yet unlocated Carnaby Street. As Brenda finds herself in a food fight that owes a lot to classic silent comedy slapstick, Yvonne gets her photo taken by ace snapper Tom Wabe (Michael York) as an example of how a girl shouldn’t dress in the 60’s. This scene is the stand-out eye-popper, with beautiful colour footage of Carnaby Street’s boutiques on a busy day, Yvonne swinging her handbag as she strides mannishly past such shops as ‘Domino Male’, ‘Tre Camp’ ‘Clothes for Him’, the pavement awash with Dolly Birds and Dandy Dans in their stunning technicolour threads.

With Yvonne being made a fool of by the snobbish Wabe, Brenda crosses paths with a second-hand clothes shop owner played perfectly by the ever-welcome Irene Handl, who kits her out in what is to Brenda, dowdy Victorian gear, but to the Scene people, the latest in Vintage Chic. She is spotted by Charlotte Brilling, a boutique owner played with considerable relish by Anna Quayle, and offered a job in ‘Too Much’, a hangout for her upmarket, aesthetic friends. Two exotics, played to the max by Murray Melvin and Paul Danquah, make a surprisingly frank appearance, wearing their homosexuality on their pristine sleeves. Danquah’s white silk collarless jacket, part of a classic late Mod ensemble, almost out-Sammy Davis Juniors Sammy himself. After a brief episode working in a ‘Bunny’ - style club, with Brenda saving Yvonne from the amorous advances of ageing lecher Bobby Mome-Roth, (Ian Carmichael, suitably caddish), the girls find their luck changes, and they win £10,000 in a Candid Camera-type TV show. Yvonne proceeds to blow the lot on a pop career, presided over by Jeremy Tove, an exuberant Jeremy Lloyd perfectly cast. Recording a brilliant spoof of a pop single
(I don’t know a thing but I’m young, BA BA BA BAH!) brings Yvonne temporary success, but they need one huge publicity stunt to propel her into the stratosphere of fame, a party at the top of the Post Office Tower (Telecom Tower to younger readers).

Meanwhile, Brenda is being courted by Wabe as the new face of ‘Gauche’ Direct Action perfume, in a brilliant pastiche of the Paris student riots as their advertising campaign.

Yvonne’s ruinously expensive party at the PO Tower is attended by the cognoscenti, a dippy John & Yoko – like couple, a small spaced-out Twiggy clone, several gangsters, a Botticelli cherub - haired DJ and many others, who all end up splattered against the walls of the revolving restaurant as it gathers momentum, being put into overdrive by Brenda as revenge on Wabe for making fun of her friend’s fashion sense.

Spoof it may be, but an affectionate one, and this film is to be relished right to the very last shot of our girls walking miserably up the deserted Charlotte Street, on their weary way back t St Pancras and home. If you know someone who has a tape dating from one of its rare televisual outings, beg them to lend you it.

What made this evening under Waterloo Bridge extra special was the presence of Rita Tushingham, who bounded up to the mike like a teenager, talked animatedly about the film and her co-stars and took questions from many audience members. Rita remembered it went down well in the USA, and she recalled with obvious affection the film’s making. A short ‘home movie’ followed, showing a scene being filmed, with Yvonne defacing a poster bearing her friend Brenda’s sophisticated look for ‘Gauche’ perfume, and this provided the evening’s only sad moment. The beautiful colour of this little home movie has survived with grater clarity and intensity than in the print of ‘Smashing Time’ itself. Age and bright projection lights have taken their toll on the film emulsion, but the intervening 40-odd years have certainly not done so to the delightful Rita Tushingham, still with her trademark bob, and now working again. Our time with her had to be brief, as she was off to see a short she had made.

My good lady and I spotted a few faces from today’s Mod scene in the audience, but if you couldn’t make it, fear not. The Flipside are continuing their search for prints of unusual, hard to locate and downright weird films, and will be showing them on a regular basis at the NFT for the near future.

A walk across Waterloo Bridge, to Kingsway, just in time for the recording of a Ready Steady Go! at the BBC Theatre, was the end of a perfect evening. Buy us a drink at the NFT bar sometime, and we might tell you where that rip in the time-space continuum is.

Scenester

24/11/07

The Final Programme (1973)
National Film Theatre 10/8/10

I last saw this bizarre artefact from the 1970’s on TV in the early 80’s, late at night, having wanted to see it since its release. Sadly, I couldn’t pass for 18 in 1973, and I despaired of ever seeing it. My memory of it from that long distant T V screening is perhaps understandably shaky, but my overall impression is the same as today, that of an undisciplined, sprawling chaotic ‘end of days’ picture which may be going nowhere, but has one hell of a time getting lost.

Based on the Michael Moorcock book, the action opens in a country like ours, a dystopian future familiar to cinemagoers of that long, and some would say deservedly forgotten decade, the 1970’s. Humanity has been largely wiped out, leaving only a few scientists and a cast of decadents to pick up the pieces. Our ‘hero’ (if we can use that term in such an unconventional story) Jerry Cornelius, played by Jon Finch, is a louche aristocrat, resplendent in a velvet suit and frilly shirt, driving his Rolls-Royce around aimlessly, under the influence of generous measures of whisky, scoffing chocolate biscuits and looking for all the world like a particularly dissipated Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen. Cornelius’ Byronic tastes carry further to his enthusiastic consumption of all manner of exotic pharmaceuticals, and his general love of luxury and home comforts that would make one of today’s Better Homes subscribers look like a lightweight by comparison.

Cornelius drifts through a cast of off-the-wall characters, all keen to sell him whatever the current ‘in thing’ is, whether they be the corrupt army officer, played with gusto by Sterling Hayden, acquiring armaments by illegal means, or Ronald Lacey’s creepy, pinball-addicted gangster, offering top-up supplies of strange drugs. We see a much-changed Trafalgar Square, with crashed cars taking up the fourth plinth, which Westminster Council might want to consider for a temporary exhibit. The café/night club scene is one of the film’s best, the place resembling a gigantic pinball machine, populated by dancing girls, clowns, gloriously depraved customers, all wasting what little time they have left in this palace of cheap thrills. Figures wrestle in white, chalky mud for the entertainment of the patrons, recalling the ‘Hungry Angry Show’ in the TV play of ‘The Year of the Sex Olympics’ It is in this scene that the film gives away its 1970’s origins most easily, with an obvious resemblance to other films of the time, ‘Tommy’ and ‘A Clockwork Orange’.

The Art Deco inspired sets and pop art references make this film a delight for the eyes, even if it’s tempered with a pain in the Gulliver – sorry - head, from the constantly shifting storyline. Armed battles are fought with ‘needle guns’, delivering a charge of psychedelics rather than deadly bullets, and three Magritte-like suited men appear, shadowing Cornelius to heaven knows what purpose.

The character of Miss Brunner is introduced, being played with considerable panache by Jenny Runacre, whom some of you may remember as the Queen in Derek Jarman’s ‘Jubilee’. Covered from head to foot in the pelts of innumerable dead cats, Fran freezes the air of any room she walks into, and it is at this point that I begin to feel that some filmmakers may have had more than a peek into this country’s future than they wanted. Fran’s resemblance to a certain former Prime Minister in character make uncomfortable viewing, and it is a sobering thought that her character’s model was, at that time, already gearing up for a stab at high office, from her role as education secretary. Fran’s appetites are no less voracious than Jerry’s, and somewhat more inventive, preferring the sexual favours of a stunning redheaded girl, to the dubious delights of designer drugs.

We learn that the characteristically inward-looking scientists have come up with a plan to replace and even improve upon the large section of the human race who are no longer with us, by utilising the knowledge in the preserved brains of former scientists in conjunction with their own, and designing a computer that will help in the creation of an androgynous being. Self fertilising, self reproducing, and no longer be any need for pairing up the sexes; there will be both in one individual. The lucky couple to combine forces to create this homunculus will be Jerry Cornelius and Miss Brunner, assisted by some light and sound wizardry under the control of the inevitable misguided computer. If this is all beginning to sound like The Avengers on acid and aphrodisiacs, then your fears will prove well-founded as our intrepid lovers prepare for the ultimate sexual experience that is The Final Programme, and it suddenly morphs into some technological version of ‘I Am Curious Yellow’. I won’t spoil the ending by telling you the results of their labours.

With a talented cast, some stunning sets, and costumes by such luminaries of the fashion world as John Bates, Ossie Clark and Tommy Nutter, it’s hard to see how The Final Programme could have garnered so little media attention and been forgotten so completely by the fickle public. Was it the distinctly non-science fiction references, like Bonfire of the Vanities, or the confusing mass of storylines all going on at once? Was it the refusal to take the subject of the global apocalypse seriously, or the sheer silliness of the plan to produce an androgyne to repopulate the earth? Perhaps it was the changing nature of science fiction itself, soon to be given an almighty seeing-to by George Lucas and his ‘Star Wars’ phenomenon. Whatever it was that propelled The Final Programme into cinema oblivion, I can report that it didn’t deserve its place. Perhaps now, in an age when we are becoming more conscious of the effects our consumer society is having on our fragile planet, and with a world-wide recession still not beaten, the film’s chaotic message deserves a listen.

What made this Flipside screening so special, was the appearance of the author of the original story, the wildly successful Michael Moorcock, to comment upon the film. Confessing that the reservations he had on first seeing the press screening all those years ago have proved justified and have grown more numerous since then, Michael proved a likeable and good-humoured guest for Will and Vic Flipside to quiz. His low opinion of director Robert Fuest, (‘A bum director who wanted to be an auteur’ and ‘Couldn’t direct a no 14 bus’ were among his choice comments), then fresh from his success at directing the ‘Dr. Phibes’ films, is still a view he holds. Never meant maliciously, I am sure, Michael simply voiced his concerns about Robert, in particular, that he was not used to directing crowd scenes, tending to stick to two-character exchanges, and thus delivering an ending that omitted Michael’s powerful scene of humanity being led into the sea by a new Messiah. He went on to explain that his own script for The Final Programme was not used, just bowdlerised, and even star Jon Finch, a friend of Michael’s, told Michael at the time that he felt the script was directionless.

Further juicy snippets included the tale that Mick Jagger was considered for the role of Jerry Cornelius, but he turned it down because it was ‘too freaky’. The book, written in 1965 but not published until 1967, was initially shelved for a similar reason. The ‘rock n roll’ connection to The Final Programme doesn’t end there, for, as some of you may know, Michael Moorcock was a great fan of the sci-fi obsessed 70’s underground rock band, Hawkwind, and for the eagle-eyed among you, they, and Michael, can be glimpsed briefly in the pinball arcade section of the film. We can only guess at what the film would have turned out like, if it had stuck close to Michael’s original book, as the pinball arcade / nightclub rejoices in the name of ‘The Friendly Bum’ and the character of Jerry Cornelius is even more sexually ambiguous than Jon Finch’s light-touch evocation of this aspect of Jerry’s character. On initial release, The Final Programme was partnered with ‘Confessions of a Chinese Courtesan’ actually a kung-fu picture, as support, but their positions were reversed half way through the run. Faced with a highly pertinent question from the floor about the inspiration behind Jerry Cornelius, which the audience member felt might have been David Bowie in ‘Ziggy Stardust’ guise, Michael was intrigued, but answered that he was in his Notting Hill neighbourhood one day, when he saw a man coming toward him, down Portobello Road. A rare instance of someone fitting the bill perfectly, perhaps?

I was hugely impressed with the Flipside for tracking down a print (however faded and scratchy) of this true 70’s oddity, but what made the evening irresistible was the appearance of Michael Moorcock, surely one of the most engaging and amusing guests to visit the NFT in recent years?

Scenester
12/8/10

Review also available on:
http://eyeplug.net/magazine/?author=6

The Jokers (1966) NFT 23/2/2011

Sprinting out of my office and arriving at the South Bank via of London’s much derided tube system, I have to admit the spring in my step was less to do with the excitement at seeing a lost gem from my favourite decade, than simple nostalgia for a childhood visit to my local flea pit to see this cinematic offering. Scenester may be giving away a little too much personal info here, but I can recall seeing this one at my local Odeon at an early age, but never since, and my nostalgic feelings were tempered with a suspicion that I would be disappointed at the result.

I can report that although ‘The Jokers’ isn’t exactly the rip-roaring, dolly bird-packed, swinging 60’s comic caper I seem to remember it as, it is as good a way as any to spend 90 minutes that would otherwise be wasted on some recent Hollywood mediocrity, and see some familiar faces and cool London locations while you’re doing it.

Regular readers will probably have guessed by now that this evening’s entertainment came courtesy of Will and Vic Flipside, of the NFT, those devotees of all things cult, retro and downright bizarre in the world of film, and whereas this one can’t be hailed as a genuine classic of that magical decade, there is a lot to like about it. If I tell you it’s about a pair of brothers who plot to steal the Crown Jewels, intending to return them later, as a grand gesture of youthful defiance, then I shouldn’t need to trouble you much further in that respect. The stars are two of the most enduringly popular actors this country has ever produced; the gargantuan talent that was Oliver Reed (RIP) and the youthful, energetic Michael Crawford, currently undoubted King of the musicals. The sibling rivalry, and indeed the film itself is played for laughs, and the audacity of director Michael Winner (I’m coming to him) of casting two such polar opposites as brothers is one of the many comic devices he uses. Our two anti-heroes, bored with their upper-middle class lives, in a world that was still a long way from taking the young seriously, come up with an idea that will get them on the front page of every newspaper in the land. Their regular lives of attending parties filled of debs and twits are obviously not nearly as exciting as they would like, and the largely upper crust characters they encounter in normal life provide plenty of work for such acting stalwarts as Edward Fox and Peter Graves.

To Scenester’s eyes, the caper was very much secondary to the fun to be had spotting London landmarks in the 60’s, and the sheer number of tourist-friendly shots of the Tower of London, New Scotland Yard, Whitehall et al, suggests an American sale was the ultimate aim of the film. Mme. Scenester and our friend Miss C., I am sure, enjoyed spotting Lyons Café (mid-terrace, not a Corner House), the ABC Café and Luigi’s even more than the costumes, which were mostly the conservative end of ‘mod’ clothes.

I doubt it if I would be spoiling the plot if I were to tell you that our bored young posh boys end up in jail, although their chances of acquittal are high, they think, given that they had no intention of keeping the Crown Jewels, but to return them, highlighting security concerns as their excuse for stealing them in the first place.

The capacity crowd at NFT1 were also treated (drawn in in the first place?) to an appearance by the director of this slice of 60’s silliness, the phenomenally successful Michael Winner. Vic & Will, clearly in their element, coaxed some stories out of Michael, and provided a brief run-down of his career, which ranged from ‘cheapies’ to its staggering height, the still well- known Death Wish films. Michael fielded many questions from the floor, with whip-fast responses to all, recalling his early days hustling for small amounts of money to make his films, to long periods of underuse and unemployment. He even provided advice to one young aspiring film maker, urging relentless hard work above all things as a key to success. For someone who appears to have found a secondary career as food critic, advertising figure and professional insult-mill, his memories of his lead actors were surprisingly fond and positive. A fervent admirer, as well as employer of the late Oliver Reed, Michael regaled us with his stories of Oliver’s gentleness, and a truly hilarious tale of how Burt Reynolds nearly killed him for have the bare effrontery to direct him in a western!

I came away with a higher opinion of Michael Winner than I had before, and I also learned that sometimes your childhood favourites are so for a reason. No matter; see the Jokers if it turns up on TV, (or maybe DVD?) and just enjoy this amusing time capsule for what it is.

Scenester
24/2/2011

Brighton Rock

Rushing in where angels fear to tread, I found myself in the lobby of the Curzon Soho, awaiting the arrival of Mme. Scenester for an appointment with what may be this year’s most anticipated film. Almost 65 years have elapsed since Graham Greenes’ masterly novel was made into an excellent film, and where the action was set firmly in the inter war years the book was set in.

It was therefore with some trepidation that I greeted the news trailed throughout the latter part of last year, that the action had been advanced to the 1960’s, although I can report that the setting is secondary to the plot here, with a few omissions and some liberties being taken here and there, it remains largely intact.

We still have the murder of Fred Hale and the shabby gang who now lack a leader, losing ground rapidly to the local Mr Big, Colleoni. Still present are the young waitress could identify the gang member who killed him, and the desperate attempts by the gang to snatch her photographic evidence. It is here that many of the liberties taken begin to have a deleterious effect on what would otherwise still be a compelling story. The character of Ida Arnold, memorably played in the original film by Hermione Baddeley, as a low rent seaside entertainer and superstitious lush, appears to have moved up the social ladder a few notches to become the owner of Snow’s Café. It’s the sort of role that Helen Mirren can play standing on her head. This also makes her the employer of young waitress Rose, who unwittingly becomes entangled in the affair, and who falls for Pinkie at first sight. The addition of John Hurt as bookmaker Phil Corkery is another ‘class act’ box ticked, but he has little to do apart from express occasional outrage at the world of the young or gangsters, or accompany Ida on her amateur detective caper to bring Pinkie & Co to justice.

Sam Riley makes a lanky Pinkie Brown, who hints at his menace without ever delivering the full extent of it. His tendency to stare at the floor ahead of him, and freeze his facial expression, suggest an actor who is bored with the role he is playing. It is left to Andrea Riseborough to deliver an emotional charge, with her sympathetic performance as Rose, the girl prepared to follow Pinkie into hell, which makes her the focus of the film, when it should be the amoral gangster and his due punishment.
There I am, complaining about the plot, when what I basically have is a character-led film that seems determined to interfere with an already damn near perfect story to suit the characters .Dialogue is generally cherry-picked from the original Boulting Bros. film, the gang’s squalid lodgings and scruffy appearance are also borrowed here, but all this plays second fiddle to the characters who are placed for us to identify with, however inappropriate some may seem.

The religious element which was essential to Graham Greene’s book, and underpins the whole story, is mentioned here without any attempt to draws parallels between Pinkie’s contradictory position as a Roman Catholic believer, and his amoral stance as a gangster and killer,. The book is littered with religious imagery of such a strong type that could easily have offended the faithful, but is here treated as a throwaway matter of fact.

The social aspect of Pinkie’s delinquency appears to have been glossed over, too. We get no idea as to where and how Pinkie grew up, no moral frame of reference. The original text and film both make it explicit that Pinkie has grown up in dire poverty in a criminal neighbourhood, providing a reason, although not an excuse, for his condition. I believe that the reason for this important missing aspect of Pinkie’s life, is the truly bizarre decision to place the story in the 1960’s. By transplanting a novel based in the inter-wear years into a decade of unparalleled prosperity, it defuses important elements of the plot. We are left with an empty shell of a story, inside which the characters are forced to act out their roles without hope of any resolution.
Even the Brighton setting is a lie, as Eastbourne body-doubles for Brighton for much of the film, and anyone who knows these towns slightly will have little trouble spotting the deception. I can understand the producer’s desire not to have the many Brighton seafront bars which are forever a monument to 90’s rave culture, intruding into shot, but weren’t several ‘Poirot’ episodes filmed here, with a believable 1930’s setting?

Those of you fond of scooter-spotting will have to ensure you don’t blink in the ride out sequences, as you will only get the briefest glimpses of 60’s motor action. The inclusion of mods and rockers engaged in a beach fight seems to have strayed in from left-over Quadrophenia footage.

I could go on, and complain about all the other aspects of this film I find out of place, pointless or just plain objectionable, but I’m going to close now. This film has confused artistic license with random meddling. It will, with luck, lead viewers back to the original text, where they will discover a much more satisfying story.

Scenester
8/2/2011

Jigsaw (1962)
Duke Of York’s Cinema Brighton
22.8.10

Mme Scenester & my periodic trips to our favourite South Coast resort was this time enhanced further by an 11am morning screening of a rarely seen and once thought ‘lost’ film from 1962, ‘Jigsaw’. Part of the Duke of York’s centenary celebrations, this is a worthy film to include in the roll call of Brighton-set films publicising what is the UK’s oldest surviving purpose-built cinema.

This intelligent, substantial and sometimes uncomfortable detective yarn is largely set in Brighton, and utilises far more location shooting than the classic ‘Brighton Rock’, or any Brighton film you care to name. An excellent cast, including Jack Warner, Yolanda Donlan and John Le Mesurier, and some fast-paced scripting by director and producer Val Guest make this a must for fans of 60’s British crime cinema.

The claustrophobic opening scene prepares you for what will not be any routine thriller, as a woman tries to wake her husband (?) boyfriend (?) but who will not stir, and her one-sided conversation tells us of her desperation to keep this disinterested man at her side. He eventually wakes in the dingy bedroom, his face hidden from us, and his tactless offer of money to her enrages the woman, who is provoked so as to reveal that she is several weeks pregnant. The scene closes on her apparent strangling by her charming lover.

A jump to the seafront on what looks like an overcast winter’s day, and Det. Sgt. Wilks (Ronald Lewis) has been called to the office an Estate Agent, the victim of a break-in. With no clue as to the burglar, and with only lease documents missing, there seems little way ahead, but noticing a house in arrears with its rent leads to a grim discovery, the dismembered body of a woman in a trunk. Crime historians will appreciate this reference to the notorious real-life Brighton trunk murder of the 1940’s. So begins a hugely enjoyable trail of misleading information, sleazy characters and downright dishonesty that keeps the viewer glued to the seat for nigh on two hours.

Those who live, work or play in Brighton will love the shots of New Row, Gardner Street, Queens Road and Marine Parade, all in crisp black and white and the roads barely troubled by traffic. What few motor vehicles there are, are of course stylish and sleek, with the raffish Austin Cambridge driven by one of the chief suspects, to the smart Consul favoured by the Police. The ‘jelly mould’ Ford van used by the grocery deliverer is a treat for all you classic British motoring nuts out there. This is one aspect of the film that places it firmly in the early 60’s, as its largely older cast and
long established location buildings could otherwise easily be taken for any time between the 40’s and the early 60’s

The choice of Jack Warner as Det. Insp. Fellows in an obvious one, and his universal popularity as Sgt. Dixon in TV’s ‘Dixon of Dock Green’ must have been the deciding factor in placing him ahead of many other capable actors who could have played the role with equal precision. The placing of John Le Mesurier as a traumatised father of the victim is an interesting one, showing the actor’s skills with his role of Dad’s Army’s amiable but clueless Sgt. Wilson still some years away.
The gathering and dissemination of evidence by ye olde telephone and teleprinter now looks charming rather than exciting, the machines resembling field telephones from the Second World War, and Det. Insp. Fellows employing black smoke to reveal the imprinted handwriting on a paper pad is a reassuring human touch in a job that was being completely transformed by forensic science even then.

This being an ‘Adults Only’ release at the time, the film contains some material that must have looked very daring in 1962, as it still does today. The arrest of a travelling salesman (oh, one of those characters!) reveals his serial seduction of several women clients, with star-ratings for them in his work record. His confessed spell in prison (‘She told me she was eighteen’) is used to sharp effect and his identification by a delivery man ‘with a photographic memory’ does a creditable job on the audience’s prejudices.

I will not be so mean a to reveal the superb twist ending, albeit that Jigsaw has not been seen in the cinema, on TV or on recorded medium for some considerable time. All I can say is that if this BFI print does not get another showing with a follow up DVD, there’s no justice – or taste – in the world. Seeing it in the unshowy, dignified surroundings of turn of the century Duke of York’s Cinema made this all the more enjoyable.

Scenester
22/8/10

‘Suburban Steps To Rockland’ The Story of the Ealing Club - University of West London 9/2/2018

To a packed house at the West London premiere of documentary film ‘Suburban Steps To Rockland’, directed by Giorgio Guernier, shown under the auspices of the Ealing Music and Film Festival.

Introductions to the key players in the making of this film aside, we were straight into what would prove to be a well-paced, fond reminisce from some of the legendary figures in British Blues and Rock about what they affectionately recalled as a dark, dingy, sweaty basement club that paid scant regard to health and safety, but would prove to become nothing less than the cradle of British rock.

The scene for the story was set well, evoking the repressive atmosphere of post war Britain and the ambitions of young people who had no memory of the war, no obligation to do National Service and crucially, had their own money to indulge their stylistic and musical choices in a way never seen before in this country.

This dank bolt-hole of a club was scouted as a likely venue by young Iranian-born entrepreneur Fery Asgari, for live bands to entertain his fellow Ealing Technical College students. Fery was in attendance this evening, but more of that later. Blues maven Alexis Korner and demon harmonica player Cyril Davies were looking for an alternative venue for their Blues/Rhythm and Blues evenings after success at the Jazz-based Marquee Club in central London, and Ealing more than fitted the bill.

In its short life, many young musicians would pass through its doors, some of them playing live for the first time, but certainly not the last. Under the warm encouragement of Korner and Davies, the founders of Blues Incorporated, the Ealing Club would flourish for a brief but hugely influential couple of years, before being overtaken by larger venues in the heat of the success of the very scene they had created.

The lack of contemporary footage at this vital venue is hardly surprising, but there’s no shortage of talking heads with stories to tell. The addition of black and white cartoon footage illustrates some of the anecdotes otherwise lost to time, but ultimately adds little to the narrative. Instead, we simply sit back and enjoy the stories from such luminaries as Eric Burdon (who is said to have hitch-hiked from Newcastle to London to visit the place and who recalled his baptism of fire, hearing the harmonica being played, amplified with a microphone) Paul Jones (who, grinning, recalled turning down the job of vocalist in Brian Jones’ new band) and Bobbie Korner (the long suffering wife of Alexis, whose house was regularly overrun with visiting Blues musicians from the UK and USA).

The film relies heavily on the stories of former club alumni, and sags a little in the middle, but is brought up to speed once more by a slight diversion via Marshall’s music store in Hanwell. Apart from supplying amplification for up and coming bands, the shop also acted as a means of employment for some of their members (Mitch Mitchell was one such willing wage slave) and an unofficial hangout for same. The challenges Marshall’s faced were very new; the tendency of certain musicians such as US émigré Jimi Hendrix to ‘kill’ amplifiers with constant overloading made the firm up their game.

A Q&A session closed the proceedings, with guests director Giorgio Guernier, amp maestro Terry Marshall (son of firm’s founder Jim Marshall) and The Birds’ Ali McKenzie making up the panel. Giorgio’s love of music made the project a no-brainer for him, and Terry’s recollection of the Hanwell shop and the club having what amounted to a symbiotic relationship, brought the tightly compact nature of the 60’s R and B scene into a sharp focus. Ali’s recalling his nightly excursions to one club after another made some of us envious of his good fortune to be born right place, right time, and to wonder where today’s young musicians gather for mutual support and competition. Terry oozes pride at the enduring fame of the Marshall brand, now as well-known as some fast food and cola brands, and infinitely better for you. Fery’s wry anecdotes about being caught cheerfully fly posting all over Ealing and then pretending he had little English got him off more than one police charge, were some of the best heard tonight.

Filled with stories of the chance meetings that formed now-legendary bands, and fondly recalled by band members who were only a few inches from being electrocuted in its damp atmosphere, and maybe a couple of years from international stardom, the Ealing Club has been justly commemorated here with the many contributions from former band members and habituees too numerous to mention. All this from a neglected space below the level of the railway lines at Ealing Broadway Underground Station, and due to be demolished to make way for the Crossrail project, it’s time it was commemorated by more than a blue plaque.

Scenester
22/1/18

Link
http://www.ealingmusicandfilmfestival.org/

Deep End (1970)

Creeping about the West End in search of film obscurities being something of a hobby of mine, your pal Scenester fair leapt out of his office at 5.30 one chilly Monday evening, throwing his coat on as he did, to make his way once more to BFI Stephen Street, for a screening of this forgotten gem. I confess to not having heard of this film before, although I am at a loss to say why, in view of the gritty subject matter, year of production, authentic London locations and strong cast.

The list of films dealing with society’s changing sexual mores, young and older people and their contrasting attitudes to sex is a particularly lengthy one, but I can safely say that this one is a real oddity, even by the standards of the time.
The story concerns Mike, (John Moulder-Brown) a young lad who has started work in his first job as a public baths attendant, in an age where the ‘baths’ were not simply for swimming, but were also to bathe in, there still being people who did not have the luxury of a bath in their own home. Mike is a pleasant sort, but very inept and shy with girls, and the fact that one of his co-workers is the sexy Susan, (Jane Asher) has his hormones running crazy. Susan introduces Mike to the seedier side of bath house life, where attendants can earn a few tips doing ‘favours’ for their customers. Mike’s complete lack of experience leads to many embarrassing moments, including one with a notable cameo role for Diana Dors as a buxom matron, who projects all manner of football-related fantasies onto Mike whilst she paws him into submission.

The baths are frequented by a long succession of frustrated women, scruffy men and schoolchildren, the latter being of particular interest to a lecherous teacher (Karl-Michael Vogler) whose bottom-slapping and ‘come hither’ behaviour would earn him an appearance in Court in these more protective times. Mike, of course, only has eyes for Susan, and has determined to disrupt her relationship with her soon-to-be fiancé (Chris Sandford, a face no doubt familiar to almost everyone reading this article, such was his ubiquity in the 60’s & 70’s films and TV) His farcical attempts to split the two lovers up only serve to make Mike more miserable and Susan more attached to her man.

The lengthy scenes where Mike follows the couple around town, first to a cinema showing a truly hilarious excuse for a porn film (little more than some poor quality dominatrix spouting pseudo-scientific babble in an elegant house), and later on to the inevitably expensive nightclub, well beyond Mike’s modest means, are spellbinding for their shots of the streets, café’s and people in their late 60’s/early 70’s finery. Mike ends up eating more hot dogs than could ever be healthy for a body, served by the ever-present Burt Kwouk, during his long waits around Soho to catch a glimpse of the seductive Susan, always accompanied by her fiancé.

If this is all beginning to sound like ‘Here we go round the bike sheds’ or ‘Carry on up the S-Bend’, I would stress that the scenes with Mike going through adolescent agony and frustration are handled with a great deal of sensitivity, even when Mike kidnaps a cardboard cut-out that looks like a scantily-clad Susan, from outside a strip joint, and is if to compound his misery, is forced to hide out in a prostitute’s ‘workroom’ to evade the strip-joint owner’s heavies. His awkwardness in front of the ageing pro, one of her legs in plaster, summons up pathos as well as hilarity in roughly equal measure.

As our hero tries and fails over and over again to get something more than Susan’s attention, the film starts to take a surreal turn, with Susan losing the stone from her engagement ring in the snow. Their eccentric method of retrieval staggers the viewer, as does the fate of our two leads. To tell you any more of the plot would be plain cruel. I will however mention that the shots of London just after the glad-tide of the 1960’s had receded are a joy of discovery, the clothes on the backs of our actors are a reminder of how good even everyday store clobber could be then, and I am sure I wasn’t the only one whose eyes were on stalks throughout the film, at the ethereal beauty of Jane Asher, with or without her clothes.

This expertly restored film will be getting a ‘selected cinemas’ release from 6th May, and I hear the Flipsiders have come up with a very special treat for us at their screening at the NFT on 4th May. We’ll have to sit tight until July for the DVD/Blu-Ray release for this one, but I’m sure you’ll agree it’s worth it.

Scenester
5/4/11

Deep End 4/5/11 NFT1: Screening and Q&A with Jane Asher and John Moulder-Brown

Unable to resist the prospect of another screening of ‘Deep End’, especially when the appearance of the film’s two stars for a Q&A was included, your pal Scenester plus the lovely Misses B & C passed over the river for another NFT evening.
A crisp restored print on the NFT’s number one screen ensured all eyes were wide-open throughout the screening. Soon afterwards, Vic and Will Flipside invited the two still-youthful stars onto the stage for a chat about this remarkable film. Recalling working with a Polish director, Jerzy Skolimowski, and a largely German film crew, filming partly in Leytonstone, partly in Munich, the inevitable language problems and the sometimes happy accidents that occurred as a result of them, Jane and John both spoke in staggering detail about a piece of work they did over forty years ago. They felt that some of the ‘other-worldliness’ in the script and shooting may have been because of the language difficulties, and if this is so, then I can only say, ‘vive la difference’ (in Polish).

The striking use of colour was discussed, and they recalled that the improvised ‘poster’ scene was performed with the unannounced appearance of a man who proceeded to paint the walls of the baths red whilst being filmed. This was of course Jerzy’s way of introducing a wild card into the scene, and it worked very well. The colour red does seem to be a major motif here, what with Jane’s red hair and the blood in the pool from her cracked skull, recalling its use as a ‘marker’ by authors and film makers alike.

As soon as the floor was thrown open to questions, your humble narrator’s arm shot up, with the question he had wanted to ask Jane and John since first sight of the film a few weeks ago; what first attracted them to the script. Jane explained that there was no doubt in her mind that this was a major piece of work, and she had no hesitation in accepting the role offered. She added that she had most likely been spotted as a potential candidate for the role of Susan in a TV series called ‘Wicked Women’, which showed she was capable of playing some nasty little madams. Scenester was almost dumbstruck at the mention of this long-forgotten series, which he saw at a very young age, and can only hope that some episodes of it have escaped the grim wiper.

John’s memories of the filming were equally lucid, and unlike Jane, he had not attended the evening’s screening, and so relied on his own 40-year old memory. His account of the scene where he becomes a matron’s object of erotic fantasy was hilarious, and I wondered how many gentlemen in the audience had, as young lads, fantasised about being led astray by Diana Dors.

They recalled that the surreal scene when Susan and Mike gather up a large circle of snow to try and find Susan’s diamond, dislodged from its ring setting, was the first scene to be filmed. It pays tribute to their abilities to play such a late scene, having only just met, and when the characters have moved on from being workmates, to two young people with a lot of unresolved and very individual sexual tensions separating them.

The short time we had with the two stars still managed to pack in plenty to think about, and the BFI were filming it, so it will presumably turn up in the future for all to see.

The fate of the bright yellow mac which Susan sported in the film sadly goes unrecorded.

Scenester

5/5/2011

The Avengers 50th Anniversary Evening: Barbican Cinema 1 Wed 30/11/11

It’s fair comment that if someone organised a screening of any of ‘The Avengers’ TV episodes in a limestone cave in Cheshire, or up the side of a mountain in the far north of Scotland, I’d probably attend. Fortunately, London’s Barbican is much easier to get to, and so I and my two delightful companions hitched a lift on a milk float to Farringdon to be there. On offer were two shows from the glorious monochrome era, ‘Mandrake’ and ‘The Hour That Never Was’.

‘Mandrake’ is surely one of the best of the ‘Cathy Gale’ stories, the plot concerning a firm of corrupt doctors who arrange for the convenient death of their clients’ rich relatives in return for a hefty slice of their estates. In a typically theatrical flourish, all victims are buried in the same Cornish churchyard, where the tin-mined ground’s naturally high arsenic content disguises the presence of poison in their bodies.

John Le Mesurier makes a fine choice as an impeccably-mannered but venal doctor, spurred on by a greedy partner intent on continuing as long as possible in their dangerous path to riches. Grapple fans would raise a cheer at the appearance of 60’s wrestling star Jackie Pallo as a cockney gravedigger, transplanted miles from his City home to this Cornish idyll, still hankering after saveloys in place of the local food he despises. Our favourite pair of sleuths arrives to disturb the corrupt medics’ cosy arrangement.

‘The Hour That Never Was’ is a classic of the ‘Emma Peel’ years, centring on Steed’s invitation to an RAF reunion party at the end of an era for a shortly-to-be decommissioned air base. Perhaps sensing danger ahead, or maybe simply wanting to be seen in sultry female company, Steed invites Mrs Peel to join him, only to find that what should have been a jolly, nostalgic evening turns into another strange job for our duo. The air base has all the trappings of a party about to start, but is without guests. The punch has been poured, the party food laid out, but no RAF pals are here.

For a typically surreal Avengers plot, we get some insight into the generational tension that lurked below the surface of their odd relationship. Steed’s wartime reminisces, all ‘chocks away’ and boozing before and after, clearly bore Mrs Peel, who tartly remarks ‘It’s a wonder you had time to win the war’.

What starts as a mystery, even possibly a ‘rag’ organised by his old pals to amuse Steed, is quickly realised to be a malicious plot to kidnap and brainwash the country’s top RAF staff, for use as ‘sleeper’ agents in various places around the world at some significant moment.

Most of us would have been happy with this celebratory screening, but we also had a Q&A with director Gerry O’Hara and designer David Marshall too.

David Marshall shared his memories of working as a set designer on the show, recalling the fight scene in ‘Mandrake’, where Jackie Pallo fell into the grave, thumping his head on the way down, knocking him out cold. Fearing he may never be asked to work there again, David was relieved at Jackie’s complete recovery. David felt that the set was a personal triumph, constructed in a very small space, raised so as to give depth to the grave, and lit with enormous care so as to exclude any suggestion of studio apparatus shadows in the ‘churchyard’. His memory of the divide between actors and purely technical staff was telling, there being no mixing whatsoever.

Gerry’s time as an Avengers director was restricted to just two episodes, one being ‘The Hour That Never Was’. He recalled his relationship with ITC was somewhat strained when it was discovered that he had had an affair with a lady who later married an executive of the company. Although occurring years before she married, it nevertheless set in motion his estrangement from ITC, he felt. He nevertheless had fond memories of working on ‘The Avengers’

A question from the floor was whether The Avengers created the 60’s, or the 60’s created The Avengers? Neither felt that either statement was true, but they did feel that the show reflected the 60’s, especially the fashions of the era, without being part of the youth culture it was loved by. Another was whether they felt, at the time, that they would still be talking about the show fifty years hence. Neither did, but simply felt that they had helped to create a quality piece of work in what was then a highly competitive field.

An unsurprisingly well-attended show, with some well-known faces from the Mod scene, added up to one of the best evenings I have spent in the Barbican. More, please.

Scenester
4/12/11

The Strange World of Anthony Newley

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Thu, 13 May 2021 16:14:36 GMT

The Strange World of Anthony Newley

Anthony Newley Night NFT1 Thursday 30/4/09

As someone who, only a year or two ago, would have written off Anthony Newley as a light entertainer of little interest to the modern viewer, I felt a little embarrassed to be proven completely wrong about the man with the superb ‘Small World of Sammy Lee’. I can only blame my childhood memories of the inevitable ‘Junior Choice’ playing of ‘Pop Goes The Weasel’ & ‘Strawberry Fair’ for it all. I was obviously too young to have seen Newley in full mature entertainer mode, on adults’ TV.

After my damascene conversion to all things Newley, I was thrilled to hear that those top fellahs at The Flipside had organised a special Newley Night at London’s National Film Theatre, not only securing a print of ‘Will Hieronymous Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happiness?’ but had also pulled in a grab-bag of stupendous clips from a wide range of his TV performances. A brief conversation with Vic Flipsider one afternoon, whet my appetite, with a mention of an episode of ‘Gurney Slade’ in the offing. He remained cruelly tight lipped about the rest.

A dash across the river to the South Bank’s NFT, a swift glass of Vin (Very) Ordinaire with my good lady, to shake off the foul day I’d had, and we were in the plush seats of the NFT‘s main screen.

First up, a few words from the delightful Tara Newley (Mother: Joan Collins, Father: Anthony Newley-talk about lucky genes!) who treated us to her memories of appearing in ‘Hieronymous Merkin’ as a child, along with her mother and brother, playing unwitting audience members to her father’s off the wall ideas. She gave us a vivid picture of the fun they had, in spite of the strain this exercise in over-the-top egotism must have placed on her parents’ already sinking marriage. Time scheduling was tight, so not time for a ‘Q&A’, but straight into the film.

I was already aware of this film from various books I have read about 60’s films (one or two!) and the cost to Newley’s wallet, time, marriage and reputation it represented, but had never actually seen it before. I don’t recall it ever being screened in recent years, not at the cinema, nor on TV, not even at the long-gone and much lamented Scala Cinema, nor made available on VHS or DVD anywhere. I therefore approached it with a sense of huge anticipation tempered with caution.
Those of you who are familiar with Newley’s way of working, the stories of his chaotic personal life, his magpie imagination and raging leonine drive for new ideas to bounce around, this film will prove to be everything you think it will be. Opening on a beautiful beach with an azure sea and sky, that could only be the Mediterranean, I was instantly reminded of ‘Help’, and the untrammelled stream of consciousness script it follows is not a million miles from that other off-kilter product of the magical 1960’s, The Monkees’ ‘Head’. Newley takes us, sometimes unwillingly, on a dark funhouse ride through his ailing psyche, dramatised and enlivened with stagecraft old and new, corny and sophisticated, funny and despondent, punctuated with song and dance numbers delivered sometimes by his good self, sometimes by his many friends in the performing arts. In a scene reminiscent of ‘The Knack’ a long line of girls wait at the waterside to enter his four-poster, each one discarded as he bores of them, only to take on the temporary services of the next. Newley once emphatically denied that this tour of his neurotic, self-doubting, self-loving dilemma was autobiographical, but later admitted it was completely so.

In spite of the egomaniac nature of the script, this is not a one-hander. Instead, Newley is aided and abetted by a roll-call of accomplices, such as Milton Berle as his ‘manager’ Good Time Eddie Filth, George Jessel as a wise-cracking ghostly presence, a bevy of beauties with campy names like ‘Trampolina Whambang’ and ‘Miss Maidenhair Fern’. His audience in all this is his wife ‘Polyester Poontang’ (played by real-life wife Joan Collins) and his children Tara and Sacha, the latter two kept in check by the ever-welcome Patricia Hayes as ‘granny’.

Merkin/Newley’s early life in show business is illustrated by familiar routines, but with Newley’s totally original songs. Bruce Forsyth in particular puts up a terrific performance that reminds us how he got where he is today, and how he’s managed to stay there all these years. We pass on quickly to Merkin/Newley’s pathological bed hopping in some truly hilarious vignettes. The casting must have been the most fun anyone had had since VE Day. It is not difficult to guess how quickly all this salacious lunacy must have destroyed what little was left of the Newley/Collins marriage, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one in the audience who thought that Polyester Poontang’s bitterness at Merkin’s oversexed antics was produced from memory, rather than from Collins’ acting skills.

The Mercy Humppe of the title is a tall, blonde nymphet type who initially obsesses Merkin, but who fails to live up to his expectations and our ‘hero’ has to face the fact that he is fated to be alone and unhappy. He sings a ‘Poor Me’ showstopper that actually provoked criticism from an American Church minister for its attitude toward the almighty.

I could rerun every scene of note, (and there are many, including a ‘Zodiac’ dance that could only have been made in the 1960’s), or reel off the names of all the other distinguished actors who took part in this monument to Newley’s hubris, but I’m going to let it rest. ‘Merkin’ is a true product of that now-distant but still remembered and loved decade, of Newley’s febrile imagination, and of his worsening self inflicted mental state. It left me with the feeling that Newley could have saved himself a great deal of money by simply seeing a psychiatrist-but thank heaven he didn’t.

Only a short break later, we were back in our seats for the second part of tonight’s celebration of this unique talent, and what to me would be the real deal of the evening. In 1960, Newley, already a star of the stage, made a very offbeat comedy series for TV, ‘The Strange World of Gurney Slade’. Perhaps picking up on the meandering style of many an episode of shows like ‘Hancock’, the show could not be said to have ‘centred’ on any one idea, unless it was the eccentric musings and ramblings of the show’s main character. Only six episodes were made, and the show was so deeply unpopular, (no belly laughs, and significantly, no laughter track) that it was shunted from primetime to the graveyard slot early on. This, the fourth episode, has our hero Gurney Slade, on trial for having no sense of humour; he’s made a TV comedy show that isn’t funny. Eerily reminiscent of ‘The Prisoner’, which it predated by several years, Slade/Newley, puts up a spirited defence to this heinous charge, attempting to prove that countersunk screws are indeed funny, but to no avail. He is sentenced to death, only reprieved when the executioner’s axe-head falls off, which the judge finds uncontrollably funny. How I would love to have been a fly on the wall in the house of Mr & Mrs Average TV Viewer (who appear as prosecution witnesses) when this went out.

What followed was a superb and beautifully preserved colour clip from Burt Bacharach & Associates (1972), which showed off Newley’s singular talents to maximum effect. A truly hilarious routine for ‘Those Were The Good Old Bad Old Days’, ably supported by a young-ish dance troupe, followed by what may have been the high spot of the whole ‘BB&A’ series; a duet between Newley and the great Sammy Davis Junior. What a pleasure to see two consummate professionals at the height of their powers, playing off each other with their good natured jibes, tailor-made alternative lyrics to Newley’s best songs, and Sammy impersonating Newley to his face and getting away with it! It really was a joy to see and hear, and if this brilliant series doesn’t get a showing on TV or a really good DVD release, I will personally picket ITV’s studios.

An unusual artefact from 1977 was ‘The Beatles Forever’, a show made for the UK which I have no contemporary memory of, whatsoever. Basically an affectionate Beatles cover versions show, Newley duetting with Bernadette Peters (who played the lovable hat-maker in ‘Slaves of New York’), and also performing ‘Within You Without You’, in a 1970’s deco mock up of an Indian temple, with innumerable cast members contemplating the infinite, albeit through their ornate drinking glasses, looking less like mystics in their ecstasies, more like a bunch of jaded sybarites. A revue of The Beatles tunes seemed a very odd career diversion for Newley, given that the Fab Four had proved to be the nemesis of Newley and many entertainers like him.

We passed on to the battle of the blazers, as Newley mounted the banquette for a friendly tussle with Val Doonican. The ever affable Mr Doonican, resplendent in his monogrammed woollen (a stylised ‘Val’, not, I’m happy to report, what you were thinking) and Newley in an open necked shirt and plain navy affair, looking as if he’d wandered in from an afternoon on the Pimms & Lemonade at the Sloaney Pony. Very much a rush-through of his greatest hits, with Newley performing to Val’s appreciative remarks. The same show also offered the musical talents of Elkie Brooks, but sadly not in this clip. We had a lot to get through.

Time may have taken its inevitable toll on Newley, his voice losing a little of its power, but he was as sprightly as ever, racing up the steep staircase on The Bob Downe Show from 1996, to sing his hits unmolested by the very beige Mr. Downe. It was at this point that I noted Newley’s striking resemblance to Gordon Brown, right down to the hangdog expression our Prime Minister seems to have worn since taking office. Added contributions to Bob Downe’s show, mercifully absent here, came from Ant and Dec and Martine McCutcheon.

To close was a trip back to 1970, to hear Newley sing a selection of his best songs on ‘This is Tom Jones’, and he did not disappoint. On a set that resembled a particularly camp episode of Dr Who, Newley was at his crooning best.

Evenings like this do a lot to restore my faith in repertory cinema. Clips of Newley on modern day TV are rare as hens’ teeth, and video/DVD, almost unknown. Primarily a live performer, it is wholly possible that we do not have his best performances in any recorded format, but there is at least something out there, as this all too brief selection of clips and curios proved. It was a very welcome lifting of the curtain on a talent that passed away ten long years ago, to little fanfare. I recall an obituary in a major national newspaper which remembered Newley’s meteoric path to international stardom, his occupation of the honour of having once been one of the world’s highest paid entertainers, and then his equally rapid decline and complete disappearance from public notice. These clips prove that even if journalists have forgotten him, the public and the TV archivists have not. Fans of David Bowie are probably aware of the stylistic debt owed to Newley by their idol in his early years, where even Bowie’s song writing resembled the material being performed by Newley, and not just his stage cockney voice. Newley’s repeated use of the ‘puppet’ mime was also appropriated by Bowie, and others, in the otherwise chalk and cheese polarity of rock music and show tunes. Plenty of others have followed the theatrical template Newley himself followed, and for a real memory stretcher, does anyone else out there remember the Newleyisms of late 80’s rock act, Boys Wonder? Newley deserves a proper memorial to his over-reaching, if sometimes misguided, talent, and to reach the maximum number of people. I propose a TV retrospective, followed by a DVD release, would be the way to remind previous generations, and introduce later ones, to this formidable talent, who made a far greater impression on popular culture than most of us realised.

Scenester

4/5/09

The Small World of Sammy Lee
National Film Theatre 24/4/08

Those fellahs at The Flipside have done it again; they’ve tracked down a forgotten gem of British Cinema and who knows where this one has been hiding since it was made in 1962?

If you’re anything like me, the name Anthony Newley tends to conjure up a picture of a light entertainer who seemed to belong to the Victorian Music Hall tradition, more than the Swingin’ Age he became famous in. This film pays testament to his talent as an actor, and a damn good one at that.

The plot is a little hackneyed, that of a small-time comic who scratches a living introducing the strippers in a particularly grubby Soho night spot, who must pay a colossal gambling debt within a few hours or he’ll end up as a punchbag for a local villain’s henchman. His hapless attempts to raise the money are totally believeable and grimly hilarious.

Newley’s portrayal of Sammy ‘Lee’ Leeman is so matter of fact, you forget you’re watching a slice of exploitation cinema, and warm to him no matter what you think of his choice of profession or the places he exercises it in.

The opening shots of grimy Soho, in merciful black and white, at the start of another working day, set the scene brilliantly for what it to come. As market stall holders set up in Berwick Street, Sammy is losing a fortune in a cellar gambling club, the illumination coming from the morning sunlight through the luxcrete overhead. The street shots, sometimes done with a hidden camera, sometimes all too obviously a visible one, show sights familiar to anyone who spends a little time there each day, but not the present-day café and night club scene. This is the Soho of the early 60’s, with gambling and strip clubs only recently legalised, springing up like rank weeds everywhere. Every third doorway appears to be a strip club, the others being cafes (brief shots of The Heaven & Hell and The Two I’s being particular highlights) and foreign restaurants. Was that a young mod on his scooter? Maybe.

Sammy’s visit to his brother’s grocer’s shop (Lou, played by the ever—watchable Warren Mitchell) has some great Jewish London banter. Lou is of course fully aware of the reason for Sammy’s rare visit.

Lou:       Five minutes you’ve been in my shop, you haven’t even asked me how’s business
Sammy: How’s business, Lou?
Lou:       Don’t ask! Look at all the people who aren’t coming in to the shop, all the business I’m not getting.

The appearance of Lou’s wife, Milly, played with relish by Miriam Karlin, all haughty demeanour and glaring contempt for her dissolute brother-in-law, is enough to freeze the gherkins in their jars
Lou: I ask her, how many pairs of shoes do you need, you’ve only got one pair of feet!

Truly touching is Lou’s offer of all he has in the till of his failing business -£25/0/0. Sammy needs much more than this, and starts hustling for any business he can get-flogging drinking glasses to a club owner on account, using the profit to pay for cheap wristwatches, unloading them onto someone else, his petty errands being carried out by his ageing dresser, the irreplaceable Wilfrid Brambell. Sammy’s trip to a snooker hall to try and unload more junk onto one of Soho’s more successful villains, leads him into more profitable territory. Our immaculately turned out, and icy-cold crime lord is none other than Alfred Burke (from late 60’s, early 70’s TV’s Public Eye) who suggests a little dope transaction might be the thing to make a little money in a hurry. Something of a taboo subject at the time, this is handled particulary well by the filmmakers, and even manages to fit in a social exclusion/racial theme with Sammy’s visit to a cool Jazz Club to seek out a possible dope connection. Asking the black pianist who he should see about this matter, the musician spits out his contempt for Sammy’s assumption that because he’s black, he has all the criminal connections in the palm of his hand.

By the time we’re halfway through Sammy’s small world, we realise that the filmmakers must have known Soho inside out, what with the access to what appear to be real strip joints, clubs and people.

The appearance of Patsy (Julia Foster in an assured performance, despite her tender years) a girl from the north who seems to have taken Sammy’s offer of a job seriously and even innocently, is another cliché’d storyline that, in the hands of these actors, becomes something of surprising value. Her initiation into stripping is another reminder that this is no lightweight thriller or high-minded piece of cinema verite, but a masterly piece of exploitation, made on the hoof.

Sammy’s attempts to come up with the money he owes are all turning on paper-thin profits and when Wilfrid Brambell’s put-upon dresser returns from the last errand with a cheque instead of cash (Arthur Daley would have blanched at the sigh of it!) and only minutes to go, Sammy knows he is in for a beating. His speech to the assembled Strip Club habitués is as moving as it is scabrous:

‘Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, we have in here one of Soho’s lowest, cheapest and downright shoddiest shows, and by the look of you lot, you deserve it.’

The last scene is so poignant and so pathetic, I am not going to spoil it for you by describing it. I am just going beg whoever owns this fantastic film, to get it out on video/DVD or TV by any means necessary, because it is a magnificent piece of work. The period detail alone was worth the price of the ticket, (yes, I was craning my neck to see if I could spot some jukeboxes with attendant mods) its position in that well-loved decade enough to get me south of the river on a cold April night to see it, but the quality of the acting was the real prize here, and from actors you would not normally see in a film of this type.

If I’ve made any readers green with envy, well, sorry about that, especially the ones who may live far from London’s NFT. I did spot a face here and there in the large crowd of interested parties. The rest of you – you missed one great film!

Scenester
27/4/08

The Strange World of Gurney Slade NFT 11/8/11

The ultimate release of the entire series of ‘Gurney Slade’ on DVD this August is exciting enough, but the whisper of an evening celebrating this surreal, ground-breaking but very elusive comedy show had me booking tickets for Mme Scenester and I on the day they became available. Hosted by Dick Fiddy, who has done a creditable Sherlock Holmes job on tracing rare material associated with the show, and with special guest Anneke Wills, who appeared in the show itself, proved to be one of the best nights I have ever spent at the NFT.

I think it’s fair to say, that when people are remembering their favourite comedy shows from the 1950’s and 1960’s, thoughts turn to the ‘Goon Show’ ‘Hancock’ and ‘Steptoe and Son’ more readily than ‘Gurney Slade’. These three were of course among the most popular comedy shows in British Radio and TV history, whereas ‘Gurney Slade’ suffered an ignominious fate when it was shunted from its 8.30 slot to the graveyard shift after only two weeks, due to plummeting ratings. What was it that inspired the viewers to turn off in droves? It surely could not have been the hugely popular star, Anthony Newley, with his wealth of experience as a stage performer, pop singer and all-round entertainer.

Examining the bones of the show to find out what went wrong, we come across a concept that was completely radical on British popular TV in the late 50’s/early 60’s. Newley’s character, Gurney Slade, is an everyman, living in his little home with his family, but any resemblance to a typical sitcom ends there. We start off hearing the conversation around the dinner table, but this quickly changes to hearing the thoughts of the people around it. Gurney becomes alienated from his surroundings as a result of all this, and then does something outrageous; he simply walks off the set. You heard. The screen shows us the TV studio equipment, (an absolute no-no at the time) the scenery and the camera operators, as Gurney simply high-tails it out of the phoney living room, and takes to the streets. This simple act happens so early on in the first episode of the show, it can only be seen as a declaration of war on the sitcom format itself.

The second episode on show this evening had Gurney Slade in an Avengers-like setting, an abandoned airfield, where he runs across Una Stubbs being typically gamine and fashionable, Hugh Paddick as a suited and booted fairy, and Anneke Wills in a hated mac.

The archive material didn’t end there, either. A clip of Newley playing a successful crooner, ‘Johnny Darling’ justifying his privileged position in society to an invisible accuser; Imagine ‘Face to Face’ with only the guest to carry the show. A remarkable piece with Newley shambling down a dimly lit back street, looking at a poster for ‘Gurney Slade’, and commiserating with himself for the show’s commercial failure. I felt the clips showed not only Newley’s remarkable talent for self-effacing humour, but also hinted at self-doubt and self-loathing.

The parallels with Patrick McGoohan’s ‘The Prisoner’ resounded throughout the evening, especially Gurney Slade’s inner monologues and self-analysis, and ‘The Prisoner ‘s own critical failure, notwithstanding its later renaissance and acceptance as a major television landmark. It’s tempting to speculate whether the principal writers of ‘The Prisoner’, McGoohan among them, took any inspiration from ‘Gurney Slade’, but, so long after the death of the major players of both series, it would be idle speculation, at best.

The evening was considerably brightened by the appearance of Anneke Wills for a Q&A session, whose memories of the show and its star are both lucid and very fond. Anneke recalled announcing her getting the gig to all her friends in The Troubador, their inevitable hangout, and being completely bowled over by Newley’s charm. She also recalled Newley’s tendency to take failure badly, all the more so in the case of ‘Gurney Slade’, which she felt was a truly brilliant piece of work that was cruelly ignored by the public. Her unshakeable opinion of Newley, in spite of the gap of years since his fame began to pall, and his abandonment of her after she fell pregnant by him, is still that of a hugely talented individual who may have been years ahead of his time.

Anneke spoke of Newley’s early influence, the mime artist Marcel Marceau, explicit on the cover of ‘Stop the world I want to get off’, with Newley in whiteface and Breton stripes, standing with a paper-covered hoop-for him to jump through into his own audience? Then there are those who were heavily influenced by Newley. The story of David Bowie, who, it was said, admitted he simply became Newley for a couple of years, and anyone who has heard Bowie’s ‘Images’ double LP of early material will not argue with one word if it. ‘The Laughing Gnome’ was immediately recalled, and who knows how much of the Newley spirit inspired Bowie’s many ch-ch-ch-changes of persona in his long, and far more successful career? Did I mention that the name of the Bowie-type star of ‘Velvet Goldmine’ is Brian Slade?

My own question to Anneke concerned the extent to which the British public had already been primed for surrealism by ‘The Goon Show’ which managed to embed itself so deeply into British consciousness, that it still has an eager audience generations later, most of whom were born long after it had finished. Anneke felt that such shows as ‘Gurney Slade’ and ‘The Goon Show’ were listened to by the intelligent, hip people, but whereas one was a huge success, running for nearly ten years, the other barely scraped by with six episodes.

Anneke is convinced that Newley opened a door in the British consciousness that allowed in fresh ideas, after years of stultifying conformity, and paved the way for others like him-her examples being the unpredictable talent of Peter Cook, and the totally anarchic Monty Python team. Anneke’s fondness for the man who ultimately dumped her for Joan Collins (ladies, would any of you mind too much if a man dumped you for the young JC?) is truly amazing.

I came away concluding that Joe Public 1960 preferred the safe and sure sitcom to this meandering, eccentric show, with its star hearing the thoughts of other characters, addressing inanimate objects, and allowing us to hear his own interior conversation. Perhaps they wanted to hear Newley sing some of his songs in a variety type show, instead of this trip to a parallel world. If this is so, it was an unfortunate choice, as several generations were deprived of a fresh, offbeat comedy that could have injected life into the by-then tired sitcom format, maybe even helping it to avoid the dull conformity it was so prone to in the later 1970’s. No matter, ‘Gurney Slade’ is now out on DVD, so we can all make up our minds. What do you think?

Scenester
17/8/11

Music Reviews

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Thu, 13 May 2021 15:45:35 GMT

Invisible Man by Lester Square, Mark Harrison Band, Lester Square, Eddie & The Hot Rods, The Jesus & Mary Chain, Surgery Without Research, Mohair Sweets, Killing Joke, Jo Harman, PiL, The Beat, Joe Bonamassa, The Who, Ian Hunter/Federal Charm, Pete Molinari, Bert Jansch tribute,Cauldronated, Eight Rounds Rapid, The Chapman Family, We Can Elude Control.

Invisible Man – Lester Square

‘Whom The Gods Destroy’ opens Lester’s latest postcard from the outer reaches of guitardom, a soaring, jangling journey into the rarefied air of this, his fifth solo album.

The sci-fi film voices of doom which punctuate opener ‘Disco Bizarro’ are completely in keeping with the nervous, tense guitars that take the passenger on a sinister detour. ‘Shinjuku’ continues the retro-futuristic theme, a crashing drum backing to all manner of theremin warps and waves.

‘Trudi French (slight return) has all the melancholic strums and angry bass it needs, evoking a love affair the narrator can’t give up on. ’The Claws of Tigron’s Flash Gordon dialogue makes a perfect counterpoint to its clashing, metallic guitars and vortex like atmosphere.
‘Destination Space’ has climbing, triumphant synths, high picked guitar and the exuberant narration from classic sci-fi fantasy film. Far more fearful is the totalitarian keyboards of ‘Time Tunnel’, evoking all of the sense of doomed repetition that the classic TV show dared to put on our screens in the late 60’s.

‘Leaf’ takes us into a more unpredictable territory, the metallic guitars giving way to sitars and keyboards in an intriguing, mysterious journey. Finally, ‘COP26’ confronts us with the consequences of our mistreatment of the planet’s ecosystems; a mournful keyboard and messages of doom over the top.

Bonus track ‘Zulu’ leaves behind the cinematic flights of fancy and places us back in the twangy guitar carny, safe from the horrors of the modern world.

Lester’s most varied and best LP for some time; join him on his journey.

Scenester1964
8/2/22

Mark Harrison Band and Laine Hines – Southgate Club 12/7/19

Basically a ‘pass-the-hat’ membership club, St. Harmonica’s Blues Club has been presenting blues bills at the Southgate Club, London N14 for some months now, and for those who prefer the intimacy of a local bar to the large, overcrowded and rather impersonal venues in town, it’s perfect.

Mark Harrison Band’s accessible, easy-going take on classic blues, punctuated by anecdotes about the giants of Blues music make the evening go far quicker than you would like. Using original resonator guitars and a big bellied 12 string, complemented by bull fiddle toter Charles Benfield and drum/washboard wrangler Ben Welburn, the band make a rich, sweet and satisfying sound between them.

‘Big Mary’s House’ makes for a strong opener, rich with the heady aroma of strong, illicit liquor and the sweaty air of a juke joint in the 1930’s. Coventry born Mark is no carbon-copy Blues artist, however, as he plays original songs with plenty to say about our lives today, to those insistent, classic rhythms. ‘The Demon Drink’ tells it like it is, a somewhat personal song about a personal victory of Mark’s.

The atmosphere of the joyous N’arlin’s funeral is well realised, filtered through Old Blighty’s chillier wakes, in the thoughtful and questioning ‘Your Second Line’, and the nervous ‘Ragged’ whose title says it all. Gospel makes a welcome appearance in the uplifting ‘Meet Me On The Other Side’, and the unconventional life of revered Bluesman, Eddie ‘Guitar’ Burns, is celebrated in ‘House Full of Children’.

Playing a short set of authentic standards between the band’s two sets is Laine Hines, an expert guitar player who should be far better known that he is. Hunched over his parlour guitar and with a small amp and mike, Laine intones the chilling ‘Death Letter Blues’, pulling and plucking the strings of his instrument until he coaxes the classic choke of the Delta from them. ‘32/20 Blues’ is delivered with all of the confidence of a seasoned practitioner, and if you close your eyes, you could be in a roadhouse in the Deep South, sometime in the 1930’s.

Scenester
12/7/19

CD Review:

Serotonin - Lester Square

Co-founder of the famed Monochrome Set, guitarist Lester Square continues his exploration of potential soundtrack music with the rangy ‘Serotonin’ CD.

The Sci-Fi sweep of organ and beeping high notes in ‘Cassini Godspeed’ puts the listener in mind of the vertiginous skyscrapers of films like ‘Blade Runner’, punctuated by tense, twangy guitar.

The pleasing jangle of ‘Blake’s Dream’, with its cool handling of the treble strings has a love song feel; a sudden stop, trumpets come in, and with crashing, surging guitars and a crystal clear lead guitar, the dream is revealed.
The urgency of guitar and the fugitive piping of flutes sit together well with the overall pastoral feel of ‘Serotonin’, the best realised mood piece in this selection.

The marching rhythm and strong guitar resonance suit ‘Privates on Parade’ perfectly, with electric piano and trumpet ramping up the Edwardian feel, and a touch of humour lightening the mood.

Criss-cross riffing and booming, romantic guitar stylings lead us into ‘Pachelbel’s Pistol’, a Western themed adventure in sound, with all the excitement of that film genre.

The peaceful and contemplative sitar riff leads the listener to think an Eastern adventure may be in the offing, but as the macho tonality of lead guitar joins the throng, these two apparent opposites are seamlessly reconciled in ‘Prime Time (Cowboys and Indians)’, in a satisfying sonic legend of the Wild West.

The savannah strings and guitar tonality of ‘Shaken Not Stirred’ successfully mixes up the spy/western themes, but perhaps the former could have been explored more for the sake of difference.

The breezy lead guitar, trip drums and organ wind of ‘L’Olivarie’ suggest an opulent setting, with hints of mystery and tension in the scratchy guitars that overlay it.

Lester’s ambition to assemble fifty guitarists for one thunderous track is realised, at least in the overall effect, in ’50 Guitars’ winding, hypnotic riff, evoking nothing less than incense climbing the sheer walls of some great temple. The guitars climb further, trumpets blare out, strings fly ever upwards in a glorious and sophisticated piece.

In complete contrast to all else, ‘White Christmas’ captures the essence of a child’s experience of the festive season, using children’s voices, background TV noises, jangling bells and carols, and with the mad, bad world of conflict, oppression and war alluded to in background noise, safely out of reach.

Recline in your Eames chair, sip a long, cold drink and take the time to tune in to Lester’s broad, sweeping travelogue of sound.

Scenester
24/5/18

Eddie and the Hot Rods (Q Factory Amsterdam 12/10/17)

To Amsterdam’s suburbs and the multi-resource centre named the Q Factory, for an evening on the famed Essex band’s latest tour. The black clad, box-like club draws a modest but enthusiastic crowd tonight, from as far afield as Berlin and London.

The band’s career, dating back over forty years (with hiatus) to the pub rock era of the mid 1970’s has equipped them with plenty of chops and their love of great, raucous rock and roll is undimmed-even enhanced-by the passage of time.
Singer Barrie Masters takes the stage, looking like Roger Daltrey’s long lost brother, and the band follow, chipper as ever. A short ‘Hello how are ya’ and we’re straight into the kind of riffs that made their mid-70’s heyday such an exciting place to be. ‘Teenage Depression’ gets an early airing, and then, as if that wasn’t enough to light the fires, ‘I Might be Lying’s braggadocio and ‘Quit This Town’s powerful statement of youthful intent get rolled out, to great crowd reaction.
‘Better Without You’ s macho grumble and growling guitars please well, followed by the light, riffy ‘Life on the Line’ and the raucous, anthemic ‘Why Should I Care Anymore?’, helped along by plenty of surging, if rather wobbly dancing upfront from the crowd.

The cover of The Young Rascals’ ‘You Better Run’ represents a change of pace here and with Barrie in fan mode, as he introduces it as an all-time favourite of the bands. It would be the first of a number of heartfelt covers, followed by a scorching version of The Monkees’ ‘Stepping Stone’. The unashamed HM riff of ‘High Society’ shakes the floor and the crowd, and then we’re into Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs’ eternal proto-punk classic, ‘Woolly Bully’.
The band is on a roll, trotting out ‘Hard Driving Man’, ‘The Power and the Glory’ and their magnificent, winner’s-chords-all-the-way bona-fide hit ‘Do Anything You Wanna Do’. All good things must end, and their encore, Steppenwolf chestnut ‘Born to be Wild’ is worthy and untainted by years of use by other more lumpen rock acts. The Hot Rods can roll on forever.

Scenester
15/10/17

The Jesus and Mary Chain - De La Warr Pavilion, Bexhill on Sea 6/4/2017

To Bexhill-on-Sea’s art deco palace, to hear The Jesus and Mary Chain on the last english date of their ‘Damage and Joy’ tour.
Able support Willow Robinson’s brand of classic country rock comes across well; blessed with a good set of pipes and a deft hand to his guitar, Willow is no attention hugger, but simply lets the music speak for itself through his capable band. Though taking a few numbers to get going, it’s worth the wait. Mean guitar solos and some great, full-bellied rockers to their credit, it can’t be long before we hear more from them.

It’s a select, rather than ram-packed crowd in attendance tonight, and the element of danger proves a little hard to find. No matter, we’re way down south, the sea is as calm as polished glass, and we’re in the UK’s greatest art deco building, with the sound of Siouxsie and the Banshees ‘Dear Prudence’ coming over the speakers. The Jesus and Mary Chain shamble on in time honoured style, and immediately launch into the song of pained, hopeless love, ‘Amputation’, its boot-stomping chords echoing around the wood panelled walls. The familiar, classic twang of ‘April Skies’ rears up its head, as does the crowd, and the pounding, breakneck rock and roll that belongs to every lost era starts.

The Reid brothers present much the same faces as they work; the sombre hued anonymous clothes, the shambling gait and hunched shoulders. The shock of grey hair bouncing atop William’s head gave the slight impression that Albert Einstein has joined the band for the tour, but silver locks aside, this is the same sonic attack as we all heard back in the mid 80’s. ‘Head On’s hard, grinding aggression, yet gently leading to that sublime twanging solo, is surely one of the sweetest moments of late 80’s rock. At last they turn up their guitars for the thumping, roaring thunder of ‘Between Planets’, punk power chords that drill into the ground as they fall out of the speaker boxes.

‘Blues from a Gun’s dizzy, spinning riff thunders round the auditorium, the triple threat of screaming guitar, heavy as lead rhythm and caustic lyric still seem impossible to improve upon. The first new song to be drawn out of the hat, ‘Always Sad’ is sweetly augmented by the vocals of Bernadette Denning, but it’s a pleasure only to be repeated once, as the band return to the Spectorish riffs that made them famous, soon after. Who’s complaining? The crashing, heart breaking Jesus-wept chords of ‘Psychocandy’ shake the floor, and ‘Halfway to Crazy’ worms its way into our skulls again, in a riff that’s arguably as old as time.

The warm, rising glow of ‘Some Candy Talking’ does its work on us, and reunited with Bernadette Denning, the songs’ near-sister ‘Just Like Honey’ prepares us for the full, hellish onslaught of ‘You Trip Me Up’ and ‘The Living End’. A finale seems almost superfluous but we get one anyway, and we slope off into the town with the blackest, most star spangled sky on the South Coast.

Scenester
9/4/17

Grievance – Surgery Without Research (Research and Destroy Res 30) CD Review

Down in the basement, something stirred…

In our nervous, benighted century, there appears plenty to get angry about, and that’s just what anarcho-punks Surgery Without Research are doing. With an agenda that is nothing if not single-minded, SWR let you know exactly how they feel. Punctuated with their jaundiced observations on life in the modern age, this bilious collection recalls the radical bands of the late 1970’s, in their heavy, battling heyday.

Opening with the air raid siren and a voice of doom, SWR waste no time lacing into ‘The System’, in a great, rolling throat-shredding polemic. Turning their anger on in the gloriously profane attack of ‘Government Dreams’, there’s little doubt as to where their sympathies lie. The short, soaring guitar solo in ‘Government Lies’ is a pleasant surprise in amongst the anti-ruling class rhetoric. ‘Fight Back’s standard chug and simple, empowering message is an early stand out, followed by the sharp, hacking wake-up call of ‘We Pay The Price’.

‘Crushed and Buried’ s rockabilly speed-ride pleases, as does ‘Die Tonight (Or Stand And Fight)’ with its no-prisoners lyric, leading on to the hard, descending rocker of the self-explanatory ‘Sheep’. ‘Always In The Wrong’s virtual self-pity sits uncomfortably in amongst the politics, and some listeners may wonder what SWR have against sexual deviants in ‘Spit Mask’, but the relentless attack of ‘Religious Bullshit’ uses a slicing riff that works perfectly with the turning-over of an ancient bugbear.

The richly deserved shaming of the perpetrators of misogynistic violence in ‘Woman Beater’ leaves no room for misunderstanding, as does ‘Like Winter’s character assassination, and the classic runaway train riff of ‘This Is Your Government Calling’ has the band returning to their (everyone’s?) favourite target. ‘Something’s Can’t Explain’s ironically jangling riff works well with the song’s anti-terror group lyric and the contradictions of self-harming in the powerful ‘Cuts’ are dealt with unsentimentally. ‘Paedophile Scum’ leaves no room for disagreement, and ‘Power Unpower’s short sharp shock aims high. Our album closes with ‘No Hope’s steady, rough rocker, and if you’re looking for a slow fade out, you’re definitely looking in the wrong place.

SWR’s unrelenting old school anarcho-punk may not be everyone’s cup of free trade cocoa, but there’s no denying the power of their delivery and their apposite targets.

Scenester
25/1/17

Dream Filled Nights – Mohair Sweets EP Review

An EP of four highly varied works from Mohair Sweets, the eponymous title track has a languorous opening, but soon settles into the sort of hard, gutsy driving blues/rock riff and throaty vocal MS fans will be more familiar with. ‘Black Leather Jacket’s traditional rock ‘n’ roll will please the no-nonsense heads down brigade, but where the EP really hits its stride, is in ‘Blues For Bobby’, a churning vortex of sound with bongos and trumpet rounding out this funk/jazz maelstrom, that even takes on techno - and wins - before its crazed keyboard demise. With this hard track to follow, ‘Mr. Sinclair’ manages it pretty well, the muted staccato guitar barking over frantic drumming, evoking the spirit of arch 70’s space-rock.

Scenester
24/12/16

Killing Joke: The Roundhouse Friday 6th November 2015

Chalk Farm’s Roundhouse has changed beyond recognition since Killing Joke first formed in the late 1970’s, the building then an ex-train shed with little in the way of comforts, now a world class venue with a sprung floor and every facility in place. By contrast, the band has stuck to their formula of heavyweight, mystical-industrial rock, regardless of its status in fashion.

Opening the evening’s proceedings, ‘Asylums’ played a highly physical set of top grade rock of an 80’s vintage, the lead singer slightly impairing the effect by ending their set donning his glasses and giving an apologetic wave.

Jah Wobble’s Invaders of the Heart provided a well-chosen set of dub, reggae and ska, although Jah’s onstage antics began to pall soon enough. A shambling entrance, Eric Morecambe style (all he needed was the brown paper carrier), waiting arms akimbo to have his bass placed over his shoulders, and inept skanking during songs, did not a good atmosphere make. ‘Visions of You’ made this reviewer think ‘Where is Sinead O’Connor when you need her?’ A lifeless, undisciplined version of the ‘Get Carter’ theme only drew attention to the shortcomings of this band’s own music. I felt a little sorry for his capable ensemble as he sauntered off, heedless of his reduced reputation.

What sounded like an electronically generated breathing dragon, fortified with Gregorian chants, led us into tonight’s main event, the triumphant return of Killing Joke.’ The Wait’s grinding, pounding riff and Jas’ dry howl left no doubt as to who was onstage. Nehru suited, head to toe in black, and the characteristic Mr Punch face make-up for his eager crowd of followers.
The full throated, untrammelled rockabilly stomp of ‘Autonomous Zone’ was almost overwhelmed by the frantic drums, leading into the unhinged, searing riff of ‘The Fall of Because’. Guitars like knives being sharpened, Jas, stalking the stage like a demented crow, his voice a moan from infinity, all conspired to set the mood in this band’s responses to a world hurtling towards its own destruction.

‘Eighties’ made an early appearance, the monstrous, pummelling riff that was a huge hit for someone else but regrettably not for Killing Joke, here pounded out of the drums, wrenched from the guitars and barked out of Jas’ throat like a pan-generational curse. ‘The Beautiful Dead’s sinister nursery rhyme atmosphere worked its magic, amid climbing, screeching guitars and a despairing, howling vocal.

The driving, caustic, guitars prove the perfect accompaniment to the vocal cord–shredding ‘I Am The Virus’, the most powerful of songs yet, with ‘Requiem’s heavy, uncompromising stomp following hot on its heels. The climbing, slitting guitars were the perfect backdrop for the falling vocal of ‘Dawn of the Hive’, and ‘Panopticon’, with its basic-as-hell HM riff and roaring vocal delivery gave the song a cartoonish quality.

The staccato rumble of ‘Wardance’, delivered with increased power by the band, was well received by the crowd, and ‘Into the Unknown’s winding, churning riff sped off as Jas howled his pain over it. ‘Asteroid’s Arabic-style riff, punctuated by the bear-like growling of its title, shuttled along like a runaway train, and ‘Pssyche’s on/off polarity and sheer-climbing riff only added to the air of danger.

An eco—grumble about chem-trails later, and we’re into the Celtic Reel-like trance beat of ‘Turn To Red’, from their debut EP, here performed with a venomous vocal delivery over the hardest, most uncompromising backing yet. Continuing to preach to the converted, Jas put on his best sarcastic Mr Punch leer, and congratulated us all on the imminent arrival of the replacement missile system to Trident. The strangely funky stomp of ‘Madness’ followed this brief interlude, Jas’ voice getting ever coarser as the guitars climbed upward.

Their bona fide Top Twenty hit, ‘Love Like Blood’ chimed in, a time capsule of the romantic rock sound that defined a certain period of the 1980’s, from a band who were always seemingly out of step with that decade’s zeitgeist. A sharp synth alarm call, a powerful yellow light and an impossible to ignore Arabic style riff heralded ‘Panopticon’, powerfully delivered, ending this fully satisfying set by one group who have certainly not mellowed with age.

Scenester
8/11/15

Jo Harman Brooklyn Bowl London 7/11/15

The carbon-copy roadhouse Brooklyn Bowl tonight plays host to blues, R n B and soul chanteuse, Jo Harman and her band. Taking the stage to warm applause, Jo shows out with some sinuous moves and hair flicks as the slow, steady build up leads us into the sturdy blues riff underpinning ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’.

The plaintive ‘Cold Heart’ comes in; Jo’s strong voice handling the subtle rises in this sensitive song well. The robust, drum-laden riff to R’n’B classic ‘Aint’ No Love in the Heart of the City’ has her in harder mood, a furrowed brow and a rasp to her voice, the quiet, reflective middle part for contrast.

The causes of equality and freedom are close to this singer’s heart, and the inclusion of US Civil Rights-era standard ‘Oh Freedom’ is a labour of love for her. Starting acapella, and emotion running high, her voice soars in this cry from the heart. As its last strains die off, were into a tough, driving blues set, with guitar pyrotechnics a-plenty. A raunchy, hip-grinding version of ‘Heartstring’ follows, Jo finally letting her blues voice out of its cage.

The highlight of tonight’s set is without doubt her spine-tingling cover of Michael McDonald’s ‘I Can Let Go Now’, her voice hanging onto the lyrics for all it’s worth. Quite a lot, as it turns out.

Scenester

10/11/15

PiL Paradiso Amsterdam 7/10/15

Amsterdam’s famed Paradiso, a live music venue since 1968, is throbbing to the sound of heavy dub, mellow reggae, spiky punk and much else, as it begins to fill up with a broad range of punks and non-scene folk, old and not-so-old. The stained glass windows of this former religious meeting house are covered with PiL’s backdrop, their familiar logo emblazoned on a timeworn red brick wall. The DJ set alone, taking in Cabaret Voltaire, the B52s and ATV, makes up well for the lack of a support band.

The band take the stage to an affectionate welcome from the crowd, John in black, baggy trousers and jacket, his multi coloured brogue-like trainers the only concession to colour. Straight into their eco-lament, ‘Don’t Ask Me’, the lyrics are spat out by John with increasing venom. The hard, earth-shaking rock gives way to the Arabic-sounding chords, cymbals and electronic bleeping of the towering ‘This is not a Love Song’, the song a realisation of having to deal with a system you’d rather not. The sheer power of John’s delivery is still a shock to the system, and I feel only envy for some of the younger audience members, for what might be their first live hearing of the unearthly Lydon larynx. As John stands at his lectern, firing off his challenging, sniping lyrics, his fingers held beak-like and stabbing with ferocity at us like some huge bird, it’s obvious that age has certainly not withered or weakened him; it may well be age which is afraid of him.

An ‘Interstellar Overdrive’ style riff winds around, taking us into the trilling guitar riff of ‘Disappointed’, a deceptively beautiful song with a bitter lyric, that provoked much emotion, and not just a passive recognition in the audience.

A sudden burst, a touch of echo on the guitar, and then a very heavy, slow dub that rises beautifully into ‘Flowers of Romance’; a heartfelt break-up song that captures the whole audience, for a second time this evening.

The choppy guitar and hard, rasping vocal of the critical, enigmatic ‘The Body’ comes in, its funky rhythm getting the crowd moving in spite of its apparent pessimistic message. The insistent, hopping beat of ‘Death Disco’ still has considerable power, but goes on too long, ultimately weaving its way into the crazed metal stomp of ‘Religion’. The irony of this searing critique of organised religion being delivered by a bile-filled figure in black, on the stage of a former church is certainly not lost on anyone here.

John’s repeated requests to ‘Turn Up The Bass’ work, and the whole, three tiered room, acoustically ‘quirky’ at the best of times, shook, and the metal columns holding up the roof throbbed with this extended dub workout.

PiL are not so non-conformist as to refuse an encore, and their admission of ‘we are not worthy’ is directed at the crowd, and not the usual direction of such traffic. ‘Rise’s beautiful, anti-psychiatric and ultimately uplifting tale of self-doubt, self-examination and final self-redemption brings the audience to a peak, as John thunders out ‘Anger is an energy’ to tumultuous applause, in this, their professed second home.

Scenester

10/10/15

The Beat starring Dave Wakeling – Komedia Brighton 15/9/15

First up tonight at Brighton’s Komedia basement venue was local band The Meow Meows, whose beaty ska and band/audience bonhomie capably set the atmosphere for an evening of good natured ranking full stop.

The South Coast’s changeable weather is probably no match for Dave Wakeling’s California home base, but such vagaries didn’t blunt the band’s enthusiasm, or Dave’s clear love of performing his heyday songs, here with his US band members. Aided closely by King Schascha, an irrepressible toaster and boaster from San Diego, for those missing the swagger and shake of Ranking Roger, and the stage is set.

A suitably bouncy ‘Rough Rider’ has the crowd dancing, Dave toting his Vox Teardrop guitar and the band flogging the song for all it was worth. Hardly pausing for breath, perennial favourite ‘Tears of a Clown’ came next, in a jaunty run through, eliciting plenty of karaoke-style singing from the crowd of old skins, rude boys, awe struck young ‘uns and those with fond memories of the ska scene of the late 70’s/80’s.

The pogo-ing beat of ‘Hand’s Off She’s Mine’ proved irresistible to the admittedly small contingent of dancers here, even if the performance lacked a little of the original’s verve; the ‘La La La-ing’ gave off the air of a pub singalong.

Any looseness in the previous offering was soon tightened up for the classic ‘Twist and Crawl’, with a definite rock beat creeping in there, and hot on its heels, the General Public track ‘I’ll Take You There’. It was time for a slow roller, and ‘Whine & Grine’ proved the best choice, its chunky beat a big favourite here, and leading into the lively politico-ska of ‘Stand Down Margaret’. Some crowd members were too young to remember the subject of this plea, and her demise may have made its message redundant, but when you’ve written a great song, why shouldn’t you sing it?

As the hits kept coming, the air of a nostalgia show just couldn’t be banished from the mind, not that the crowd were complaining, as the band zipped tightly through ‘Too Nice To Talk To’ and ‘Best Friend’, clearly enjoying their workouts, and coming to that great, echoing dead halt.

I admit that my patience was wearing a little thin with such easy listening fodder as ‘Can’t Get Used To Losing You’, but the crowd obviously disagreed with me, if their singalong reaction was anything to go by. Dave charitably suggested that perhaps our parents got it right with their musical taste, maybe forgetting that some of the crowd’s parents were actually fans of The Beat and the Specials, rather than Andy Williams.

‘Sooner or Later’ was received well, which made the too long, too slow, version of ‘Doors of Your Heart’ all the more disappointing, and the hookless ‘Soul Salvation’ did nothing to dispel. It took a full-on, thumping ‘Ranking Full Stop’ to put things right, and straight into the unforgettable, nervy ‘Mirror In The Bathroom’ to truly bring off the gig.

Scenester

20/9/15

Joe Bonamassa at The Carre, Amsterdam 10/3/15

To the palatial splendour of the Carre Theatre for the first of a four night marathon and anticipation is running high among Dutch blues aficionados. Eschewing both support band and interval, Joe Bonamassa wastes no time in getting down to what he does best; laying it down like a challenge to all within earshot.

To an intro of sinister chords, Joe takes the stage, smart and business like in his blue pinstripe suit, clutching one of the many guitars he will caress, coax and stroke tonight. Clearly leader to his disparate band of retainers, and sat at their 40’s big band style lecterns, their subtle, restrained playing will prove as essential as their leader’s skills.

Joe’s ‘take no prisoners’ approach to live work is apparent from the first number, ‘Oh Beautiful’ a juggernaut of a tune, soaring peaks and crashing troughs leading into the first of many of Joe’s shred fests, punctuated by trick endings. A gentler R’n’B styler follows, and Joe’s treatment of Howlin’ Wolf’s ‘Hidden Charms’ makes for a playful riff, with Joe’s reedy voice taking on the sweet lyrics as he lets his guitar off duty for a moment. After this short interlude, the old devil rock ‘n’ roll is back, with ‘Living on the Moon’, all rich riffs and high, shrieking shreds to light the fires in this chilly country.

A quick search through his jacket pocket produces a slide iron, and we’re into the murky waters of a lazy swamp blues, ‘Trouble Town’, oozing its way across the stage, transmuting into a downright evil blues by the end. Joe’s lightness of touch makes the guitar appear to play the middle instrumental on its own; the number rises up, bongos thumping, cymbals clashing, conjuring up some dark species of magic in the City of 1000 Bridges.

Bringing us back to earth with, of all things, a Fats Waller style piano intro, Joe changes to a Les Paul for ‘Double Trouble’, all smooth and beautiful extended notes in this Otis Rush cover. The peace doesn’t last for long, as a slice of hard rock ‘n’ roll comes crashing in, with the classic ‘I Gave up Everything but the Blues’. Great gutsy horns in support and drums thumping through the floor, Joe’s guitar playing more frantic than ever, his face twisted as if in pain. If you’re not into drama, you’re at the wrong gig.

Introducing the band, Joe launches into an insistent 70’s style riff that soon loosens in the middle, piano and drums taking over, the full blooded rock n roll of ‘Don’t Burn down that Bridge’, the organ rolling like an 18 wheeler on thin ice.

Pulling a honey burst Strat around his shoulders, Joe slipped into a distinctly funky beat for ‘Love Ain’t A Love Song’, strong rhythm and a gentle solo showing his long-practised mastery of the fretboard. On with jazzy stylings alongside a big, ballsy riff, a trick ending and back into the riff, how is this man not exhausted?

‘Sloe Gin’ follows, its self-celebratory riff climbing higher and higher in some mystic ecstasy, ending up, ironically, with a ‘Wild Thing’ style chugger. Others, at this point, might attempt a second dramatic riff and probably fail, but Joe succeeds effortlessly with the classic, fearful ‘The Ballad of John Henry’. Opening with a Gaelic riff, descending into the churning beloved of 70’s metal heads, it’s a monstrous rhythm that leads into a veritable sword fight of lead guitar figures, followed by the evil hiss of slide, and returns to the low rumble of rock before snaking away.

Joe and his band aren’t finished yet, not by a long chalk. The encore gives the horn trio their own moment of well-deserved glory, Joe performing a dancing, leaping riff to ‘All Aboard’, indulging in a little musical call and response with every band member. The late-night soul piano stylings that follow are pleasant enough, although Joe’s voice is unsurprisingly the worse for wear by now, and so they close with ‘So What Would I Do’, a slick, sprawling arrangement that could easily have gone on forever. The band triumphant, they leave to the sound of tumultuous applause, and all this from a Low Countries audience known for their restraint.

An edited version of this review was first published in The Blues Magazine #21

Scenester
14/3/15

The Who at the O2 Arena 22/3/15

The list of bands for which I am prepared to endure an evening in a vast, freezing tent on the banks of the River Thames is a particularly short one, in fact only one name is on the list, and they’re at the top of this page. So it was to the South Greenwich Peninsula (the Isle of Dogs to you) to see the once and future band, The Invincible Who, postponed from December owing to Roger’s illness, but no-one was grumbling.

Once you’ve picked your way through the citadel of insurance men’s pubs, book keeper’s restaurants and rock ‘n’ roll themed sites (don’t ask) your journey takes you through efficient security, up vertiginous escalators and onto your chosen level, in my case, half way to the clouds and then some. I was irresistibly reminded me of ‘Blade Runner’ outside the venue (all you needed was the flying billboards) and ‘Logan’s Run’ in the venue itself, for the ‘Carousel’ sequence, where the young did die before they got old.

After a competent set of early 70’s style meat ‘n’ two veg rock from Slydigs, the 20,000 seater began to fill with all ages of fans of the ‘Orrible ‘Oo. From wheezing oldsters, to kids barely taller than one of Pete’s guitars, they thronged in, and from my eagle’s nest seat, the place soon looked like the seating map on the billboards outside, with ants moving across it.

Then they came on, one by one, and all cold, discomfort, ludicrous drinks prices and comedy mods were forgotten, as Pete belted out those killer riffs like gold coins, struck in a single blow of the hammer. Roger’s voice, maybe not as powerful as of old, but handling those high notes well, a manically ginger Zak Starkey bringing his Beatles genes to the band, Simon Townsend on guitar (what else would Pete’s brother play?), others rounding it out, sounded glorious from my eyrie, even if the rumble of amps had dissipated by the time it had drifted up to the gods.

This being a 50-years –of-hits show, there was no room for side projects, solo LPs or what have you, and all the better for it, as those ringing, pounding tunes came spilling out. The urgent, choppy teenage lament of ‘I Can’t Explain’, the self-loathing of ‘Substitute’, its chiming riffs at complete odds with the confessional lyric, the melancholic harmonies of ‘So Sad About Us’, a beautiful song swept aside in favour of others at the time, ‘See For Miles’, a majestic piece of threatening, howling rage, that inexplicably didn’t provide the band with a well-deserved No. 1 single, they all thundered around the jumped-up scout tent that is the O2.

Imaginative graphics and live coverage of the band on three giant video screens gave off the staid atmosphere of a sports arena, but who cares when you have those beautiful, eternal songs? The irony of playing the swaggering ‘Join Together’, with Pete’s original intention to reduce the distance between performer and audience, to a vast, seated crowd, the band hemmed in by crash barriers, could not have been lost on Pete, and it’s a moot point just how keen his sense of failure is, in his thwarted ‘Lifehouse’ project. The music-hall teen fixation of ‘Pictures of Lily’ was ably illustrated by a picture of the late, Mad Moon in drag, and the immobile, strangely oriental features of mid-70’s John ‘The Ox’ Entwistle made their onscreen appearances, as if this crowd needed reminding of those two departed but irreplaceable characters.

In spite of Pete’s reservations, excerpts from ‘those bloody rock operas’ made an appearance, with a superb rendition of their lechy but likely ‘A Quick One’, and excerpts from ‘Tommy’ and ‘Quadrophenia’, the soaring guitars of ‘Love Reign Over Me’ and the ever popular ‘See Me Feel Me’ being the inevitable crowd pleasers. A heartfelt ‘Behind Blue Eyes’ and a beaty ‘Slip Kid’ represented late period Who, and the sublime harmonies of ‘Who Are You?’ did their usual, uplifting job on our heads. The, in my view, underrated ‘Magic Bus’ made a welcome appearance, building to its climax well , even if audience reaction was a little muted.

I swear the venue shook when the reeling, thaumaturgical riff to ‘Baba O’Reilly’ erupted from deep within the earth, the synths weaving and burrowing into our heads, Roger’s voice declaiming the lyrics like a revival preacher. It was followed by the only song which could do so, the raging, boiling-mad ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’, as the venue crackled with electricity…and then, it was all over. The band returned to the stage for a farewell, Roger, mug of cocoa in hand, Pete still buzzing and with one last bow, they left; until next time. I could still hear ‘Baba O’Reilly’ in my head two days later.

Scenester
24/3/15

Federal Charm / Ian Hunter & The Rant Band Concorde 2, Brighton 3/10/14

With just half an hour to show off their chops as support band for the legendary Ian Hunter, Federal Charm didn’t waste a second. Straight into action, their brand of classic 70’s blues/rock was an instant crowd pleaser, the eternal triumvirate of hard, driving rhythm, full throated vocals and biting guitar solos showing why it isn’t ready for retirement yet.

The band’s ages average in the mid-twenties, yet sound far more experienced than their age and their few years together would suggest. ‘Tell Your Friends’ has a gutsy quality that recalls Bad Company at their most determined, and their expert cover of ‘Reconsider’ has the kind of clear, delicate guitar picking associated with much more seasoned performers.

‘Lord Have Mercy’s keyboard swell and plaintive guitar provides an emotional backdrop to some throaty, gospel-like vocals, building to a wailing climax and then a beautiful, slow denouement.

In this cast iron, Victorian seafront structure, faintly reminiscent of a municipal tram shed, it was wholly refreshing to hear a gang of switched-on, keen-as-mustard Mancs, clearly in love with the blues, and with a welcome line in self-deprecatory humour, guitar shred and dead halts, deliver a set of reverential blues/rock songs with near-military precision.

Taking the stage with little ceremony, the curly mop and shades that remain unaltered except in colour, since the late 1970’s, Ian Hunter strapped on his faithful six string razor and opened with scuzzy rocker, ‘I’ve got a big mouth’. The Dylanesque harmonica wheeze was bound to appear sooner or later, and complemented Ian’s rough-as-a-badger’s-back voice perfectly. The gypsified minor chords to ‘I wish I was your mother’ was an early standout, the mandolin playing subdued but clear and plaintive.

‘Now is the time’s sweet intro reminded us that Ian’s range extends far beyond the piano-pounders of his hit single days with Mott the Hoople, and ‘Boy’ builds to a fine swell, Ian’s full-on mockney accent making its first appearance of the evening. The piano stylings that followed had a late night lounge feel to them, segueing straight into ‘Just another night’s steady rocker.

‘Irene Wilde’, rough and ready and all the better for it, the band then threw themselves headlong into ‘All the way from Memphis’, raising a huge cheer from the crowd, the loudest, I daresay, coming from yours truly. No matter that Ian was hitting every note on the keyboard sharp or flat, the Mott classic sounded glorious in this cavern-like venue.

‘The original mixed-up kid’ had trouble following the full-caffeine version of ‘Memphis’ and petered out towards the end, but it provided Ian with a suitable atmosphere to tell, with obvious affection, the oft repeated story of how old bandmate Ariel Bender got his name, courtesy of the recently passed Lynsey De Paul. ‘Comfortable’ was delivered with just the right note of lechery, straight into the ever reliable ‘Once bitten twice shy’, with the best accompaniment that far.

Those who prefer their rock as unrefined as possible weren’t disappointed with the band’s rendition of ‘Let me dream’, followed by some distinctly funky guitar, and later, the tense country stylings of ‘Ta Shunka Witco (Crazy Horse)’, with Ian’s gravelly delivery and the band’s surly guitars evoking a menacing atmosphere.

The rapturous welcome Lou Reed’s ‘Sweet Jane’ received proved well deserved, and a fitting, nostalgic closer from one of Ian’s 70’s contemporaries couldn’t be found. Ian could have left it there, but we know him better than that, and were treated to a tumultuous encore, with the band all toting guitars up front, BOC-style, launching into a killer riff, followed by ‘Life’ with its mournful refrain, ‘I can’t believe after all these years, you’re still here and I’m still here’. With time pressing on ,the clarion call of ‘All the young dudes’ sounded out, that bell-like riff ringing around the building’s cast iron pillars, finally coming down to earth with the folk standard, ‘Goodnight Irene’.

Scenester
7/10/14
An edited version of this review appeared in Blues Magazine 17, November 2014

Pete Molinari - The Lexington, Angel, London 9/9/14

The spacious top room of this historic North London bar proved the perfect venue to hear Pete Molinari showcasing his latest album, ‘Theosophy’, with some good-time, howling’ country from Texan support, Jess and the Bandits.

Pete, resplendent in striped double breasted suit and belted Italian titfer, his stage persona somewhere between Antony Newley and Chico Marx, took the stage alone initially, easing us into his set with slow rollers, ‘One Rich Man or Woman’ and ‘Your Troubles Are Greater Than Mine'. Leading into an assuredly sweet version of standard ‘The Tennessee Waltz’, his band joined him and ‘Evangeline’ kick started it all. A great, rich vocal winding itself around a good, hard rocker of a song, it was immediately apparent that Pete and the band live far exceed the recorded experience.

‘I Got It All Indeed’ keeps impetus, Pete’s reedy voice handling the self-bolstering lyric well, backed by a sweet piano roll and building up to a middle crescendo that can’t fail to please this crowd. The rangy harmonies of ‘Shine’ picked up straight after, the strong sustain in Pete’s voice in ‘I Got Mine’ fitted perfectly into the steady stroll of light psyche-rock the song is rooted in. This vocalising also finds a natural home in the chiming guitars of ‘When Two Worlds Collide’, with its dependable low note.

Pete’s matey banter is turned on at intervals, chiefly to deal with some half-hearted heckling, but never detracts from the music. ‘Dear Marie (You Made a Fool of Me)’, is well realised here, the tinkling Gin House piano – appropriately, for this Victorian pile – provides just the right shade of wistful nostalgia for this affectionate remembrance of lost love. ‘Minus Me’, a lot more regretful in its message, with a snatch back rhythm that floors you, and an affecting lyric with a subtle Beatle-y feel that must surely be a single sometime soon.

Classic descending chords pin down ‘I Don’t Like the Man I Am’, as if further proof were needed that sad songs are as good, if not better, than contented ones. The maudlin tones of ‘Easy Street’, accompanied by warmly fuzzy guitar, wrenching every drop of emotion out of this doomy piece, may err on the side of sentiment, but is none the worse for it.

The band know how to end a set, and ‘Hang My Head In Shame’ must take the prize for the evening, with more than a hint of Dr. Winston O’ Boogie, it’s one of ‘Theosophy’s best tracks, and once again, leaves the recording standing. The inclusion of a George Jones cover goes down well with the traditionalists, with some even shaking their boots to its swinging rhythm.

New single ‘Mighty Son of Abraham’s steady rocking beat pleased, its hard hook tempered by the gentle sway of ‘What I Am I Am’, ‘Sweet Louise’s fine, creeping vocal and sad, wheezing blues harp, and the deft acapella in ‘Workin’ For The Man’ kept up the pace, and ‘Walk A Mile in My Shoes’ served as encore, the whole band plus three backup female vocalists on the now too-small stage, bringing a terrific evening to a close.

An edited version of this article was first published in ‘Blues Magazine 16’ October 2014.

Scenester
10/9/14

A Celebration of Bert Jansch 3/12/13 Royal Festival Hall Southbank Centre

A varied and stellar line up of musicians gathered on what would have been Bert’s 70th birthday in a venue he played, most famously as a member of Pentangle, to celebrate his life and legacy. Martin Simpson proved a diligent but respectful MC, moving onto, off and about the stage without dominating the proceedings. The huge stage of the RFH was covered in carpets, criss-crossed by wires, a variety of bedsit lampshades suspended overhead, and in one corner, the basement of Les Cousins mocked up, with the famous cartwheel completing the illusion.

Ralph McTell treated us to a beautifully clear rendition of ‘Angie’, the excellent fingerstyle work something of a specialty of Bert’s, and therefore highly fitting it should be first on the bill. Jacqui McShee’s bell-like voice rang out in ‘I’ve got a feeling’, from Pentangle’s 1968 LP ‘Sweet Child’, with all the authority an original band member brings.

Donovan’s ‘Deed I Do’ and ‘House of Jansch’ sounded a little hesitant, obligatory even, although enlivened by his fond memories of Bert in poem form, from whom he ‘learned all his licks’, and although ‘No looker, he got all the chicks.’ It set me wondering how many of the ladies in the audience still care to be described as such.

An unexpected and slightly surreal tribute came in the form of film of Neil Young and Jack White, who had presumably tossed a silver dollar to see who got to go into the beautiful art deco moderne record booth, and cut a version of ‘Needle of Death’. Accompanied only by his acoustic guitar, and resplendent in battered hat and checked dimestore shirt, Neil put out a heart-rending version of this sympathetic song, while the machine whirred on, Jack no doubt cursing his luck outside.

Two fine voices blended for a poignant version of ‘It don’t bother me’, in relative newcomers Mara Carlisle and Lisa Knapp, the latter of whom would later return as backup and page turner. A favourite, but decidedly non-Jansch composition, ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ was powerfully put over by Davy Thompson and Martin Simpson with the most minimal of backing. ‘Goodbye Pork Pie Hat’ followed, eventually leading into some rare footage of Pentangle on their 1969 US tour, fooling about in the pool or on board the tour bus, in a technicolour landscape of drive-ins, motels and eternal freeways, then unthinkable in Britain.

The second helping proved even more animated, opening with film of Bert in the studio laying down ‘Travelling Man’, leading into Beverley Martin’s powerhouse vocals with a little justified fuzz guitar This was followed by Martin Carthy’s reading of the poignant lament ‘Blackwater Side’, but the admittedly complicated ‘Rosemary Lane’ seemed to defeat him. I took this as an unconscious tribute to Bert’s masterly take on the song, however Martin explained it away as having originally learnt a different set of lyrics to the song. He was helped by Lisa Knapp holding his trusty electronic book of lyrics to finish the wretched tune. Robert Plant’s croaky telling of ‘Go Your Way My Love’, provided him with the perfect excuse to mention the inevitably absent Annie Briggs.

Bonnie Dobson’s plaintive ‘Morning Dew’ provoked a few dewy eyes in the crowd, whilst Wizz Jones’ lively performance of ‘Weeping Willow Blues’, the rolling beat and guitar chord barks, led us into the whole company joining in for a barnstorming performance of ‘Strolling Down the Highway’, to send us out into the December night. A better and more heartfelt tribute could not have been made.

Scenester
8/12/13

This review also appeared in the January 2014 edition of 'Blues Magazine'

Cauldronated at The Finsbury 21/11/13

A welcome blast of superheated noise from the stage of this vast Manor House pub on one of the year’s coldest nights, Cauldronated lived up to my every expectation. Hard to believe that it takes just two people to make this brimming, bone shaking sound, the beat provided by Dave Barbarossa, veteran of such chart-bruising acts like Adam and the Ants, Bow Wow Wow and Republica, the voice and yet more drum work courtesy of the mysterious Eva Menon, she of the dark locks, tattoos, and more than a nod to the classic female rock stars of the much missed late 1970’s. With just a hint of synth to flesh out the sound, this heady brew showed its strength from the word go.

Playing the ice maiden with considerable relish, a huge 80’s cut jacket thrown over her slight shoulders, Eva glares, struts and swerves in front of her mike, coldly intoning the bullet-point vituperative lyrics, as synths wail and scream, Dave pounding out a thunderous beat that will tolerate no dissent. Difficult to characterise in one heading, Cauldronated seem to inhabit a world of their own making, somewhere in the wastes between rock, synth pop and trance, but without getting enmired in any of them.

Every young woman who ever picked up a microphone in anger seems to be embodied in Eva, her Siouxsie/ Ronny persona showing

up most of today’s so-called cougars for the compliant puppets they really are. Dave’s enviable drum pedigree ensured a solid wall of rhythm for every song, with their electronic friend’s unobtrusive wailing a perfect backup.

Throwing her huge jacket aside, revealing a one-piece man-drag outfit that perfectly complemented her onstage self, Eva’s voice ran the gamut from Siouxsie to Poly, with even a suggestion of Diamanda, as she spat out yet more bile to the accompaniment of the screaming synth and rumbling drums she shared stage with.

Scenester
26/11/13

Eight Rounds Rapid: Writeabout / Steve (Podrophenia Records)

‘Writeabout’ hits the ground running somewhere on the Thames Delta, with the driving guitars of The Stooges and a Mark Perry-like larynx spitting out a fast talkin’ hot fizzin’ ever givin’ coruscating critique of the nation’s low-end celebrity-obsessed culture. Not for years has complaint rock sounded this mean, this exciting, brimming over with anger, the guitars cutting like buzz-saws and the amps turned up to ‘stun’, its target squarely in the line of fire.

This vinyl only release has two ‘A‘ Sides, the second being ‘Steve’, an urgent yelp of desperation over forbidding descending chords, biting guitar and a neat turn around that will have you playing both sides until the grooves grow old. A perfect storm.

Scenester
12/8/13

The Chapman Family

Surya Bar King's Cross 20/2/13

Torn between watching the Brit Awards on the idiot box, and a night at Surya with The Chapman Family, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out which one I chose.

Kings Cross’ dubious reputation has still not entirely been killed off by the appearance of health clubs, glass mini-skyscrapers and smart bars like this one, and the cramped basement with the tiny stage proved to be the perfect venue to hear Stockton’s finest.

I hesitate to describe music in terms which would have sounded oafish even a few years ago, but there’s no denying the film soundtrack quality to their work. This time, it’s more a measure of the versatility, rather than the disconnectedness of the music, as the response from this small but energised crowd proved.

With their rhythms held down just below eruption’s point, and Kingsley’s pugnacious presence delivering heartfelt, angry lyrics about the wretched state out country is in, they recall the heady, politicised days of the 80’s, with even more to be furious about.

In an age when most bands are settling for the second-best of familiar rock riffing or quirkiness for its own worthless sake, it makes a welcome change to hear a tight, torrid set of rock anthems, atmospheric soundscapes and vocals that went from low whispers to full throated howls, all performed new minted and bristling with rage.

Scenester

23/2/13

Eight Rounds Rapid

Seeing a grab-bag of new bands in the basement of the Sex Pistols’ former Soho locals was a good way to end a frustrating week at the coal face. The anonymous first-up, Long Black Coats, whose problems were largely of a technical nature, offered little this writer hadn’t heard before, and the gaggle of school-agers, Casual Panic who followed, proved less entertaining than their similarly youthful fans.

A welcome note of nervous tension was injected into the proceedings by Eight Rounds Rapid. With Feelgood genes in the band as well as the music, the unstoppable guitars, no-nonsense drumming and snot-nosed whining vocals gave the audience barely time to draw breath in their short, sharp set. Did you say ‘faster?’

Scenester

27/9/13

We Can Elude Control

De La Warr Pavilion Bexhill on Sea Sat 9/6/12

It’s always an adventure to visit Bexhill’s De La Warr Pavilion, and this time, put to highly appropriate use. In among Cerith Wyn Evans’ shimmering light sculptures, the festival of electronic / industrial music attracted a small but dedicated crowd of enthusiasts, some with children in tow, to what felt like the last town in England. Gazing out to sea, the Royal Sovereign Light Tower seven miles away in the English Channel, the feeling of isolation seemed apposite to the music of Evol et al showcased today.

Your friend Scenester’s favourite music is a long way from this computer generated sound, and I admit to finding little to enjoy in the seemingly endless sets of pounding, buzzing electronic noise, accompanied by fuzzy, spidery visuals, reminiscent of dragging a magnet across a computer monitor. My opinion wasn’t shared by the skaters, shine heads and post Goths who made up the majority of the audience. They clapped, and some even danced, to the passages of white noise, stereo ping pong matches and symphonies for power drills that passed for music here.

The citizens of Bexhill on Sea, taking the air, walking their dogs and enjoying the bright sunlight of this June afternoon seemed completely oblivious to the plodding, metronomic beats that gave the De La Warr Pavilion an extraordinary heartbeat today, as no-one appeared to wander in to investigate.

It was with some relief and affection that I saw the approaching figures of Chris Carter and Cosey Fanni Tutti take the stage of the auditorium, with only a large projection screen and a wide table filled with computers to accompany them. In their sensible clothes, they cut fairly anonymous figures, and I couldn’t banish the image of them from my mind, as two Treasury ministers about to expound on quantitive easing.

Their set was comprised of working mixes of ‘Desertshore’, Throbbing Gristle’s final LP, which will get a release in its own right on Industrial Records in October 2012. With recorded vocals by, amongst others, Blixa Bargeld, Marc Almond and Cosey herself, the music soothed in its adherence to more conventional ideas about rhythm and melody. With peaceful landscapes projected onto the screen and beautiful Arabic scale sounds; this could have been a particularly louche meditation hour at a mind/body/spirit festival. Chris and Cosey reminded us how emotional and involving electronic music can be, in the right hands.

Scenester

12/6/12

http://eyeplug.net/magazine/?p=3303

Book Reviews

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Thu, 13 May 2021 15:28:30 GMT

It's My Life! 1960's Newcastle, Day of the Peacock, The Bodies Beneath, How Not To Run A Club, The Action; In The Lap of the Mods, Sawdust Caesar, The Look, Ritual, White Light/White Heat.

It’s My Life! 1960’s Newcastle
Tyne Bridge Publishing

If you’re anything like me, you’re always pleased to read a new take on that most fascinating of decades. Imagine my delight when I ran across this little volume in a local bookshop, for the pretty reasonable price of £10.00.

What you get for your money is a very easy on the eye account of what it was like to live in a City that, in spite of being far, far from the action in London, was nevertheless exciting and vibrant, with plenty for the young to enjoy.

In keeping with the move for a more ‘democratic’ history, the publishers have opted to use quotes, anecdotes and memories from the people of Newcastle, although a few choice musings from local hero Alan Price also enliven the narrative.

Many of you will already be familiar with the landscape of ‘60’s Newcastle from ‘Get Carter’, perhaps the finest crime film ever made in the UK (or anywhere else, I would add). You may also have heard of local 60’s nightspots like ‘The Club a GoGo’, immortalised in an Animals song. This book will provide you with so much more to enjoy, both in written and photographic form, about this great, proudly un-gentrified City.

Memories start in the very early 60’s, when beat music was a little way away, and ballroom dances were more the norm for young Geordies on a night out. It all changed seemingly overnight with the arrival of the beat groups, many of them venturing further north than they had ever done before. Suddenly, the young wanted what their southern counterparts had, and local fashion entrepreneurs were not slow to react. Marcus Price was the shop that fashionable young men made for, who brought the Ben Sherman shirt north, managing to secure a monopoly in that city. City Stylish was another shop whose internal weather vane was sensitive to change, and they too started to stock the new styles the young were so desperate for.

Running parallel was the student scene, lots of kids from far-flung places who moved there to study and found they liked their adopted home so much, they stayed. Their favourite music was Jazz, rather than Beat, and they were well catered for, in a City with so many backrooms and cafes willing to let a band set up and play to attract a little extra custom. Many of the next generation of Beat musicians, like Alan Price, had a good grounding in Jazz, and so shifting between musical styles was natural and useful to them, in their later careers.

Over time, bands formed to play the music they loved, the Beat and the Soul and R ‘n’ B, among them the Animals, The Gas Board (with the very young Bryan Ferry and Mike Figgis) and arch mods, The Junco Partners. The city had become a hotbed of young music, only a few years after its emergence from post-war decline.

In much the same locality as the Club a GoGo, the Handyside Arcade, a beautiful Victorian place to be, was filling up with ‘alternative’ bookshops and fashion boutiques that would influence the hipper crowd for years to come. I recall visiting this arcade in the late 70’s, when it was still the best place for ‘alternative’ clothes and books, little realising its even more illustrious past.
Folk devils, like the notoriously corrupt Chairman of the Housing Committee, T Dan Smith, put in an unwelcome appearance, and our narrators do not shy away from the subject of the slums, a feature of so many post-war British cities and towns. Attempts to clear these slums and re-house those unfortunate enough to live in them met with varying degrees of success, and the high rise flats which replaced them were not always the comfortable places they looked on the architect’s drawing board. This particularly controversial era of Newcastle’s history is succinctly and unflinchingly dealt with.

If you’ve read my work before, you’ll know what a fan I am of seeing colour pictures of our favourite decade. I am delighted to report that this book has a small but stunning collection of full colour images of the City itself, concert tickets and posters, and even the fashions available at the time. I will not spoil what I am sure will prove to be an eye-popping experience for you all, especially you dolly birds and shoe fetishists, but I will say that this little volume has refreshed even my jaded palate. There are also plenty of black & white images throughout the book, many provided by the narrators themselves, which make the book far more of a time capsule than a mere collection of distant reminisces.

I admit that my shared heritage with the narrators makes this book all the more enjoyable to me, and my own childhood memories of Newcastle in that great decade have been well and truly stirred by the honest recollections of the people involved. What elevates this book above the usual ‘D’ya remember?’ tomes that litter remainder bookshops all over the country is that it’s the Newcastle people themselves who have written it, illustrated it, and have shared fond memories of their favourite City with us.

Scenester

30/12/09

‘The Day of the Peacock’ by Geoffrey Aquilina Ross

If there’s one thing rarer than a men’s style magazine, it’s a men’s style book, which is why I found myself giving my credit card a little exercise at the Piccadilly branch of Waterstone’s a few weeks ago.

The writer, himself a fashion magazine editor of many years’ standing, is an apt choice, his experience in that golden decade being essential to do the subject justice. Ross takes us on a trip back to the immediate post-war period, when ‘British Style’ was theoretical, even oxymoronic. The average, and not so average Brit male wore the same styles, if not the same actual clothes, as his father but that would all change with the coming of the post-war boom. With wages better than his parents and grandparents could ever have dreamed of, post-war British men indulged themselves, for the first time in their lives. The better off were also finding that they had more in their coffers than before, and so a ready market was born.

The book does not dwell on the ‘Peacock Revolution’; the general drift toward smarter, more stylish and more colourful clothing that affected men of every social class in the early 60’s, but instead concentrates on a coterie of actors, musicians and well-heeled, aristocratic dandies and the new breed of tailors who catered for, and pandered to them.

The world-famous and enduring Savile Row got short shrift from this new type of stylist and his tailor. Some of them may have trained and worked, there in their youth, some even had premises there, or close by, but all agreed that the tailors based on the sunny side of Savile Row were staid, hidebound even, and their traditions were fit only to be trampled on. The new British tailor was not interested in working in tweeds for the country set, fine worsteds for the company director or full morning suits for those being presented to HM The Queen. They were interested in the tastes and foibles of the young actors, sportsmen and pop stars as well as some of the younger and more louche members of the aristocracy. These new customers wanted luxury fabrics, bold new cuts and colours, and above all, styles that would accentuate their inevitably slim figures. These men were the children of the austerity-ridden, rationed 1940’s, long before the junk food tsunami would wash up on our shores.

A number of these tailors lacked a formal education, and some like Rupert Lycett Green, had no formal training in tailoring or cutting, but all learned to hone their skills at knowing what the customer wanted, and how to get it made. No expense was spared when it came to sourcing fabric, and one enterprising soul, on learning a French supplier of velvet was closing down, bought up all the remaining rolls, to ensure exclusivity. They bought their cloth, engaged finishers and set up shop, exploiting their excellent social contacts for prospective customers. Others courted the sportsmen and pop stars and garnered personal recommendations from all their friends.

Ross’s book is enriched with photographs and publicity material, and it’s here the reader gets the true flavour of the times. A stunning Mr Fish multi-striped corduroy suit form 1968, a Blades cream suit from the same year, fit for a sultan, and colour photos from Vince Man’s Shop all appear here. Other stand-outs are Brian Jones in his sublime black suit striped in red and white (regrettably in b/w here), and Patrick Lichfield in a shirt so frilly, topped with a flouncy tie, it must have occurred to him that he resembled one of his own ancestors, in this finery from 1971.

The subject of men’s style magazines is dealt with as thoroughly as it can be, given that little in the way of the material survives. Long forgotten titles like Man about Town (shortened to About Town, then Town) are described with some covers reproduced, their short lives characterised by the depressingly familiar tale of small interest, falling sales and early demise, the inevitable result.

The new tailors often fared no better, as many of them had such a fierce dedication to luxury fabrics, and would brook no compromise in workmanship. This ensured a brief career beset by small profit margins and even losses. It seems hard to credit that the internationally known Mr Fish never turned in a profit, in spite of turning over roughly £1.5m a year. There is no doubt in Ross’ mind whom the angels of death were in this play. The oil crisis which ushered in hyper- inflation spelt the death knell for high wages, competition form the USA and Europe and the appearance on the style scene of a certain Mr Armani all compounded to kill off the peacock, he argues. It’s not a view I particularly agree with, but then again, I’m probably one of those chippy upstarts he deals with briefly in the hated Carnaby Street revolution section.

The relatively small number of colour plates and the hefty price tag aside, this book is worth it; file it on its own shelf, in tissue paper.

Scenester
17/4/11

Published on ‘Modculture’ 26/4/11

The Bodies Beneath- The Flipside of British Film and Television
Strange Attractor Press
William Fowler and Vic Pratt

Between 2006 and 2013, Vic and Will hosted ‘Flipside’ nights at the NFT, when they presented screenings of some of the curios in this book. The names of the co-authors will doubtlessly be familiar to those of you who spent more time than is considered healthy, watching this obscure, off-beat, and downright warped material. It’s a fun journey.
Named after the notorious Andy Milligan’s low-budget gore fest ‘The Body Beneath’, its pages are brim full of sci-fi, fantasy, horror, light entertainment and documentary film, both lesser and better known, infused with plenty of pithy humour and arch observations from our archaeologists of the big and small screens.

Starting with a selection of films that run the gamut of stiff, hesitant documentary to full-on mondo lunacy, they set the tone for a no-brakes speed ride through the unlit roads of TV and cinema’s darkest terrain. If the juxtaposition of exotic dancers with the appalling cruelties of the chicken processing industry in ‘Primitive London’ is a little too much for an afternoon’s viewing, we quickly pass on to the British and their distinctly odd attitude to sex. Looking back to the affair that-never-was in the classic ‘Brief Encounter’ to the health and fitness end of nudist cinema, and reading perhaps a little too ‘The Bodies Beneath’ hits its stride early on. It’s a long way on from charmingly innocent stuff like ‘Naked as Nature Intended’ of 1961 to the dubious and unwittingly government-funded sex comedies of the 1970’s, this book would be incomplete without a mention of that peculiarly British style of slap and tickle porn, the ‘Confessions’ films. Perhaps porn is not the right word, as the films resembled ‘Carry On’ films with more nudity and about as much low humour as their more successful predecessors. Readers of a certain age will find the lengthy chapter about 60’s/70’s glamour boy and sex comedy alumnus Barry Evans highly entertaining, even if younger readers will probably be nonplussed.

The cheap-as-chips world of popular cinema is not side lined, with plenty to say about the now scarcely believable popularity of Norman Wisdom and Charlie Drake, TV shows like ‘On the Buses’, and the virtually forgotten ‘Fun at St Fanny’s, a comedy starring the unlikely eternal juvenile, Cardew ‘The Cad’ Robinson. The grey worsted world of 50’s cinema chiefs must have looked askance at the success of Norman Wisdom, ‘the little man with the big laughs’, all the while wondering why their far worthier films were losing hands down to him, and the imported American fare. Let it be remembered that Hammer’s most popular film was ‘On The Buses’, and the TV show of the same name enjoyed audiences that today’s comedy writers would sell their souls for.

‘Out of Towners’ diverts from this elbows-on-the-table jollity to take on bucolic eccentricity as diverse as the fascinating rivalry-ridden folk dancing shenanigans of ‘Oss Oss Wee Oss’. The arcane genre of ‘folk horror’ was well represented on ‘Flipside’ nights at the NFT, and is present here, in abundance. The rich imagery of ‘Robin Redbreast’ takes on the theme of ancient ritual being replayed in the modern age, a plot idea which would find its apotheosis in ‘The Owl Service’.

Documentaries like ‘Secret Rites’ explore the world of urban witchcraft, and is here expanded on considerably with a piece about the ‘star’ of the documentary, the self-styled ‘King of the Witches’ Alex Sanders. Few people at the time could have predicted that paganism would show itself to be a viable religion and prove such a rich source of material for filmmakers; it’s a standout chapter and obviously one close to the Flipsider’s hearts. Daniel Farson, a figure without whom, etc., is rightly and well written about in these pages, and his unique body of work may well be the very definition of great television journalism. His ‘Out of Step’ series took previously taboo subjects like nudism and witchcraft into the nation’s living rooms and treated them with a modicum of respect which they have never had from the salacious Sunday papers.

In these sensitive times, it’s easy to forget just how full-on, crazed and downright dangerous children’s TV and film could be in the glory days of the 50’s and 60’s. Enter those seemingly harmless glove puppets, Sooty and Sweep. What possible mischief could be afoot in a puppet show, you ask? Plenty, actually; A drug dispensing puppet bear nodding sagely at the five year olds, like some velour-covered Timothy Leary. ‘Escape Into Night’, a very creepy series set in a dream-like house, later remade as the excellent ‘Paperhouse’ (1988), somehow crept under the kids’ primetime radar in 1972. The hugely successful ‘Dr. Who’ which scarcely needs a rehash here, but credit to Vic and Will for taking on the surprising characterisation of the good Doctor by Colin Baker and the sometimes controversial storylines in that family favourite. The miserable history of the show in the 80’s, starved of funds and the attempted and later, long cancellation by a BBC keen to save money by any means necessary, is well laid out and expounded on. All this and the strange male-only fantasy world of live action ‘Tintin’, too.

The spectre of the Video Recordings Act of 1984 (affectionately known as the ‘video nasties’ act) haunts the corners of this book, helping the reader recall some of the material which would never have had a life, had it not been for this creepily intrusive and crass piece of legislation. Leaving aside the ‘true’ nasties, the morally bankrupt likes of ‘Cannibal Holocaust’ and so on, there is ‘Skinflicker’, a curio from 1973, playing with fire in its grimy depiction of a terrorist group who plot to kidnap a cabinet minister. Utilising mocked-up news and horribly realistic violence, it straddles the worlds of horror and social realist drama in a way that perhaps predicts the ‘video nasties’ of the 1980’s. Apart from these grim fantasies, the horrific realism of ‘The War Game’ (1956) could hardly be left out. Its depiction of life in Britain after the H Bomb is dropped was strong enough to ensure an outright ban by the BBC, not lifted until twenty years later. By then, the threat of nuclear annihilation was still extant, but the BBC had treated the populace to the rather cosier apocalypse of ‘Survivors’, with its tale of a world-wide pandemic resulting in the decimation of the population. Steel yourself for the horror section ‘proper’, later on in the book. It’s a rough ride of low budget chills and deviant vampires that will haunt your dreams for weeks.

A digression into British pop music turns up some carbuncles, but among them, the diamond in the rough is ‘Can Heironymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happiness? A strange, obtuse musical, written, directed, produced and starring the prodigiously talented Anthony Newley, with a cast of willing collaborators to share the blame. Newley’s incredible, if patchy career is dealt with well here, and I can add very little more to their recommendation to seek out anything and everything about this remarkable and unique performer.

I’m coming to the end of my overview, but I couldn’t part without mentioning one of the most bizarre televisual artefacts mentioned here. ‘Cooking Price-Wise’, a culinary show presented by horror supremo and renowned gourmet Vincent Price, as a sort of combination of Fanny and Johnny Cradock, seen through what I imagine was a very dark mirror. Arguably, ‘Charnelhouse Kitchen’ might have made for a better title, but I would otherwise not change a thing about this show, which must surely be waiting for re-discovery in a mis-labelled can, lurking in a forgotten corner of some film archive.

‘The Bodies Beneath’ is packed with far more material than this, and is a fascinating read and strong stimulus for even the most jaded film and TV fan. Grab one today.

Scenester
23/6/19

How Not To Run a Club Fac 51 by Peter Hook

I can hardly credit that I took so long to get around to reading this book, what with the hoopla surrounding the ’24 Hour Party People’ film and the endless TV and press discussions about this period of time. I therefore found myself approaching the Hooky-book with a measure of nervousness, fear even.

I think it’s fair to say that the majority of people who buy, borrow or steal this hazard-stripe backed volume are likely to know at least the common gossip version of the story of the Hacienda club. The beginnings in the early 80’s as an ultra-sophisticated New York style nightclub, its (under)use as a live venue and springboard for various scenes and hangout for hairdresser-rock types and its espousal of the US and Euro dance music scenes many moons before anyone else, to its final days, overpopulated by drug dealers and besieged by armed gangs, all the while not earning a penny for the backers who were shovelling money into it like imps in hell. That’s all here of course, courtesy of bass god and notorious beer monster Peter Hook, who provides even more detail on this ’believe it or not’ story. There’s another tale here though, and one which I guess more than a few people reading this article will recognise and feel sympathetic towards.

Peter rightly begins his story when the idea of the club first germinated; late 70’s Manchester, a city in northern England that was suffering the effects of a recession such as had not been seen since the 1930’s. With the ‘cultish’ record label Factory slowly establishing itself as a national name through its only successful band, Joy Division, a moribund live music circuit and money in short supply everywhere; the stage seemed set for anything but branching out into the night club business. Trouble inevitably follows as the main players, the members of New Order, Rob Gretton, their manager, and others, scout around for premises, finally settling on a disused carpet warehouse on which they lavish their own and other people’s money.

Peter’s accounts of their reckless overspending, bad choice of live acts and DJ’s, lack of interest from the public and staggering business ineptitude makes this book a grimly hilarious read, at least early on. An amazing 15 years pass quickly by, as New Order’s respectable success as a live act and t-shirt selling machine prop up the ailing club’s finances, and the story descends into the Greek tragedy we now know so well. That Peter can write about this riotous period of boom and bust, for the country as well as the Hacienda, is a wonder, in view of the fact that he ended up broke, divorced twice, in rehab and facing career meltdown.

I can only imagine that Rob, Tony, Peter & Co had never heard of ‘Murphy’s Law’, the famous warning to those who dare to invent: ‘Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong’. The list of bad investments, unwise choices, errors, gaffes and hopeless rescue attempts is simply mind boggling. A catalogue of crippling debt, incurred at a time of double-digit inflation, when a 16% interest rate was considered ‘normal’, running gigs and benefits for friends none of whom seem to pay for admission or drinks, incompetent and dishonest ancillary staff, extravagant design and decoration on a club that proves acoustically problematic, the list goes on, but Peter shrugs his resignation and remembers the happy times he spent at the by-then world famous Hacienda.

I read the chapters dealing with the ‘high times’ with mixed emotions. The arrival of the drug Ecstasy in the UK predated the Acid House scene it became inextricably linked to, but once it exploded above the Manchester skies, it fallout would be felt for many years. Enthusiastically taken up by many of the characters in this book, Peter feels it transformed his life. His account of the troubles with drug gangs, dealers, police, council officials and assorted hangers-on are punctuated with extracts for the Hacienda accounts. ‘Glad it wasn’t my money’ is the phrase that comes most readily to mind, when reading them. How they managed to sleep at night is beyond my understanding. Peter’s ‘what the heck’ acceptance of the fearful vortex which he and his friends had propelled themselves into made me feel somewhere between despair and great sympathy for those whose music I’d admired for years.

Whether you prove as intrigued as I am, at this relentless, lunatic ride through the wastelands of 80’s and 90’s Britain, or simply read it safe in the knowledge that it’s not your life, remains to be seen. One thing: I bet you’ll never use the expression ‘level-headed northerner’ again.

Scenester

3/4/11

The Action: In the Lap of the Mods

by Ian Hebditch & Jane Shepherd with Mike Evans & Roger Powell

Fame’s lottery has no caller, no bran tub and obeys no known physical laws. The fickle finger flexes, flicks its nail at a nondescript bunch of talented youngsters, and leaves the other thousand hopefuls awaiting their turn, sometimes forever. Today, even the small talents who are prepared to work themselves to death for fame and fortune have a chance at the big prize. It’s not the present day which interests us, however. It’s the untrammelled electric storm of 1960’s Britain, and just one of its young bands, The Action.

The indicators all seemed to be there. A tough, tight-knit unit which learned its chops by ear, from original imported USA recordings. They honed their R n B/Soul covers, poured their hearts into their performances, attracting a dedicated following in the clubs that were the stamping ground of the young and the stylish. They weren’t alone in their love for this taut, irresistible music, and they played alongside many of the bands who would find the success that The Action was to be denied.

Perhaps it was the paucity of original songs that held them back, or that their apparent fan base was a little too localised to admit a wider audience. Whatever the reason, it seems a cruel irony that The Action’s destiny was to be thwarted, and it’s taken nearly fifty years from the first single release to see a worthy tribute to them.

‘In the Lap of the Mods’ is a surprisingly dense, wordy volume, illustrated with as many publicity photos, candid shots, promo labels, gig posters and record covers as could be mustered. The early life, professional career, changes within the band both in membership and material, and disappointing aftermath, are detailed with impressive thoroughness. Their reformation in the 90’s under the auspices of the New Untouchables organisation proved welcome to old fans and young alike. The many reminisces of the old fans do sometimes begin to read like the entire history of Portsmouth’s Birdcage Club, but happily disprove the old adage that ‘If you remember the 60’s, you weren’t really there.’ How people can give a blow-by-blow account of individual gigs at over forty years’ remove, when most of us have difficulty remembering a gig we attended six months ago, is a mystery to this writer.

Publicity photos are always a joy to look through, set firmly in place and time, their desperate attempts to sell their subjects as one thing, with their true nature lurking below the surface gloss. The awkward, besuited and bow-tied poses of ‘Barry and the Boys’, from their days backing the mercurial Sandra Barry, have a school boyish quality to them that may have been intentional. Their later transformation into a waist coated, cow licked beat combo, with a bonfire of guitars, is about as convincing as the Rolling Stones’ attempt in the same period. No harm done though, as their Mod threads were on the way, and it’s in this crazed, urgent time that image and music were as one. There’s still a reluctance to love the camera, but with a confidence born of playing to a discerning audience to buoy them up. The rare splashes of colour in the photos are welcome to those of us who feel that monochrome is cool, but colour far more revealing, in an age when British life was literally stepping out of the black and white and into glorious multichrome.

The Action may never have another book written about them, but this bright, affectionately written tome would make future projects a little superfluous. Tributes from such luminaries as Sir George Martin C B E, Phil Collins and Pete Townsend are good reading, even if they leave you even more puzzled as to why The Action ended up a footnote when others became household names. If you’re already a fan, you’ll shrug at the hefty price tag at the thought of what you’re getting in exchange.

I’ll leave you with just one thought; if you know a great band, don’t keep them to yourself.

Scenester

26/11/12

Sawdust Caesar: Omnibus Edition by Howard Baker (HB Publishing)

For those of you fed up with reading yet another 60’s memoir from the once-famous, Howard Baker’s complementary volumes, ‘Sawdust Caesar’ and ‘Enlightenment and the Death of Michael Mouse’, are now available in an omnibus edition from HB Publishing. The author asserts that the first volume is basically a true history, although the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

The casual book-browser may not notice that the stereotypical shot of the scooter-riding mod lad on the cover is superimposed on a landscape of opium poppies and their pickers, the land and sky an angry red. It’s an early hint of what is to come, and a better summation of the two books’ contents is hard to imagine.

I admit I wasn’t immediately taken with the writing style of ‘Sawdust Caesar’, feeling that the wide awake, adolescent, motor mouth ravings were overdone, and his misadventures all a little desperate to shock, but ;’m glad to report that persistence pays. So long as you’re willing to tolerate the protagonist’s speed-crazed narrative, near-psychotic self-absorption and sheer contempt for everyone he meets, you may be on the way to appreciating the second volume, if not the first.

This two-book set evocatively traces the frankly sordid life of a dyed-in-the-wool mod, through pilled-up days and nights, serial girl misuse, money hustling and petty crime, and then pulls off something of a coup, in putting our protagonist on the road to spirituality, in an epic journey to Afghanistan. Swapping amphetamines for dope and opium, and his wardrobe of cool street threads for the barest minimum to ensure warmth and decency, our narrator journeys across the poverty-stricken, unfriendly Afghan terrain, encountering druggies and drug barons, drifters and prophets, seekers after spiritual peace and charlatans only too pleased to sell you a simulacrum of it.

It’s a fast-paced, foul-mouthed, self-obsessed narrative that never lets up, but as our narrator turns his attention from his id to ego and to super-ego, the balance of his life undergoes a seismic shift, before being brought back to reality by the mundane world he thought he’d escaped.

Scenester
9/2/16

'The Look' promo
Borders Bookshop, Brighton Saturday 26/8/06

Those of you in Brighton for the NUTS weekend had the opportunity to attend a promo at Borders Bookshop for ‘The Look’, a recently published book all about post-war fashion with a great section on that beloved 60’s decade. Guests included the author, Paul Gorman, with Lloyd Johnson and Jeff Dexter, both of whom feature in the book.

The talk started off with some reminisces from both Jeff (a pal of Marc Feld, later Bolan and the DJ at the legendary Tiles) and Lloyd (a South Coast modernist and the owner of Johnson’s store, the King’s Road’s coolest outfitters from the 70’s to the 90’s)

Jeff recalled his job teaching the cast of Quadrophenia how to dance in an authentic 60’s style – they were all dancing like John Travolta, ‘shooting the moon’ before he took charge – and amazed us all with his fond memories of the young Marc Bolan, done up to the nines and ruling the fashion roost at the tender age of twelve (can you credit it?). It seems hard to believe that a place like Tiles ever existed – a subterranean fashion store in Oxford Street, where music played and kids danced in their lunch hours, every working day, to the latest sounds. If only such a place existed today.

Lloyd’s memories were equally spellbinding, with his many celebrity customers and the ever-changing stock at Johnson’s, which seemed to go from Mod to Rocker and back. Those of us who were his customers can recall the cool, electric blue suits and the long, pointed collar shirts that no one else was doing quite as well, and the King’s Road when it really was the best place in London for fashion, leaving Carnaby Street to the tourists. His memories of providing the clothing designs for Quadrophenia entertained us all, what with a wardrobe master seemingly unable to appreciate why tiny details mattered so much, and the rather bourgeois character of some production members.

The talk concluded with a Q & A and a prize draw, and this writer took the opportunity to pump Jeff for info on Tiles (definitely my first stop when I get my Tardis) and Lloyd for his memories of that classic period on the King’s Road, now much-changed, and not for the better. He was very amused to note that his old shop is still called Johnson’s, but the dry cleaners, not a fashion store!

If you couldn’t make the talk, shame, but grab a copy of the book, as many of the pictures are unavailable elsewhere, and it covers much more that just the classic 60’s and 70’s. Look out for the pic of Sean Connery modelling beachwear – surely Vince’s Man Shop’s most macho model?

Scenester
26/8/06

Ritual by David Pinner (publ. Finders Keepers)

The gap since original publication in 1967 and this year’s re-release by Finders Keepers may not be the publishing world’s longest, but it must be one of the least understandable. Many reading this article will already know that ‘Ritual’, was the inspiration behind perhaps the greatest horror film ever made in the UK, ‘The Wicker Man’, and certainly the most debated, sought after and loved. It is even thought that the modest sum Pinner received for the rights to his novel made him the only person connected with the film who ever got paid, but that’s another story.

The novel is set not in Scotland, but in the equally remote Cornish countryside, where the very air seems to reek of sex, death and secrecy. The figure of the police detective, Inspector David Hanlin, detailed to investigate the death of a child, has a lot in common with his film counterpart, the puritanical Sgt. Howie. His arrival in the small rural community piques immediate adverse reaction, as he sets about finding suitable temporary accommodation with access to those who knew the child. The close proximity of the highly-sexed daughter of a local family is another character reflected in the famous film. Our detective finds himself in the unenviable position of the stranger with authority over the locals, generally mistrusted, attractive to the young unattached women, despised by the local men and watched wherever he goes.

Although ‘Ritual’s pacing has a pedestrian feel, its language is unconventional, flowery, and times, irritatingly twee, with its awkward adverbs, sudden halts and a tendency to mix pastoral whimsy with pulp-style erotica. Taking into account the other-worldly setting and subject matter, this is however not out of keeping.

The womb-like atmosphere of the village is further enhanced by the constant references to children’s’ games, songs and pastimes. The local culture’s descent from the pagan past is no coincidence and it is obvious that Pinner researched (or already knew?) his subject well, before embarking on the story. The recurring images of the power and danger of games is one of the story’s strengths, recalling the disturbing ‘weird children’ cycle of films like ‘The Bad Seed’ and ‘The Innocents’.
One of the cast of red herrings is an outrageously-realised feral child, who at times seems more a spirit than a living boy, created from the collective imagination of the inward-looking community here. No-one reading this richly fortified potboiler would be fooled into thinking that the boy could have been the murderer; he is simply there to provoke sympathy or revulsion, depending on the readers’ prejudices.

Like the fatally marked Sgt. Howie, Inspector Hanlin is literally led a merry dance by the villagers, as one false trail after another is laid in his path. His ordeal in the elaborate May Day procession is every bit as fantastical as that of the film, with the children making up most of the animal-masked revellers. The traditional May Day characters make their appearances, the ambisexual ‘Tease’ being brought out with particular gusto and in a surprisingly frank way, for the period.
The image of a barrel of beer as an offering to the sea also appears in this book, yet still manages to surprise and amuse, and act as a counterpoint to the more terrible sacrifice to come?

When I first read ‘Ritual’, borrowed from a well-stocked Public Library a few years ago, it left me in two minds, and my re-reading here of the welcome re-launch has not altered my feelings. ‘Ritual’s contrasting elements of folklore and mundane detection, against the clock, make for a somewhat disjointed read, as the former is as outlandish as the latter is stereotypical, but perhaps that’s the point. Cheekily referred to as ‘Finders Keepers Forgery Number One’, it deserves a read, and the name of the village pub is worth the cover price alone.

Scenester
30/5/11

The Velvet Underground at Swiss Cottage Library 21/7/09

Velvet Underground Event-‘White Light/White Heat’ by Richie Unterberger
(Jawbone Press)

This evening, principally a publicity event for Richie Unterberger’s ‘day by day’ book of the notorious V.U., exceeded all my expectations and left me with a feeling of being a complete lightweight in the fan stakes. Expecting a short talk and a sneak preview of the forthcoming book, we were instead treated to a treasure house of stories, unseen photos, posters, film clips and outtakes that warmed the heart of this long term and rather jaded fan of the New York art house rock and roll band; but first, a word to those unfamiliar with the ensemble.

The music of the 1960s represents such a broad church that trying to catalogue the scope and variety would fill up many volumes, and only then after years of patient but very pleasurable research. I would like to bet that, should anyone ever attempt this Herculean task, much of it would cover the glorious popular sounds that bored their way into the minds of that period’s young, and many later, generations. The preponderance of sweet harmonies and addictive melodies would probably garner most of the attention, but it would be a mistake to assume that the 60s were all sweetness and light. In some of the lesser-known recesses of this capacious house, a darker glamour lurked.

Our guide, Richie Unterberger briefly explained how he came across the band, and I’m sure I am not the only one who could tell a similar tale of the first time I heard them, around my mid-teens. I also recall being completely overwhelmed by what I heard, and like the author, if anyone had told my 17 year-old self, that I would, one day, be sitting in a library in North London, at a lecture about this band and their seminal first LP (‘The Velvet Underground and Nico’) I would also have told them they were crazy. Richie mentioned that he had interviewed over 100 associates and friends of the band, and others who had worked with them from the earliest of days, in order to compile what he feels is an authoritative guide to V.U. Sadly, Lou Reed (principal songwriter, singer and lynchpin of the band) and John Cale (Viola and keyboard player extraordinaire and song writing collaborator with Lou Reed) declined to be interviewed, and Maureen Tucker (drummer) did not always answer the questions posed to her! Nico died some years ago, ironically on the Island of Ibiza, at a time when she had given up drugs and was getting fit by bicycle riding. The fall from her bike on one of these sessions saw her off. Even with the unfortunate omission of these principals, Richie has gathered together an impressive body of work that few others could have managed.

Our talk was considerably enlivened by Richie’s audio outtakes, slides and brief film clips, all transferred onto DVD format, few of which, we were told, have seen the light of day for many years, and some of which have never before been published. Illustrating Richie’s thoughts on how the band may have arrived at their distinctive sound, we were played a demo of Lou Reed and his band of the time playing a very rough and ready rock and roll track, a smooth, sophisticated version of Serge Gainsbourg’s ‘L’eau a la bouche’, sung in French by the unmistakable voice of Nico, and lastly a string drone soundscape by the young John Cale, all recorded before these three disparate characters had met. A spin of an alternate take of ‘Venus in Furs’ ably demonstrated how the three very different styles could be fused into a unique multi-layered sound, perfectly complementing one of Lou’s most intense and darkly beautiful songs.

An early film clip of the band playing-we were told-‘Sunday Morning’ rolled, but as it was originally shot in silent mode, a dub f the LP cut of the selfsame song was tastefully added. The band’s extraordinary youth and strangeness shines through this clip, Lou mysterious in rimless shades, John, hair bobbed and cradling his viola. Richie recalled conversations with many close associates of the band, who told him that although Andy Warhol (Artist who provided the band with space to breathe and art events to play at) may not have entirely lived up to his production credit on the V.U. & Nico LP cover, but he did get the band recorded and tried to get them signed to a major record label. The attempts to interest the major players in the record world would prove fruitless, and most told the band they had no future, as many of their songs covered subjects which were taboo on the radio, most notoriously those covering kinky sex and drug addiction. Most interesting was Richie’s recalling a comment by Lou Reed on this subject years later, which puts this into its proper perspective. Lou revealed that he took his inspiration from literature and art, where these outré subjects were either never considered a taboo or were then beginning to be discussed in a more mature way than in previous generations. Lou said that he had no desire to be outrageous for its own sake, simply to tackle these thorny subjects in a new medium, that of popular music.

We were taken back to the very beginning of Lou’s career, when he was making LP’s, quick-fire, in whatever style of rock and roll/pop was currently popular, bashing them out with minimal production on the cheap ‘Pickwick’ label of the period, a discipline that honed his considerable ‘song writing under pressure’ skills.

John’s background in Avant-Garde music, at one point taking part in a 24-hour concert of the music of (co-incidentally-named) John Cage, was also touched upon, leaving us with the impression that John must be one of the most highly trained musicians ever to play rock and roll music.

Maureen’s past life lay in (early) computers, which she gave up to drum for the band; she drummed standing up, trivia fans.

Nico’s past as a model also provided us with some interesting material, at one point appearing as welcome decoration on the cover of a blues artist’s LP. I wonder if she ever did an Herb Alpert LP, or was that accolade reserved for his girlfriends?

We were told that ‘The V.U. & Nico’ was eventually taken up by Verve Records, a somewhat hipper label than most, initially because of their interest in Nico, the German beauty who sang some of their songs. Nico’s early taste of fame as a successful model in her native Germany, seemed to be a precursor for the pop career that was surely on the cards for her.

The dearth of filmed and recorded material was bemoaned by all of us, and it is a telling fact that the only live LP of the V.U. recorded during their very short career, was the ‘Live at Max’s Kansas City’ LP, recorded on a portable cassette player, bootleg-style, and later cleaned up as best could in a professional studio. This is not to suggest that the band rarely played live, however, or were simply an arthouse band (as I have already erroneously stated). Richie’s slides of many Rock Festival posters were flashed up to screen, bearing witness to their many live outings, sometimes low down in the running, but on one occasion, higher on the bill than Van Morrison!

Our guide also took a little time to talk about Doug Yule’s tenure in the band, at one period co-terminus with Lou Reed. Richie felt that, later, after Lou’s departure, Doug took on the mantle of principal songwriter but has been cruelly slated or ignored by other V.U. enthusiasts.

Richie’s impressive collection of pictures took in a broad sweep of images, too many to list (or indeed remember) here. Just a few were;

The band meeting the authorities of a US University they played, for the Yearbook. Richie explained that the student committee, who booked them for a gig there, were all hardcore V.U. fans, and we can only imagine what the University magazine must have looked like.

A very early pre-Sterling Morrison shot of Lou, John and two others who formed the core of the early band, hiding in the boot of a car, looking impossibly young

Many moodily beautiful shots of Nico, even one with red hair for her ‘Marble Index’ LP

A classic shot of the band presenting us with the ‘White Light/White Heat’ LP, Sterling Morrison (guitarist) his hands splayed like a magician, conjuring the LP out of the air, Lou looking laconic, John in an Eton collar looking away and Maureen staring into camera.

A shot of John with bobbed hair, moustache and triangular beard and round shades covering his eyeballs, like some sort of depraved, modern-day Guy Fawkes.

…and a particularly charming shot of the band in ‘two up-two down’ formation, with Maureen tickling Lou’s cheeks.

For me, the high spot of the evening was the 1972 clip from French television, of a reformed Lou, John and Nico performing ‘Femme Fatale’ and ‘Waiting For The Man’ (Lou vocal on that one) Unplugged for the 1970’s, John at his piano, Lou with his acoustic guitar, and Nico, dark haired with her otherworldly voice, in a clip I never thought I would see.

All of this added up to one of the most enjoyable and informative evenings I have ever spent, the most enduring image being the appearance of the V.U. in a University Yearbook. By the time I get to write these notes up, Richie will long since have departed for the USA, but his book is available, and I for one will be adding it to my collection.

With special thanks to all at Swiss Cottage Library, who made the event possible.

Scenester
6/8/09

Deutschland 89

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Thu, 13 May 2021 15:18:09 GMT

Deutschland 89 (Acorn DVD AV3606)

Following the success of Deutschland 83 and 86, the concluding chapter of the Cold War spy drama is set among the huge changes which took place in Germany leading up to and in the immediate aftermath of the fall of the Berlin Wall. Written by Anna Winger and co-created with Joerg Winger, Deutschland 89 premiered on Amazon Prime and is now available to buy on DVD.
Our HVA (East German Security) superspy Martin Rauch (Jonas Nay) finds himself faced with some hard, risk-filled choices in a world that has changed suddenly, and beyond recognition. Should he decamp to Mother Russia and join the KGB? Stick with the HVA in exile? Or join the opposition and work for the CIA? What about his young son, whom his mother wants custody of in her Russian home?
Martin’s latest assignment is a straight forward postal interference job, but one that comes with a high level of danger and an order to induce a heart attack in a senior official using an ampoule of poison, secreted in a cigarette case. Martin baulks at this murderous suggestion and carries out his mission without the intended action.
Using a mixture of reconstruction and historical news footage of protesting East Germans, we see the so-called Anti-Fascist wall crumbling, almost solely in response to the will of the people. The stark contrast between the lives of the hard pushed labouring class in their drab, pokey flats and the communist elite in their palace-like art deco offices could not be more marked. The sprawling, labyrinthine Stasi building seems to grow as the camera takes it in, a grey edifice filled with files on what might have been almost every citizen of the German Democratic Republic. As the changes pass into law, signed off by Moscow, the faces of the citizens learning that travel restrictions to West Germany are being lifted, range from outright disbelief to overarching joy.
Martin has the good fortune to meet his son’s teacher, a personable, sympathetic young woman Nicole Zangen (Svenja Jung) and who turns up again at the bar Martin has entered to catch up on the unfolding news. She proves to be a calming influence on the young superspy, whose permanent worried and hunted look cannot have helped his necessary anonymity. Members of Martin’s family return from previous stories, including his father Walter Schweppenstette (Sylvester Groth), an HVA agent attempting to infiltrate the West German banking system, and Aunt Lenora (Maria Schrader), a former HVA agent with far left terrorist sympathies.
As the former German Democratic Republic unwinds, we see people of all walks of life leaving the country in droves. Workers are crossing the border unhindered by their former oppressors, lining up in the West German banks for their thirty marks ‘welcome’ money. Stasi officers are busily shredding every document they feel may come back to bite them, then making a hasty exit with hoarded cash and gold to anywhere they can safely disappear to. Tech wizards are making sometimes comically inept attempts to gain finance for their ideas and products in the West, seemingly unaware that Western employers have more interest in making money than in spying on their employees working.
This fast paced, taut and minutely detailed story takes in Cold War paranoia, an elaborate prison break, an idealist collective with designs on assassination, banking fraud, rioting, the consequences of living life as a fugitive, the appalling amorality of the security services on all sides and family ties within the HVA that may sometimes strain the viewer’s ability to suspend disbelief. The sheer, pell-mell action and intrigue adds up to a hugely enjoyable story that will surely bear up to repeated viewing.
Scenester

25/4/21

Link to buy:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deutschland-89-DVD/dp/B08CG7DNB1

Television Reviews

scenester1964@btinternet.com — Thu, 13 May 2021 15:18:05 GMT

Sacrifice, Dead Still, The Trial of Christine Keeler, The Sounds, The Bureau, One Lane Bridge

Sacrifice (2020) 101 Films

Just when you thought the folk horror genre had exhausted itself, along comes a claustrophobic family story that reeks of fear, ritual and approaching menace.

Young American couple Isaac (Ludovic Hughes) and Emma (Sophie Stevens) journey to Isaac’s childhood home in a remote Norwegian island to give the cosy wooden house the once-over before arranging a quick sale and a return home with a tidy sum in the bank. Emma’s late term pregnancy gives the sale added urgency, so she can be back on the mainland to have her baby as soon as possible.

Their visit to the local bar is predictably tense, as the woolly jumpered, bearded Viking Gunnaar (Lukas Loughran) gives these foreigners plenty of attitude, ending in a bearish head lock for Isaac. On learning that Isaac was born there, their attitude changes and he is suddenly, wholeheartedly accepted into the community.

A visit from Police Officer Renate (Barbara Crampton) is almost comically tense, as she immediately cross examines Isaac on the precise events of some twenty years before, when his mother rushed him out of Norway, leaving a dead husband and a lot of unanswered questions behind her.

All of this makes Emma desperate to get the business side done and to get out of the wretched place at the earliest opportunity. Isaac’s indifference, coldness even, toward her, only increases our sympathy for her, as she dreams of dramatic natural perils populated by fantastic creatures. Isaac warms to the community’s strange, and rather dark customs, and his lone forays into the village enmesh him further into their very particular way of life. Emma dreams of water, blood and bizarre Lovecraftian plant/animal hybrids as she gets closer to the baby’s birth.

Sacrifice is a well paced, intelligent and darkly comic horror with plenty of grue and gore for the blood hounds and a twist you won’t expect in a month of Sabbaths.

‘Sacrifice’ is available on digital from 15th March

Trailer:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SzszLCES48A&feature=youtu.be

Scenester
12/3/2021

Dead Still (Acorn TV)

If the current slew of detective dramas leaves you a little jaded, you might want to check out this period piece, currently streaming on Acorn TV. An Irish/Canadian co-production between Deadpan Pictures and Shaftesbury Films, and written by Jon Morton, shot entirely on location in Ireland, this engaging, enjoyable black comedy unfolds over six well-paced episodes, allowing us into the world of Brock Blennerhasset (Michael Smiley) a successful memorial photographer, in Victorian-era Dublin.

Opening with the day of a funeral in a well to do family, and Brock arranging the deceased family member in her chair ready for the memorial photograph, he is buttonholed by young gravedigger Conall Molloy (Kerr Logan, who is angling for an apprenticeship as a photographer. Initially unimpressed by him, Brock can’t ignore his obvious intelligence and enthusiasm, and eventually agrees to take him on. Another who takes a shine to Molloy is Brock’s live-in niece, Nancy Vickers (Eileen O’Higgins) a stylish young woman with a taste for adventure and with little regard for the social attitudes of the day and the restrictions normally put on young ladies.

The loss of the photographic plate bearing the image of the lady’s corpse causes ructions in the Blennerhasset household, and Brock employs Molloy to ask around all his contacts in the seamier quarters of Dublin, to recover it. As the series progresses, the darker side of Victorian parlour photography reveals itself in a gripping tale encompassing gothic ghost story, spiritualist seances, pornography, murder photography, secret societies and the contact between the aristocratic consumers of these vicarious entertainments, and the shadowy figures who arrange it for them.

It isn’t long before the Police take an interest in the story, with Aidan O’Hare playing the chippy detective inspector Frederick Regan, who tends to treat everyone as his employee, all his inferiors as idiots, and who, Van Der Valk-like, solicits his wife, Betty’s (Aoiffe Duffin) opinion on the cases he has thrust on him. The appearance of the blowhard, buccaneering Bushrod Whacker (Martin Donovan in a ripe performance) an American thrill seeker so broadly drawn he fills the screen with his character, almost takes the episode into a parody of a Western, but the darkness of this world soon dispels the notion.

The use of actual locations with their time worn buildings, often of the even earlier Georgian period, and real interiors with the patina of age on the fitments and doors intact, makes for a more realistic viewing experience, a world away from the perfect paint jobs and crisp plasterwork of other, period-set shows. Close attention is paid to characters’ garments, Blennerhasset’s stylish frock coat and cravat ties contrasting with Molloy’s shirt and braces when working as a gravedigger, later inheriting his employer’s cast offs for service when visiting clients in their homes. Nancy’s richly coloured and elaborate dresses look every bit as uncomfortable as they must have been for all well to do young women of the period. Her keenness to join aristocratic Dublin’s social whorl puts her into some highly dangerous situations with various unsuitable young men, not least her brother, Henry, (Peter Campion).

Each of the six episodes is well-written and could easily be enjoyed as a stand-alone story. The pace of this Victorian world of endless manual work, polished wood, hand turned metal technology, and horse powered transport is evoked subtly. The class divide is rarely dwelt on, but nevertheless apparent in the carefree, leisurely and richly dressed lives of people like Blennerhasset and his family, and the dog-tired army of workers who support them in their worn, hand-me-down clothes, hunched stance and crushingly low horizons. Jimmy Smallhorne puts in a masterly performance as Blennerhasset’s coachman, Cecil Carruthers, all shabby coat, unshaven whiskers and the essential bowler hat that marks him out as a cut above the everyday journeyman worker.
The stories are carefully balanced between the macabre and the mundane, but essentially ‘Dead Still’ is a blackly comic piece of entertainment that will leave you hungry for more.

Scenester1964
6/7/2020

Acorn TV requires a subscription, but has a free trial period and comes with access to many other series you might like to check out.
Acorn TV (requires subscription) link:
https://uk.acorn.tv/browse/?gclid=EAIaIQobChMItqTJ8-646gIVQeztCh3sHwPUEAAYASAAEgI7s_D_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds
Trailer: https://uk.acorn.tv/deadstill_cs/trailer/

The Trial of Christine Keeler (Acorn Video AV3551)

The story of Christine Keeler, the troubled teenager who went from working as a Soho showgirl, to playing a part in bringing down an outdated government is now so well known, it scarcely needs an introduction. Already written about extensively by Christine herself and many others, and previously adapted to a film (Scandal 1989) and a play (Dear Christine 2019), ‘The Trial of Christine Keeler’ has ample time in the six hour-long episodes to tell the story, as promised, from Christine’s point of view.

Scenester
24/1/2020

Trailer: https://ux.btmail.bt.com/cp/index-rui.jsp?v=2.10.3#app/mail
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hsanPZvikII
Link: https://www.acorndvd.com/

The Sounds (Acorn TV)

Coming to subscription channel Acorn TV September 3rd, an excellent new thriller series ‘The Sounds’. Set in the dramatic scenery of New Zealand’s Marlborough Sounds, the story reveals the dark underbelly of a seemingly idyllic coastal town, as businessman Tom Cabott (Matt Whelan) goes missing soon after he announces the opening of a fishery business. His wife Maggie, played by Rachelle LeFevre, becomes increasingly frustrated at the authorities’ failed attempts to find him, and so goes in search herself. Slowly, she begins to realise that there is a side of her husband she never suspected. With more turns than a corkscrew, ‘The Sounds’ is well worth taking out a subscription for. Trial membership available.
Trailer Link;

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1sxMfbqhbGg

The Bureau (Series 5) (Sundance Now TV)

The Bureau is a highly successful French national security services drama whose fifth series will be available to British viewers from September 17th courtesy of subscription channel Sundance Now.
The Bureau’s highly trained agents are on the trail of terrorists over several continents and cities, using all the latest technology in the fight against ever more shadowy and intangible criminals. After a report in Le Figaro of the apparent murder of one of their agents, Malotru a.k.a. Guillaume Debailly (Mathieu Kassovitz) the Bureau throws its considerable resources, both human and cybernetic into the search to find the truth. Henri Duflot (Jean-Pierre Darroussin) The Bureau’s head, discovers from Cesar, a young computer wizard in the employ of Russian intelligence (FSB) that Malotru is not dead, and travels to Russia to meet him.
The Bureau’s huge cast of characters ensure that no-one dominates the action and allows a peek into the complicated private lives lived by those who do their jobs in secret and to whom deceit is second nature. Maintaining a sensible balance of male and female, younger and older, native and foreign characters, and with dizzying changes of location over several continents, the main story and sub-stories move at breakneck speed as they unfold. The car chases, gun battles and computer hacking of traditional spy drama are all present and correct, but there’s other, finer qualities to The Bureau which raises it up above the usual spies ‘n’ sleuths story. The questionable loyalties of the security service staff at home and abroad, the fraught, captive private lives of the agents, and the implacable warlords vying for position in their unstable countries keep the action on the boil and show why, after five series, this show could run even further.
Premieres 17th September, ten episodes
Available through Amazon Prime, with 30 day free trial, £7.99 per month after;

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/video/offers/signup?ie=UTF8&benefitId=docclub&ref=DVM_PDS_CHN_UK_SB_C_caJ4w75Xc_351321442772_76286059572

One Lane Bridge (Acorn TV)

Available only through subscription channel Acorn TV One Lane Bridge is a New Zealand police thriller with a family saga and a touch of the supernatural thrown into the mix.

Ariki Davis (Dominic Ona-Ariki), a Maori police officer from the city with a taste for new challenges, takes a police post in a small town with a local farming community. Reporting to his new boss, the stony-faced Stephen Tremaine (Joel Tobeck) Ariki receives a frosty reception from boss and workmates alike. His outsider status is highly apparent in highly this traditional world, where European descended families have tilled the land for generations, largely undisturbed by modern, progressive attitudes. The mountainous landscape with its shallow, rocky river and the One Lane Bridge of the title further underline the place’s isolation.
Ariki is soon exposed to the darker side of town life, called out to the titular bridge to an apparent crime. It’s here that Ariki is revealed to be the possessor of a psychic gift which allows him a glimpse of the knowledge that the bridge has been, for some years, the scene of murders, suicides and mysterious happenings. Whether perceived dimly or subtly, or with sudden flashes of terrible clarity, Ariki’s gift is not altogether a welcome one. A local farmer, family man, appears to have thrown himself off the bridge onto the rocks below, the latest in a long list of apparent suicides.
The community has no shortage of possible causes of suicide, and plenty of potential murderers for such a local landowner. The interest shown in acquiring the farm by a local tycoon and the pressure building up in the dead man’s tight, claustrophobic and warring household all serves to stoke the crucible of thwarted ambition, greed, discontent, jealousy and forbidden love.
One Lane Bridge, with all its up to date back stories and stunning scenery is a good, old-fashioned potboiler that bears a resemblance to the classic ‘Twin Peaks’. Where they diverge is the matter of fact ness of domestic violence, racism and homophobia that lurk below the surface of daily life. You’ll be kept guessing ’suicide or murder?’ right up to the end of its neatly paced six episodes, the last of which contains a very neat twist that will surely garner a second series.
Available through Amazon Prime, with 30 day free trial, £7.99 per month after;
https://uk.acorn.tv/browse/?gclid=Cj0KCQjw8rT8BRCbARIsALWiOvR-kUVPD0Y8AANSiC_5h1ULCGfj8R-29Cah03wempgS0hhlnufcv24aApwKEALw_wcB&gclsrc=aw.ds

Random Access Memory

Mon, 18 Mar 2019 09:32:19 GMT

Punk in Middlesbrough

I was born and brought up in Hartlepool, but my first job was in Middlesbrough, in the late 1970’s, a town that I gravitated to, for more reasons than just proximity to work. Even when I still lived in Hartlepool, I travelled to Middlesbrough frequently to catch the vibrant live music scene my hometown badly lacked.

I became a regular at the Rock Garden, a small, rather dingy venue on Newport Road which catered for the rock music crowd, and was next door to the more sophisticated Marimba, a club aimed at the ‘supper set’ with its light, easy listening style entertainment. There was nothing ‘easy’ about the listening at the Rock Garden, however. The area seemed a little desolate but for these two clubs, and the Acklam pub adjacent to them, a bar then frequented by some of the conurbation’s hardened drunks. They did not seem in any way surprised by the personal appearance of the crowd of youths whom they shared drinking space with that evening, in their ragged, safety-pinned t-shirts, home-customised black drill trousers and spiky, dyed hair, so I can only assume that Middlesbrough cottoned on to the Punk scene a lot earlier than other towns in the North East.

It is this particular 1970’s music scene that provided me with so many happy memories, even in that strike-bound, socially divided and hopelessly misgoverned decade, and I hope it either stirs up some equally happy memories for you, or at least opens a window onto a world you may have been misinformed about.

My first trip to the Rock Garden was to see a band I had barely heard of myself, The Doctors of Madness. My recollection is that Eater, a very young band who hailed from Sunderland, and whose drummer Dee Generate, was a reported 14 years old, supported them. They played with more vigour and enthusiasm than musical proficiency, which was of course the point. The main event was a band, which had, I learned later, been around a few years to little success, which was all the more surprising, seeing as their material and style should have made them serious contenders for stardom. The music was futuristic, hard edged and laden with brilliant hooks, their look, the fag-end of Glam Rock with a guitarist (Kid Strange) seemingly seven feet tall and with a chin like a Cadillac bonnet. It was a stunning introduction to the local music scene, and I even managed to blag a few beers by helping the roadies pack up after the gig, there being no transport back home at that hour.

I have already mentioned that some bands were not exactly virtuosos, but played with plenty of verve and attitude. This was very common within punk (and let’s face it, pop music generally) in stark contrast to the ‘old guard’ of rock music in that period. Rock music was at its most sickeningly decadent in the 1970’s, with many bands of the ‘progressive rock’ persuasion, that placed emphasis on ‘proper’ musicianship, outlandish ideas, a steady intake of exotic pharmaceuticals and at least a pretence at a high level of education. Though rooted in rock music, progressive rock borrowed, magpie-like, from many other styles of music, most notably classical, and attracted a large audience, particularly among those who were taking higher education. Albums sold better than singles in that particular scene, some bands, notably Led Zeppelin, opting not to bother releasing singles, and the often indulgent, other-worldly nonsense that passed for music in that scene served to alienate still further the coming generation of pop fans. Punk arrived in the 1970’s rock music scene, like a scruffy, uninvited guest at a millionaire’s birthday party.

The first venue I ever attended in Middlesbrough was not, however, the Rock Garden, but the Town Hall, and I still count it as one of the best gigs I have ever attended. The Jam were a new, up and coming band at the time, and I recall seeing them outclass every other band, performing ‘In The City’ on ‘Top of the Pops’ the previous night. Supported by a forgettable blues band with punk leanings, ‘Cyanide’, The Jam’s set was run like a military operation, leaving the audience with little time to draw breath, let alone get bored. Rick Buckler underpinned the sound with his furious drumming, Bruce Foxton laid down bass lines that would have defeated most seasoned pros, while Paul Weller’s chopping guitar work, steeped in classic Who styling, whipped up the excitement to dangerous levels. Whenever I hear even one track from that first LP, ‘In The City’, I’m right back there in the Gothic splendour of the Town Hall, and I count myself privileged to have seen one of the best bands of the late 20 ^th Century, in their youth.

Although relatively well served for night clubs and what your Dad probably calls a ‘discotheque’, it is essentially these two venues that would stage gigs from the new phenomenon of punk, and I would return time and again to them for my periodic fix of live music in the years 1976 to 1981, after which I left for the 24-hour city of London to more certain employment and, I knew, more music. The punk scene, and indeed all musical scenes, were, in those pre-You Tube, pre-bedroom recording studio days, firmly based in London, though it is fair to say that every city and every town, large or small, had its little enclave of punks, even if they tended to be after-dark and weekends only, due to the sometimes less than tolerant attitudes shown by some members of society toward them. Although I never faced such treatment, many of my friends reported being threatened and even beaten by complete strangers on the street, always prefaced by some reference to the way they were dressed, their supposed political beliefs or anti-establishment attitudes. The worst that happened to me was being stopped in the street at around 10.30 at night by a couple of police officers, who seemed convinced they had a live, anti-royalist anarchist in their grip. Their disappointment at not finding any hidden marijuana butts in the phone box I had just used, and their obvious distaste for my Sex Pistols t-shirt (NB logo only-no obscenities or images that could deprave or corrupt on it) ensured that although they couldn’t actually drag me to the station and charge me with anything, they would nevertheless take the opportunity to give me attitude. I bore it with as much dignity as I could, bid them goodnight and let them get on with the serious business of harassing other people over their appearance.

The ‘do it yourself’ ethic of punk was another aspect of the scene, which was totally at odds with the ‘old guard’ of rock, but eventually permeated through to the mainstream. Many punk bands took on the job of organising their own gigs, doing their own publicity and even self financing their records, a step that would have horrified, or more likely, amused the rock mainstream. Some enthusiastic souls started up their own ‘fanzines’, often in imitation of Mark Perry’s seminal London-based ‘Sniffin’ Glue’, and usually on the office photocopier. Who knows how many North East employers were the unwitting publishers of punk fanzines? I am sure the writers and publishers of ‘Deviation Street’ from Newcastle or Middlesbrough’s own ‘TPA’ were not up to any such antics, in fact the latter had the look of a professional product, but no bad thing as it made the articles a bit easier to read than the deliberate smudging and mis-spelling that some fanzines went in for. Every gig I attended had its fanzine seller, and for a few pence, you could read the outpourings of a local would-be journalist (errr…) raving about his best mate’s band who recently provided local support for say, X Ray Spex or 999.

The North East did foster its own bands, and some at least went on to great success, notably the Tom Robinson Band, and if you want to stretch a point, The Police. The latter’s only local was of course Gordon Sumner (Sting to you) from South Shields, but Tom Robinson’s Teesside credentials are not in doubt. Other local bands included Newcastle’s Penetration, Middlesbrough’s punk-by-numbers Blitzkrieg Bop and Hartlepool’s’ power pop protagonists, Disguise. ‘Shoot Out The Lights’ presented a more thoughtful, experimental approach to punk, and must have felt like a fish out of water in their Hartlepool home. The Tom Robinson Band’s regular appearances at the Rock Garden made the band a favourite, but it was at a time when the venue was coming to the attention of other, less pleasant individuals who flocked there specifically to fight. I recall many years later, Tom Robinson mentioning the edgy gigs at the Rock Garden, and how he went from being beaten up by regulars there, to seeing the same lads in his audience, but enjoying his music. In my period of occupation, they were old-school ‘skinheads’, nothing like today’s well-kempt pussycats, whose dislike for other youth cults generally, and punks in particular, were only exceeded by their espousal of far-right politics. I had no desire to become involved in any of their theatrics, so I usually left gigs if they looked like turning ugly, but it put me off skinheads for many years. I often wonder what became of these characters, and whether they were still the same bloody-minded, blinkered oafs they were in the 70’s. A glance at the less fragrant parts of the political scene would probably answer those questions.

Another early Rock Garden gig was to see the already-mentioned Penetration, an agile, powerful band who had the then-unusual distinction of being female-fronted. The band still play today, and the last time I saw Pauline Murray, she was still in fine voice, and the band still as robust as ever. That night in the Rock Garden, Pauline dedicated a song to a lad who had decked his arm with safety pins through the flesh. It was their war cry; ‘Don’t Dictate’ and I think the irony may have been lost on him. The Damned’s appearance at the same venue, at the height of their chart success, would live on in my memory for many years, filled as it is with Dave Vanian’s vampire-like persona at the mike, drummer Rat Scabies barely contained rage and bassist Captain Sensible’s tendency to take the stage naked except for a beret on his head and a toilet seat around his neck. The punters who flocked to the front three rows will have even more pungent memories of this gig than myself.

The deranged Punishment of Luxury’s carnivalesque appearance at the Rock Garden left me with the distinct feeling that punk had darker corners in its psyche than even some of the more distracted progressive rockers. Their music owed more to the by-then past-it Glam age, but their white overalls and bright, multi-coloured knitted facemasks made them seem the embodiment of evil while they were on stage. These crazed homunculi hailed from the same locality as Penetration, but were poles apart in musical style from Pauline and her men. From a few miles south came The Angelic Upstarts, a band led by an elder punk named Mensi, who bore a striking resemblance to Keith Allen with his mindless hooligan head on, and who made a good few TV appearances, coming across both witty and likeable. This was so even when he was discussing the campaign for justice he had become involved in, which some of you may remember, concerned the suspicious death in police custody, of a man named Liddle Towers. Mensi had a ’no-prisoners’ approach to his music, and was the most passionate, committed performer I had seen up to then.

I find it hard to believe that I paid just 50p to see Adam and the Ants at the time of their first hit, ‘Kings of the Wild Frontier’, but there it is. Inflation has made a nonsense of this figure, and I was earning a whole lot less then, but this I can tell you: I did not pay upfront six months earlier by credit card, after taking part in a ballot with several thousand other poor fools. I paid cash at the desk on the evening of the gig, in exchange for a cloakroom ticket, and one of the bets gigs I ever heard. The band was the most professional I had seen in a small club, and the tiny stage was barely large enough to contain them, especially with Adam’s relentless dancing. A consummate performer, and an assured bunch of musicians all contributed to a very tight live band that would go on to become major stars in the 80’s.

I expect the cover charge was much the same when the Rezillos played, and I certainly wouldn’t have begrudged more, as they were one of the most playful and good-natured bands around. Derided by some sections of the press for their cartoonish image (Saints preserve us from po-faced pop stars, and give us more cartoon nuts) I loved his Scottish band’s appropriation of the popular Mod era clothes and their crossbreeding it with a humorous dose of Gerry Anderson’s puppet show theatrics. Singer Fay Fife’s wide-awake stage persona was a rarity in punk at the time, as was her jokey manner, most apparent in her self-deprecating crack: ‘I’m Frae Fife’

Attempts were made to revive the 50’s style package tours by some in the world of punk. One such value for money tour was the Manchester Punk Package, which was certainly not harmed by rumours that the Buzzcocks would be on it. This may have been a little cheeky misdirection on the part of the promoters, but it got a full house that night. Slaughter and the Dogs played a capable if unimaginative set, supported by Fast Breeder, an old school rock band whose music veered

toward punk, and had the obligatory mad-eyed bass player. Their obvious inspiration was Thin Lizzy, a traditional rock band nevertheless favoured by punks, and they were as good as any I’ve seen. The Drones were the main band, and they played an exciting set, infused with their ideas and opinions about the way punk was becoming a uniform. They were playing to an audience who didn’t mind the uniform one bit, in fact were glad to feel some sense of community in a town that was

suffering from the effects of the recession all too keenly, but I can’t deny the Drones had a point there. Major fashion chains were stocking skinny jeans, zip and safety pin encrusted t-shirts and more ‘straight’ people were adopting the spiky hairstyles once unique to punk.

In my attempt to convey an honest picture of the punk scene as it was lived in the North East, I may be inadvertently making it seem far larger than it really was. The Rock Garden did not hold much more than a hundred people, and I think it’s no exaggeration to say that if you went there four Saturdays running, you knew everyone into punk in the area. My hometown had no live music scene, less still one dedicated to punk, and many towns in the North East were the same. Middlesbrough’s larger size and population proved an advantage over them, and was a magnet for those who couldn’t travel to the much more sizeable, and much more expensive gigs in, say, Newcastle or Leeds City Hall. Most of the premises that put on this style of music were, in an age before dedicated gig spaces, just regular licensed premises and clubs, i.e. no under 18’s, which cut down the core audience even further. Although honoured more in the breach than the observance, these rules, and the North East’s dominant pub and working-men’s club culture tended to produce low gig attendances, and would eventually be dealt a deathblow in the appalling recession of the 1980’s. Punk would be on its last lags by then, rather than cold in its grave as some writers had it, but the work had been accomplished in full. Bands did not need to follow a traditional route to get noticed. They did not have to mind their p’s and q’s in the press. They could do their own publicity, put out their own records, manage themselves; no matter if many who opted to do so failed miserably, it was your own mistake, and not someone else’s doing. It was yours. Just a few of us congregated weekly at this church of the disaffected, and it now seems a very long way from the mainstream acceptability of some of the scene’s longer-lived bands and their spiritual descendants.

Scenester

15/8/10

Punk in Hartlepool

A punk scene? In Hartlepool? I hear you ask, and you’ve every right. Anyone who was not a teenager in the mid to late 1970’s in the North East would probably ask the question, the voce tinged with outright disbelief. My experience tells a different story.

Up until the time I left my hometown of Hartlepool in the late 1970’s, I was travelling to Middlesbrough not only for work, but to get my regular fix of the ‘punk scene’, which was much more prevalent in that nearby town. Hartlepool’s live music scene was restricted to the workingmen’s and night club variety, and a few pubs keen to supplement their income on a quiet night with music fans. Predictably perhaps, these clubs and pubs were not exactly up with the latest trends, and only rarely operated as live music venues.

The actual numbers of those involved in punk in Hartlepool would be hard to estimate, and there was a lot of ‘crossing borders’ between the various popular youth cults of the period, like the hard rockers (the term ‘Heavy Metal’ was not yet in common usage) skinheads and glam rockers. My own estimate, which I admit is more than likely flawed, is not more than 40 punks, but that number would be swelled in time, especially when the style became diluted and subsumed into the ‘New Wave’ that was the more acceptable face of punk.

Punk faced the age-old problem of youth cults, that is, where to meet, and what to do when you get there. I knew no punks over the age of 17, and this being an age of crippling youth unemployment, precious few which had regular jobs. Hartlepool’s places of entertainment tended to be licenses premises, aimed at an older crowd, and so unless your youth club was a particularly tolerant one, there was only the occasional local nightclub gig. Those who looked 18 were at an advantage.

One such punk-tolerant club was Seaton Carew’s ‘Gatsby’, which was mostly a run of the mill discotheque (how quaint that word sounds now) but opened its doors to hard rock a couple of nights a month, and later on, had a punk night. Although attended mostly by the hard rock fans who had become regulars by then, ‘The Carpettes’, as the band were called, still managed to draw a respectable crowd of early punks, among them my good self, in our approximations of the style – drainpipe trousers, tight school-uniform type jackets festooned with badges, and t-shirts with some band or other celebrated on it. There was an uneasy truce between the normally antagonistic mix of the more numerous hard rockers and the tiny punk contingent, but I did get some younger rockers to admit those Sex Pistols fellahs knew how to rock ‘n ‘roll. My memory of The Carpettes is a little shaky; they played a no-nonsense speed-punk set, but it didn’t light the fires of many there, so bedways was rightways that night.

The Carlton was another ‘disco’ keen to attract a varied crowd and their New Wave night (as punk was increasingly being referred to) included a set by the North East’s own Angelic Upstarts. Situated in the empty, demolished once-shopping streets around Lynn Street, this small club got not only one of the country’s premier committed punk bands, but also an eccentric support to boot. Their name unfortunately escapes me (cut me some slack, it has been over 30 years!) but they were basically a rock / blues band with a singer clearly modelled on Johnny Rotten. All in their late 30’s, I would guess, their set consisted of full-on punk (with singer) and languorous blues (without singer) The Angelic Upstarts were the genuine article, however. Their lead singer Mensi, older than most punk fans and bands, and bearing a striking resemblance to Keith Allen with his mindless hooligan head on, led his band into a full-on assault, regardless of the tiny numbers of people in the audience and their indifference to the music. Their song ‘Who killed Liddle?’ a spirited incitement of alleged police brutality in a Gateshead police station against a man named Liddle Towers, resulting in his death, had recently been released as a single, and Mensi and his comrades poured everything they had into its performance. I went away more than pleased with them, although the largely hard rock audience seemed a little shell-shocked by it all. I forgot – rockers didn’t do protest records. I always felt that the Angelic Upstarts were just a little unlucky, as they were clearly committed to their music and had the drive and just as much talent as the others to make a career. It wasn’t to be.

Hartlepool did give birth to some bands of its own, and I only wish I could recall more about the Disguise gig I attended one night. Their music owed a small debt to The (by then very successful) Buzzcocks, but it had a stamp that was all their own. The more experimental ’Shoot Out The Lights’ was more in the avant-garde Pere Ubu mould, but these bands were forming as I was relocating, so I can’t offer any better memories of them.

Without doubt the best and biggest punk gig in Hartlepool in my tenure, was the triple-bill of Eddie & The Hot Rods, Radio Stars and Squeeze, who played Hartlepool Town Hall to a sell-out audience of frenzied kids. An autograph session at a local electrical & record shop helped a lot, and I’ve still got my signed copy of their ‘Live at the Marquee’ EP. All three bands were having modest chart success at the time, but ironically, you could have reversed the billing order, as it was Squeeze who had the most impressive showing, a Top 20 hit with ‘Take Me I’m Yours’ when the Radio Stars’ Nervous Wreck’ trailing and Eddie & The Hot Rods’ ‘Do Anything You Want to Do’ was inexplicably languishing at the edge of the Top 40. I’ve never rated Squeeze, not even in their staggeringly successful 80’s heyday, so I’m probably not the fellah to offer a fair opinion of ‘Take Me I’m Yours’, but I cannot for the life of me fathom why Eddie & The Hot Rods did not become megastars. ‘Do Anything You Want to Do’ has to be one of the wildest, most joyous celebrations of youthful rebellion ever written, and yet it barely scraped into the Top 40. None of this mattered that night as the Town Hall rocked to the sound of this new, exciting take on youth music. I will never forget it, nor that one of the finest gigs I ever attended was in my hometown.

Scenester

10/10/10

Cinemas of Hartlepool: The 1960’s to 1980’s

When I was born, there were six working cinemas in my hometown of Hartlepool, Co. Durham. When I left, there was only one. I intend to explore the possible reasons for this, and more, in this article.

At the height of cinema going in the UK, during the 1940’s, the town’s cinemas were well attended, albeit in a country without a national television service, but with an official policy of ensuring that home grown pictures were shown, and a ready made audience hungry for thrills and with the money to spend on it. In our media saturated age, it is perhaps difficult to imagine a time when the main source of news was the daily newspaper, and the prime entertainment the theatres and music halls, and vying for the same audience, the ‘wireless’. To even begin to understand, we need to immerse ourselves in the lifestyle of the period, banish the personal computer from the home, unplug the television set, restrict ourselves to just two BBC radio stations and read our newspaper by the light of a single 40w bulb. In this, to us, severely restricted world, the cinema, with its imposing frontage, plush carpets and padded seats, sumptuous interiors and silver screen, would seem like another, better, more beautiful world than the strictly rationed, ‘make do and mend’ world we would have been forced to live in. These Art Deco palaces would be more than just an evening’s fun, they would, for a few shillings, bring a rich and strange world of entertainment to us, the drawing room comedies, spectacular musicals, gaudy peplums, hard boiled detective stories, wickedly exciting gangsters, you name your cliché, it started here. They would show us a world, which seemed to exist outside of our own, maybe across the Atlantic, but always slightly out of reach.

Our parents and grandparents eagerly lapped up Hollywood’s output, even as our own British pictures were watched with something like approval or even enjoyment, but in the face of the onslaught from television, in the late 50’s / early 60’s, cinema attendances started to decline. This was not because television had begun to show films, in fact film companies deliberately shunned television showings of their new products; it was simply that television offered a world of entertainment all of its own, and once you had ‘the box’ (or ‘the idiot’s lantern’ as some called it), you were inclined to watch it. Cinema attendances had been in decline since the 1950’s, but with television’s arrival, the figures went into freefall.

Nationally, cinemas were closing, and Hartlepool was no exception to the trend. Out of the three still working in the early 1960’s, the Essoldo closed in the late 1960’s, leaving the Odeon and the ABC to battle it out. I have only a vague memory of the Essoldo, that of seeing Peter Pan there, when I was very young, and it became, almost inevitably, a bingo hall shortly afterwards. A product of the ‘brutalist’ school of 20 ^th Century architecture, it had a white block exterior, resembling a vertical bathroom turned inside out. It was set at an angle to the road, so as to present its entrance lobby to two adjacent roads.

Much stronger in my memory is the Odeon, an ‘art deco moderne’ building, with the famous five letters of its name lined in double neon and sitting vertically on both sides of a triangular prism atop the entrance. I was not familiar with the acronym ‘Oskar Deutsch Entertains Our Nation’ at the time, but what played at that cinema certainly fulfilled its hidden promise to me. The ‘industrial’ style of art deco enlivened the interior, with the curved walls and interlocking features, as if the cinemagoer was seated inside some huge, sleek machine. My first trip to the Muswell Hill Odeon in London, many years later, brought back some happy memories of its distant cousin in Hartlepool, as the architectural style is exactly the same.

There must have been many such buildings like this in the UK in the 1960’s, but sadly many have fallen out of use and been demolished. A few have been converted into multi screen cinemas, anathema to some, but at least they’re still showing films. The entrance was decorated with one poster and three still photos (the famous, and now very sought-after ‘front of house set’) for each of the two queue-sides. The lobby was decorated simply, with an oval, central island-type ticket desk, and at the back, the refreshments stand loaded with the sugary drinks, sweets and popcorn on sale. Once you had your ticket, you were just a few short steps from single-screen dreamland. A turn to the right, and you were in.

Thick red plush curtains hung in front of the screen, the same colour as the carpet and the backing to the comfortable ‘bucket’ seats; the only illumination came from dim house lights along the side walls, and a square clock that told the time using only rectangular black markers for the hands and hours. I usually sat in the Stalls (downstairs), the Circle (upstairs) being dearer, and somehow looked on as more exclusive. Same seats, same film; how more exclusive? I never did fathom it.

I saw countless films there, from my early childhood and well into my late teens; all the James Bond films, the ‘Herbie’ movies and the Disney pictures, but my favourite day as a child was Saturday, which brought with it the national institution known as ‘Saturday Club’. Admission was very cheap, but I’m sure that, had it been more, our parents would have gladly paid up just to get rid of us all for a few hours on a Saturday morning. The bill of fare was predictable and had barely altered in decades. It would include a couple of serials like the original 1930’s Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers and Our Gang, another survivor from that golden age of cinema. There would be a grab bag of cartoons, a Children’s Film Foundation picture, and trailers for forthcoming films, which was my favourite part of the bill. I have vivid memories of rushing home to update my Dad on the ‘latest’ adventures of Flash Gordon at al, only to realise years later that he had seen these selfsame serials back in his childhood, and probably from the same prints!

The Odeon’s great rival at the time, was the ABC, a flat-fronted, more modestly decorated building, but with a higher, vertigo-inducing Circle. The layout was very different to its rival, with a side-mounted ticket office, high steps to ascend for the Circle and doors immediately ahead for the Stalls. The sheer scale of the architecture did a good job of intimidating you before the film began. This was where I saw that perennial childhood favourite, the Wizard Of Oz, on a double bill with Tom Thumb, when I was about seven years old. I was another child whose dreams were frequently invaded by Margaret Hamilton’s terrifying Wicked Witch of the West character, and her truly creepy flying monkey accomplices. I would see many films at the ABC in the years to come, although I was loyal to the Saturday Club at the Odeon, just a few hundred yards away.

When funds allowed, I would buy ‘ABC Film Review’, or the Odeon’s equivalent, a glossily produced brochure for around a ‘tanner’ (6d in old money, 2,5p in today’s) in reality little more than a series of blurbs for this week’s and next week’s films, heavily padded out with local advertising and mail order rings and suchlike. The centre was usually a ‘pin-up’ girl – innocent compared to today’s acres of bare flesh – a temporarily famous starlet inevitably playing a major role on one of the films on offer. Slim, short on detail, with only a few pictures, these little magazines were a rob even at a ‘tanner’, but command silly prices for their ephemeral value at antique type stores today. I have seen them offered at anything from £1 to £10, but I’m sure I haven’t come across one advertising the benefits of shopping at Batt’s General Store in Middleton Road.

Between the second and main feature, advertising was universal, and cinemagoers of all generations need little else but ‘Pah-Pah Pah-Pah Pah-Pah Pah-Pah Pah-Pah-Pah Pah-Pah Pah-Pah Pah-Pah Pah-Pah Pah! to bring the memories flooding back. Whenever I hear that music, I’m back in the Odeon, aged 9, eagerly awaiting the main feature, whilst some craven advertising executive is trying to sell me cigarettes, alcohol or chocolates, only one of which I can legally consume. The brazen adverts for cigarettes of the 1960’s depicted young, healthy people sailing, playing sports and dancing; all without the slightest risk to their health form the high tar cancer stick in their mouths. Alcohol was similarly shown to be the lubricant (and key?) to an impossibly glamorous world of motorboats, exotic holidays and sexually available people, all passed by the film censor with complete abandon. The exciting music pumping out of the cinema sound system (stereo even then) made for a far greater impact than any of the cigarette adverts recently banned from the (usually black & white 12 inch screen) ‘goggle box’ and the anaemic volume coming out of its mono speaker cone. Local advertising was no less interesting, and who knows how many Indian restaurants around the country were brought to our attention by the same full colour picture of a busy kitchen filled with Indian chefs in clean white hats?

These were not the only picture palaces in Hartlepool, and many fellow ‘monkey hangers’ will recall ‘The Westies’ of Collingwood Road. This was a bingo hall by the time I arrived, but had entertained several generations of my family in its barn-like structure. The building had seen better days, and was eventually demolished in the early 1970’s, to make way for single-storey houses aimed at older residents.

By the late 1970’s, the ‘blockbusters’ were attracting the crowds once more, though, as some will recall, they were the exception rather than the rule. Most cinemas struggled to keep head above water most weeks, without the eager crocodile of punters gagging to see ‘Star Wars’, ‘Jaws’, or ‘The Exorcist’. These ‘genre’ films, almost universally despised by critics, were often the saviours of small local cinemas, in a time when cinemas were resorting to unusual and often desperate measures to attract an audience. My local Odeon staged a small ‘Dr Who’- themed exhibition, with life-sized models of the ‘Green Death’ maggots featured in one story from the mid-1970’s, and made by local enthusiasts. For the premiere of ‘Alien’, the Odeon’s management offered a midnight screening for two people only, one in the circle, one in the stalls, with a prize for the ‘survivor’. Readers may remember that ‘Alien’ had a very understated advertising campaign, consisting only of a short trailer, showing an egg opening and emitting light. It gave no indication of what sort of film was to be expected, and so relied on naturally exaggerated word of mouth accounts of how frightening the film was. I cannot recall the names of the two lucky viewers, or whether they stayed the course-are you one of them?

In the late 1970’s, the Odeon became a sort of ‘rep’ cinema on Sunday afternoons, showing themed double bills like ‘That’ll be the Day’ and Stardust’ and ‘The Stones in the Park’ and ‘Performance’. Particularly interesting to me, were the showings of cult British films like Pete Walker’s ‘Frightmare’ which would inform my later tastes and spur me on to read about and watch more films. I count ‘Performance’ as my screen epiphany, but that’s another story. I was a regular attendee and saw many favourites I still enjoy watching. As the decade wore on to its grim conclusion, the increasingly desperate owners resorted to more dubious material until its final closure.

These were typical cinema buildings of the period, with one screen and two levels of seating. The age of the multiplex would come much later, and to my knowledge the Odeon did later turn into a three screen cinema, with the main screen for circle viewing only, and two miserable shoeboxes in the stalls where their pokey screens could be accommodated. I would encounter many of these squalid transformations when I moved to London, as well as many complete cinema closures during the dark days of the 1980’s. Some retained their entertainment character by being turned into live music venues; others succumbed to the inevitable slide into bingo hall or religious meeting hall.

Home Video has often been blamed for the demise of local cinema, in my view, erroneously. The cinemas of Hartlepool closed before the emergence of Home Video, and were, I feel, a direct consequence of the crushing recession that was visited on the North East as a whole, in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s. Renting a VCR, and tapes to watch, was often more expensive than going to the cinema, especially when you remember that membership of a video club, there being no other way to rent tapes, came with a hefty membership fee.

In a town which had virtually no live music and sparse cultural life, the cinemas provided me and many young people like me with a window into a world we desperately wanted to be part of, and it spurred us on to seek our entry into that world. The cinemas’ passing cut that lifeline to later generations, leaving the job of film education to television and its new companion, the technologically advanced but rather humbler videocassette machine, and its regular tribute of rented tapes. We may never see a resurgence of interest in the cinema to rival the staggering attendance figures of the 1940’s or 1950’s, and with modest public funding for home grown films, British Cinema is inevitably going to be dependent on private and often non-UK financial support. It could be argued that the advances in computer technology have opened up new vistas of entertainment such as YouTube and MySpace, with the ability to share files containing films trailers, music and even films themselves, with friends and fellow cineastes. The loss of the shared experience of viewing, and then the discussion afterwards, does seem a step backward in my view, and which may never be retraced satisfactorily.

Scenester

13/7/10

scenester1964

The Session Man

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Jitters

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Daniel Farson's Guide To Britain vol 1

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