End of another year. You know, last December, with the general election result and all, I didn't think that things could get much worse. Which just goes to show how poor my powers of prediction are - almost as poor as those of Nostradamus and all those other phonies the cranks like to cite. That said, despite all the disruption to normal life, 2020 hasn't been all bad - we've gotten rid of Trump, after all. Not only that, but I actually enjoyed a lot of lockdown. I enjoy my own company and being safe in my own home. It offered me a vision of life away from my lousy job - a vision I've subsequently turned into reality. If nothing else, I'll always be grateful for the lockdown experience having given me the strength to walk away from that situation - the transformation in both my physical and mental health has been remarkable. Not having to deal with the stress of poor management combined with a depressing day-to-day routine has been truly transformative. Best of all, as so one who has always been deemed somewhat 'weird' because of my desire to avoid most of the human race and keep myself to myself, it has been deeply satisfying to see my lifestyle become the 'norm' this last year. Who's 'weird' now, eh?
So, here we are at New Year's Eve, with pretty much the entire country facing celebrating the way I usually do - quietly, at home. Actually, for many years, I used to go out on New Year's Eve, usually to my local and meet up with friends for a drink. I must admit that I did it because it was what you 'did' on New Year's Eve - staying at home carried some kind of social stigma with it. But as the years went by, not only did I find my local pub less and less enthusiastic about staying open for the New Year, but I just started being more honest with myself - I really wasn't enjoying the experience. Not bothering came as a relief. In truth I've never been much of one for New Year celebrations overall - I leave that to the Scots, it's their gig, after all. Interestingly, in the face of this pandemic New Year, the media has been talking to various people who are usually revellers, with them admitting that it is actually a relief to have this year off. So much of the New Year's Eve thing, it seems, is down to expectations - we all feel that we're expected to go out and celebrate, so we do, regardless of whether we enjoy it or not. Anyway, all that remains is to wish everyone a happy New Year.
In TV terms, this has been a very muted Christmas. Obviously, with the disruptions caused by coronavirus, the main networks would have been unable to produce the usual number of seasonally themed special episodes of regular series, let alone one offs. Which, in a way, has been a relief. That whole 'That-bloke-off-the-telly-does-something-wacky-with snow' format grew tiresome years ago. Most of these 'characters' are tiresome enough in their regular series, let alone in Finland, or wherever it is they go for the snow and reindeer. Maybe it is just me, but I long ago tired of the parade of self-styled 'comedians' who are now utilised by broadcasters to front just about every conceivable type of prime time programming. In the main, I always thought their comedic talents modest, let alone expecting them to be able to do anything else. But what do I know? TV executives clearly feel that they have eminently transferable skills, making their screen presence ubiquitous. Anyway, getting back to the point, I remember the days when Christmas was the focal point for TV channels' with regard to programming: it yielded the biggest audiences and the feeling was that, if you won the battle for viewers at Christmas, you had them for the forthcoming new season. So they reserved all the biggest and best programmes for Christmas and New Year.
In recent years, though, even before the pandemic, the commitment just didn't seem to be there any more. Year on year, the festive schedules showed less and less effort, with Christmas Day itself increasingly devoted to soap operas and the like. Film premieres vanished in favour of seasonal editions of game shows and New Year's Day entertainment has practically been given up on. This year, despite the problems caused for their production schedules by the pandemic, you would have thought that the main terrestrial TV channels would have made more of an effort. After all, more than ever people were guaranteed to be at home this Christmas, many on their own. The alternative sources of entertainment provided by large family gatherings, parties and the pub were generally unavailable. But they apparently couldn't be bothered, with the streaming channels ending up as the main beneficiaries of this captive audience. I'm afraid that the main channels' response to our 'Covid Christmas' of just sticking on the usual programmes, but with a bit of tinsel on them, was never going to cut it for viewers with access to alternatives. It is probably my age, but I miss those TV Christmases of yore, when there was programming to look forward to for a solid couple of weeks over the festive period. Then again, maybe I only remember it that way because I was a child back then?
We're back! I know, I've taken a longer than usual break from posting after Christmas, but the festivities left me exhausted. Or rather the run-up to Christmas left me feeling tired: the inability to deliver stuff in person, the hassles in getting my car back from the garage and my last minute rush to buy my own festive supplies made for a frantic four days before Christmas itself. To be honest, the imposition of 'Tier 4' (of a three tier system - but what else do we expect from this government?), came as a relief, removing any last chance of being forced to socialise, having unexpected visitors or having to navigate the post-Christmas sales crowds just to do normal shopping. Consequently, I've spent a lot of time snoozing, surfacing every so often to snack on sausage rolls and catch off-beat movies on the streaming channels (it was Bloody Birthday and The Incredible Melting Man this afternoon). I've started to lose track of what day of the week it is - apparently, today is Monday. Anyway, I'm back and we're currently in that post-Christmas, pre-New Year no-man's land, where everything seems to stand still and the papers struggle to find copy to fill their pages. Which is probably why this is the time of year when they start printing all those 'prophecies' from so called 'seers' and 'prophets'. You know, the usual culprits like Nostradamus, Old Mother Shipton and the like.
Now, leaving aside the fact that these 'predictions' are all couched in such a form that considerable 'interpretation' is required on the part of journalists and the like to turn them into anything that sounds remotely comprehensible, let alone relevant to actual events, have you ever noticed that they are always about impending deaths, disasters and cataclysms? They never predict anything good, like world peace, universal love or the second coming of Christ. Which probably tells us more about ourselves than it does the people who make these 'predictions' in the first place. The fact is that doom and gloom sells. It is the excitement of potential catastrophe I suppose - it brings a bit of drama into our lives and, in a world where we spend so much time consuming media which constantly tells us that life is a series of dramatic incidents with an underlying narrative, it is hardly surprising that we want our real lives to be the same. Jut look at the way predictions of the imminent end of the world are lapped up by the media and public, whether they are based upon the misinterpretation of ancient texts, the ravings of religious nutters or are derived from bad pseudo-science, (whenever an asteroid passes within a billion miles of earth we get doomsday headlines in the tabloids). It isn't just natural disaster either - the Daily Express website keeps throwing up headlines about WORLD WAR THREE (in caps) every time there is any international tension in the Middle East or South China Seas. Clearly, the threat of our imminent demise, no matter how idiotic the source, gives us a thrill. Which is why bloody Nostradamus and his incomprehensible gibberings keep coming around every year at about this time...
A Christmas like no other, or so the media keep telling us. Actually, it' pretty much normal for me. It seems odd to me, all these people complaining about the pandemic forcing them into scaled-down Christmases, or even, horror of horrors, Christmas on their own. Hey - I've been doing my solo Christmas thing for years now and I wouldn't have it any other way. It has turned Christmas from something I'd come to dread into something I now look forward to - a day of lethargy devoted entirely to myself, with no interruptions from the outside world. Which is what puzzles me about this outpouring of despair over the idea of having to have a 'different' Christmas - aren't many of these people the same ones who every year moan about Christmas, about the expense of it and being forced to put up with their relatives? Well, here's your chance to do it differently and what do they do? They moan about it. Mind you, even I have had to change some of my regular Christmas activities this year - there's no video of the various Christmas lights I see around Crapchester. To be fair, this isn't entirely down to Covid. It also has a lot to do with the fact that I didn't get my car back from the garage until yesterday, (a saga in itself) and, as I've been on sabbatical from my usual work, even if I had been mobile, I wouldn't have had cause to be going all over the town looking at other people's Christmas decorations.
While I might not have my customary Christmas video to post here this Christmas Eve, instead here's some vintage Christmas advertising:
So there you are - if you are stuck for a last minute Christmas present, just give someone a carton of cigarettes, so that they can happily hack their way through the festive season. Back in the fifties these sort of promotions - gift packed cigarettes - were apparently pretty common. Not just in the US, either. I have vague recollections of having seen a similar promotion from the UK in the sixties, involving John Player Specials. I suppose that it made a nice change from being given socks for Christmas.
So, it only remains to wish everyone a happy Winterval, or whatever it is you celebrate. Have a good one.
I found myself watching North West Frontier (1959) again the other day. I had no intention of watching it, but it was on and I was waiting for something else to start on another channel, so just kept on watching. I seem to remember that it was always on TV when I was a kid, during the seventies, when we watched it in all innocence, seeing it as just an historical adventure film set during the days of the Raj. Seeing it in a contemporary context is quite fascinating on the surface it is a stirring story of British military types facing down a local Muslim uprising in what is now Pakistan. Yet, being made in 1959, with India having been an independent country again for more than ten years, you can see glimpses behind the stiff upper lips and stoicism of doubts over Britain's role as an Imperial power. While heroic army captain Kenneth More tells half-Indian Muslim journalist Herbert Lom, 'see what happens when we aren't here to keep order', (the script writers perhaps looking forward to the ani-Muslim violence which accompanied the partition of India upon independence), as they view the aftermath of a rebel attack, Lom's character makes some impassioned arguments in favour of self rule and the injustices of Imperial rule. Sure, Lom is ultimately the villain of the piece, but, to be absolutely fair, it isn't so much his belief in self-rule for indigenous peoples that is condemned as the violence of his methods and for trying to make these beliefs concrete. The film even ends with a foreshadowing of events to come (it is set in 1905), with the five year old Hindu prince that More has been protecting from the rebels informing the British officer that his late father told him that eventually he would have to fight the British to secure true independence for his people.
Ultimately, though, what struck me most about the film on this viewing was that it was so clearly an attempt to tell ourselves, the British, that, despite the beginning of a reassessment of our Imperial legacy, we could still see ourselves as the good guys. They might have been maintaining an essentially unjust system of colonial rule and expropriation of indigenous wealth for the benefit of Britain, officers likw Kenneth More's character were still basically decent chaps. After all, he respects the expertise of the Indian locomotive driver and doesn't patronise him, he accepts the professionalism of the Indian soldiers under his command and accords the boy prince the level of deference appropriate to his position. The British certainly aren't the villains of the piece - these are the warmongering but essentially faceless Muslim rebels and, to a lesser degree, the arms dealers who indiscriminately sell their wares to the highest bidder, (as represented by cheerful arms company rep Peters - Eugene Deckers in one of his biggest film roles - who, although having a British passport, is clearly of foreign birth). While Lauren Bacall's feisty American governess provides a caustic critique of the British approach to crises, it never really amounts to a full-blown condemnation of Imperialism and she inevitably falls for More's terribly British charms. North West Frontier is one of those stories we, as a society, like to tell ourselves in order to reinforce our narrative that, despite some shortcomings, historically we have been a force for good in the world and don't need to feel guilt or question the values which informed Imperialism.
Obviously, this sort of story-telling isn't unique to the British. All nations seek to justify themselves and their values in this way. While Germans might not try to justify Nazism, for instance, in the same way as we try to justify empire, they have, in the post war period, sought to find some good among the evil of Hitler's regime. Just look at the proliferation of biographies of wartime figures like Luftwaffe ace Adolf Galland, which try to establish him as an honourable soldier, loyally defending his country, while avoiding involvement in the politics of the regime. Likewise the rehabilitation and veneration of Field Marshal Rommel as an apolitical homourable soldier, While such interpretations of these figures might, to some degree, be true, the fact is that they still chose to operate within a regime openly based upon racism and anti-Semitism and which justified genocide. Even if they didn't align themselves fully with these policies, or simply chose to turn a blind eye to the ample evidence that they were happening, their continued participation in the war effort was an endorsement of the ruling regime. But it is still important for people to be able to look back and be able to say, 'well, we weren't all bad, not everyone who fought on our side were villains tainted by Nazism', just as it is important for the British to be able to look back at our Imperial past and say, 'well, we weren't the worst Imperial overlords - most of our boys were at least pretty decent chaps'. For the US, of course, the mythologising of the Old West as a tale of brave pioneers and fearless lawmen battling against the odds to found a nation and tame the west, is a way of coming to terms with the fact that their nation was founded upon the injustice of violently dispossessing the indigenous people's of their lands and way of life.
But it isn't just nations that seek to construct positive stories out their pasts. As individuals we do it all the time, constantly reshaping our memories in order to cast ourselves as the heroes of our own lives. We all do it - I know that I certainly do. We look back and try to justify our every decision, our every move, reinterpreting events so as to put ourselves in the best possible light. Even those incidents which might seem discreditable are are reinterpreted - that time you were rude to shop assistant, for example, we try to recast, telling ourselves that we were somehow justified in being rude and churlish over what was really something trivial. But increasingly I have come to believe that it is often better to be brutally frank with oneself and accept that sometimes we don't act heroically, sometimes we are wrong, sometimes we treat others badly, or behave selfishly - all in ways that we can't, in all honesty, justify. If only we could do that at a national level maybe, just maybe, we could start moving forward rather than clinging to a past built on self delusion.
Here we are, Christmas week itself at last. I suppose that this week I should make all my posts fluffy and festive, but I'm not sure that would match the general mood right now, what with Christmas 'being cancelled' due to Covid. (See, I've been telling you that this would be the case ever since the idiot Johnson started telling us that it would 'all be over by Christmas'). But let us talk of other things. Jeremy Bulloch died recently and, of course, much of the commentary on his passing focused on the role for which he is best known: Boba Fett in the Star Wars films. Which is testimony to the obsessiveness of Star Wars fans, as it was a role in which we neither saw his face nor heard his voice. Personally, I prefer to remember him for his more visible roles, not least of which included appearances in three of Roger Moore's Bond movies. In Spy Who Loved Me, he was a crewman on the British submarine HMS Ranger, which is swallowed by Stromberg's giant tanker just after the opening titles had rolled. IN For Your Eyes Only, he made his first appearance as Q's assistant, Smithers, assisting in the testing of some new equipment during the usual visual gag sequence in Q's lab. He reprised the role in Octopussy, where the Secret Service was obviously feeling the effects of Thatcher's public spending cuts, as not only was assisting Q in his Indian lab, but also doing some field work in London, tailing the villain.
But most of all, I'd like to remember Bulloch for his contribution to the British sex comedy, in the form of his leading role in Can You Keep it Up For a Week? (1974). OK, so it wasn't exactly a classic of the genre and he was no Robin Askwith (but who is?), but it has a pretty good cast, which includes sue Longworth, Valerie Leon and Richard O'Sullivan and it is a pretty painless ninety two minutes of smutty entertainment. The tale of a blundering idiot trying to keep a job, any job, for a week in order to avoid his girlfriend from leaving him - resulting in all the usual British sex comedy naked shenanigans you'd expect from the genre - the film marks the only directorial credit for Jim Atkinson, an editor and sound editor with an impressive CV, (Get Carter, Deliverance, Zardoz, for instance). It was also one of a trio of sex films co-produced by wrestling commentator Kent 'Have a Good Week 'til Next Week' Walton under various pseudonyms. As I said, it isn't a great film, but it is one of the few leading roles Bulloch got in his career and, unlike his Star Wars appearances, you do get to see a lot of him. Although lacking Robin Askwith's charisma, Bulloch gives his role a decent stab, even if he does come over as more of a dim witted blunderer than the sort of naive klutz these sorts of films really require for a lead. Still, it is pretty decently made, with good production values. Can You Keep it Up For a Week? is certainly far from being the worst British sex comedy ever made and at least allow Bulloch to give a performance (so to speak), unlike Star Wars, which just required him to stand around wearing armour.
It's no good, I know that, in the spirit of the season, I'm trying to avoid politics, but I just have to say, are you really surprised by the utter shambles of the past few days? I mean, did anyone honestly think that a government led by Boris Johnson would be any different? His utter incompetence and inability to get to grips with the reality of political decision making has been on open display for years. So, is anyone really surprised by the complete lack of leadership we have been left with in the face of two crises, the pandemic and the prospect of a No Deal Brexit? Sadly, I have a feeling that things are going to get much worse before they get any better.
One of the incidental pleasures of watching streaming channels like B-Movie TV and American Horrors is that they tend to show old adverts from around the world between programmes. American Horrors, in particular, screens a lot of vintage cigarette commercials, including this one from the UK for John Player Special cigarettes. This one dates from 1972, when cigarette advertising had been banned from TV for some time, but still persisted in cinemas. It is pretty much typical of its type, trying to position its product as some kind of luxury lifestyle item. All of the 'upmarket' cigarette brands like JPS or Benson and Hedges tried this tactic in a clear attempt to move their products away from the increasing evidence of the harm they could do to their users' health. After all, nobody wants to be reminded that what they are smoking might fill their lungs with tar, fur up their arteries and possibly give them respiratory problems and/or cancer. They'd much rather maintain the fictio that they are a mark of sophistication and class.
It is notable that that cheaper cigarette brands like Woodbines, for instance, never got this treatment. Presumably on the basis that they were so rough that the type of person prepared to smoke them didn't care what they might be doing to their body. It is remarkable the amount of creativity that went into many of these campaigns - all to sell something that you inhaled into your lungs at your own peril. Interestingly, later campaigns would even avoid promoting the idea that these were something you smoked, not featuring anyone actually engaged in smoking and sometimes not even showing the actual product itself, like this Hugh Hudson directed Benson and Hedges cinema ad, which focuses entirely upon the packaging:
The cigarette carton as archeological artifact, a source of wonder to the masses. Which, ironically, is what cigarettes are becoming as their usage declines. Indeed, nowadays they are even denied their colourful packaging, truly making that Benson and Hedges carton a museum piece. Of course, while cigarette advertising might have been banned from British TV, the tobacco companies still maintained a strong presence through sports sponsorship: I vividly remember the black painted JPS Formula One cars, for instance, bringing the brand into millions of homes in the days when Formula One was still shown on BBC2. Still, it is all a thing of the past now, with the adverts a relic of a strange era when people filled their lungs with smoke in an attempt to look sophisticated, (according to the ads, at least).
As I featured a Bud Spencer solo starring feature the other day, I thought it would be appropriate to present a 'Random Movie Trailer' featuring his erstwhile partner Terence Hill. In truth, March or Die isn't a particularly good film. As the cast list indicates, it is one of those international co-productions, featuring stars from the various countries financing it. The need to give them all adequate screen time in order satisfy the various backers means that the plot never really has a chance to get going, the film stuttering along from one set piece to another. Hill is as constrained as his co-stars by the script's episodic feel, never really getting a chance to demonstrate the combination of charisma and athleticism which had made him such a huge star.
Playing what is essentially a dramatic role, March or Die provides a contrast with his more light-hearted comedies, both the solo efforts and the partnerships with Bud Spencer, harking back to the sort of roles he had played pre-Trinity. Although not a comedy adventure, Hill does have a sort of Bud Spencer substitute in the form of Jack O'Halloran's burly and bearded fellow legionnaire. Despite this, there aren't many laughs in what turns out to be a pretty grim tale of the Legion. It doesn't help that star Gene Hackman seems ill-at-ease and just seems too, well, modern. Interestingly, the film was produced by much the same production team behind the far more successful 1975 remake of Raymond Chandler's Farewell My Lovely. While by no means unwatchable, March or Die feels unsatisfying, seemingly never getting into its stride and by the end still doesn't feel as if it has properly resolved any of its plot lines. It's a poor vehicle for Terence Hill and ultimately did little to establish him in non-Italian made films. He does at least provide his own voice rather than being dubbed, (it was from around this period that he started dubbing himself into English, which he speaks extremely well, having lived in the US for several years, although, bizarrely, despite being Italian, he still found himself being dubbed by another actor in the Italian language versions).
For various reasons I won't go into right now, conspiracy theories have been on my mind of late. The whole moon landing hoax conspiracy theory to be specific. Make no mistake, the idea that the moon landings were faked is and always have been utter bollocks, but I'm always left wondering what other real events people believe were faked. Well, according to some of the conspiracy nutters, everything, from Nazi concentration camps to the current pandemic have been faked by, well, them, in order to - well, they never really seem very clear on what 'them' are trying to achieve. The thesis that the moon hoax bunch posit is that either the US knew that landing on the moon was unfeasible, or that something went wrong with the real mission, forcing them to fake the whole thing in a film studio. (I'm not going to get into the technicalities of refuting this guff, other than to say that it certainly was technically feasible to put men on the moon in 1969 and that, far from planning a cover up in the event it all went wrong, President Nixon actually had a statement prepared for such an eventuality). So, while pondering such things and desperately trying to come up with a Christmas themed story for The Sleaze, I asked myself what if these conspiracy theorists 'uncovered' that Santa Claus was actually being faked by 'them'? Maybe even the whole of Christmas is just a construct designed to divert people's attention from something or other.
Anyway, what if Santa died, from coronavirus maybe, like in the NHS ad, would the government move to fake his annual activities so as to ensure that public morale during the pandemic doesn't take another knock? Would they employ actors dressed in red suits to go down chimneys, or fake footage of his North Pole workshop in a TV studio? Of course, what I'm grasping toward is the idea that conspiracy theorists are the sort of people who, having suddenly found out that Santa isn't real, assume that they had previously been duped by a high level conspiracy, regardless of the fact that Santa never existed in the first place. Is any of this making any kind of warped sense? Because, you know, I'm really at a loss for a Christmas themed story this year - inspiration is very hard to come by under present conditions. It is either this or some kind of Brexit-linked story. You know the sort of thing - Santa banned from the UK because he's too continental, or all his presents are trapped in a container at Felixstowe, the search for a new 'British' Santa? All possibilities, but I really have to come up with something soon and the faking Santa conspiracy appeals simply because it is suitably surreal, the sort of thing we've traditionally specialised in at The Sleaze. I'll have to sleep on it and see if my subconscious can hone the raw idea into something more like a viable story.
One of my guilty cinematic pleasures is undoubtedly watching the films of Terence Hill and Bud Spencer, either in solo starring efforts or their buddy comedies. Yes, I know that they are decidedly lowbrow slapstick comedies, apparently aimed at twelve year old boys, but they still appeal to the twelve year old boy in me. They are also hugely reassuring, not only taking me back to my twelve year old self, but also positing me back in a world of black and white simplicity - the good guys, generally in the form of simple working class blokes, always triumph over the forces of evil, who are typically slick, but incompetent high rollers with pretensions of sophistication, through a combination of guile and brute force. Of late the streaming service Pluto TV has been screening a number of their films on their movie channels. Most, like Odds and Evens, Crimebusters and Who Finds a Friend, Finds a Treasure (all starring both Hill and Spencer), along with Banana Joe (Spencer only) and Super Snooper (Hill only), I was already familiar with. But they've also turned up some, like Even Angels Eat Beans (Spencer with Giuliani Gemma clearly standing in for Hill), that I hadn't seen before. Watching them inspired me to dig a bit further into their respective back catalogues for some less well known items and I came up with the Bud Spencer solo effort Charleston (1977).
As always, before discussing the film, I have to give the proviso that what I'm basing my observations upon is an English-language version of the film which, inevitably is edited and dubbed and therefore might not be entirely representative of the original. This version of Charleston, for instance, runs nearly fifteen minutes shorter than the Italian version and features Bud Spencer with yet another different voice, (it sounds like the guy who sometimes dubbed Jean-Paul Belmondo in the late seventies), and several recognisable British actors dubbed with voices other than their own. This film should also not be confused with a 1974 Italian film which had the same English language title, (interestingly, it was a non-Bud Spencer starring sequel to the aforementioned Bud Spencer vehicle Even Angels Eat Beans). I must admit that Charleston surprised me somewhat upon viewing it - the film was clearly designed to be something of a departure for Spencer, firmly casting him against type and eschewing much of the slapstick action and physicality of his usual vehicles. Bud Spencer typically played unsophisticated, gruff, working class types, (a docker in Crimebusters, for instance, or a trucker in Odds and Evens), who generally leave the scheming to Terence Hill (or his substitutes), preferring to resolve situations with fists and formidable strength. Here, however, he is sophisticated upmarket con man Charleston, who teams up with some hapless former associates to spin an incredibly complex sting against American gangster James Coco. Indeed, 'sting' is an apt description for what unfolds, as one of the film's inspirations is clearly the hugely popular Paul Newman/Robert Redford movie The Sting.
Instead of depression-era New York, though, Charleston is mainly set in then present day London. Which means that there are lots of shots of various Central London locations familiar to tourists, not to mention quite a bit of footage shot in various luxury hotel suites. The plot which unfolds against this background is complex and careful viewing is required to keep abreast of all the developments. The catalyst id Coco's loss-making casino ship, based in the Mediterranean, which he is desperate to divest himself of - he is constantly calling the captain, trying to persuade him to somehow sink the ship so that he can collect the insurance. When this fails, Coco's crooked lawyer sets up a scheme whereby he lets it known that he fronting for a third party desirous of purchasing a passenger vessel for five million pounds (far above its value at current market rates), in the hope that someone will chance their arm by offering Coco at least three million for his ship in order to resell at a profit to the non-existent third party. Of course, when the sale is made, the 'buyer' will vanish, leaving the suckers with a loss-making ship and Coco three million richer. A group of small time con artists in London take the bait, but don't believe that the job is too big for them, so call in former associate Charleston.
Charleston, obviously, sees through Coco's scheme and plans to out-con him, securing the unwitting assistance of Scotland Yard Inspector Herbert Lom along the way. In a complicated bit of business which involves Spencer donning a turban and pretending to be an Indian art expert, the gang succeed in stealing a valuable painting that Lom happens to own, (judging by his house and art collection, he's either overpaid or on the take), ensuring that the Inspector suspects Charleston of being involved in the theft. Lom makes contact with Charleston, who convinces him that he wasn't responsible for the theft, but rather that Coco was behind it, offering to help Lom recover the painting and bring Coco to justice. Meanwhile, Charleston, now in the guise of a theatrical impresario, makes contact with Coco and does a deal to buy the ship. Using the theatre and the troupe of performers he has employed there under the pretext of rehearsing a show, the gang create a fake news report, piped exclusively to Coco's hotel room TV set, claiming that the ship has been sunk after being caught in the middle of an Arab-Israeli conflict. Realising that he would make more from the insurance pay out than from selling the ship to Charleston, Coco dispatches his lawyer to the theatre to buy it back - for five million pounds. Coco, however, realises that he has been duped and unsuccessfully tries to call the lawyer at the theatre (his inability to use phones has been a running gag throughout), so sends some heavies around instead. In what turns out to be the only sequence of violent mayhem one might expect from a Bud Spencer film, the heavies are dealt with by the theatre troupe and Charleston, before he signs the ship back to Coco. In the final act, before Coco can organise any reprisals against Charleston and his gang, Lom raids his hotel room, finding his stolen painting there.
All-in-all, quite a departure for Bud Spencer, which will come as a surprise to Hill/Spencer fans. The question is, does it work? Well, Spencer is a decent enough actor that, even with the handicap of dubbing on the English version, that he isn't entirely unconvincing as a sophisticated con artist. Certainly, he is far more restrained than he is in most of his roles, with none of the usual double takes and exaggerated reactions familiar from his films with Hill. There is also none of the sentimentality you usually find in Spencer's characters in his usual films, where he generally cast as the gruff, beer-drinking outsider who conceals a heart of gold beneath his ill-tempered and misanthropic exterior. Charleston is a smoothly efficient character, rarely moved to extremes of reaction, remaining cool in the face of potential threats and set-backs and is both personable and cunning. (More like the characters usually played by his erstwhile partner Ternence Hill, in fact). As noted, the only time we see anything like Spencer's usual movie persona is right at the end, when he wades in to deal with Coco's heavies. Simply seeing Spencer doing something different is, in itself, quite fascinating and worth watching the film for.
The main problem with Charleston is that, despite the strong presence of Spencer and a pretty decent supporting cast, not to mention a complicated plot with plenty of ins and outs, it never really seems to take off. As a comedy-thriller it is neither comedic enough, nor thrilling enough. Spencer's more restrained character and performance means that the usual slapstick and broad comedic shenanigans falls upon the shoulders of Coco who, although being very experienced in this sort of role, is given little to work with, (the whole business with his phone difficulties soon become tiresome). Likewise, Charleston's sidekicks, (who include Geoffrey Bayldon and Ronald Lacey - both dubbed into English with other people's voices), are neither defined as characters sufficiently, nor given enough to do, in order to add much in the way of comedy. While Herbert Lom has clearly been cast to capitalise upon his appearances in the Pink Panther films, his police Inspector never rises to to tragi-comic heights of Chief Inspector Dreyfus, being both under-written and under-utilised. As for the thriller aspects, the problem is that there is never any sense of threat to the protagonists - Coco's character is such a buffoon and Charleston clearly so much smarter than him, that he simply doesn't pose a credible threat. (Interestingly, Charleston comes over as being just as invulnerable and indestructible as Spencer's regular characters, albeit because of his brains rather than his brawn). A curious aspect of the film is that it has no significant female roles - perhaps not entirely surprising as that sort of thing is usually left to Terence Hill's (or his surrogate's) characters. But as there is no Hill equivalent in Charleston, (in most aspects, the title character fulfils his usual functions as the weaver of complex get-rich-quick schemes), there is no need for a female lead to provide a love interest.
While not entirely successful as a comedy-thriller, Charleston does, nonetheless, provide a reasonably enjoyable ninety minutes or so of entertainment. Certainly, it is worth watching for Bud Spencer completists, particularly as it offers a chance to see him stretch himself a bit playing a less familiar role than usual and represents a definite change of pace for him. Some of the film is very much of its era: Spencer in blackface as an Indian, for instance, seems jarring, (not to mention ludicrous) now. It also offers some great shots of seventies London - a London I remember form childhood, (we regularly visited relatives in the capital during the seventies and always ended up driving around the landmarks seen here). When all is said and done, though, I must admit that, despite Charleston's merits, I did miss the mass brawls and low humour of the regular Bud Spencer vehicles of this era. Or rather, the twelve year old in me missed them.
A classic Hammer double bill and also another classic exploitation promotional gimmick. In this case (if you watch to the end of the trailer) it is a set of plastic vampire fangs for the boys and zombie eyes for the girls - both given away at the box office. Obviously, this was a US promotion and it is interesting to see these films marketed toward a teen audience. Hammer's Gothic horrors weren't the average sort of fare usually aimed at such audiences in the sixties: AIP beach movies, biker movies and cheap blood fests like Mad Doctor of Blood Island and its ilk, for instance. Certainly in the UK, these were aimed at a more adult audience, (as witnessed by their X-Certificates). Certainly, in degrees of blood-letting, decapitations and the like, Dracula, Prince of Darkness and Plague of the Zombies, were both pretty strong, even by Hammer standards, making them seem idea teen-fodder. On the other hand, though, they are much slower moving, concentrating on building up atmosphere and characters, not to mention talkier, than the regular stuff of youth-orientated double bills.
The girl getting decapitated with a shovel in Plague of the Zombies is Jacqueline Pearce, later to become better known for playing Severin in Blake's Seven. For Hammer, she also played the title role in The Reptile, which was shot, on the same sets, back-to-back with Plague of the Zombies, (they also shared a director in John Gilling). In fact, Dracula, Prince of Darkness and Rasputin the Mad Monk (both starring Christopher Lee), were also shot on the same sets, with all four films designed to go out on double bills. (The Reptile was released with Rasputin). One has to admire the ingenuity of Hammer's art department in managing to make the same sets represent Castle Dracula, Imperial Russia and two different Cornish villages in the course of four films. Indeed, unless one watches all four films back-to-back it isn't immediately obvious that they use the same sets. While this multi-use of the sets was implemented by Hammer mainly as a cost-saving measure, the relatively cramped nature of their old Bray Studios undoubtedly was also a consideration. It was far easier to re-use the same sets rather than tear down and erect new sets in the grounds of Bray House four times over a short period, especially as they were due to vacate the studios shortly. (John Gilling's The Mummy's Shroud (1967) was the last Hammer film shot at Bray, before they moved to the MGM lot at Elstree - where Quatermass and the Pit (1967) was their first movie). Anyway, it was a great double bill and a fun gimmick of the type you just don't get anymore - perhaps in the post-pandemic days they can revive such things in order to tempt people back to the cinemas...
Another bizarre exploitation movie promotional gimmick: getting your target teen audience to drink some dubious-looking green gel before the performance. The film, Mad Doctor of Blood Island (1968) - infamously featured the green-blooded 'Chlorophyll Monster', (who reappeared in 1970's Beast of Blood). Rather than 'passionately affect you' the green gel was apparently more likely to make you nauseous, although that allegedly didn't stop teenagers from knocking it back before showings of the film. These kind of stunts used to be commonplace when it came to promoting this sort of film - if it wasn't vials of green blood then it was sick bags, plastic vampire fangs or 'magic' rings (made of plastic, obviously), depending upon the film. Sometimes, instead of these giveaway gimmicks, you got in-film stunts, Ray Denis Steckler, for instance, had theatre staff in monster masks run through the auditorium during screenings of The Lemon Grove Kids Meet the Monsters.
While it was all very tacky and lowbrow, I have to say that I miss this sort of stuff - it died out as the seventies progressed. Going to the cinema (when they are able to open) has become a very sterile experience, with as much fun drained from it as possible. These days cinema chains are more interested in selling you over priced popcorn than they are entertaining you. On top of the fact that you don't get any giveaway gimmicks, these days you only get a single film on the programme - even I can remember the days when you at least got a supporting feature (usually an older film which already had several TV showings). Damn it, sometimes you even got a full-fledged double bill, (I well remember seeing two Mel Brooks' films - Young Frankenstein and Silent Movie - on a double bill back in the early eighties, not to mention a Ray Harryhausen revival consisting of Jason and the Argonauts and Mysterious Island a couple of years later). To get back to the original point, I have to say that, despite the gimmick, Mad Doctor of Blood Island isn't a particularly good film. Nevertheless, despite being rather shoddily made, it proved popular on its original release. Pretty typical of Philippines made movies of the era, it does have the distinction of being co-directed by Eddie Romero and Gerardo de Leon, two of the key figures in post-war Filipino film production.
I suppose that it is another sign that Christmas is imminent that they've just shown the Royal Variety Performance on ITV. I have to say that I'm more shocked by the fact that the Royal Variety Performance is still a thing than I am that Christmas is so close. I mean, it seems such an anachronism - not just the idea of putting on a performance for the benefit of Royalty, but the idea of 'Variety' as entertainment. I know that they keep trying to revive it in the form of things like Britain's Got Talent, but the very concept of 'Variety' entertainment has surely had its day, hasn't it? When I was growing up in the seventies, the 'Variety Show' was still a staple of the TV schedules, particularly Saturday nights. For kids of my generation, they seemed dire, full of anachronistic acts that had somehow survived the demise of the music hall and were now dying a lingering death on our TV screens. They really did seem to come from another era and were squarely aimed at viewers old enough to remember the music halls and variety theatres. Ironically, of course, it was TV variety shows in the fifties and sixties which had killed those venues and was now sustaining these displaced acts in this tedious after life,
Back in the day, your average juggler, acrobat, mediocre singer and one-joke comic could spend their entire careers working the theatres with barely a change to their act - they played to relatively small audiences and there was always a new audience and a new venue. With TV, you did your act once on a show and the whole nation had seen it - who was going to pay to see it again in a music hall when it was available for free in their own living room? Yet TV persisted with those bloody shows, despite the fact that, as I quickly realised as a kid, once you've seen one juggler, you've seen them all. Believe me, even for a seven or eight year old, the novelty of people spinning plates, riding unicycles, eating fire or bashing themselves over the head with a tin tray soon wore off. I'd sooner have been watching Dr Who, Sexton Blake or The Persuaders. At least things happened in them and the stories they told were sufficiently different from week-to-week (although still formulaic) that didn't seem repetitive. (When I was young, the second most boring type of programme on TV after variety shows were, I felt, soap operas, which seemed to be just people talking in what looked like your own living room - I got that at home, 24/7). Yet TV executives seem to think that there is still some sort of public demand for one-trick novelty acts, dull singers, cack-handed musicians and middle-of-the-road comedians. Not in my house, though.
The best and most effective stage illusions are usually extremely simple: it is the only way in which they can work. The more the mechanics of an illusion are complicated, the more that there is to go wrong and potentially reveal the reality behind the illusion. Equally, if an illusion appears to have an element of danger in its performance, then you can guarantee that, in reality, there is never any risk of harm to any of the participants. These things work because we, the audience, choose to deceive ourselves. It goes beyond a straightforward suspension of disbelief, rather, at one level we know that it is all easily explained, a simple trick, but on another, we don't want to admit that we can be so easily deceived. So we try to come up with all manner of complex explanations for these illusions, assuming that they must be works of genius, rather than of craftsmen (as those who design them usually are). I've come to the conclusion with the way in which we view our idols, whether it be in the arts, politics or journalism. Even when they are exposed as crooks and charlatans - usually quite obvious crooks and charlatans - large numbers of us choose to deny or somehow excuse these facts. Presumably because we don't want to admit to ourselves that we could have been so easily taken in by them.
Just look at the (often fanatical) levels of support the Trump still seems to enjoy in the US - a figure who surely can have no credibility, having exposed himself as a liar, a misogynist, a racist and, perhaps worst of all, utterly incompetent in the face of an actual crisis. Here is someone who trades on patriotism - the patriotism of his supporters - yet serially show his contempt for the constitution and even the very notion of democracy. Yet, a significant proportion of Americans still refuse to acknowledge that this is the true nature of the man they have empowered. They can't all be dismissed as redneck hill billies. Yet they seem to have suspended their critical faculties when it comes to Trump: having given their support, they can't seem to admit that they have been deceived. it is the same in the UK: just look at the continued devotion of many of the 'Leave' camp with regard to Brexit, even as it becomes obvious that the form of Brexit being pursued by the Tories is a form of extremism which will likely do serious harm to the UK economy. Because, again, they can't admit that they were deceived by the likes of Farage and Johnson. The latter is another example of a career being built upon a simple illusion: that his shambolic appearance conceals an intellectual powerhouse of a political mastermind. After all, he went to Eton and Oxford, he can quote the classics in Greek and Latin, so he must be smart, mustn't he? Yet all the evidence points to the opposite: his performance in power suggests that his shambolic appearance conceals a shambolic intellect. Yet, he still enjoys a surprising level of support among those who still insist upon his genius, not wanting to admit that they have been easily misled.
It isn't just on the political right, either. Just look at the continued adulation in some quarters for Jeremy Corbyn. Truly, he is the Messiah. Despite having led the Labour Party to the brink of electoral annihilation. These supporters refuse to acknowledge hat is self evident: that he was an inadequate leader, lacking any of the qualities required to lead a political party to electoral success. His indecisiveness and prevarication on difficult issues, his willingness to ignore the opinion of the membership and supporters when they disagreed with him (over Brexit, for instance) and his inability to connect with voters on the doorstep were there for all to see. All, it seems, except his own acolytes, who still refuse to admit that they bought into an illusion. Of course, it isn't just politicians who attract this sort of blind adulation - you see it with newspaper columnists and prominent broadcasters who, despite being exposed over and over again as ill informed, biased hypocrites, still have their every word lapped up, as if it were gospel truth, by fans. Then there are the 'entertainers' - I've highlighted elsewhere the various pop 'idols' who have made utter dicks of themselves during the pandemic - yet they still have their ardent followers. 'You can't condemn their whole body of work based on those of their opinions you don't like', these fans say in defence. Which is only true up to a point: I find that, more often than not' once I find out that someone holds vile views on one subject, I can't help but start reinterpreting their whole body of work in view of these views. But those fans just don't want to believe that they were so easily deceived into believing that their idols were sincere and talented. It isn't so much the 'Great Illusion' than the 'Great Self-Delusion'.
Strange days indeed. I had another of those instances this week where I found myself following someone on Twitter, despite the fact that I hadn't followed them. Earlier this week I noticed multiple Tweets from 'Lloyds Bank Business' in my timeline. Now, at first I just thought that these were the regular ads which turn up, unsolicited. But because there were so many of them, I opted to 'see fewer Tweets like these', adding that I found them irrelevant. The next day, they were back, except that this time they were retweeting other people that I didn't follow. 'It's as if I was following them', I thought, adding to myself, 'but that's ridiculous as I don't follow banks and businesses.' At which point, the doubts set in as I recalled other instances where I'd started seeing unexpected Tweets in my timeline, only to find that I'd apparently followed these people. Previously, I'd rationalised it as my having somehow accidentally followed them, by clicking on that 'follow' button while trying to click elsewhere. Unlikely, but possible as at least one of the accounts involved seemed to be the sort of thing I might follow by choice, so might have looked at. But in this case, there is absolutely no way that I could have done that as I know that there is no way that I could ever have been anywhere near the 'Lloyds Bank Business' account. But a quick check on the 'Followed' list in my account and, lo and behold, there was 'Lloyds Bank Business' as the most recently followed entry. Needless to say, I immediately unfollowed them.
Still, it remains a mystery. I don't know if anyone else has had this experience - are these phantom 'follows' a thing? I remember a few years ago that I started finding these videos that I hadn't ever watched in my You Tube history - it turned out that I wasn't the only one. They were all from the same account and all seemed to be soundless short films of cars driving along. Anyway, the 'explanation' was that they were embedded videos on sites that had been visited, but which had played 'below the fold', so weren't actually seen at the time (and, being silent, hadn't been heard). Not that we can use the same explanation for this Twitter business. Mind you, I'm beginning to think that I should make a New Year's Resolution to look at Twitter less. It has already got to the point where I rarely post anything there, just look at other people's Tweets. The trouble is that other people's Tweets are increasingly irritating me, (the number of accounts I've muted is growing). That and all the crackpot shit which trends - just looking at the trending topics risks being exposed to yet more of these foaming-at-the-mouth loons. I've said it before and I'll say it again, social media has provided every crank in creation a potentially global platform, so that idiotic stuff that just used to be confined to a deluded few can now reverberate around the world, uniting these isolated fruitcakes into coalitions that can seemingly influence news agendas and politicians - just look at the rise of Trump and his MAGA cult. So, the less I see of this shit, the better, (especially for my mental health).
So, another day in my current half life - one which left me pondering on the number of fucking arseholes out there. Let's start with the anti-vaxxers. You just knew that as soon as a Covid vaccine was approved, these clowns would be out in force, spreading their misinformation. Sadly, I wasn't disappointed. A swine flu vaccine from some years ago, which left some of those given it with severe side effects was immediately cited by them as proof of their anti-vaccine stance. The problem was, though, that it was an untested vaccine which didn't have approval and those given it were made aware of the potential consequences. So, hardly the same thing at all. But that's what these contrarians are all about, regardless of the issue: comparing apples with pears to try and prove that wrong is right. It was the same when Trump lost the presidential election to Biden and all the little Trump groupies were bawling their eyes out and shouting 'fraud!' with no evidence. "Oh, so it is OK for you remainers to go to court to get the Brexit vote overturned, but not if Trump resorts to the law to overturn a corrupt election result. Hypocrites!" They all cried on social media. Except that nobody went to court to overturn the referendum result - the court cases were to ensure that government acted constitutionally and allowed parliament to vote on every stage of Brexit. But hey, what are the facts between crackpots, eh?
Still, if we are lucky, the anti-vaxxers will subject themselves to natural selection through their refusal to take vaccines for potentially deadly diseases. Once they die out, hopefully a lot of the other idiocy we see these days will die with them - I find that it is generally the same people who like to fly in the face of reason. If they are anti-vaxxers then, odds on, they are anti-lockdown, anti EU, you name it, they are against it. I have to say that one of the pleasures I've had during this pandemic are the number of celebrities who have revealed themselves as idiots. The latest is Rick Wakeman, who is apparently releasing an anti-lockdown protest album. He joins the likes of Ian Brown and Van Morrison in being contrarians. My pleasure comes from the fact that, in my youth, so many of my 'trendy' acquaintances used to hold these people up as being 'cool' and somehow 'right on', so it is good to see them being revealed as the ignorant, selfish pricks I always thought they were. It gives me almost as much satisfaction as seeing that idiot Morrissey reveal himself as some kind of neo Nazi. I never could stand him either, the sanctimonious git.
To cap the idiocy off, today we had Education Secretary Gavin Williamson - very much the idiot's idiot - declaring that the UK had approved a vaccine ahead of other European countries because Britain was better! (This was after several of his colleagues, including the unspeakable Rees-Mogg, Nadine Dorries and 'Door' Matt Hancock had spent yesterday blatantly lying by claiming that the vaccine's quick approval was only possible because Brexit had freed us from EU red tape - in reality, we are still in transition from the EU and subject to their rules, the rules which allowed a rapid approval for the vaccine). Yes, we have better scientists than Germany or Belgium. (Despite the fact that the vaccine in question was developed by a German firm and is manufactured in Belgium. Oh, not to forget that the scientists behind it are Turkish immigrants to Germany). The fact that we are better is presumably why we've also just chalked up 60,000 Covid deaths, the highest in Europe - better at not preparing for the pandemic, better at not securing sufficient PPE and better at devising a track and trace system.
Life, of late, has been feeling very strange for me. A combination of factors have resulted in my sleeping pattern shifting radically which, in turn has resulted in my whole body rhythms becoming disrupted. I feel like I'm spending half the day asleep. Which, thanks to the shortening of the days as we get into winter, is effectively is what is happening. Over the past few weeks I've found myself unable to get to sleep until four or five in the morning, resulting in me sleeping into the afternoon, when the sun is already well on its way down. Consequently, it feels as if I'm living some kind of half-life where it is never fully light, existing in darkness most of the day. The problem, of course, is that the cycle becomes self-reinforcing: you get up late, so you aren't tired come the usual bed time, so you stay up doing stuff, go to be late, sleep late, and so on. Somewhere along the way, I need to break this cycle. By getting up earlier, obviously. The trouble is that it has turned cold, so getting out a cold bed doesn't seem a very inviting prospect when you don't have to go into work. Which is one of the factors that have led to this situation: I'm on an extended 'sabattical' from work, but still waiting to start doing any supply teaching (Covid and my regular employers dragging their feet over references is currently holding this up). So there's no oncentive to get up early. On top of that, we're now into that time of the year when my body starts telling me to hibernate and this year, it actually has an opportunity to do so.
To make things worse, I find myself beating myself up over the fact that my current hours are resulting in me not achieving anything. Except, as I had to tell myself yesterday, this simply isn't true. Sure, I'm not doing things like outdoor activities, or DIY, or anything work-related, but neither are a lot of other people thanks to lockdowns, etc. The fact is that I am doing stuff. Just yesterday, for instance, on top of chores like shopping, I put together and posted my latest podcast over at the Overnightscape Underground, recorded a segment for somebody else's podcast and wrote a post here. Which is actually a lot to do, requiring quite a bit of effort, not to mention being quite time-consuming. Today wasn't quite as productive, but I do have this post to show for it, (a lot of my time has been taken up today composing an official letter, which I can't go into here). So I'm doing stuff, just not the stuff I was doing a few months ago. Besides, why should our leisure time be based around 'doing stuff'? If we make our down time entirely goal orientated, then we might as well still be at work. Damn it, even spending hours sitting around watching schlocky movies (or 'the weekend' as you might call it) is 'doing' something. After all, I often subsequently write about these films here - a creative activity in itself. Having said all that, there really are things I need to start doing: most importantly, sorting out my great nieces' Christmas presents. (They currently live in the States so this has to be organised via US-based online retailers). I mean, it's December already and I haven't dome anything in this regard - usually I've got it all sorted before the end of November!
