Every so often something happens that makes you think that maybe the current Covid situation isn't all bad. This week it was the announcement that Britain's Got Talent had been cancelled this year - with any luck they'll forget to bring it back in 2022. We've already had the announcement that Glastonbury is off for another year and the Tokyo Olympics, already postponed from last year, are looking doubtful for this Summer. Slowly but surely, some of the greatest annual bores are being eliminated. Yes, I know that I'm a miserable anti-social bastard, but be honest, is a TV programme showcasing supremely untalented members of the public really entertainment? Is anyone, other than those actually attending it, really interested in the Glastonbury Festival, isn't it just one of those things people pretend to be into because they think it makes them seem 'cool' and 'with it'? Does anyone really sit through wall-to-wall sport for a solid fortnight when the Olympics take over our media every four years? Isn't it just two weeks of utter boredom? I know that, arguably, in normal times we have the option of not watching these things, but the reality is hat seem inescapable, so much media space do they take up.
Anyway, I'm now living in hope that the Eurovision Song Contest will be off for another year - a blessed relief from what has become, for the UK, an exercise in masochism at we succeed in selecting a dire song, then apparently watch with dismay as it comes last. But where will TV be without these allegedly popular mainstays to fill their schedules? Come up with something new and different, hopefully. I mean, all of these things have been running for tears, decades in some cases and are, in TV terms, exhausted formats which badly need to be renewed or replaced. Programme makers should see the pandemic as a fantastic opportunity to kick these tired old formats into touch and strike out in new directions. Not that they will. As soon as they can, they'll revert back to the same old dross. Of course, the thing I'm really looking forward to being - hopefully - cancelled for a second consecutive year is my local excuse for a pop festival, Crapchester Shite, sorry, Crapchester Live. This is one that I really can't escape, as it is staged in the park across the road from me and forces us local residents to endure forty eight hours of ear-splitting cacophony from the various local amateur 'bands' that perform, (it combines the worst aspects of a 'talent' show and Glastonbury). Not to mention having our local streets overrun with drunken morons who drop rubbish everywhere and think it OK to trespass into people's gardens and use them as toilets. Thankfully, in recent years they have started charging for entry (it was previously free, meaning that it attracted mooks from all over the county), which has reduced attendance, Last year it was cancelled, meaning that my neighbours and I were able to enjoy a peaceful Summer, free of people shitting and pissing in our gardens. Yeah, I know, I'm a miserable git and a killjoy!
There have been numerous attempts, over the years, to adapt Ed McBain's long-running 87th Precinct series of novels to the screen. Back in the late fifties the first two were adapted into a pair of near forgotten low budget B movies, while the sixties brought a short lived TV series and no less than three film adaptations of individual novels. These were a 1960 adaptation of The Pusher, (scripted by Harold Robbins, no less), the third novel in the series, but with all the character names and some plot details changed, Akira Kurosawa's magnificent High and Low, based on King's Ransom and relocated to Japan and a French adaptation of Ten Plus One, relocated to France, naturally. In addition to Fuzz (1972), which I'll look at shortly, the seventies gave us Claude Chabrol's intriguing Canadian-set adaptation of Blood Relatives (1978), while in the eighties there was a series of OKish TV movies which never really caught the dynamic of the books, despite trying hard. None of these attempts exactly set the box office alight and vary enormously in quality. Their failure to make much impact, (with the probable exception of Kurosawa's High and Low, whose US paperback origins are usually glossed over by critics), should hardly be surprising: adapting long-running series like the 87th Precinct novels is always problematic. How should their adaptation be approached?
After all, while the regular characters and their back stories might be familiar to readers, the majority of the audience for any adaptation of an individual novel would never have read the source material, seeing the film as a one-off. In practice, this means that the adaptation has to be self-contained, with apparent plot loose ends or characters' ongoing emotional journeys or prior experiences, which, in the source material, would continue across multiple volumes, have to be truncated. Of course, the modern method would be, rather than adapting a single novel, to mix and match highlights from several of the novels into a single movie, for the first installment, at least. Either that or adapt it as a streaming TV series with the storylines from several of the books intertwined and running simultaneously over eight or ten episodes. But all of the existing 87th Precinct film adaptations predate such approaches, opting instead to present self-contained stories, (with the exception of the first two, which do have some continuity between them -apart from that, even the TV series was of the traditional format with self-contained episodes), with mixed results. While High and Low and Blood Relatives work well as stand-alone police procedurals, The Pusher suffers from having too many key plot and character details changed, teetering toward melodrama.
All of which brings us to Fuzz, based on McBain's 1968 entry in the series and adapted by the author himself, under his 'Evan Hunter' pen name, and featuring an all-star cast headed by Burt Reynolds. With such a pedigree, one might assume that it would be the 'best', most 'accurate' adaptation of the series, yet, if anything it is the most problematic of the film versions. The problem is that it is neither one thing nor the other. Rather than being a straightforward adaptation of his novel, Hunter/McBain instead gives us what feels like a parody of the source material, with the novel's mainly intelligent, conscientious but very human police detectives replaced by a bunch of wisecracking, borderline incompetent, sexist cops. Their investigation is chaotic, the film's structure episodic and any pretension of realism quickly vanishes - even the main villain, 'The Deaf Man' is transformed from the ruthless, icy manipulator of the book into a sub-Bondian supervillain, played by a miscast and uncomfortable-looking Yul Brynner. Disconcertingly for readers of the series, the characters retain their names while being quite unrecognisable in their cinematic incarnation. Detectives Carella and Meyer, for instance are, in the books, measured, methodical family men who rely on brains rather than brawn to get results, whereas in the film they become a pair of sterotypical film cops, full of low rent locker room humour, cracking sexist jokes and trying to humiliate a female colleague. To be absolutely fair, Burt Reynolds' Carella does pay lip service to his more sensitive literary persona in his one scene with his deaf mute wife. Jack Weston's Meyer, however, is, in contrast to the bald, somewhat intellectual detective of the book, an overweight, (not to mention hairy), bumbling incompetent, lacking in any subtlety or guile.
Likewise, Detective Parker (Steve Inhat) who, in the books, is the squad's resident lazy slob, here finds himself simply one amongst many inept clowns. Dan Fraser's Lt Byrnes is a warm up for his many years as Kojak's boss, Detective Willis is at least portrayed as being competent and efficient but is given little to do, James McEachin, a pretty decent actor, is miscast as Detective Brown but is given little to work with, the film character being devoid of most of the traits that made him, in the books, interesting, while Tom Skerritt's Detective Kling is just a standard gung ho cop constantly on heat. Particularly ill served by the script is Raquel Welsh's Detective McHenry, reduced, for the most part, to being eye candy and the object of Kling's lust. Even her main storyline is fumbled - in the book she is on detachment to the precinct to act as a decoy for a local rapist. The film abruptly wraps this up with her finally arresting the rapist after a struggle when she is taken by surprise, off duty, by him. In the book, she actually is raped, with her ordeal and its effects on her, both as a woman and a cop, playing out through several subsequent novels. But, being a one-off, the film requires a quick resolution.
The film version of Fuzz does, more or less, follow the main plot of the source novel, but with all the details of the investigation suitably slanted to recast the cops as being institutionally incompetent. The fact is that the main plot line - a series of threats are phoned into the precinct, directed at various City officials, demanding ever escalating amounts of money in return for sparing them - has the potential to be the basis for a pretty decent thriller. But while the main mechanism of the villain's plan, that by blowing up various officials when his demands are refused, his ultimate target - the Mayor - will settle with him directly, convinced that the cops can't protect him, it simply isn't allowed to play out properly, with too many comedic diversions and the film's episodic structure effectively preventing the build up of any tension. Most crucially, the script changes the film's denouement. Although, like the book, it brings together three of the film's main plots, instead of demonstrating, as the book tries to, that, no matter how meticulous an investigation, coincidence and chance can always play a major part in its resolution, the film tries to portray the collision between two of the precinct's main investigations as being the culmination of the cops' incompetence. In the book, it is the result of the villain's over-complication of his own scheme, which lands him in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The end result of this approach is film that feels unsatisfying to fans of the book series, unsatisfying to audiences looking for a thriller or police procedural move and unsatisfying for Burt Reynolds fans who might have expected an action film. While it is possible that, in refashioning his own source material, Hunter/McBain was attempting to create a black comedy, in tune with its times, what seems more likely is that the studio wanted to emulate another recent hit: M*A*S*H. Not only does it feature a similar episodic structure, overlapping dialogue and characters working in an institution whose rules they appear to have little respect for, but it even even features one of M*A*S*H's stars in Tom Skerritt. But it fails to do for cops what M*A*S*H had done for medics - despite their raucous anti-authoritarianism, the doctors of the 4077th are depicted as skilled professionals when it came to doing their jobs, whereas the cops of Fuzz are professionally inept. Moreover, director Richard A Colla, usually to be found at the helm of TV movies and episodes, while obviously competent, is no Robert Altman.
Yet, despite all of this, Fuzz isn't an out-and-out bad film. Despite the script's deficiencies, most of the main players manage to deliver decent performances. To be sure, they don't portray their characters' literary namesakes, but within the confines of the adaptation, they do an OK job. The production values are also pretty decent, featuring some very gritty-looking location photography. While the books are set in a nameless East Coast city, a fictionalised New York and most adaptations use New York locations, Fuzz instead sets its action fairly and squarely in Boston, painting an unflattering picture of a grimy, rub down city teetering on the edge of institutional collapse. Just don't expect a straight adaptation of an 87th Precinct novel. Indeed, it is best to approach the film not as an adaptation, or a police procedural, but rather as a broad satire on seventies US policing (and some of it is very broad, with cops disguised as nuns and the like), as this is, undoubtedly, its strongest suit.
After fourteen years, I'm back in the position of anxiously checking that my washing machine is actually, well, washing and not going berserk and trying to kill me. If you have a very long memory and have been visiting this blog since the beginning, you might recall the saga of this machine's predecessor, which was always a problem and ended up flooding my kitchen and giving me electric shocks. Oh, and it regularly used to vibrate so violently on its spin cycle that it would threaten to smash itself and the kitchen to pieces. Sometimes it would 'walk' itself into the middle of the kitchen while spinning. For some reason, I put up with it for nearly fifteen years before replacing it with the current washing machine - which has performed magnificently (barring the odd filter blockage). Until last Friday, when, on its extra spin cycle, it made a thumping sound, then started slowing down, then speeding up. Most alarmingly, I noticed puffs of smoke escaping from the detergent dispenser tray. Naturally, I switched it off. When the door released and I opened it, white smoke billowed out and filled the kitchen. My clothes, however, were unscathed. There was also no sign of flames or any smell of burning.
A bit of research led me to believe that what had happened was that the belt had started slipping, with the friction causing the smoke. The most likely cause was an unevenly distributed load: the load was light that day, so I stuck a pair of jeans in on top. The waterlogged jeans must have bunched up on top of the other clothes, making the drum, in effect, lop-sided, resulting in belt slippage. As far as I could tell, there was no damage to the bearings and the belt seemed intact, so I decided to risk another load this evening. This time it is a heavier load, but nothing like jeans or towels, which can soak up water and unbalance it. I've also done my best to distribute it better. So far, so good. There are about fifteen minutes of the cycle to go and no smoking or erratic behaviour. I think that I'll skip the extra spin, though. If it all goes OK, I'll keep using this machine for the time being. But if there is any repetition or anything else goes wrong, then I'll replace it as I strongly suspect that the cost of repairs would outweigh that of replacement. All of this has led me to reflect on how long I've had this machine - fourteen years. Which is pretty good considering that the average life expectancy of this type of household appliance is only eight years. Nothing, it seems, is built to last these days - we throw far too much stuff away. That said, while I was doing my online research to diagnose the machine's problems, it transpired that there are a significant number of people out there who have happily been running the same washing machine for twenty-plus years. Hell, if it ain't broke, don't fix it!
Interestingly, according to the statistics, there hasn't been any significant rise in the suicide rate throughout the UK's various lockdowns. Not only does this this run contrary to one of the main anti-lockdown narratives, (that lockdown kills more people than Covid), but it also seems to call into question the whole idea that the restrictions on ordinary life necessitated have resulted in increased mental health problems. Now, I'm not saying that, for some people, the enforced solitude of lockdown life hasn't led to increased stress and/or depression, but I can't help but feel that this a problem exaggerated by the media. While some media outlets undoubtedly are pursuing an anti-lockdown agenda, into which the mental health angle neatly plays, allowing them to look as if their objections are actually based upon concern for individuals, rather tan the profits of their corporate buddies, for others it is simply a case of filling column inches. Because that's an actual, observable, side-effect of lockdowns - a reduction in reportable events. With everybody engaging in less activity and fewer interactions, there is simply less for the news outlets to fill their airtime and pages with, particularly in the area of those human interest-type stories. So, instead, they seize upon anything that looks vaguely newsworthy and that might be the basis for some sort of long-running story.
Indeed, over the past couple of weeks I've been left suspecting that those stories about sea shanties becoming a 'thing' on social media fall into this category of Covid-induced desperation reporting. My first reaction to such claims were 'oh no they aren't', with my second being that 'I bet the media are going to try to give this legs'. Which they have, continually running their dubious stories about this supposed new musical trend, slowly convincing people that perhaps it actually is happening. Of course, they are helped in this by the fact that another consequence of a prolonged lockdown is that many people are desperately seeking new experiences and novelty wherever they can find it- even in a made up online sea shanty trend. Or maybe I'm just being too cynical. Anyway, I'm thankfully far from being so desperate for new forms of stimulation to start listening to sea shanties. As I've noted before, I enjoy these lockdowns. They are ideally suited to anti-social types like me, who like being on our own and have always been happy to make our own entertainment. Far from stressing me out, I've found it all very relaxing. The only time I've felt stressed during this crisis was when, last Summer, I was forced back into the office, despite my employers having no actual work for me to do - believe me, sitting in an office with nothing to do for eight hours is stressful and depressing. My unilateral action to take a 'career break' has been a Godsend and taken me back to paradise!
Look, I really don't want to get into the business of Winston Churchill's actual historical record versus his mythology again, but the whole business erupted all over this week when it emerged that President Biden had removed a bust of Churchill from the Oval Office. The right-wing pres and all the other usual suspects, predictably, boiled over in the face of this 'insult' to the memory of our greatest 'hero', labelling Biden anti-British etc, etc. But surely, regardless of one's views on Churchill, the point here is that Biden is President of the United States, so why should he have a bust of a dead British Prime Minister in his office? Indeed, one might ask why any US President should have such a thing there. It isn't some kind of tradition - it dates back only to the Presidency of George W Bush - who liked to think of himself as some kind of Churchillian 'war leader' - when Tony Blair loaned him a bust of Churchill. President Obama, for some strange reason, decided that a bust of Martin Luther King would be more appropriate when he took over, so got ride of Churchill. The present bust of Churchill, which seems to be source of much teeth gnashing amongst British reactionaries, is a different one put there by Trump, (who, like Bush, presumably also had delusions of being a 'war leader', but just couldn't manage to actually start any wars).
Apart from the right's propensity to whip up storm over nothing, the thing which struck me about this whole furore was the absolute refusal of the pro-Churchill brigade on social media to even consider that their hero might actually have been a three-dimensional human being rather than the mythological figure they revere. The reality is that he was a complex historical figure whose legacy is far less clear cut than the simplistic version peddled by the media. It is entirely possible that he might have been an inspirational war leader and staunch anti-Nazi whilst, at the same time being an imperialist holding what are now, rightly, seen as unacceptable views on race. he was simultaneously the Prime Minister urging Britain to unite and fight the Nazis on the beaches and the Home Secretary who deployed troops against striking British miners. The media might now like us to believe that the nation stood unanimously behind him when he became Prime Minister in 1940, but the reality is that much of the working class, who hadn't forgotten that business with the miners, regarded him with deep suspicion. The barracking he received from Londoners bombed out of their homes when he visited bomb sites is now conveniently forgotten.
The point is that historical figures are also human beings and therefore neither all good nor all bad, (even Hitler was apparently very courteous to his secretaries, taking tea with them every afternoon in the bunker), but this utter refusal to accept this fact is problematic. It is the same blinkered view which prevents many in this country from viewing our own history in a critical light, allowing unscrupulous right-wingers to use the myth of glorious Empire to fuel a nationalistic fury which results in things like Brexit. So, really just accept that Churchill was a deeply flawed human being - it doesn't necessarily detract from his achievements, but rather allows us to take a more balanced view of the past. Because perhaps then, we can avoid embarrassments like Boris 'Bozo' Johnson's invoking of Imperial stereotypes when he complained back in 2008 that Obama's removal of that bust from the Oval Office reflected the new President's antipathy toward the British Empire which resulted from his part-Kenyan heritage. Jesus.
One of a number of late fifties and early sixties detective magazines which specialised in teasing potential readers with bondage-themed covers featuring cleavage-flashing women being tied up or chained, Two-Fisted Detective Stories featured often crudely written stories with catchpenny titles unrelated to their content. While it did sometimes feature writers with recognisable names - some issues had stories by Harlan Ellison, Robert Silverberg and Talmage Powell - most were attributed to writers whose work seemed largely confined to magazines of this type. Indeed, this August 1960 issue boasts a whole slate of such authors: Art Crockett, Al James, Don Unatin and Jay Richards. It is entirely possible that some, if not all, of these were 'house names', floating pseudonyms used by a variety of authors across the publisher's magazines. (To be fair, Art Crockett, at least, seems to have had a life outside of magazines, having several 'true crime' books attributed to them). Certainly, all of these names could also be found contributing to the similar Web Detective Stories around the same time.
The use of house names was common place in this period, often used to disguise the fact that only one or two writers had produced virtually an entire issue of a magazine between them. (The aforementioned Harlan Ellison and Robert Silverberg, both now better remembered as science fiction authors, were prolific producers for pulp magazines of all genres in the fifties, using multiple house names). A house name could also be used to disguise the fact that a series of stories was, in fact, being produced by multiple authors rather than a single person. In this respect.'Peter Saxon', is one of the best known examples, originally having been used by W, Howard Baker on the fifties and sixties 'Sexton Blake' series for Amalgamated Press, (while he wrote the majority of entries in this series, the house name also covered entries by other contributors). When Baker moved to Mayflower, he took the name with him, where it was used both on his own books, but also on those of other house authors. Most notably, it was used on the novel The Disorientated Man, actually written by Stephen Frances, which was the basis of the film Scream and Scream Again. A subsequent series of supernatural novels, 'The Guardians', was also attributed to the fictional Saxon, but actually the work of multiple authors, (the style notably varies enormously from novel to novel).
Getting back to Two-Fisted Detective Stories, it ran for ten issues or so in 1959-60. In the eighties, the title was revived for a new magazine which lasted only two issues. Nowadays, the original version has sufficient rarity value that copies can sometimes command relatively high prices.
I caught up with another 'video nasty' over the weekend. I should make clear that I'm not actually going through the notorious list of videos banned by the Director of Public Prosecutions back in the day, but nowadays they tend to show up with a degree of regularity, particularly on the steaming services. Anyway, this time it was Death Weekend (1976) - aka The House by the Lake), the Canadian home invasion/murderous hillbilly movie. I actually remember when this was released uncertificated on home video in the UK, in the early days of VHS. Back then, the major studios and distributors were, I recall, unsure of whether the new medium would fully catch on and were reluctant to release their more prestigious titles to video. (They were undoubtedly also under pressure from already beleaguered cinema exhibitors and TV stations, fearful of losing content). Consequently, the early video market in the UK at least, seemed to be dominated by, mainly low budget, independent productions, TV movies and public domain films. For the independent films, particularly genre and exploitation movies, video offered a cheap distribution outlet. These were films unlikely to get widespread cinema releases or be shown on TV (in the days of only three highly regulated terrestrial channels, that is), with video offering the added advantage of not requiring certification from the BBFC.
Which was all fine until the whole moral panic over 'video nasties' erupted when the press and moral campaigners realised exactly what was in these videos which, so they imagined, were freely available for children to watch. As ever, it was a case of 'won't someone think of the children'. Now, you'd have thought that simply closing the 'loophole' that allowed films to be released on video without certification, requiring them to be submitted to the BBFC as if they were to be released to cinemas, would have been sufficient response. But no, apparently this wasn't enough for those moral campaigners, right-wing Tory MPs looking for a band wagon to jump on and tabloid newspapers looking for a headline. So we also got that 'video nasty' list of titles denied certification. It was an eclectic list, seemingly being based upon a film's title as much as its actual content. It was clear that those compiling the list had never actually seen many of the films they placed upon it. Of course, over time, a significant proportion of the titles were released to home video with sufficient cuts to allow the BBFC to award them certificates. Moreover, as the decades have rolled on, many have subsequently been release uncut, as attitudes have changed. It has to be said that, having viewed a number of these films in their uncut state, one is left wondering what the fuss was about. Where there is gore, it is never convincing, where there is violence, it is frequently poorly staged, undermining its credibility. The worst that can be said is that they are unpleasant in their subject matter. The main cinematic 'crime' that many of these films commit is that they are poorly made, sometimes to the point that they were offensively bad on a technical level. But that wasn't what they were being accused of, instead, they were being accused of being potentially morally corrupting.
The lack of any evidence that any violent crimes had ever resulted from watching so called 'video nasties' didn't stop the press from trying to link every horrendous child murder, knife crime and serial killing to various of these films. Not that there was anything new in this sort of moral panic: back in the fifties there had been similar manufactured outrage over the advent of Hammer's full colour gore-filled Gothic horrors and their imitators, not to mention the demonisation of horror comics on bothsides of the Atlantic. But, just like the 'video nasties' debacle, it all calmed down once it became clear that watching Curse of Frankensteinhadn't inspired anyone to try building monsters from dead bodies in their spare rooms. Hammer actually faced enormous problems with the BBFC throughout the sixties. As time went on, it wasn't the gore and violence that bothered the BBFC so much as the sexual element which was implicit (and often explicit) in these films. Most specifically, it was the relationship between the sex and the violence which bothered them. A direct link between the two was, for the censors, off-limits. Which brings us back to the start of this post and Death Weekend. Watching it raises the question as to just why it ended up on the 'video nasties' list. It is undoubtedly violent, but by the standards of contemporary 'nasties' it isn't especially explicit. Certainly, it is unpleasant in that it depicts a couple being terrorised in their home by a bunch of thugs, with the woman under constant threat of rape - and eventually suffering rape. The only explanation for the film's bracketing with the other 'nasties' is that it was felt that the sex and violence were too closely linked.
In this respect, it found itself suffering the same fate as Straw Dogs (1971) - a film which had undoubtedly inspired Death Weekend - which, despite having been certificated for cinema exhibition, was denied a certification for home video release, finally getting an uncut DVD and video release in 2002. There is, however, a key difference between the two films in their depiction of rape. Straw Dogs has always been problematic because there is a clear implication in one of the rape scenes that Susan George's character a) enjoys the experience at some level (her attacker is a former suitor) and b) has somehow been 'asking for it' by being sexually provocative. Oddly, while not denying that this impression might be drawn from the first rape scene, the BBFC justified its 2002 change of heart by claiming that the unpleasantness of the second rape scene made clear that rape wasn't an experience welcomed by the character. Therefore, they argued, in its uncut form, the film wasn't 'promoting harmful activity', in contravention of the Video Recordings Act. In other words, one scene of sexual violence cancels out another by putting it in context. By contrast, Death Weekend is pretty clear that Brenda Vaccaro's character neither enjoys nor invites sexual assault. It is portrayed as a humiliating ordeal she is coerced into by force. Hardly a 'promoting' of harmful behaviour.
But the Video Recordings Act has always been applied inconsistently. Last weekend I also watched another Canadian horror film, Incubus (1981). As far as I'm aware, despite being released around the time of the 'video nasties' furore, Incubus was never listed as a 'nasty' or blocked from video release. Yet it mixes sex and violence far more freely that Death Weekend. In the course of the film a number of women are violently raped by an unseen assailant, with the bloody results shown in, for the time, quite graphic detail. To be fair, it is clear that none of the victims invited or enjoyed the experience (most of them die horribly as a result) so, technically, it isn't 'promoting 'harmful behsviour. Moreover, the assailant is revealed as a supernatural entity, so the BBFC might have reasoned that it was all so fantastical that it couldn't possibly encourage real-life sexual violence. Except that it hadn't stopped them refusing certificates to zombie movies and cannibal films, raising the question as to exactly how these films might 'promote' harmful behaviour? Were they really arguing that such films might encourage anyone watching them to try using voodoo rites to raise their dead grannies, or to start biting chunks out of the neighbours? The defence of the Video Recordings Act was that it was aimed at protecting 'vulnerable' viewers, such as children, who might see such films on home video and be unduly influenced by them. The problem with this approach is that it negates the principle of parental responsibility, that it is surely up to parents to regulate what their children watch (or view on the internet), rather than rely upon the government to place blanket bans of anything deemed 'unsuitable'?
I grew up in a household where the TV viewing of myself and my siblings was carefully regulated. Creaky old horror films were generally deemed OK, but anything with explicit sex and violence not. As I grew up, so the viewing restrictions were relaxed. I'm very glad that I wasn't exposed to a lot of the stuff I watch now at an age when I wouldn't have been able to fully comprehend what I was watching. While I doubt very much that I would have become a sex murderer, but it would undoubtedly have disturbed me and prevented me from ever being able to enjoy such things as an adult. (As an aside, looking back, some of the kinkiest stuff was being shown in prime time in those days - busty young women were tied up, gagged and imperiled on a weekly basis in things like The Saint, The Avengers and all those other ITC adventure series, which were repeated throughout the seventies). But to return to Death Weekend - was it in any way a 'good' film? Well, it is highly derivative and relentlessly violent. But the violence is ugly and those employing it are clearly mindless thugs. It does attempt to employ a degree of social commentary: the main male protagonist, a wealthy dentist who lures a model to his isolated house with false promises of a weekend party in order to get her alone for sex, is shown to be as morally bankrupt as Don Stroud and his gang of violent hicks, objectifying women, but using money rather than violence to browbeat others. Overall, it is actually a decently made film, although ultimately quite depressing in its depiction of male violence. Still, there's no denying that I got a perverse thrill from watching a one time banned 'video nasty' on a Sunday afternoon, (I stumbled across it as it was showing on B-Movie TV).
As I predicted, it has started. Even sooner than I expected. People who voted for Brexit now complaining about how it is hurting them. Today it was fishermen protesting on Whitehall. Well, as I said at the start of the year, my response is simple: go fuck yourselves. You wanted it, you campaigned for it, you voted for it, you got it. Apparently you all knew what you were voting for, (according to the people that you voted for, at least). So tough titty. Those of us who voted remain and tried to warn you that this was going to be the reality of Brexit were shouted down, accused of peddling 'Project Fear', labelled 'Remoaners' and called 'unpatriotic', 'traitors'. even. Now you want our sympathy? Go fuck yourselves. It really is no good saying that it isn't Brexit as such which is the problem, but the trade deal cooked up by the government. Well, I'm pretty sure that most of you voted for Boris 'Bozo' Johnson at the last general election on the basis that he would 'Get Brexit Done', so that really doesn't absolve you of responsibility. Did you honestly think that the fat lazy slob would actually be able to come up with a decent deal? You surely knew that he was out to appease all those 'Brextremists' that you empowered by voting leave. meaning that the closer to a 'No Deal' he could get, the better?
It really has been quite wonderful watching the right-wing press trying to place the blame for the current trade problems on the EU - they are just being 'petty' and trying to 'punish' us with their nit-picking and red tape. Except that they aren't - this is simply what not being in the EU is like. It means that lorry drivers (and let's not forget that many, many of them supported Brexit), not only face queues and delays, but also the possibility of having their ham sandwiches seized by Dutch customs on the basis that they are undeclared personal meat imports. Personally, I think that's bloody hilarious - Jacob Ress-Mogg didn't warn you about that, did he? Speaking of that particular streaky skid mark, I see he was reassuring the fishing industry of the benefits of Brexit the other day, proudly declaring that fish are happier in those newly liberated 'British' waters. Tosspot. Still, at least he's still prepared to talk about fish, unlike Nigel Farage, who seems reluctant to be questioned on the subject, despite his stunts during the referendum campaign, where he brought flotillas of fishing boats up the Thames in pro-Brexit protests. But what else should we expect from such a bare-faced liar and hypocrite?
Ah, that rant has really made me feel better after twenty four hours characterised by a sleepless night (the insomnia is getting worse - I suspect it is down to the lockdown induced lack of activity combined with low winter light levels) and an upset stomach. So, in summary, if you voted for Brexit and are now facing watching your business go down the tubes - I don't give a shit, snowflake. Stop moaning and go fuck yourself.
Old TV commercials - we haven't done them here for a while and I really can't be arsed to put any real effort into to today's post. This batch of ads, from 1971, largely fall into the category of 'stuff you don't see advertised on TV anymore'. It features not one, but two ads for different shirt brands, one for ties and another for tights. In an era when TV ad breaks seem to be geared more and more to promoting services, like equity release, insurance or pensions, it is often startling to look back to a time when actual, specific goods are being advertised. Nowadays you might see commercials promoting a whole range of clothes, but not so likely to come across specific items of clothing being pushed. Deodorants are, of course, still being advertised, but not this particular brand, which long ago vanished.
The celebrities, as ever, are in evidence. The Harry Worth ad, (for an electrical goods chain that even I can't remember being on the High Street) is short and sweet, including his trademark schtick with the window. I say 'trademark', but who (apart from me) remembers Harry Worth nowadays? Back in the day, though, he was one of this country's most popular comics, featuring on both radio and TV with his own series. The elephant in the room, though, is that public information ad with Jimmy Savile. It seems hard to believe now, but back then he was seen as a trustworthy figure who could sell the public safety message of the benefits of wearing a seat belt. Just as Rolf Harris was seen as the right man to encourage kids to learn how to swim. Still, back in 1971 we just thought that Jimmy Savile was a creepy fucker, rather than actually being, s we now know, a creepy fucker who sexually molestedkids on an industrial scale.
Before Christmas, I posted a bit here about the various promotional gimmicks used to sell exploitation movies in the sixties and seventies. The ultimate such gimmick lies in marketing a film on the basis of some 'special' technique that has been used in its making. The 3-D 'craze' of the fifties is probably the most obvious of these. The term 'craze' implies that its use was audience led but, in truth, it was simply a novelty employed by producers to try and offer something TV couldn't. It is notable that it was never employed on A-features (that would only come decades later, with films like Avatar), instead being confined to the likes of House of Wax, The Mad Magician or It Came From Outer Space. Not that A-features weren't immune from using production gimmicks: arguably the various widescreen processes like Todd-AO, Cinerama and the like were gimmicks designed to keep audiences away from TV. Likewise, things like 'Sensurround', which made cinema floors vibrate with soundwaves - it could be found on such seventies disaster pics as Earthquake, war films like Midway and even Italian Exorcist rip-off Beyond the Door. All of which brings us to Wicked, Wicked (1973) and its gimmick of 'Duovision'.
In truth, there was nothing very novel or unique about this process - it was simply a split screen, a technique that had long been used to allow actors playing dual roles to appear in the same scene as themselves. The 'novelty' in its use in Wicked, Wicked comes from the fact that it is used throughout most of the film, which proves, ultimately, to be highly distracting for the viewer, who is forced to try and follow two narrative threads simultaneously. It is notable that the film's original trailer doesn't actually contain any extensive footage involving the split scree process, preferring to show 'normal' versions of various sequences. The clip below, (which includes Tina Bolling singing the the theme tune), demonstrates the process as actually deployed in the movie:
As can be seen, the split screen adds little to the experience - most of the stuff seen in the right hand window could, arguably, have been achieved more effectively and economically using conventional cutaways. The only time its use is, in any way, justified is when one screen is used to run a flashback sequence for one of the characters in the other screen, in effect allowing the audience to see the memories invoked the scene playing out in the present.
Otherwise, all it does is provide a distraction in what is, effectively, a proto-slasher movie, featuring a masked killer responsible for the disappearances of various female guests at a luxury hotel. Without the split-screen gimmick, Wicked, Wicked might have made for a tolerable sub-Giallo, with its smattering of more bizarre elements, but as it stands, it feels cluttered and slow moving, with the split screen militating against the creation of any real suspense. Unlike most of the 3-D movies, which can still be enjoyed when viewed 'flat', the gimmick here is embedded in the movie and, ultimately, overwhelms it.
Last time we looked at a Battle Cry cover, it was from October 1967 and featured a couple of blondes with swastika arm bands and whips torturing a guy strung up by his feet. This one, from a few months later, June 1968 to be precise, is no less lurid. Interestingly, the cover doesn't seem to be illustrating any of the stories given strap lines. Which wasn't unusual. Indeed, sometimes the covers didn't seem to relate to any of the magazine's contents, being there simply to draw in the punters. This one certainly has all the ingredients one associates with men's magazines of the era: imperiled and bound young woman, blazing guns, soldiers, conflict. I must admit that, on first sight, the cover did leave me somewhat non-plussed. I assumed that the cover was illustrating a World War Two scenario - the GIs and their equipment on one side, guys waving German-style grenades on the other - but the 'Germans' seem to be driving a US built White Scout Car, (the front end design was later used as the cab of the M1/M3 Half Tracks).
Closer examination made me doubt that they were German soldiers - they seemed more Asiatic in appearance and the uniforms didn't seem right, unless the artist really couldn't draw coal scuttle helmets. It did occur to me that they might be meant to be Russian, (the machine gun mounted on the vehicle is of a Soviet design), after all the White Scout Car was supplied to the USSR under lend-lease. Then I realised that the answer was obvious: they were meant to be North Korean - the machine gun and Scout Car could have been supplied from the USSR via China. So it was illustrating a Korean War scenario. But still one not related to any of those story teasers, which instead focus upon that other obsession of men's magazines: sex. So, we learn that Miami Beach is 'Sex City' and 'Every Man's Paradise', amongst other things. I would like to know the answer to the question 'Is One Man Ever Enough for any Woman?' - in my limited experience, most could do without even one. Particularly one who got all their information about sex and women from magazines like this. While on one level these old magazines now seem quite amusing in their relentless quest to tease titillation for men, on another, the levels of misogyny they represent, (women are simultaneously objects of desire and to be feared as cruel whip-wielding, drug dealing, sexually voracious vixens), are quite shocking. Not, of course, that such views of women have disappeared - they've just become less overt.
A truly strange film which leaves one asking 'What the fuck?' long after it has finished, Tragic Ceremony (1972) is an Italian/Spanish co-production directed by Riccardo Freda (under his 'Robert Hampton' pseudonym), of Horrible Dr Hichcock (1962) and The Ghost (1963) fame. In common with many Italian-produced horror films of the era, Tragic Ceremony doesn't present an entirely coherent scenario, presenting a meandering narrative, initially seeming to be about some young idle rich folks on a sailing trip, before, eventually, stumbling into an occult story-line, replete with creepy old castle, Satanic rites and mysterious aristocrats, before veering away again into a ghost story and police investigation. The whole thing, with its seemingly ever-changing scenario and tangential plot developments, has the feel and logic of a dream. Which is actually the film's strongest point. Developments which seem that they are going to be hugely significant - Bill's strained relationship with his parents, his mother's affair, the theft of her pearl necklace, his absent father, the 'victimisation' of Bill by his friends - are quickly moved past and fade, so to speak, into the rear view mirror as the narrative moves on to another scenario.
The constant state of confusion the viewer consequently finds themselves in, combined with the seemingly deserted spaces the film takes place in, gives the movie a strangely disconnected and eerie feel, as if the events we watch are unfolding in some limbo only notionally connected to the real world. Adding to the sense of dislocation is the film's refusal to present the audience with a sympathetic character to identify with. Indeed, for much of the narrative, it is unclear exactly who is the main character in the unfolding drama: at first Tony Isbert's Bill seems to be the central protagonist, but as the film progresses, the focus seems to shift to his friend Joe (Maximo Valverde) before it finally becomes clear that the real focus of events is Jane (Camille Keaton). For UK viewers there is yet another layer of unreality, as it gradually becomes clear that the action is meant to be taking place in England, despite the fact that it has clearly been filmed in rural Spain. When a pair of very Spanish-looking motorcycle cops ask the quartet of young people where they live, the reply 'Chelsea' is given, implying some proximity to London. Yet Bill's mother's house appears to be an isolated villa in the middle of nowhere. Likewise Lord Alexander's mansion which, the later narrative implies, is apparently within the jurisdiction of London's Metropolitan Police, also seems to be in the middle of the countryside. The cars we see might well be British models (the police cars are, correctly for the era, Rover P6s, for instance), but they are all left hand drive. Not even the actors look English - they appear far too healthy and tanned for the average pasty, overweight English types I recall from my seventies childhood. The continued insistence on the part of the film's characters that these events are all unfolding in England add, for British audiences, a completely surreal feel to the film, on top of the already existing sense of dislocation. (It is important to emphasise that, like other continental films of the era with faux UK settings, Tragic Ceremony was never intended for British release - it never even had an official English-language version).
The plot, despite its numerous discursions, if wafer thin. Bill, Jane, Joe and Fred, returning from a yacting trip on the coast, find their beach buggy running out of fuel. Unable to find any filling stations on the deserted highway they are travelling back to Bill's on, they take a diversion down an equally deserted lane, stumbling upon an isolated filling station. Revealing that they have no cash, the proprietor, a strange old man, refuses to accept a cheque and gives them only a splash of fuel. They reluctantly depart, but find themselves caught in a rainstorm, finding shelter at a nearby mansion where the owners, Lord and Lady Alexander, promise them fuel and allow them to stay in the servant's quarters until the storm passes, (the servants are away). As the night progresses, Bill thinks he sees the filling station owner spying on them through a window and Jane wanders into the catacombs and stumbles across the Alexanders presiding over a Black Mass. The Satanists decide to use her as a human sacrifice, but her companions turn up in the nick of time. In the ensuing struggle, Bill fatally stabs Lady Alexander. As they escape, the rest of the devil worshippers go crazy and kill each other with pistols, swords, daggers and the like. Arriving back at the filling station, they find it abandoned and derelict, (the fact that it had vintage hand operated pumps the first time they went there should have warned them that something wasn't right about it). Finally getting back to Bill's house, they are turned away by his mother, who is entertaining a lover. Taking a pair of motorcycles, the quartet seek refuge in Bill's father's country lodge. There, they see a TV report on the massacre at Lord Alexander's and learn that the police are seeking a group of 'hippies' in connection with the incident, which they liken to the Sharon Tate murders. The four friends then seem to be overtaken by supernatural events, with Jane finding Bill dead in a closet, his face blue, before Fred has his throat cut in the bathroom. Escaping on a motorcycle, Joe and Jane stop in some woods, where Joe has a vision of Jane's face rotting away. Shocked, he tries to ride away, but crashes into a pond and is drowned, while an impassive (and intact) Jane looks on.
Finally captured by the police, an apparently insane Jane is held, under guard, in a psychiatric hospital, (which also seems to be in the middle of nowhere). During the night, the ghost of Lady Alexander appears in her room and stabs her. While Jane's screams attract both police and hospital staff, Lady Alexander walks out of the door, into the hallway and out of the front door, apparently unseen by any of them. Outside, she enters a waiting limousine, telling the driver to take her home. The driver is none other than the filling station attendant, (who had earlier been described by one police officer as having been suspected of being the devil himself). In the hospital, one of the doctors ventures the opinion that Jane had actually died during the Black Mass, but her soul hadn't completely left her body, while Lady Alexander's had entered it - the two souls subsequently battling for possession of Jane's body. With which rather perfunctory explanation, the film ends as mysteriously as it had begun.
As I say, in truth there really isn't much substance to Tragic Ceremony, but it nonetheless leaves an indelible impression in the memory. much like one of those inexplicable dreams which seemingly have no beginning or conclusion, linger long into wakefulness. Like a dream, it is fragments of imagery which stay with the viewer: the deserted highways, the eerie filling station, both in active and dilapidated state and, most of all, the ferocious and realistic looking violence of the massacre which startlingly punctuates the otherwise ethereal atmosphere of the film. It has to be said that, once you get past the huge suspension of disbelief necessary to accept that it is set in England, the production values of Tragic Ceremony aren't at all bad. The massacre scene, in particular, is very well, not to mention gorily, staged, with heads being split open by swords, people crashing out of windows, brains being blown out by bullets and faces burned off. The surprisingly graphic, for 1972, effects were courtesy of the great Carlo Rambaldi. The cast isn't at all bad for this sort of production, headlined by Camille Keaton, nowadays probably best remembered for playing the lead in I Spit on Your Grave, and featuring veteran Italian exploitation star Luigi Pistilli as Lord Alexander and former Bond girl Luciana Paluzzi (Thunderball) as Lady Alexander. As noted previously, the film never had an English language release and was apparently only generally distributed in Italy and Spain upon its initial release. Indeed, the title Tragic Ceremony was only used on the 2008 English subtitled DVD release - derived from the Spanish title Tragica Ceremonia en Villa Alexander, (in Italy it had the more cumbersome title of Estratto dagli archivi segreti della polizia di una capitale europea, literally From The Secret Police Files of a European Capital.) It is this subtitled version which sometimes plays on the 'American Horrors' streaming channel.
While of little real substance, Tragic Ceremony is an atmospheric and beguiling little film, well worth watching for its bizarre elements and general sense of weirdness. But don't expect it to make any real sense as a literal narrative, it is instead best treated as a dream experience - fascinating while it is on, but ultimately not subject to logic.
You soon find out who your real friends are after you unsuccessfully launch an attempt to overthrow democracy via an extreme right-wing insurrection. I'm not just talking about all those Republican Senators and Representatives who have suddenly decided to repent and deny that they even knew Donald Trump, let alone supported him for four years. Nor do I mean all those aides and cabinet members who have suddenly developed a conscience and resigned. No, I'm talking about all those contrarians and Trump supporters who used to have a lot to say for themselves in my Facebook timeline. They went quiet after he lost the election. Which might be understandable. But less so after he launched his attempt at insurrection on Wednesday. Not a one of them has piped up either to support or condemn him. I mean, these were the people who were aggressively condemning 'Antifa violence', saying that all those black people killed by the cops had been asking for it and were undoubtedly criminals anyway and demanding that anyone anti-Trump condemn the violence or be branded 'un-democratic'. Yet these lovers of non-violent protest haven't uttered a word of condemnation of that Trump-inspired mob that invaded the Capitol Building. I haven't seen a single one of them posting as to how that rioter shot by police was 'asking for it', (she was, after all, engaged in criminal activity, not to mention sedition).
But even those on the right who have now condemned Trump and his acolytes deserve no credit. After all, they thought it OK for him to lie, cheat his taxes, be racist and misogynistic, let tens of thousands of Americans die during a pandemic due to his negligence and engage in illegal activities in order to try and smear political opponents. Oh no, it took him actually attacking the seat of democracy before they would do anything. That's a pretty high bar to set when it comes to unacceptable behaviour. Likewise the social media outlets. Twitter only finally banned his account today! Why does it take him trying to overthrow of the democratically constituted government before he gets a ban, whereas many others find themselves censured or kicked off the platform for far lesser 'crimes'? The problem, as I've noted before, is that too many people don't want to admit that they were duped, that they were taken in by Trump and his cult, that many of them only supported him him because of who he wasn't, without bothering to check exactly what he was. "Hell, at least he isn't Hilary Clinton", many of these contrarians declared back in 2016. "Hell, at least he isn't part of the political elite", others proclaimed. No, he was just a millionaire failed businessman with a highly dubious and well known record with regard to financial management, misogyny and morality. Right now, all these clowns should be apologising for putting Trump into power and turning a blind eye to his activities. But trust me, we won't hear a peep out of them.
Where was Batman? Superman? Or Wonder Woman, for that matter? You would have thought that at least Spiderman might have turned up to defend the US Capitol Building from marauding fascists. I feel terribly let down by the superhero no-show yesterday. Clearly, popular culture has been lying to me all my life - it had led me to believe that whenever truth and justice were threatened, men (and women) in capes would turn up to set things right. Damn it, not even Captain America, the very embodiment of American values, representing all that is good and great about the US, couldn't be bothered to turn up when his country was truly in need. Yesterday's events in Washington DC were so serious that even The Fonz was moved to use Twitter to call for President Trump - the instigator of the attempted insurrection - to be executed by communist partisans and his body strung up, (he tweeted that Trump was like Mussolini and that his tenure should end the same way). God bless Henry Winkler. I mean, things are so bad that The Fonz loses his legendary cool, yet Batman is nowhere to be seen. To be fair, we did have Micheal Keaton tweeting some pretty tough anti-Trump rhetoric, calling for the insurrectionists to be dealt with appropriately. For a moment I hoped that perhaps he might follow this up by leaping into his Batmobile, (which I'm sure he kept after his eighties Batman films), driving it up the steps of the Capitol, before leaping out, dressed in his Batsuit (which he has probably been trying on prior to his rumoured return to the role), and beating up random Nazis.
In what had already been a weird week, what with former Bond girl Tanya Roberts dying, coming back to life, then dying again, yesterday's assault on democracy by a bunch of fascists, acting at the out going President's behest, just tipped things over the edge. If this is how 2021 starts, how much weirder is it going to get? But, to be serious - because this is a serious situation - what happened yesterday epitomises just why I have such disdain for conspiracy theories and those who nurture and spread them. They poison the political discourse, their drip-drip-drip of poison into the ears of those vulnerable to them eventually divorcing from all rationality. They undermine the very idea of objective truth, the concept that there are facts we accept as true. They destroy the communal values upon which our societies are built. Their insidious rewriting of history, regardless of the existence of evidence which contradicts them, warps the perceptions of their followers to the point that they become trapped in a crazed alternate reality in which the truth becomes a conspiracy against them. Within hours of yesterday's events, social media was already awash with nascent new conspiracy theories claiming that it wasn't really Trump's fascist army storming the capitol, but Antifa infiltrators pretending to be Nazis and white supremacists in order to discredit Trump and his scumbag followers. This, despite the fact that the arseholes caught on camera committing acts of domestic terrorism were clearly identifiable from their social media profiles as long established right-wing extremists. Really, this is madness.
Which brings me to my main point: if you are one of those people still buying into these conspiracy theories, if you are one of those people still supporting Trump, or believing that the election was rigged, then please, please seek psychiatric help now. I'm not joking. Really, I'm absolutely serious. If you are still believing all this conspiracy shit then you are ill. Mentally ill. You need help. It isn't your fault. You couldn't help it. You were abused. You have to accept that Donald Trump is not your friend. He never has been. He is an evil old man who has poisoned your mind. He has effectively groomed you, making you all sorts of promises while, all the time, feeding you lies in order to warp your mind so that you do his bidding. But it isn't too late. You can still get help and I urge you to do so. Really. I'm not joking, this isn't satire. You need help. Equally, if you are one of those people who has helped to disseminate the harmful conspiracy theories that Trump et al have peddled, or are one of those who have used a public platform, be it a blog, podcast or social media, to give such theories credence, you need to take a long hard look at yourself - and seek help. Do it now. Do not hesitate. You are sick, you need help. But don't worry, there are people out there who can help you. I urge you to step back from the abyss and seek them out.
So, we're at Twelfth Night, meaning that Christmas is officially over for another year. It is also time for my annual lament that, these days, the post New Year bit of Christmas is ignored. After all that build up, it seems that, as ever, we can't wait to bundle Christmas out of the door with indecent haste. At least this year, with the latest lockdown, we won't have the usual parade of millionaire business owners (backed up by the right-wing press), demanding that their workers return to work immediately after New Year, (as ever, delivered from the safety of their luxury holiday homes in Barbados or their ski chalets in Switzerland). We really do need to get back to celebrating Christmas properly, with a full twelve days of festivities. Maybe next December when, hopefully, Christmas can be be more like 'normal', there will be pressure for the full twelve days to compensate for the lacklustre version we've just experienced. I have to admit that, even by my anti-social standards, Christmas just didn't feel like Christmas this time around. The lack of open pubs, the lack of post-Christmas sales due to shops being forced to close, the lack of Christmas markets and the lack of any real attempt by the TV channels to entertain us appropriately, all combined to kill any sense of festivity.
Still, regardless of the quality of this Christmas past, it is Twelfth Night, which means the decorations come down and are packed away for another year. I must admit that, this year, despite it having been such a muted Christmas, I don't feel as desolated as I usually do to let the season go. This undoubtedly due to the fact that I'm still on a sabbatical from work, meaning that I don't have to face the prospect of going back to that lousy job at the coldest, most miserable, time of year. Over the years, Christmas had become a safe haven for me, a temporary respite from that job at the darkest time of year. An extended period of being able to relax without the prospect of the phone ringing or confrontations both in and outside of the office, without having to deal with increasingly petty and incompetent managers. I could kick back, drink a few pints and do as I pleased. This time around, despite the disruptions brought by the pandemic, I haven't felt that I have to pack several months' worth of relaxation and leisure time into a couple of weeks or less, as it would likely be a long haul until my next chance at an extended break from the relentless stress. It is notable, for instance, that I didn't consume anything close to the amount of alcohol I usually would over Christmas and New Year. Another reflection, perhaps, of the fact that, this time, I didn't need it to blot out the horrors of returning to work. But there you go - Christmas is over and yet another lockdown lies ahead.
So, back into lockdown. I think that I'll just go back to bed until February. After all, it pretty much derails my supply teaching plans for the foreseeable future. (Although I fully understand and sympathise with the fears of parents and teachers with regard to keeping schools open). Not that we couldn't have seen this coming - it is entirely consistent with the government's 'strategy'. Which, of course, to do as little as possible for as long as possible, until things get out of control, then be forced to bring in harder measures than might otherwise have been necessary. Still, it has been that sort of day - I ended up wasting a chunk of it trying to fix a problem with The Sleaze. Wordpress, despite inviting me to update to the latest version, was telling me there was a problem every time I attempted to do so. Then, suddenly, I was exceeding my disk space on the server. Naturally, I assumed the two events were linked and wasted lots of time poring over Wordpress' deeply unhelpful support forums and going over my file manager. I tried contacting my web host's support desk, but their customer interface kept going down. Eventually, I resolved the problem by the application of logic. It was, sort of, linked to the failed Wordpress update: before I attempted this, I had made a compressed copy of the site's files and downloaded them, but for some reason, a copy remained on the server, pushing me over the disk storage limits. It was simply a matter of deleting this file and everything was back to normal.
While the solution turned out to be simple, getting there was very time-consuming. I was hoping to get back to the schlock movies this week, but stuff like this eats into my writing time. (I know, I know, with the new open-ended lockdown, I should have plenty more time for writing). The other thing taking up my time right now is my foolish decision to produce a podcast for every one of the twelve days of Christmas over at The Overnightscape Underground. While they are only 10-15 minutes each, they still take time to produce. Obviously, if I had thought about it in advance, I should have recorded them all in one bloc and scheduled them to publish each day. But it was a spur of the moment decision, which seemed like a good idea at the time, but has ended up becoming something of a chore. Still, it is the last one tomorrow and then another daily drain on my creative time and energy will be gone. Hopefully then I can get back to talking about those films. I've got quite a backlog to discuss...
New Year's Day must mean New Year's resolutions - that most tiresome of traditions. I mean, if you want to do something, then just bloody do it, regardless of the time of year. Mind you, after the way 2020 turned out, perhaps people will be put off of making resolutions or any other kind of plans for 2021. As ever, the only resolution I'm making is the only one I can be sure of keeping - that of giving up 2020 for good. Unless I become a time-traveller, obviously. In which case I might decide to revisit it. Although quite why I would choose to visit such a disrupted year, I don't know. Actually, that isn't quite true, (about making resolutions, not revisiting 2020, obviously), I do have a resolution of sorts: when it become apparent that Brexit isn't everything they were promised, I'll be saying 'Fuck you' to any moaning Brexiteers. You wanted it, you got it. Unfortunately, the rest of us have got it too. I'll have no sympathy with anyone who voted 'Leave' that complains about reality of Boris Johnson's shitty trade deal. Just like I had no sympathy for those people who got stuck at Dover at Christmas because the French decided to unilaterally block traffic from the UK due to new-variant Covid fears. Many of those HGV drivers were ardent Brexit supporters who voted for it despite warnings it would inevitably lead to tailbacks and congestion at ports. So, don't expect my sympathy when you get a little foretaste of what you voted for. Go fuck yourselves.
You know, I think that I'm going to extend my 'Go fuck yourselves' resolution to those bloody Corbynites who still afflict the Labour Party and their constant attempts to undermine the current leadership. Their boy couldn't win an election, (failing disastrously at the last one), so they don't see why anyone else should have a chance. Look, I know you must be disappointed that your much vaunted but ultimately meaningless idealogical purity has been replaced by pragmatism aimed at actually winning power, but the fact is that the overwhelming bulk of the membership have voted for this new direction. Damn it, you spent the last four years, as you drove the party toward electoral oblivion, telling us non-Corbynites that we couldn't challenge Corbyn's leadership as he had been elected by a clear majority of the membership. So, go fuck yourselves. Grow up while your about it, too. Stop playing student politics - this is the real thing, with high stakes, so either grow up or leave it to the big boys. You could always just fuck off and join someone else's party to screw up, (after all, I got told to to fuck off and join the Tories enough times because I disagreed with the puerile politics of Corbyn and co). There, that seasonal goodwill didn't last long, did it?
