Ah, Sam Elliot - slow talking and hugely mustachioed and here in a double bill of TV movies from the eighties. I actually recently watched The Blue Lightning (1986) , which is actually an Australian made TV movie, albeit with two US stars in the form of Elliot and Robert Culp, (the latter sporting an Irish accent). It also features a number of familiar Australian faces in support, including Rebecca Gilling, John Mellion and even Alf Stewart from Home and Away. The latter plays one of the villain's heavies who proves to be no match for Elliot's moustache, let alone his .44 magnum. The interesting thing about The Blue Lightning is that it seems to be an attempt to make a film which is as similar to the Travis McGee novels as possible, without having to pay the estate of John D MacDonald royalties. Of course, Elliot actually does play Travis McGee in the eponymous TV movie, which was itself a pilot for a series that never came about. While I've never seen Travis McGee, (a 1983 adaptation of The Empty Copper Sea), I do know that it departs significantly from the established scenario of the novels, shifting McGee from Florida to California and turning 'The Busted Flush' from a houseboat into a yacht. (It also gives him a moustache, as played by Elliot). The film had a troubled history and Elliot - a fan of the books - was reportedly none too happy with the finished product.
The Blue Lightning features Elliot playing Harry Wingate, who lives on a yacht in California and, like McGee, recovers stolen or misappropriated property for a fee. In this case, he's sent to the Australian outback to recover an opal ('The Blue Lightning') on behalf of a millionaire collector who has paid ex-IRA terrorist Robert Culp (who runs the local town as his own fiefdom), to whom he has already paid $400,000 without receiving the stone. Also like McGee, Wingate takes a very direct approach to the problem, facing down Culp in his underground, Bond-like, lair, but ends up wounded and has to withdraw to recuperate. Bonding with some Aborigines, he leads them on another full frontal assault on Culp, this time killing the villain and recovering the opal. Along the way there's a touch of mysticism, some romance and a lot of nice location photography. It's actually a pretty entertaining ninety minutes or so - surprisingly violent for a TV movie, but well paced and well performed by the cast. It feels very much like a prospective pilot for a series, although none subsequently emerged. As I say, it all feels very McGee-lite.
The Travis McGee novels, of course, have never been successfully transferred to the screen, despite their popularity. Aside from the Sam Elliot TV movie, the only other screen adaptation was 1970's Darker Than Amber, with Rod Taylor as McGee. I have to admit that I've never really got on with the source novels, always having found them hard going. That said, I recently found that I owned half a dozen of them (some of which I don't remember buying, let alone reading), so I've obviously made several attempts at reading them. Anyway, with time on my hands during this lockdown, I've decided to give them another chance and make a concerted effort at re-reading all six of the McGee novels I own. The trouble is that after watching The Blue Lightning, with its faux McGee, I'm going to visualise him as Sam Elliot, complete with that moustache...
How times have changed. Do you remember how, only a few short months ago, we had the police deploying facial recognition software on the streets and threatening anyone who covered their faces with prosecution for 'obstruction'? Well, here we are in the midst of a lockdown, with people being encouraged by the authorities to cover their faces with masks when out in public. Indeed, when they finally start easing the lockdown and allowing more shops to open, it might even become compulsory to wear masks when shopping. All of which, of course, renders all that intrusive facial recognition technology obsolete overnight. In fact, it renders a lot of the surveillance state - all those CCTV cameras on the street and outside buildings, not to mention in store security cameras - obsolete. Anonymity is back, for a while at least, thanks to a virus. (Bearing in mind that we are also increasingly being encouraged to wear gloves, we could become completely anonymous, leaving no fingerprints, with the blessing of government). Because, not so long ago, we had all those 'experts', (didn't we have enough of them, until we found out that, in a pandemic, we actually need to rely upon experts?), predicting the end of anonymity and privacy, especially online, as big corporations and governments gathered more and more of our personal data and watched us day and night.
Yep, if you were anonymous or were trying to maintain some degree of privacy, you were up to bo good, so the orthodoxy went. 'If you've got nothing to hide, then you've got nothing to worry about,' was the mantra of the day. (The counter to which was to respond to anyone peddling such snake oil, 'In that case, you won't mind if I film you shagging your wife - you've nothing to hide, have you?'). The point I'm sort of working around to is that, right now, I'm seeing lots of so called 'experts', (ie, newspaper columnists), speculating as to how this lockdown is going to affect society in the future, with lots of bold claims that 'nothing will be the same again'. Apparently we're going to abandon our old lives and, even when the pandemic is over, continue working from home, continue doing our shopping online, etc, etc. Except that we probably won't - many employers will resist a permanent move to home working, as it reduces their managerial control over employees and weakens their 'power' over their vassals, besides, who actually wants to have their job permanently intruding into their homes, blurring the lines between work and personal time? It's the same with remote shopping: it really is no substitute for the hands on experience of actually seeing the goods before you buy them. It is also fraught with problems, as I found out during my recent flirtation with trying to get my prescriptions fulfilled via an online pharmacy: they just sat on my order until I had run out of some medications, proved to be uncontactable by phone or web chat and their 'delivery' turned out to be sending drugs through the post. I'm now in the process of extricating myself from this nightmare and reverting back to requesting the repeat prescriptions directly from my GP to be collected at my local pharmacy - it's far easier.
But thing is, I don't know an of this for sure. Just as all these 'experts' spouting their predictions of irrevocable changes to society, don't actually know what is going to happen. We have no real precedent to guide us, so all such predictions are merely speculation which won't survive contact with the real world. I know that a lot of them have welcomed the reduction in air travel and its concomitant benefits for the environment and are hopefully predicting that this might become a long-term trend. Personally, I suspect that the first thing a lot of people are going to do once things get back to normal, will be to book flights for overseas holidays. But again, nobody knows for sure. I mean, none of these 'experts' predicted that one of effects of the lockdown would be to bring back anonymity as I described above, did they? So how can we rely upon them to predict what will happen post-lockdown?
I don't know why, but I spent a good few years trying to see Vampira/Old Dracula. I don't know why, perhaps I was hoping for a lost classic, more likely it was simply because it was one of those films which had seemingly just vanished from public view. It always intrigues me when this happens, especially when it is a studio backed star vehicle like Vampira. Anyway, I finally managed to see it, under its US title of Old Dracula on one of the streaming services via Roku. It really wasn't worth the wait. David Niven was, undoubtedly, one of the greatest film stars produced by the UK, apparently as debonair and charming off screen as he was on it, he was also, with the right vehicle, a pretty decent actor, but by the seventies his career was definitely in decline. Indeed, the quality of the films he appeared in declined alarmingly as the decade progressed, with Vampira representing, if not a nadir, then a definite low-point for Niven's career. The fact was that by the seventies the sort of roles Niven was known for had dried up - the sort of romantic light comedies and adventure films he had made his name in simply weren't being made any more. So, one can, perhaps, see why Niven was attracted to the lead role in Vampira: an ageing, but still suave and aristocratic, Dracula, forced to open his castle to tourists for a 'vampire experience'. Equally, one can see why the film's producers would have been glad to have him on board, doubtless feeling that his name would add credibility to what was less an old-style light romantic comedy than a new-fangled sex comedy, (not that Niven was any stranger to the genre, having already starred in 1970's woeful The Statue).
The idea of satirising Gothic horror films must have seemed an obvious move in 1974: the genre was just about played out and Hammer had saturated the market with Dracula movies during the late sixties and early seventies, with diminishing returns. Endless variations on theme - modern day Draculas and, for their own 1974 release, a Kung Fu cross over Dracula - weren't doing Hammer any good. The genre was tipping over into self-parody, so why not make a film which was a deliberate parody? The problem with Vampira, however, is that its script simply lacks the wit and finesse to carry off this idea. While the initial scenario of the hard up Dracula renting out his castle as a theme hotel is fine, the gags are obvious a hoary and it quickly becomes clear that the writer, (Jeremy Lloyd, who also co-wrote sitcoms including Are You Being Served and 'Allo 'Allo), simply doesn't know where to take it, so instead starts doing the same thing as Hammer had been doing: bringing in elements of other genres). The arrival of a bevy of busty photographic models at the castle, managed by Bernard Bresslaw and accompanied by writer Nicky Henson and the requisite camp photographer, could have come from a Carry On film or similar British sex comedy, or even a continental horror film of the type where the castle's former evil owner is resurrected and puts his miraculously preserved torture dungeon to good use. Naturally, a leering Dracula sees this as an opportunity to gather some fresh blood - but not, as it turns out, to satisfy hi own bloodlust, rather to try and revive his dead wife Vampira.
At which point, the film makes the fateful decision to cross over with another genre: Blaxploitation. Again, this must have seemed like an obvious idea at the time: not only were Blaxploitation films doing well at the box office, but the Blacula films had been especially popular. So, Vampira's plot takes a turn into Blaxploitation as the blood transfusion brings Vampira back to life, but as a black woman, played by Theresa Graves. Now, this is a situation which has considerable comic potential, but instead of satirically exploring the whole area of race relations, attitudes to mixed marriages and so on, the film instead opts for crude stereotypes and obvious 'colour' gags. To be fair, at first it looks as if it might tackle these issues, with Dracula assuring his butler that the colour change doesn't bother him, but the neighbours might not understand, but quickly abandons this in favour of sub-plot involving Graves' becoming more stereotypically 'black' after watching a Blaxploitation film (Black Gunn, a 1972 British produced entry in the genre) and beginning to spout black slang, including calling Niven's Count a 'jive ass turkey'. Whilst Niven's bemused reactions to these developments are mildly amusing, the whole scenario just isn't as funny as the film makers seem to think that it is, coming off as patronising and more than mildly offensive. Now, to be absolutely fair, here the film is being merely typical of its era. Indeed, by trying to make comedic capital of these aspects of 'black culture' and race relations, the film makers undoubtedly thought that they were being incredibly liberal and progressive. They didn't set out to be racist but, unfortunately, their entire knowledge of 'black culture' (like Vampira's) seemed to have been gleaned entirely from Blaxploitation films.
Interestingly, from this point, the film shies away from the racial aspects of Dracula and Vampira's relationship, instead focusing on the age gap aspects, with Vampira clearly several decades younger than Niven's Dracula. The bulk of the plot involves Dracula, Vampira and the butler following the models back to London, in the hope of procuring further blood from them, in the hope that it might turn Vampira back to her 'normal' white complexion, (the film makers seemingly oblivious to how racist this sounds). To this end, Henson's writer is coerced via Dracula's bite into doing the Count's bidding, making love to the various models and collecting blood samples using a set of hollow fake fangs. Much British farce-style hilarity ensues as his girlfriend suspects something is going on and ends up kidnapped by Dracula. Eventually breaking free of Niven's influence, Henson rescues his girlfriend and they confront Dracula and Vampira at Heathrow airport, where they are preparing to board a flight to South America. Unbeknown to Henson, however, Vampira has bitten Dracula, turning him black. A startled Henson is unable to stake the vampire and is arrested as Dracula and Vampira jet off to new adventures.
What's clear watching the film today, is the reason for its disappearance for many years: the racial aspects of the plot. Quite frankly, these make Vampira an extremely uncomfortable watch nowadays. As already noted, it isn't that the film is overtly racist, but rather the patronising sub-text, which treats what it sees a 'black culture' as being obviously inferior to 'white culture' and therefore a suitable subject for ridicule. For the film makers a sassy beautiful and empowered black woman is clearly an unsuitable partner for a sophisticated white man of class like Niven - the only solution is for her to turn white, as this whiteness will clearly also confer class and social acceptability. Either that, or Niven has to become black himself, for, obviously, black is black, white is white and never the twain shall meet. In seventies British sex/horror comedies, at least. The sad thing is that the film has excellent production values and cinematography. Unfortunately, it is undone by Lloyd's leaden script - which, even setting aside its racial overtones, rarely rises above the level of the average sitcom - and Clive Donner's plodding direction. The cast do what they can with the material: Niven struggles gamely to remain dignified and Graves is charming and beautiful in a thankless role, while the film wastes both Linda Hayden and Freddie Jones in ephemeral, throwaway roles, but it is all in vain. After failing to set the box office on fire in the UK, the film was re-titled Old Dracula by AIP for its US release, in a vain attempt to cash in on the success Mel Brooks' Young Frankenstein (1974). The film's failure is hardly surprising as it fails to function as either sex comedy, horror film or Blaxploitation, let alone integrate any of these elements. Oh, and the sight of David Niven with, quite literally, boot polish on his face at the movie's climax, has to be one of the most depressing sights in the history of British cinema, representing a huge fall from the heights of A Matter of Life and Death (1945).
Another of those films I vaguely remember watching when it turned up in the late night schedules several decades ago. Dr Blood's Coffin is one of a pair of low budget horror movies directed by Sidney J Furie when he first came to the UK from Canada. (The other was The Snake Woman (1961) - the two were released on a double bill in the US, but played separately in the UK). Nowadays Furie is probably best known as the director of The Ipcress File (1965), but early on in his career he directed all manner of movies, from these horror films, to Cliff Richard vehicles and court room dramas like The Boys (1962). Later he would dabble in Blaxploitation (The Hit (1973)), biopics (Lady Sings the Blues (1972) and Gable and Lombard (1976)), before settling into a long run of thrillers and action movies, interspersed with a couple of Rodney Dangerfield comedies. A professional nadir was probably Superman IV: The Quest for Peace, (1987), directed for the notorious Cannon Films. Basically a professional commercial director, Furie's films are unified not by genre, but rather by a distinctive visual style: unusual camera angles and points of view allied with the use of a bright colour palette.
Other than Furie's involvement, Dr Blood's Coffin is, in truth, not a notable film. An everyday tale of a mad scientist trying to revive the dead, it locates its action in contemporary Cornwall, with the titular doctor locating his secret lab in one of those disused tin mines which proliferate in fictional Cornwall. The trailer pretty much sums up the film's entire plot and contains most of its highlights. It's basically a Frankenstein/zombie film. Indeed, it even starts Hazel Court, the female lead from Hammer's Curse of Frankenstein (1956). The title role goes to Kieron Moore, an actor who, for a while, looked as if he was on the verge of having a career as a leading man in A-pictures, but the breakthrough never came for him and, by the early sixties, his career was on the slide. (He made his last film in 1967, playing an Indian chief in Custer of the West, before focusing on TV work. In 1974 he gave up acting to become an activist on behalf of the Third World). The film's highlight is probably the location photography in Cornwall. It's one of those films that I keep telling myself that I should watch again and reappraise, but my recollections of watching it the first time are so desultory that I just can't bring myself to do it.
OK, back to the trains for today's post. A couple of years ago I managed to buy a Trix Standard Class 5 relatively cheaply on eBay. It was bought from a charity and, not being experts, they couldn't tell me whether it ran or not, or even if it was 2 or 3 rail. I worked out from the photos that it had the Trix factory fitted 2 rail pickups, but there was still no guarantee that it would run. Nevertheless, I took a punt on it and bid - I turned out to be the only bidder. Once delivered, I tested it and ascertained that it was a runner - a very jerky runner, but a runner nonetheless. Having other priorities, its restoration was put on the back burner. Until today, when I finally dismantled the loco, cleaned all the electrical contacts and lubricated the drive and bearings. The transformation was spectacular, as can be seen above.
The Standard 5 turns out to be a very smooth runner, powerful and reliable. It doesn't fall off the track or derail for no apparent reason, unlike some other locos I own. Moreover, it gives the impression that there is no limit to its hauling capabilities. In the video, it is seen pulling five Trix Mk1 coaches, which it handles with ease. The only problem turned out to lie with the much vaunted Peco Simplex-style couplings which Trix fitted as standard and with which both locomotive and coaches are still fitted - some of them had an alarming tendency to become uncoupled when running around curves, something which never happens with Tri-ang style couplings. I know some people swear by the Simplex type of couplings (a version of which were also used by Hornby Dublo), but they do nothing for me. Luckily, the Trix coaches all have the facility for fitting Tri-ang couplings, which I'll do in due course. The locomotive is another matter - fitting Tri-ang couplings isn't quite as easy. I might, instead, resort to using some kind of 'converter' vehicle, with a Simplex coupler at one end, a Tri-ang coupler at the other, to allow the Standard 5 to haul trains on the layout. All-in-all, though, I'm pretty happy with the Standard 5 - now I've serviced it, the loco is one of my best runners. It gives a remarkable performance for a model dating back to the early 1960s, (the one I have was probably manufactured in the late sixties, judging by its box and the factory-fitted 2 rail pick ups). Anyway, here's a still photo of it, to give a better idea of the detail (the wire running between cab and tender is there because the model picks up from the driving wheels but returns via the tender wheels - it will eventually be tidied away) :
The cabin fever caused by this lockdown is finally beginning to manifest itself. Here in Crapchester, at least. We've already had a couple of cases of arson, with people setting their flats on fire, while they are still inside, people hanging from balconies and even an attempted murder. It's all down to the boredom of confinement, according to the experts, that is. Personally, though, I think that is all a reaction to all those bloody celebrities flooding the media with their home movies (which is what they are, in effect). You can't move on the web for finding yourself exposed to some Z-lister or other filming themselves in their own home singing, dancing, cooking or whatever - all in the name of keeping us 'entertained' during this pandemic. I mean, if exposure to that sort of thing isn't driving people mad, I don't know what will. Really, celebrities are trying enough at the best of times, but when they start turning up, unbidden, in our own homes, on the pretext of lifting our spirits, that's really the limit. The problem is that they are natural exhibitionists, currently denied their usual platforms for publicly showing off, they've found new ways of forcing themselves on us - and because it is 'for a good cause', they think that they are beyond criticism.
Let's face it, they must be utterly desperate to be seen, because they are doing this sort of shit for free. Usually, they expect to be paid huge sums for performing. But now it is just so that they can let us all know that they are still here and thinking of us poor plebs in our of need. Plus, it affords them an opportunity to flaunt their success at us, as they broadcast direct from their luxurious homes into our hovels. Because, let's face it, to some extent this is all about shoving their affluence down our throats. "Look at us, ordinary people," they are saying. "We're fabulously wealthy but we're still condescending to entertain you." It's all so in-your-face that I'm not surprised that it is driving people crazy. Perhaps that's why there are suddenly all those people in the States campaigning for the end to the lockdown: it has less to do with restarting the economy than it does escaping this onslaught of celebrities' homemade 'entertainment' which is being blasted into their homes. Could Covid-19 really be worse than that? Personally, I think that is only a matter of time before we start hearing of cases of self-immolation here in the UK as one You Tube video too many of some bloke off of breakfast TV doing something wacky. like juggling hot coals while his pants are on fire, is released. Because as long as they have this captive audience, these celebrities just aren't going to stop.
This lockdown has turned us all into a nation of passive TV viewers. All creative activity to produce anything new has ground to a halt, leaving us picking over the vast carcass of pop culture past for our entertainment. Which is fine - I was already spending a lot of my time doing that anyway - but the funny thing is that with all this time on my hands, I still can't seem to find any motivation to use it to do anything creative myself. I've managed to crank out a few more write ups of schlock movies, but in comparison to the number of such films I've actually watched, the number of write ups are tiny. Perhaps we need a constant flow of new stuff in order to stimulate ourselves to be creative ourselves. I know that a lot of the stuff I've been watching is effectively 'new' to me, in that I either hadn't seen it before or hadn't seen it years, decades even, but I was nonetheless well aware of its existence and had read lots about it already. Which gives it all a certain sense of familiarity. The shock of the new is lacking.
Anyway, to get back to what I've actually been watching of late, I keep thinking that perhaps I should stick to some sort of theme to my viewing. You know: catching up with giallo movies, completing my viewing of Italian zombie movies or pursuing those often elusive Spanish horrors featuring Paul Naschy. But, in reality, my viewing habits have been very undisciplined, bouncing between old black and white US fifties and sixties B-movies, spaghetti westerns like My Name is Nobody, that bizarre Italian Zorro film from the mid seventies with Alain Delon and Stanley Baker, (although, sadly, the available version turned out to be the butchered English dubbed version, rather than a subtitled version of the much longer original), all manner of martial arts films and even the Libyan epic Lion of the Desert. There's been no rhyme or reason to it - my only guide has been what's available on the free streaming services I get through the Roku box I fortuitously bought before the pandemic hit. I have to say that B-Movie TV has constantly come up trumps, providing me with such delights as a couple of Spamish horrors on consecutive evenings, (The Ghost Galleon - a 'blind dead' movie - and Horror Rises From the Tomb - with Paul Naschy in a dual role), the bizarre Japanese effort Matango - Fungus of Terror and a barely comprehensible Hong Kong action movie, Golden Queens Commandos, which featured a soundtrack mainly pirated from Ennio Morricone scores.
The arrival of a UK version of the Roku Channel has also provided a rich source of free movies, including the aforementioned Zorro, My Name is Nobody and Lion of the Desert. Not to mention late seventies science fiction horror The Dark. Clearly, I need to be more disciplined in my viewing habits and start focusing more on the really bizarre stuff. That said, the bizarre turns up in unexpected places - Richard Burton's wandering accent and generally off kilter performance in The Klansman, for instance, or the pure cringe worthiness of seeing David Niven humiliate himself by playing Dracula in would be seventies horror comedy Vampira (aka Old Dracula). He even gets called a 'Jive ass turkey' in a film which, unbelievably, was even worse that 1970 sex comedy The Statue, which I had previously thought to be the low point of Niven's career. Some of these films I'll eventually get around to writing about at greater length. Others, I'd just like to forget. I don't regret watching them, but it's not an experience I'd want to repeat, let alone inflict on anyone else.
I first saw this film on TV, as a child, back in the early seventies. Quite why I was allowed to stay up and watch it, I don't recall. But I do remember that it scared the Hell out of me. It then seemed to vanish from sight - I don't recall any further UK TV showings or UK DVD releases. Thanks to the wonders of streaming TV via my Roku box, however, I was recently able to watch Witchcraft again. While it didn't scare me like it did all those decades ago, I still enjoyed it as a suspenseful and atmospheric B-movie. Witchcraft was the the first of eight films which resulted from the 1960s alliance of B-movie producers Robert Lippert and Jack Parsons. Both owned small cinema chains, Lippert in the US, Parsons in the UK, and were looking to produce small scale movies to distribute both through their respective chains and more widely as supporting features to bigger films. Lippert had connections with Twentieth Century Fox and in the 1960s had had a co-production deal with a pre-Gothic horror Hammer Films which secured their films US distribution. The Lippert-Parsons co-productions encompassed science fiction, horror, crime and espionage stories, mainly shot in black and white and generally running well under ninety minutes.
Witchcraft is, without doubt, the best of these productions, crisply shot in monochrome and featuring a then contemporary UK home counties setting. In common with other Lippert-Parsons productions, it top bills a second ranked US actor for the international market, in this case Lon Chaney Jr. In truth, he has little to do, other than burst into rooms ranting at other characters and presiding over black masses, but it was one of the last decent roles he'd play before his death in 1971, his subsequent career rapidly descending into a series of glorified cameos in westerns and horror films. The real lead is the perennially underrated Jack Hedley, who delivers a typically understated but effective performance as the film's main protagonist. Mention should also be made of Yvette Rees as the resurrected witch Vanessa, who, without ever uttering a single word, provides a suitably chilling performance. A striking looking actress, Rees succeeds in projecting an aura of pure evil as she silently causes people to be drowned in their baths, drive their cars over cliffs or even when she's pushing old ladies down the stairs. (It has been rumoured that Rees was also the subject of producer Jack Parsons' unrequited affections).
Right from the outset, with the opening scene of a bulldozer ploughing through a mist shrouded graveyard, tearing up the tombstones, director Don Sharp focuses upon creating an atmosphere of chilly unease. The opening also symbolises the film's central theme of past clashing with the present. Sharp carefully establishes that these events are unfolding in a familiar present day of new towns and housing developments which sweep away the old with little regard for tradition. Most of the action unfolds against everyday backgrounds of offices and living rooms, only toward its end invoking the more traditional horror imagery of crypts and witches' Sabbats. The supernatural seeps into the ordinary slowly and subtly - the witch Vanessa's appearances are sparse: appearing in the back seat of a car (glimpsed by the driver in her rear view mirror - this is the scene which really scared me as a child), before it drives off of the road, for instance. I think that it was the rooting of the action in a familiar everyday setting which unnerved me so much as a child - the previous horror films I'd seen had all set their terrors safely in the past or some mythical, fantasy-like, middle European setting. Witchcraft implied to te younger me that it could happen anywhere - supernatural evil could even infiltrate a modern house like the one I lived in, not just ancient manor houses or Gothic castles.
The plot of Witchcraft is straightforward - in the seventeenth century, after hundreds of years of animosity between the two families, the Lanier family had Vanessa Whitlock condemned as witch and buried alive, gaining control of the Whitlock estate in the process. In the present day, Bill Lanier (Hedley) is a developer whose plans for a new estate require the clearance of the old graveyard in which Vanessa is buried. Only the Whitlocks still oppose the development, refusing to remove their family headstones. Without permission from Lanier, his manager Forrester orders the graveyard cleared of the remaining tombstones, the bulldozer finally stopped after an intervention from the present head of the Whitlocks, Morgan Whitlock (Chaney). The bulldozer, however, has already disturbed Vanessa's grave, and the witch rises from her tomb. In league with Morgan, a practising witch himself, and his coven, Vanessa starts to avenge herself on the Laniers, starting by contiving, via a voodoo like process, to have Forrester drown in his bath. Complicating the issue is the fact that Morgan's daughter, Amy, is in love with Lanier's brother, Todd and finds herself torn between him and the coven. The coven holds its black masses in the old Whitlock crypt, part of which extends under the old Whitlock house, now occupied by the Laniers. Amy eventually clashes with Morgan when he and Vanessa plan to kill Todd, setting the witch on fire with a brazier. As the Whitlocks all perish in the succeeding conflagration, the Laniers escape and watch the old Whitlock house burn to the ground.
What makes the film though, isn't down to its plot, but rather its carefully constructed set-pieces, effective performances from the principal cast and its atmosphere of gathering evil, as the violent past erupts into the complacent present. It is this clash between contemporary rationality and ancient superstition which lies at the heart of the film: it quickly becomes apparent that the veneer of rationality is thin, with many characters suddenly reverting to belief in the 'old ways' as events unfold. Sharp paces the film well, with the sense of unease gradually building, as the apparently unstoppable Vanessa's manifestations become ever bolder, intruding more and more into the lives and home of the Laniers. This second viewing of Witchcraft confirms that it is a bona fide minor classic, its small scale adding to the sense of claustrophobia which permeates the film - the really does seem to be no escape from the ancient evil of Vanessa, with cast inexorably drawn back to the old Whitlock estate. The version of Witchcraft I saw had been digitally restored by Dragonflix and is currently available on their streaming channel. It is a commendably high quality restoration, featuring a sharp and clear monochrome picture. It is well worth a watch.
I've been doing some work on my (still far from complete) model railway lately. Mainly, I've been replacing and realigning track in the hope of achieving smoother running. I've also been repairing and assembling locomotives. This brief film was intended to showcase the progress with the track and the two locomotives most recently returned to service. Things, however, didn't go smoothly, with numerous derailments, despite the track improvements. The main culprits being the Pullman coaches, which steadfastly refused to co-operate, resulting in me issuing threats and throwing some of them across the room. Eventually, after witnessing one of their number coming close to being smashed to pieces, decided to play ball.
Anyway, these seventeen seconds of video are the only usable footage from this session. They show, first, the newly assembled Rebuilt West Country 34005 'Barnstaple' hauling the all-Pullman down 'Bournemouth Belle'. This is a hybrid comprising a Hornby Dublo body on an early Wrenn chassis. It is still using a Wrenn tender borrowed from another project. In time, once i.ty has its own tender (which I'm going to have to convert from an old Tri-ang style 'Battle of Britain' tender), this locomotive will probably have a change of identity, (most likely to 34016 'Bodmin', for which I have a set of nameplates). The final few seconds of the film show 35028 'Clan Line' hauling the up 'Royal Wessex' through the station. (Since I replaced the single Mainline Mk1 coach in the rake with another Hornby Mk1, it has run impeccably). This locomotive has just been returned to service after a major repair: I had to replace the entire chassis block, successfully transferring the motor, pick ups, bogie and pony truck over from the old, damaged, chassis block. Gratifyingly, it ran first time after the repair. This is a pure Wrenn built version of the old Dublo Rebuilt West Country, incorrectly named and numbered (as was Wrenn's wont) as a Rebuilt Merchant Navy. (In reality, whilst both types of locomotive did look very similar, the Merchant Navy class was noticeably larger than the West Countrys). A comparison with the older Dublo body on 'Barnstaple' is interesting - while the shade of green used by Hornby Dublo is actually quite close to the real thing, for some reason, the green used by Wrenn got significantly lighter. Why, I don't know. But, as I say, Wrenn were a law unto themselves when it came to the identities and liveries they applied to their models.
Finally - yes, I know that my spare room, where the layout is located, still badly needs a clear out. As can be seen, it is still a repository for all manner of household junk. Unfortunately, during the current lockdown, disposing of larger items of refuse is next to impossible.
Edward L Cahn was prolific director of mostly undistinguished B-movies, often for Sam Katzman at Columbia, sometimes for AIP. Yet, occasionally, his movies can surprise, a handful of them being atmospheric and suspenseful pot-boilers. Zombies of Mora Tau (1957) is one such movie. On the face of it, the film doesn't seem at all promising: directed by Cahn, produced by notorious cheapskate Katzman and featuring a strictly B-list cast, with Morris Ankrum and Allison Hayes being the most recognisable names on the cast list. Yet, upon viewing, it turns out to be an intriguing tale combining the walking dead with a seafaring story of sunken treasure. It opens briskly with a young girl being driven to her Grandmother's house 'somewhere in Africa' and the driver running over a shambling figure in the road, refusing to stop or go back, despite the girl's protestations. The figure, he claims, is one of the walking dead and will be unharmed by the collision. A story which ids backed up by the Grandmother when they reach the house. Meanwhile, a ship chartered by tycoon George Harrison has arrived offshore, where he plans to dive on a sunken wreck reputed to be carrying a cargo of diamonds.
The diamonds, of course, are cursed, as the Grandmother explains, when the two plot strands intersect as the ship's crew arrive at her house with a dying sailor who has been attacked by a mysterious figure in the sea. Sixty years previously, the diamonds had been stolen from a local temple by another ship's crew, captained by the Grandmother's husband - their ship sank with all hands, the crew becoming zombies cursed to forever protect the diamonds. The curse will only be lifted when the diamonds are either returned to the temple or destroyed. Many others have tried to recover the diamonds over the years, all perished. A point made clear by the old lady in an eerie scene, where she leads the latest expedition to a graveyard in the house's grounds, explaining that the newly dug graves are for them, as their fate is inevitable. This scene is particularly effective, with Marjorie Eaton as the old lady delivering her doom laden prophecies with conviction. This night time foray, with the graves lit by lamp light feels genuinely oppressive and sets the tone for the rest of the film. Cahn follows it up with another dead of night scene, as a zombie wanders into the house and menaces Harrison's girlfriend (Allison Hayes) - it proves impervious to fists and bullets, but the old lady calmly forces it from the house with a lit candelabra, flames seemingly being the only thing that intimidates the undead.
Another effective night time sequence follows as the ship's chief diver and the old lady's Grand daughter go back to the road, in search of the figure run over in the opening sequence. This leads them to stumble across the temple and its complement of zombies, resulting in a tense sequence as they manage to escape with the aid of some flares. It is these night time scenes which are the film's most effective, shot by Cahn in such a way as to conjure up a real atmosphere of dread. Slightly less effective are the underwater scenes, where the attempts to salvage the diamonds are hampered by the zombies - these are clearly not shot underwater, with everybody moving very slowly to give the impression that they are struggling against the non-existent water. Nonetheless, the various other set-pieces - the zombie attack on the ship after the diamonds are salvaged, Hayes seizure and subsequent rescue from the zombies and her subsequent transformation into the undead, for instance - compensate more than adequately for these deficiencies.
Aside from the doom laden atmosphere and 'late night' feel, the film's biggest assets are the performances of Eaton and Hayes. The former's no-nonsense approach to the zombies and gloomy pronouncements help set the tone perfectly, while the latter's coarse and combative character effectively lapses into increasing unease, before succumbing to her terrible fate. That's one of the best things about the film - the sense of inevitability which is set, first by Eaton's explanation of the situation, then by Hayes' transformation into a zombie. Eaton also has a poignant scene toward the end of the film, when she confronts her undead husband who, she notes, hasn't aged a day in sixty years, unlike herself. Although the film is clearly cheaply made - we're never convinced that we're in Africa, it is clearly part of a backlot set - Cahn more often than not overcomes his low budget through effective use of lighting and atmospherics. At only sixty nine minutes, Zombies of Mora Tau never quite outstays its welcome and moves at a reasonable pace, but never at the expense of the suspense that Cahn carefully builds in the earlier part of the film. Again, like most of the films I write about here, Zombies of Mora Tau is no lost classic. It is, however, a surprisingly decent B-movie, providing some reasonable entertainment.
Another bank holiday. Except that, right now, every day has the feel of a bank holiday, with so many people away from their workplaces and normal daily routines displaced. These really are strange times that we are living through. It seems strange to think that only a few weeks ago I was looking forward to Easter as it offered the opportunity for a desperately needed extended break from work. Now there is nothing but a break from work. Not that I'm missing work at all. The old adage that absence makes the heart grow fonder doesn't apply with regard to my current job. This extended enforced break has just confirmed that I can do without all the shit that it brings in my life. When this is all over, I'll have to figure out the best way to extricate myself from it all and find some kind of alternative. But that's the thing, right now, with everything so uncertain, there's no incentive, I find, to start too much. I have lots of projects I want to pursue, for instance, but despite having time on my hands, I'm reluctant to start many of them, for fear that if I get them completed now then, if this lockdown drags on further, I'll have nothing left to do. On the other hand, I don't want to start anything major and long term only to have the lockdown end and have my progress disrupted. Moreover, as my ability to obtain many of the materials I need is severely restricted by the lockdown, the scope of those projects I can pursue is limited. Ultimately, it is the lack of certainty which is so restrictive.
Still, we can't have everything, can we? While the current pandemic has brought many blessings - the cancellation of this year's Eurovision Song Contest, not to mention the cancellation of the accursed Crapchester Live, for instance - it sadly couldn't take Boris Johnson from us. It's at times like this that one is tempted to curse the professionalism and efficiency of the NHS. If only Johnson had gone private, perhaps we could have been rid of him. Of course, I'm not really allowed to say things like that - it upsets all those self-righteous right-wing cry babies on social media. But really, I have little sympathy for Johnson. At the same time he was telling us to wash our hands and not shake hands with anybody (which, at that point, his government seemed to think, was all we needed to do in the UK to defeat the coronavirus pandemic), what was our PM doing? That's right he was busy shaling hands with coronavirus patients for the sake of photo opportunities. Idiot. But hey, he's a 'fighter', so he had nothing to worry about. Because, apparently, that's all you need to defeat the virus: true blue British resolve. If you don't survive, the implication is, it is because you are weak, you are not a 'fighter'. Still, if nothing else, Johnson's bout of coronavirus has at least kept him off our TV screens and will continue to do so for a while yet. Which is relief for all of us at this time of crisis.
So, did Boris Johnson really recover from that bout of Covid-19? Is there a cover up? I mean, just look at the facts: the paucity of updates once he went into intensive care, the lack of pictures - surely a self-publicist like Boris wouldn't have been able to resist such a photo opportunity: stricken PNM bravely combats killer virus while surrounded by NHS staff. Then the cursory announcement that he's out of intensive care, yet still no actual statements from the man himself. The only recent update being that he was now able to walk about a bit. Look, it is quite obvious that the real Boris Johnson actually succumbed to the coronavirus, but to avoid public panic, the government covered it up while a clone was prepared under cover of him being in intensive care. That's what all this stuff about him managing to walk is about - the clone Boris is clearly having to go through an accelerated development curve in order to pass as the real thing in short order. No really, I have it on good authority that there is a revolutionary, but top secret, programme, whereby they can grow a clone to adulthood from someone's tissue in only a few days. Then it's just a matter of developing the mental faculties and implanting the memories.
Trust me, this is the only rational explanation for Boris Johnson's recent supposed stay in hospital. After all, the odds against him recovering from a bout of coronavirus are pretty slim: he's overweight and a man in his fifties - two big strikes against him. So I think that it is pretty clear that he is being replaced by a clone. Perhaps more than one - that way he'll be able to multitask and get more done during this crisis. If they created three, for instance, one could actually do the Prime Ministerial work, one could bugger of on holiday to the Seychelles, while the third impregnated several women. If nothing else, it would mean that we had one Boris devoting his entire time to doing his actual job, rather than dividing his time between that and his other activities. I know that a lot of people are going to say that this is far fetched, but, you know, it is no crazier than all those conspiracy theories about 5G spreading coronavirus which are doing the rounds. With a little bit of effort, I think that we could get some traction for this clone theory - before you know it, the Daily Express will be reporting it as fact and declaring that with three Boris Johnsons at the helm the UK won't just leave the EU, but utterly destroy it. Remember, you heard it here first.
The so called 'Brucesploitation' phenomena which sprang up in the wake of Bruce Lee's death in 1973, saw a number of actors promoted as being the 'true' successor to the deceased martial arts star. Perhaps the most prolific of them all was Bruce Li, who starred in a number of (usually hugely inaccurate) biopics of Lee, including Bruce Lee: The Man, The Myth, Bruce Lee: The Dragon Lives, Bruce Lee: A Dragon Story. He also appeared in films which supposedly portrayed hitherto unknown adventures of the martial arts master - Fists of Bruce Lee, for instance, tells the bizarre story of how Lee was recruited by Interpol to work as an undercover agent. Interestingly, though, despite his status as the pre-eminent Bruce Lee impersonator, Li is absent from one of the most bizarre examples of 'Brucesploitation': The Clones of Bruce Lee (1980). (Although this isn't the most bizarre manifestation of the phenomena - that accolade must belong to The Dragon Lives Again (1977), in which the soul of Bruce Lee ends up in the Underworld and fights the likes of Dracula, James Bond, Clint Eastwood and even Emmanuelle). Instead of Li, The Clones of Bruce Lee gives us three of his rivals: Dragon Lee, Bruce Le and Bruce Lai, playing the titular characters.
The film opens with Bruce Lee being rushed to hospital, his death quickly confirmed by medics there. Enter Hong Kong law enforcement official Mr Colin, who calls in Professor Lucas to take tissue samples from the dead Lee for a top secret project. This turns out to be a plan to produce three clones of Lee, who are to be trained as undercover operatives for Colin's organisation, the Special Bureau of Investigation (SBI). Lucas succeeds in creating, over an unspecified time period, Bruce Lee 1 (Dragon Lee), Bruce Lee 2 (Bruce Le) and Bruce Lee 3 (Bruce Lai). During their creation, he implants a hypnotic suggestion in their minds, making them ultimately obedient to him. After the usual lengthy training montage, the clones are sent on their first missions. Number One goes undercover as a martial arts actor to infiltrate a dodgy film producer's company, which is actually a front for a gold smuggling operation. Suspecting Lee 1 of being a police agent, the producer and his equally villainous director plan to have him killed on screen in an 'accident', (an eerie foreshadowing of Brandon Lee's actual on set death during the shooting of The Crow). Naturally, Lee 1 foils this plans, beats hell out of the producer's minions and single-handedly puts paid to his racket.
The other two clones, meanwhile, are sent to Thailand to deal with mad scientist Dr Ngai, who is plotting world domination. There they are assisted by SBI agent Chuck Lee (Bruce Thai) who, although not a clone, still looks a lot like Bruce Lee. Ngai, meanwhile, has developed a serum which turns the skins of test subjects to bronze, making them invulnerable. After an initial skirmish with Ngai's organisation, which results in the destruction of his lab, Ngai sends an army (a small army) of 'bronze men' against the trio of Lees. After finding their King Fu skills ineffective against the 'bronze men', the Lees, bizarrely, find that a common garden weed is poisonous and, in the course of fighting the metallic horde, succeed in shoving quantities of it down their throats, leaving Ngai exposed. missions accomplished, the three Lee clones return home to the Professor's lab complex. The professor, however, is disgruntled that all he has received from the SBI is praise, not money, so sets the three clones against each other, to discover which is the 'ultimate' Bruce Lee, which he will then use as part of his plans for world domination. Realising that their boss has gone crazy, his two nurses succeed in breaking his control over the Lee clones, who then take on all of the Professor's cohorts, including their martial arts trainers. Clone Three is killed by a death ray protecting the Professor's inner sanctum, but Number Two smashes through the wall and dispatches the last henchman. The escaping Professor is apprehended by Mr Colin, who has been called in by the nurses. At which point the film abruptly ends.
You can see why the makers of The Clones of Bruce Lee would have thought they had a winner on their hands: three Bruce Lees for the price of one, plus the sight of Bruce Lee fighting Bruce Lee! The problem is that it is so cheaply made. The production values really are threadbare. The Professor's lab, for instance, is like something from a 1940s cinema serial - a cabinet with flashing lights is the only equipment and the headgear used to initially program the clones is clearly a World War Two era US GI helmet sprayed silver and with wires attached. The initial fight between Lee 2 and Lee 3 and the 'bronze men' appears to have been shot in someone's garden (the children's slide and rotary clothes line are giveaways), while the location of Lee 1's mission, a film studio, is just about the cheapest location any film can utilise. The script also glosses over many issues - for instance, do the clones retain any of Lee's memories, (it is implied that that they don't, yet they all display his characteristic mannerisms and speech patterns)? Why does nobody recognise them? Various characters note that Clone One bears a resemblance to Lee, while its is noted that Two and Three fight like Bruce Lee, but surely the point is that, as clones, they look exactly like Lee? Why isn't anybody surprised to see the deceased Bruce Lee wandering around alive and well, not to mention in multiple?
The film is poorly structured, with the two missions presented as entirely separate episodes, with no attempt to integrate them into a single narrative via cross cutting. Indeed, the whole thing feels like a series of loosely strung together episodes, designed solely to showcase the martial arts skills of the three Lee impersonators. While their skills are impressive, mimicking Lee to near perfection, this leads to one of the film's central problems: the fight sequences quickly become repetitive. There simply isn't enough variation in the fighting styles of the three leads and the choreography is generally uninventive. This is particularly evident when the clones fight each other: each has an identical style. Logically, of course, this should lead to stalemate - Bruce Lee surely could never beat Bruce Lee as they wold be equals in skill and stamina. The abrupt ending also leaves us wondering what happens to the two remaining Lee clones - do they go off with the nurses and live happily ever after? Do they continue working for the SBI? We never find out. The performances also leave a lot to be desired. While the three leads all offer perfectly decent impressions of Lee, the rest of the cast are very variable. The actor playing Professor Lucas (Jon Benn, who had played the mob boss in the real Bruce Lee's Way of the Dragon), in particular, hams it up outrageously.
Indeed, Benn's performance, the shoddy sets and bizarre premise do suggest the possibility that The Clones of Bruce Lee was actually intended as a parody of the whole 'Brucesploitation' phenomena, satirising the plethora of competing Lee imitators by bringing three of them together in one film. Certainly, it comes at the very end of the 'Brucesploitation' phenomena, which had been in decline since the late seventies and the emergence of Jackie Chan as a new martial arts icon. Whatever its intentions and despite its roughly assembled feel, The Clones of Bruce Lee is a curiously entertaining film. If nothing else, it does answer the question of who the best Bruce Lee imitator is: there is no doubt that top billed Dragon Lee bears the most physical resemblance to Lee, not mention having all the mannerisms and fighting style off pat. Bruce Le comes a close second, but it has to be said that Bruce Lai, despite having the fighting style and some of the mannerisms, bears only a passing physical resemblance to the real Bruce Lee.
Well, it didn't take long for the cabin fever to set in, did it? A couple of weeks of this lock down and the crack pottery is already erupting, with some lunatics attempting to burn down 5G mobile masts because, apparently, Covid-19 is spread via 5G. Well, it makes perfect sense, doesn't it? Covid-19 originated in China and Chinese companies are involved in building the UK's 5G network. The final proof is that we didn't have Covid-19 in the UK before they started offering 5G. Besides, David Icke has endorsed the 'theory', so it must be true, mustn't it? It is quite disturbing how various (mainly right wing) nut jobs have latched on to the coronavirus crisis as a vehicle for promoting their knee-jerk prejudices. Just look at the way that many of them are trying to use the situation to advance their Islamaphobic views, with accusations of Muslims refusing to stop worshipping en masse at mosques, thereby helping to spread the virus. Which might, or might not, be true, but fails to note that many Christian churches, from the US to Russia, have been doing exactly the same thing. But including those facts wouldn't help to stoke up the hate they thrive on.
Then we have those self styled 'libertarians' attempting to undermine the lock down via social media, with their comparisons of it to the Soviet Union or Communist China. Apparently we should all have the freedom to be infected and potentially die, not to mention see the NHS completely overwhelmed (which would result in thousands more collateral deaths as non-coronavirus patients wouldn't be treated). But hey, these right wing oafs right to be able to go to McDonalds outweighs public safety. But the right generally are trying to use this crisis as a rallying call. Take today's 'clap for Boris' nonsense on Twitter - a rather pathetic attempt to subvert a celebration of the tireless efforts of public sector health workers in this pandemic ('clap for the NHS'), into some kind of mass adulation for a morally degenerate and largely incompetent politician whose dithering delayed the UK's response to coronavirus. Thankfully, most people ignored it. Which hasn't stopped the usual crypto-fascists on Twitter lying about how 'where they live' there was a huge response. (One of these culprits is a budding Josef Goebbels, fond of producing pie charts with the largest section claiming vast numbers of people support the government, with the minority portion labelled 'traitors').
But perhaps the worst example I've come across so far of the crisis being used as an excuse to advance extremist views occurred in the pages of my local newspaper, the Crapchester Chronicle. I say 'pages', but it was actually in the comments section of the paper's website. The response to a story about a group of men being warned by the police for gathering 'without good reason' on some park land, was quite chilling. While not stated as such in the story, commenters implied that the men in question were part of the traveller community and proceeded to advocate their 'extermination', seeing the pandemic as a good excuse for genocide. Now, I know that the kind of reactionary jerks who comment on websites are usually idiots, but this lot astounded me with their stupidity - did they realise that this was a public forum where they were slipping on their swastika armbands for all to see? Pity we haven't actually turned into some kind of Soviet-era totalitarian state as the 'libertarians' claim - if so, then these bozos who are so stupid as to express Nazi sympathies in public, would be getting the 'knock on the door in the night', subsequently finding themselves in the gulag or being put against a wall and shot. What's that, you think I'm being too extreme - well, I'm just following the lead of the extreme right, whose airing of their repugnant views seems acceptable to some sections of the press these days.
I had another of those experiences over the weekend where I found myself in the middle of something I wished I'd never started. That's the trouble with this lockdown: you find yourself encouraged to take on those projects you've been putting off - usually for a good reason. In this case, I decided to finally do something about the fact that there was a discrepancy in the level of two of the baseboards on my model railway, which were resulting in all sorts of running problems. It all got out of hand pretty quickly - adjusting the height of the supporting legs on one of the boards should have been simple, but wasn't. It didn't help that my electric drill's battery ran out very quickly and took several hours to recharge. Even after the adjustment had been made, it created a new problem in that the holes in the board frames for the coach bolt which holds the boards together were now out of alignment. On top of that, the manipulation of the boards meant that sections of track were pulled apart. Anyway, the job was eventually done, after a lot of sweat and swearing - reassembling the track layout at least meant that I could realign a lot of it (I've never been happy with some of it). It also brought home how old, brittle and poor a lot of the track had become (most of it has seen service in at least two previous layouts). So, some new, nickle silver, track sections are on order and should arrive later this week. These will replace the last of the old steel track sections in use - nickle silver conducts electricity better and doesn't get as dirty, so, along with the track realignment, this should improve the running of trains on the layout.
While all of that seemed to take up hours of my weekend, I still managed to catch up with a few more films. A couple of them I've been trying to get to watch for awhile - I finally watched Zombies of Mora Tau all the way through, for instance. This tale of underwater undead turned out to be a surprisingly atmospheric little B-movie, despite its obviously limited resources. It has that satisfying 'dead of night' feel that all good schlock movies should have. Thanks to the magic of my Roku streaming box, I was able to catch a 1990 obscurity called Peacemaker, courtesy of B-Movie TV. It's one of those films which doesn't have a single original idea, instead slamming together plot elements from several other films (mainly Starman and The Hidden in this case), but nevertheless succeeds in synthesising these borrowed elements into an entertaining whole. Basically a science fiction thriller involving two aliens battling each other on contemporary earth, it also musters a pretty decent cast, including Robert Forster and Robert Davi. Even the script is above average for this type of production, springing an interesting twist about two thirds in, which leaves the viewer questioning which alien is actually telling the truth: which is actually the cop (or 'Peacemaker') and which is the psychopathic fugitive he is hunting? Also thanks to my Roku device, I was able to catch up with the third of Dario Argento's initial trilogy of Giallo movies: Four Flies on Grey Velvet (1971). Not, perhaps, the best of his output in this genre, it nevertheless presents an intriguing central mystery and expands upon Argento's recurring theme of never being able to believe what you see. Or think you see. It also features Bud Spencer playing a beatnik-type artist, which makes quite a contrast from his usual comedic antics with Terence Hill. (Spencer is dubbed by his regular early seventies voice artist in the English language version - in later English language versions of his films the voice artist used to dub him would vary wildly from film to film). So, all in all, despite the frustrations of biting off more than I could chew with the railway, bot too bad a weekend.
I've lately been watching the Dean Martin Matt Helm films (Sony Movies Classics have been showing them) and being appalled anew at just how cheap and threadbare they look. The only one with any overseas shooting is the second, Murderer's Row, and that was shot by a second unit using a double for Dean Martin. Otherwise, they are all shot on over familiar California locations, pretending variously to be Mexico or Sweden, or over familiar studio back lots. Anyway, watching them, I was reminded of a contemporaneous Bond knock off which is far less well remembered, despite having far better production values and location filming: Kiss the Girls and Make Them Die (1966). Interestingly, this US-Italian co-production shares a US distributor (Columbia) and a director (Henry Levin) with the Matt Helm series.
Kiss the Girls is pretty typical of the Eurospy genre which was in vogue during the mid-sixties, imitating the Bond movies' globe-trotting style, but with even more extreme gadgets and more exaggerated humour. They were often as much parodies of the Bond phenomenon as they were rip offs. This film is no exception, featuring wealthy super-villain Raf Vallone plotting to use a satellite to sterilise the human race and repopulate the earth the the beautiful women he has kidnapped and has in suspended animation. He is opposed by CIA agent Micheal Conners (who would subsequently shorten his name and star as Mannix in the long running private eye series), and MI6 agent Dorothy Provine. The latter's character seems to have been inspired by the Lady Penelope character in Thunderbirds, being aristocratic and driven around in a gadget filed Rolls Royce by a Parker-like chauffer, played by Terry-Thomas.
The film has generally been dismissed by critics, although most of their criticisms of it could equally be applied to the Matt Helm films, which remain more favoured. Perhaps Kiss the Girls' biggest problem is that it doesn't feature an A-list performer in the lead, although Dean Martin simply played his usual screen persona, rather than attempting any kind of characterisation in the role of Matt Helm. Whatever the reason, while the Matt Helm films continue to be screened on TV, Kiss the Girls and Make Them Die is now largely forgotten, despite, on the basis of this trailer, looking to be a far better produced film than any of the Dean Martin series.
Sometimes you start watching a film with no expectations whatsoever, but find yourself being blown away by its sheer audacity, energy, inventiveness and sheer lunacy. The Atlantis Interceptors, (or Raiders of Atlantis, if you saw it in the US, or even Predators of Atlantis, to give a literal translation of the Italian title), is one such film. A science fiction action movie crossover, Rugero Deodato's film throws together disparate elements which really shouldn't go together, yet melds them into a curiously satisfying whole. In fact, it could be argued that Atlantis Interceptors is an attempt by the director to blend together the highlights from several of his favourite films: there are the wild gang of thugs with bizarre hair styles and customised bikes and cars from the Mad Max franchise, a nocturnal siege reminiscent of Assault on Precinct 13, the evil Atlanteans of Warlords of Atlantis, some jungle sequences reminiscent of Deodato's own Cannibal Holocaust and a misplaced Soviet submarine straight out of Spy Who Loved Me. In this respect, it is a perfect example of the Italian exploitation film technique - steal from other popular genre movies and forge this material into something distinctly Italian. Atlantis Interceptors.is possibly the finest example of this technique.
The film opens like a standard Italian action movie of the era, with a pair of Vietnam vets turned freelance troubleshooters, Mike (Christopher Connolly) and Washington (Tony King), carrying out a kidnapping on a Caribbean island, on behalf of the shadowy representative (whose face they never see) of some kind of equally shadowy agency. Job done, they head off by speed boat for a holiday. Meanwhile. a former associate of theirs, Bill (Ivan Rassimov), a helicopter pilot, is ferrying an archeologist, Dr Cathy Rollins (Gioia Scola) to a nearby drilling rig. The rig, as Professor Saunders (George Hilton) explains, is actually a cover for an attempt to raise a sunken Soviet nuclear submarine. During the operation, however, a tablet covered in strange hieroglyphics has been recovered from the sea bed - hence Rollins' presence. As the sub is raised, something goes wrong, the rig is destroyed by a powerful disturbance on the ocean bed and Mike and Washington's boat runs aground on a hitherto uncharted land mass. They decide to head back to the island they had come from, picking up survivors from the rig, including Bill, Rollins and Saunders along the way. Once back they find the local town deserted and ravaged, most of the residents dead, before encountering the cause: the Atlantis Interceptors, a gang of savage road warriors led by a man in a crystal mask.
Rollins and Saunders determine that radiation leaking from the warheads on the sub somehow caused the sunken continent of Atlantis to rise again - the Atlanteans have reawakened and are now determined to reclaim the earth, with the Interceptors as their vanguard. After Rollins is kidnapped by the Interceptors, Mike, Washington and the others run the gauntlet of the road warriors to get to Atlantis - the uncharted land mass they had earlier run aground on - rescue the scientist and put paid to the Atlanteans' plans. The Russian sub is found washed up on the shores of Atlantis and Saunders defuses the warheads, while the others seek the Atlantean's citadel - which involves mowing down every Interceptor who gets in their way.
Such a bare bones synopsis can never really do the film justice. Deodato's slick direction moves it all along at a fantastic pace, with the well staged action rarely letting up and the switch from straight action to science fiction doesn't feel jarring: somehow, the barking mad plot seems to flow quite naturally. Moreover, for a cheaply made pot boiler, it looks remarkably good, with decent production values and glossy look. Deodato is aided in this by the use of Philippines locations, pretending to be the Caribbean - Imelda Marcos herself apparently had a hand in securing the film makers full access to resources in the Philippines, allowing the film to look more expensive than it actually is. Even the effects work is above average for an Italian production of the era, with some quite passable model work - the beached submarine, for instance, is surprisingly well done. Oliver Onions also provides a thumping score which accompanies the action perfectly. Much of the dialogue, even in dubbed English translation is remarkably witty - Washington's attempts to convince everyone, especially Mike, that he is serious about converting to Islam and that they should call him Mohammed, becomes a neat running gag throughout the film. The script also gleefully indulges in all the cliches of this type of action film - just about everybody the two main characters meet are there simply to impart some vital information before being killed in some bizarre and horrible fashion, for instance.
Best of all are the performances of the cast. Christopher Connolly, (who many of us remember as Ryan O'Neal's brother in the Peyton Place TV series, not to mention being the original St John Hawke in Airwolf), is a definite cut above the kind of down on their luck US actors usually found playing the lead in Italian action films. He delivers a perfectly pitched performance which never quite topples over into parody, yet is never too serious. His on screen partnership with King is excellent, the two characters bouncing off each other to good effect. Italian action veterans Rassimov and Hilton , who ten years earlier would have been the leads in this sort of film, are clearly enjoying themselves in supporting roles, Scola is beautiful and a more than adequate female lead, who actually plays a crucial role in the film's denouement.
To be sure, there are plenty of criticisms which can be leveled at The Atlantis Interceptors. The script is undoubtedly confusing in places, providing no real explanation for some of the plot developments. Most glaringly, the presence of the Interceptors themselves is never fully explained - the fact that 'Crystal Skull' appears to be some kind of suited businessman pre-Atlants rising, who keeps the skull mask in his safe, implies that they are the descendants of Atlanteans stuck above the waves, awaiting some signal that the continent has re-emerged. But this is never made explicit. Nor is it explained where they got their vehicles or weapons from in such a short period of time, let alone who cut their hair for them. The mechanism for the rising of Atlantis is also vague, involving leaking radiation from the submarine. The climax is also somewhat overly mystical and feels rushed. But none of this really matters. Indeed, it is one of the film's strengths that it doesn't waste time on too much complicated exposition - instead it just gets on with the action, with the sheer pace of the film carrying the viewer's suspension of belief along with it. Sure, when the film is over, you start pondering all the plot holes, but while it is on, yiu just don't have time - it is so relentless in its pace.
All in all, The Atlantis Interceptors provides ninety minutes or so of hugely entertaining action. It is far superior to equivalent US studio produced action pictures of the same era, packing in more action and incident. If you never watch any other Italian action film, then watch The Atlantis Interceptors - it steals from the best to provide an exhilarating and unpretentious viewing experience.
