At risk of speaking in bad taste, I have to say that it finally looks as if something good might come out of Israel's war against the citizens of Gaza. Namely, the collapse of the Eurovision Song Contest. With the European Broadcasting Union (EBU) refusing to ban Israel from next year's contest, (although, strangely, they had no qualms over kicking out Russia when it invaded Ukraine), four nations have already announced that they will boycott the contest, with more apparently likely to follow. With luck, the furore over Israeli participation will sound the death knell for this horrendous annual event which, for far too, long, has been allowed to blight our lives in the name of 'entertainment' and 'international brotherhood'. In truth, it has always been a politically motivated ode to utter mediocrity with little artistic merit. In recent times it has just become one big gay joke. Quite literally. Not to sound homophobic bit I, along I'm sure with many others, find that the turning up of the campness levels to eleven does nothing to make the farrago any more entertaining. Rather, all it seems to do is to reinforce existing stereotypes about the gay and trans communities. If nothing else, if the Eurovision Song Contest does breath its last as a result of this issue, we in the UK can at least be spared our annual ritual humiliation when it comes to the voting. I mean, I honestly don't see why we should keep paying (the UK is one of the main sponsors of the contest) to be pissed on. It's high time that we told the bastards to just fuck right off. And this Israel business provided the perfect pretext for doing so - we could have walked out on a matter of moral principle. So naturally, we haven't taken the opportunity, instead just meekly going along with the EBU in effectively denying what has been, to all intents and purposes, a genocide in Gaza, perpetrated by Israel.
But why are Israel in the European Song Contest in the first place? Last time I checked, they definitely weren't in Europe, either geographically or by virtue of being a member of the EU. The standard answer, of course, is that the contest is organised by the EBU, of which Israel is a member. But again, the question is why? If they aren't a European country then surely they shouldn't be in the EBU? But if the EBU and the majority of its membership apparently don't have the balls to kick Israel out, then they should at least have the decency to try and be balanced by inviting Gaza to participate. Sure, Gaza isn't in Europe nor even a member of the EBU. (although if, as Israel claims, it is still part of their territories, then surely it is), but the EBU long ago set a precedent of allowing outside nations to participate, be they Israel or Australia. The great thing about such an initiative is that it would give the EBU the moral high ground, while simultaneously guaranteeing an Israeli boycott, thereby resolving the whole issue. Another bonus is that it would have the likes of the Daily Mail spluttering into their headlines, denouncing it as an appeasement of radical Islam. You can see the sort of stories they'd run: claiming that the Gazan contestant was really a Hamas terrorist who had murdered Israeli children, or that Gaza planned to win the public vote by whipping up public sympathy by fielding a singer who had suffered multiple amputations as a result of Israeli bombings. Accompanied, no doubt, by a chorus made up of the badly burned and mangled bodies of dead Palestinian children strung up as puppets and made to dance behind the singer. I know, I know - poor taste again. But hey, if the Israeli attacks on Gaza and the EBU's craven refusal to take a moral stance aren't in worse taste, then I don't know what would be.
Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed (1969) is, in many ways, a problematic entry in Hammer's Frankenstein series. The year of its release is significant, placing the film on the cusp of a shift in Hammer's horror output - while it still has the trappings of their successful period Gothic format, it also looks forward to the next decade, as the studio's output became more sexually explicit and gory, as they tried to compete with the new generation of horror films from the US that had been heralded by Night of the Living Dead (1968). Ironically, at the very moment that Hammer was winning accolades like the Queen's Award for Industry for the financial boost the success of its horror films globally had given the British economy, the very formula which had served it so well beginning to lose its popularity with audiences. Consequently, the studio's then owner, Sir James Carreras, realised that if the films were to continue to compete successfully in a changing marketplace, then new elements had to be introduced. Which is why, at his instigation and over the objections of both stars and director, the infamous rape scene was inserted into Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed. The scene feels as jarring today as it did in 1969, completely out of character for Frankenstein - as played by Peter Cushing he was always amoral and obsessed with proving his theories, but his interest in women was always peripheral and he always seemed asexual. Whilst he might use blackmail and intimidation to gain the compliance of those he forced to assist him, sexual assault, like using direct violence, would simply seem too crude to a man of Frankenstein's sensibilities.
Of course, Hammer's Frankenstein films had never been as consistent as their Dracula movies. Unlike the latter, they never really formed a coherent and consistent series of films, with continuity noticeably lacking between the later entries. While the first two, Curse of Frankenstein (1956) and Revenge of Frankenstein (1958), form a distinct sequence, with the latter a clear sequel to the first, the third entry, Evil of Frankenstein (1964) abandons their continuity and gives Frankenstein and his monster a whole new origin story told in flashback. (This was undoubtedly down to the fact that while the first two were bankrolled by Columbia, the third was backed by Universal, who seemed to want it to fall more in line, stylistically and thematically, with their own earlier Frankenstein series). Both Frankenstein Created Woman (1967) and Frankenstein Must Destroyed seem to be entirely self-contained stories with no obvious links, other than Cushing's Frankenstein, to either each other or the earlier films. The character of Frankenstein himself was also not entirely consistent over the course of the films, starting as an amoral over reacher in the first two, although still retaining some redeeming human characteristics, by the third he seemed somewhat more worldly, complaining not only of the injustices visited on his work by the authorities, but also their misappropriation of his physical possessions. In Evil, at least as far as his relationship with his assistant was concerned, the Baron seemed less misanthropic and possessed of more of a moral compass than usual, (the true villain is the hypnotist who uses the monster for his own murderous purposes, to Frankenstein's disapproval). By Frankenstein Created Woman, he's regained some of his earlier steeliness, but has developed a sardonic sense of humour (as demonstrated in a court scene) and retains some the slightly more compassionate side glimpsed in Evil. But by Frankenstein Must be Destroyed, apart from his hubris, the Baron seems devoid of virtually any normal human characteristics or emotions. he has, in effect, become the monster, (something foreshadowed in the opening scenes of a scientist being decapitated by a figure with a scarred face, which turns out to be a mask which, when removed, reveals Frankenstein's face).
Which latter point at least links it thematically to some of the earlier entries in the series: at the end of Revenge, his brain has been transplanted into nw body, while Frankenstein Created Woman opens with a frozen Frankenstein being thawed out by his assistants (echoing scenes of the monster being thawed out from blocks of ice in Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman (1943) and House of Frankenstein (1944)). Indeed, the peroccupation with identity and the monster appearing human rather than grotesque are also themes carried over from Frankenstein Created Woman, with Frankenstein having used the life energy of his executed assistant to revive the assistant's dead girlfriend, leaving her with a crisis of identity in the earlier film, while in Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed, one scientist's brain is transplanted into another man's body, again resulting in questions of identity. So, even if tonally somewhat different from its predecessors, Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed has a clear themsatic line of descent from them. Ultimately, Frankenstein Must be Destroyed emerges as a strong entry in the series in spite of the disconcertig elements imposed upon it, with Terrence Fisher, as ever, directing masterfully and a strong cast, led by Cushing and including Simon Ward and Veronica Carlson, delivering equally strong performances. The biggest criticism that can be levelled at the film is that it is overlong, due largely to the insertion of the rape scene and the late addition of a series of scenes involving Thorley Walters' bombastic and bumbling police detective, which distract from the main narrative and slow down the pace. One can only assume that the studio felt that it needed these lighter toned scenes to try and moderate the otherwise relentlessly grim tone of the main narrative.
Along with the previous year's Dracula Has Risen From the Grave, Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed marks the peak of Hammer's Gothic period. The films that followed, even those with Gothic themes and settings not only had noticeably lower production values, being produced on much shorter schedules, but also significantly upped the sex, gore and violence. It is notable that for their next Frankenstein film, Horror of Frankenstein (1970), Hammer decided to go back to the beginning and effectively remade Curse of Frankenstein, but this time as a black comedy, with a new young, swinging and sexy Frankenstein in the form of Ralph Bates. Not surprisingly, it was a complete misfire and for their final entry in the series, Frankenstein and the Monster From Hell (1973), Hammer brought back both star Peter Cushing and director Terrance Fisher. But by this time the horror scene had decisively moved on and, amongst the acres of bare bums and boobs on display Hammer's contemporaneous lesbian vampire 'Karstein Trilogy', or the swinging London of their present day Dracula films, it felt decidedly old fashioned.
'Is Trump losing the plot?' seems currently to be the question on the lips of many US political commentators. Well, have I got news for you guys - we're way past the point of asking that question. It's been patently obvious to any sane and rational person that the Orange Shitler is completely off his trolley since the day he took office in January. Lat's face it, he was patently insane during his first term, but the US media seemed incapable of communicating this truth. Until now, that is. Finally, they are starting to dare to whisper that he might be, well, exhibiting symptoms of senility. Again, not shit. Their problem is that they've spent so long attempting to normalise his behaviour, even during his first term, that it has become increasingly difficult for the media to acknowledge that they were wrong and by covering up for the Mango Mussolini, they have done the US electorate a severe disservice. But why have they previously been so keen to try and characterise the Trump administration as being somehow 'normal'? Perhaps it is because so much of the US media is owned by billionaires who, even if they aren't publically conservative-leaning, see Trump as an ally in their attempts to subvert those democratic processes they see as harmful to their own interests. Maybe it is simply fear - fear that if they don't curry favour with the fat bastard then he'll use the full force of the state to intimidate them. In either case, they are neglecting their duty to speak truth to power, the main function of any media in a democracy.
But it isn't just the US where we see this happening - just look at the way in which the British press are going out of their way to normalise not just Nigel Farage but, increasingly, also the mortgage fraudster and convicted thug turned 'citizen journalist' and extremist rabble rouser 'Tommy Robinson'. Despite the fact that, to be frank, the kind of views they are known for espousing are basically fascist, they are now presented to us a legitimate political players. It's not just the usual suspects, the right-wing millionaire owned print press, who are culpable here: the BBC's current chief political correspondent Chris Mason, for instance, seems to have a major league crush on Farage, praising him and giving Reform UK an easy ride whilst simultaneously launching assault after assault, often on the thinnest of evidence, at the government. I'm not saying that the government shouldn't be held to account, it most certainly should, but I'd expect the BBC's overall political coverage to be just a little more balanced and consistent in its tone with regard to the different political parties. I mean, it isn't as if we don't already have right-wing TV news channels that give regular platforms to the likes of Farage, so we surely don't need our national, publicly funded, broadcaster to jump on that bandwagon as well, do we? But if they don't we'll have the various Farage mouthpieces, like the Telegraph, bellowing that they are all a bunch of lefties and should be shut down. Are we getting to the stage, I wonder, when we have to storm the offices of these rags, waving flaming torches and shouting 'Kill the monster'?
Flocks of cyber-pigeons. That, apparently, is the rumoured new Russian super weapon. According to a report I heard on the radio this afternoon. A report, as ever, to be treated with caution as it originates with a Russian tech firm. But, for what it is worth, the Russians are allegedly putting brain implants into pigeons, so that their movements can be controlled. The idea being that, as they are pigeons, nobody will pay any attention to them until they explode, fly into aircraft jet intakes to cause crashes, or just crap en masse all over our cars. It all sounds more than a little fanciful, the sort of bollocks the Russians tend to come up with every so often to see what they can get the west to swallow. Yet it has just enough of a sliver of credibility - the Russians are known to have previously experimented with using animals in war, such as spy dolphins, for instance - that it is precisely the sort of thing that both some politicians and some in our intelligence services might grasp at and start running with, despite a lack of any hard evidence to back it up. Thus, precious resources will be wasted on trying to gather intelligence of these 'pigeons of death' and devising counter measures to protect against them. Indeed, don't be surprised if, sometime in the near future, we see mass culls of pigeons in the UK with little or no official explanation. It will mean that some crank in the intelligence services will have succeeded in spooking a government minister or two.
If nothing else, this story is somewhat insulting toward pigeons and birds in general, presuming that they are easily controlled by external forces due to their lack of intelligence. In my experience, (particularly my recent experiences with the local swan population), birds are anything but stupid, being remarkably observant and capable of some impressive feats of reasoning. (One of the young swans I regularly feed, who I've known since he was a bundle of grey feathers following his parents around the pond, not only seems to recognise me as an individual, but has correctly assessed me as a soft touch who will indulge his antics, has lately taken to going through my jacket pockets if I don't give him my full attention and instead feed other birds - he's observed that when I arrive at the pond, I carry the bag of seed in an outside jacket pocket, so now insists on checking whether I'm holding out by having a second secret stash hidden in my pockets). Besides, do we really think that Russian technology is up to producing a brain implant that can influence the behaviour of even birds? I've seen that recent video clip of the unveiling of Russia's latest humanoid robot, which staggers around and falls over like the average Geordie after two pints, (if only they could make it throw up as well, then the resemblance would be uncanny). But hey, if nothing else, this story opens up another front for the World War Three doomsayers of the UK tabloid press - doubtless they'll soon be running headlines about the risks posed by Russian robo-birds, warning of dive bombing killer gulls, expploding Christmas turkeys and the like. Accompanied by unhinged calls for the government to allow people to booby trap their bird feeders, so as to slaughter the little feathered bastards by the dozen as a precautionary measure.
The question is - just how far will the Trump administration's illegal sinking of small boats on the pretext that they are somehow involved in a 'war' being pursued against the US by foreign drug cartels actually reach? I mean, for now, they just seem to concentrating on the waters around Venezuela, (the fact that Venezuela is an oil rich country the US is currently trying to force regime change upon is purely co-incidental, of course), but will the continued need for headlines to bolster Trump's ego force them to cast their new wider? Will there come a point where US missiles start sinking small boats on the Serpentine, or pedalos in Blackpool, say? Because they too could be manned by drug smugglers, planning to sail to the US with huge cargoes of narcotics. A small non-ocean going pleasure craft would be the perfect disguise, wouldn't it? Who would suspect two guys pedalling a tiny craft shaped like a swan across the Atlantic of being top international drug smugglers? Plus, they'd have the perfect cover story if stopped by the US coastguard or Navy: they somehow took a wrong turning while on the boating lake in Llandudno and were convinced that they were heading back toward Colwyn Bay. Will canal narrowboats be safe from roaming US fighter jets? Will they try sending nuclear subs down the Trent and Mersey Canal to try and sink them before their deadly loads of drugs reach US shores? Right now, we're at the stage where nothing those fucking lunatics in Washington might do would surprise me.
Of course, here in the UK we have our own controversies surrounding 'small boats'. So far, the rabid right-wing morons have confined themselves to condemning the RNLI for doing their job and rescuing their occupants when they start to sink. Apparently, we should just let them all drown: women, children, the lot. But I'm more than slightly surprised that Nigel Farage, Mr Fascist Rent-a-Quote himself, hasn't been calling for the RAF or Royal Navy to sink them before they reach UK shores. Because, after all, they are 'invading' the UK, doubtless with a 'hostile takeover' of the country in mind, via being exploited as low paid illegal labour in those dodgy shops selling dodgy goods and acting as money laundering fronts. I'm even more surprised that, on one of his many trips to the US to grovel at his idol's feet, Farage hasn't tried to convince Trump that these small boats crossing the channel are, in fact, chock full of Islamic fundamentalist drug dealers merely using the UK as a stepping stone to peddle their wares in the US. Thereby giving the US a pretext for bombing rubber dinghies in the English Channel in the name of defending America. Because that's the sort of shitty thing he'd do - get somebody else to do the dirty work then claim credit himself for 'saving England' from the dusky skinned hordes of invaders at our gates. Perhaps if that succeeded he could move on to persuading Trump to bomb Birmingham on the grounds that it has been taken over by Jihadists planning to export their violent terror to the US. Anything seems possible these days.
Another day, another Bud Spencer/Terence Hill trailer. The Two Missionaries (1974) is an historical adventure, with the duo playing a pair of unconventional Catholic priests working as missionaries on an isolated Caribbean island. They're frequently having run-ins with the local slave-owning trader who runs most of the trading in the area as a racket, with their smuggling operations being used to finance their mission. Inevitably, their unorthodox approach - which involves actually helping the natives get proper medical attention and nutrition rather than just forcibly converting them - comes to the attention of the Vatican, which orders the local Monsignor to investigate them. With their arch-enemy the trader being a major financial supporter of the Monsignor's church, things don't look good for the pair. Consequently, many trademark slapstick fights and action sequences ensue before the situation is resolved.
The Two Missionaries clearly had a fairly large budget, with lots of location shooting and elaborate period sets and Robert Loggia playing the villain. Yet, in its English-language version at least, it has a curiously scrappy feel about it, with sometimes murky photography, poor pacing and a plot that never seems to progress particularly smoothly, resulting in a jumpiness to the film. Even the fight sequences seem to lack the sort of energy usually associated with the duo and often feel poorly choreographed. Indeed, the lacklustre feel extends to the whole film, with even the stars looking off the pace and somewhat uncomfortable with their roles. Perhaps this is down to the characters they play, with Spencer, unusually, playing the more dominant character who propels most of the plot and who is relatively restrained compared to his performances in their other films. For his part, Hill seems more like a secondary character, his usual trickery and joking for once not taking centre stage and his performance far more subdued than usual. Something of an atypical Hill and Spencer film as a consequence, but none of the deviations from the norm would matter if the film itself ever sparked properly into life, which it never does, resulting in a rare misfire for the pair.
1974 was a busy year for Peter Cushing who, at this point in his career, was showing no signs of slowing down his prolific output, appearing in no less than seven films that year. With three films apiece for Hammer and Amicus, it might have seemed that Britain's horror movies - and consequently Cushing's future in the genre - were in robust health. But it was his seventh film that year, Tender Dracula (1974), which more accurately points to the future, with the rapid collapse of UK film production increasingly forcing Cushing into taking roles in European productions, often of dubious quality and patchy distribution. An obscure French production - to English speaking audiences, at least - this bizarre and often ramshackle feeling concoction is a curious beast: a would-be horror comedy that, at times, crosses over into sex comedy territory. Its basic idea is promising enough: Cushing is a horror star renowned for playing monsters who has just declared that he wants to turn his back on the genre and focus on romantic leads, instead. His understandably upset producer summons a pair of hapless writers who are currently behind a top-rated romantic TV series and orders them to kill off their current lead, replace him with Cushing and re-jig the show to have a more horrific slant. (It is entirely possible that the script has in mind the US daytime soap Dark Shadows which, after Dan Curtis took over as producer, rapidly shifted from Gothic romance to full on Gothic horror, with vampires, werewolves and witches turning up). They are dispatched, along with a pair of actresses, to Cushing's home - a remote castle - for the weekend, where they are to try and sell the idea to him.
Naturally, Cushing's home turns out to be a typically gloomy and crumbling Gothic pile, complete with the requisite hulking and largely mute manservant and their host's apparently deranged wife. The wife, it is explained was previously married to the manservant, until he had a nasty accident with his axe while chopping wood - 'A terrible blow to his manhood', confides Cushing to his guests. After which she divorced the handyman and married Cushing. A series of bizarre experiences for the four guests ensue, some of which are obviously faked (at least one by one of the writers, while others may, or may not, be of supernatural origin, with the implication that Cushing might not just be an actor who plays vampires, but possibly a vampire who works as an actor. Some of the strange goings on are amusing, others disturbing and macabre - Alfred, one of the writers, being pursued by the disembodied lower half of one of the girls is particularly disconcerting. All of this is punctuated by various episodes of bed-hopping as the writers try to get off with the girls, all of which involve copious amounts of nudity, in the style of a sex farce. At the same time, Cushing's character is busy lecturing anyone who will listen about his concepts of romance and why it is now the only path for him, occasionally shouting to make his point heard.
It's a strange combination of elements that never quite gel, with the film's denouement giving the impression that the writers ultimately had no idea where to go with it: the handyman goes berserk and apparently kills one of the girls with an axe, the other girl and one of the writers are trapped by Cushing and his wife in the dungeon and threatened with torture, before Cushing apparently dies, then comes back to life. During all of this a group of 'ghosts' clad in white sheets with eyeholes, who have been roaming the castle's corridors, are revealed to be the producer and a film crew, who proceed to get involved in and film an orgy instigated by the 'dead' girl who isn't dead, while the other girl and the writer are released by Cushing and get it on in the dungeon while Cushing waxes lyrical to his wife about his love for her. It's an absolute mess that barely makes any kind of sense. To be fair, there is some amusing dialogue (even in translation), with Cushing ecstatic when dungeon girl tells him she's a virgin, making her ideal to bear his children, asking her if she's sure, to which she replies that she's 'mostly a virgin', as she's always cast as an ingénue and, in film, they are always virgins. Some of the production design is also very effective, particularly the main dining hall in the castle, with its giant sculptures and the castle location used to stage various sequences is deployed to good, atmospheric effect, with good use of lighting and camera shots. The film's biggest strength lies in its cast, headed by Cushing, in a role that one might have thought better suited to Vincent Price. But he gives a very engaging performance, characteristically charming, with sudden turns into menace. His delivery of the gags he is given is excellent and his final scenes with his wife, as he lays bare his inner most feelings of love for her are, well, tender. Indeed, I can't help but feel that the emotions did come straight from the heart for Cushing, with him channelling the grief and love he had felt for his own late wife, who had died only a few years previously.
The rest of the cast contains a number of familiar faces from European film, with Italian actress Alida Valli as Cushing's wife, her characterisation evolving from a mildly demented crone early on to a full on vengeful banshee later on then, finally, loving wife in the face of Cushing's overwhelming romance. All the while, her appearance subtly changes to match this evolution. Alfred is played by Bernard Menez, a familiar face from French comedy films, and is suitably hapless and confused in the role. Most interestingly, the part-time virgin Marie is played by the lovely Miou-Miou, seemingly an obligatory fixture in French films of every genre during the seventies and eighties - often playing an ingénue. (She is very much the archetypal French movie 'type' when it comes to young female leads - waif-like and vulnerable-seeming, but actually quite uninhibited under the right circumstances). Overall, there was something about Tender Dracula that reminded me of one of Cushing's other 1974 films, the AIP/Amicus co-production Madhouse. Not in plot details, but in that both feature a lead character who has been defined and trapped by the horror characters they play and are desperate to escape them. (The idea of characters being trapped in roles they are no longer comfortable with is echoed throughout Tender Dracula,
in particular with one of the writers who is moved to return to his
former profession of a make-up artist, which he realises that he found
more fulfilling). In Madhouse, this is Vincent Price, who can seemingly never escape his character Dr Death - who was created for him by Peter Cushing's screenwriter (whose character has a seemingly weird and deranged wife). I thought that, perhaps, I was imagining the resemblance, but I've found that other reviewers have also noted it.
So, was Tender Dracula a worthwhile watch? I have to say that I could never classify it as a good film - it is far too much of a confusing mess for that, undisciplined and flying off at tangents at every turn. It is, however, a beguiling film, with the cast doing their best to rise above the messy script. Cushing, in particular, succeeds, against all odds, in delivering a warm and engaging performance which, alone, is worth sitting through the film for. I have to say, though, despite its short-comings, Tender Dracula has secured itself a place in my heart. If you are a Cushing completist, or you'd simply be intrigued to see a film that includes such scenes as Peter Cushing spanking Miou-Miou, or a castle blasting off into space, then Tender Dracula could be for you.
I think that the only way to understand the Daily Telegraph's war against the BBC is to bear in mind that it is currently desperately auditioning for potential new owners, with various suitors having already been blocked because they would involve foreign ownership of a British newspaper. (Which never seemed to worry anyone when Australian turned American Rupert Murdoch was allowed to own the Sun, News of the World and later The Times and Sunday Times). So, bearing in mind that these days newspapers and non-public service media are only owned by billionaire extreme right-wingers or billionaires who seek to cravenly pander to extreme right-wing politicians in order to further their other business interests, it is only natural that the Telegraph should seek to establish its extremist credentials by trying to trash the UK's main public service broadcaster. Because, by any standards, its recent campaign against the BBC has been truly extraordinary, culminating with the perverse situation of a UK based newspaper effectively encouraging a fascist-lite dictator masquerading as the US president, to sue the UK's flagship, publically funded, broadcaster. Particularly bearing in mind Trump's antipathy to all media, print or broadcast, that refuse to act as propagandists for his demented regime. You'd think that any newspaper which would want to cling to some vestige of integrity and quality in its reporting would be steadfastly anti-Trump. Unless, that is, it is looking for a new sugar daddy who is likely to be steadfastly pro-Trump. In which case ethics go out of the window.
Now, it isn't as if the Telegraph has ever been a hot bed of liberalism, but I'm old enough to remember a time when it was simply a right-of-centre broadsheet which reported the news with a degree of objectivity, albeit always retaining a broadly conservative perspective. As such, it was a well-respected heavyweight on Britain's newsstands. But nowadays, it feels like a parody of its former self, with screaming headlines that seem to be trying to compete with the Daily Mail and Daily Express to see who can come up with the most unhinged and hateful takes on the news. When it isn't attacking the BBC, the Telegraph is pursuing some of the most frothing at the mouth reactionary takes on Labour policies, trying to paint the current government as a manifestation of the Anti-Christ. It's really quite embarrassing. It also doesn't seem to be doing much for sales. I often buy a newspaper late in the day and what I've noticed is that while I often find it difficult to get a copy of The Guardian, having to visit multiple newsagents and supermarkets to find one that hasn't sold out, all of them still seem to have stacks of unsold editions of the Telegraph (and Daily Mail). Now, I know that this isn't a particularly scientific study and you have to take into account that The Guardian has a much smaller daily print run than even the Telegraph, plus bear in mind that Crapchester may well not be representative of overall UK newspaper reading habits, but nonetheless, it makes you think. Overall print sales of newspapers may well be in decline in the UK, but my unscientific survey would seem to suggest that it is right-wing titles which seem to be suffering most. Perhaps this down to the fact that those inclined to read such things can now get their daily dose of hate and misinformation in more convenient and easily digestible form via the web or the proliferation of right-wing broadcast options, or it could be an indication that the sort of hateful bile they peddle is nowhere near as popular as they'd like us to believe.
On the subject of 'It starts earlier every year', last weekend I heard some TV presenter or other saying something along the lines of 'if you've just been putting up the tree..' Jesus, I thought, who the hell puts up Christmas decorations this early? It's still only the middle of November, for God's sake! Well, a stroll down my street on Monday answered that question - I'd forgotten that there are a couple of houses that always put up their decorations early. Already, you can see the Christmas lights in their living rooms blazing away through their windows. One of them even has 'Happy Christmas' spelt out in letters stuck to their front window. Mind you, only the week before it had said 'Happy Halloween' as they hadn't taken down their Halloween decorations, so they just kept the 'Happy' bit and swapped 'Halloween' for 'Christmas'. I suspect that come the New Year it will change again, this time to 'Happy Easter'. Still, to be fair, they were only following the precedent of the municipal decorations, which had appeared in the town centre that same weekend. But municipal decorations follow different rules - obviously they have to go up in November to make their presence worthwhile and to be able to properly promote local retailers' seasonal sales campaigns. As ever, they made a big production of them being set up, with the town centre being clogged up with 'Festive Friday' that day - basically a large collection of market stalls selling overpriced seasonal tat and people dressed as polar bears wandering around.
'You can take your 'Festive Friday' and stick it up your arse', I muttered as I struggled through the crowds milling around these dubious attractions, thereby exercising one of my Christmas traditions: being curmudgeonly. It's a long tradition - I started off being a young curmudgeon, then grew into a middle aged curmudgeon and am now, apparently, an old curmudgeon. Personally, I always mark the beginning of Crapchester's Christmas season from the moment that the German sausage stall appears opposite Tesco Metro. It's there every year from early November until well into the New Year. The smell of those sausages being fried in a big pan is the harbinger of the festive season, as far as I'm concerned. That and the appearance of Nigel Farage and his Reform UK cronies rocking up and shouting 'Noooo! Brexit means Brexit! We didn't leave the EU just to be invaded by foreign meat products! British bangers only!' Of course, he sneaks back several hours later, clad in lederhosen, an alpine hat and sporting a false moustache, to buy his favourite knockwurst. 'Nein, nein,' he protests as people accuse him of hypocrisy. 'You are mistaken! I am not this Farage person you speak of - Ich bein Nikolas Frattenfarger from Munich!' Because there's nothing he likes better than getting his lips around one of those huge German sausages, incognito. Then he goes home and puts that illuminated swastika up on top of his Christmas tree. Anyway, getting back to the original point, I still maintain that household Christmas decorations shouldn't go up before December. Do it in November then, by the time the actual festive period rolls around, they will have lost their novelty value. Personally, I always used the BBC's Sports Personality of the Year as a guide - it used to air on the last Sunday before Christmas, so that's when I'd put those decorations up. But they've moved it to an earlier, mid-week, slot in recent years. So now I just stick the decorations up when I remember to.
I think I mentioned earlier that I'd spent a couple of weeks around Halloween re-watching some of my DVD collection of giallo movies. Well, here's half a dozen of the titles I revisited, dominated by a quartet of Dario Argento films. Cat O'Nine Tails is probably the first giallo I remember seeing, catching the English dubbed version on a late Saturday night showing on BBC1 more than thirty years go. Although, in many ways, an atypical example of the genre, focussing more upon the thriller elements of the story than the bizarre, it intrigued me enough to want to watch more Italian movies of the type and more Argento movies. Watching Profondo Rosso/Deep Red again confirmed it, in my mind, as the probable high point of the genre and certainly the high point of Argento's career, (I know that many people favour Suspiria, which is also a great movie, but I just feel that in the earlier film not only does Argento demonstrate the full range of his directorial techniques to excellent effect, but that he better balances the outlandish and realistic elements of the plot into a near perfect blend). Again, this was a film that I'd first encountered on TV decades ago, catching the last few minutes of a late night showing of the english dub on ITV. Fascinated by what I'd witnessed, I waited in vain for it to be repeated. In the event, I had to wait until I obtained it on DVD many, many years later to enjoy it in its full glory, in its longer, English sub-titled, Italian edit. Of the non Argento titles, Who Saw Her Die is an excellent Venice-set giallo starring George Lazenby that I've written about at length before. It also features in a major role young Nicoletta Elmi, that slightly weird little red haired girl who seemed to be in every other Italian horror movie in the seventies (she also playsa smaller, but nonetheless significant, role in Profondo Rosso). The Red Queen Kills Seven Times is almost a generic giallo in that incorporates just about all of the tropes you'sd expect from the genre. It is also, in its costume design, decor, music, milieu and colour scheme, pretty much 'peak' seventies - it encapsulates completely what most people today seem to think the seventies looked, felt and sounded like.
The other half of the draw includes an old favourite, in the form of Strip Nude For Your Killer, which I've written at length about before, but remains, quite possibly, the sleaziest giallo of all time, opening with an illegal backstreet abortion and ending with the slimy 'hero' trying to get his girlfriend to have anal sex with him, despite her protestations. Torso is another of those giallo movies which also counts as a proto-slasher movie, foreshadowing many elements of the later genre. Phantom of Death, which I wrote about recently, is another giallo/slasher hybrid and, as I noted in an earlier post, much better than I remembered it being. The same applies to Lucio Fulci's Lizard in a Woman's Skin, which has the added novelty of having been shot in London (the exteriors at least) and featuring a couple of well known British actors in the form of Stanley Baker and Leo Genn. It also has the advantage of a plot that, more or less, makes sense as it unfolds. Orgasmo, like Cat O'Nine Tails, is more straight psychological thriller than pure giallo, but is beautifully shot against some attractive locations, (including, in the final act, London). This restored version, including several sequences cut from the original English language release, also makes more sense, with those sequences imparting some vital plot information. Finally, The Bloodstained Shadow remains a somewhat understated classic of the genre. It's a slow burner plot-wise, but incredibly atmospheric with some great moody cinematography, although once it gets moving, the pace rapidly accelerates through a series of plot twists to a downbeat conclusion. Although stylistically and thematically quite different from Argento's Tenebrae, The Bloodstained Shadow shares with that film the central conceit of having two killers operating, one using the other as a cover. Bloodstained Shadow complicates the set-up by having both killers thinking each knows the other's deep dark secret, but with only one of them knowing the other's identity, with the second killer having to work through a series of targets to be sure of eliminating their rival.
So there you have it - my Halloween viewing: a dozen giallo movies, which I found that still enjoyed. Not that they constituted my entire giallo DVD collection - there are still a few more, which I'll probably now rewatch over Christmas - good festive viewing!
