Confessions of a Middle Aged Smut Lover

I had another of those moments this weekend when I realised that I hadn't been watching enough honest-to-goodness smut lately.  It's all very well indulging myself with other exploitation genres, or even mainstream movies, but every so often the true lover of schlock has to have a dose of smut.  Luckily, I had on hand some of the finest smut available to a Briton: I'd recorded all four Confessions films when they'd recently been given outings on Talking Pictures TV and still hadn't got around to watching them.  I'd actually intended to watch them in a marathon on my birthday, but in the event was too knackered having been deprived of sleep by noisy neighbours, (as explained in an earlier post).  So, I sat down at the weekend to watch them but, in the event only managed to get through he first two as I had a few other things on.  I did, however, greatly enjoyed Confessions of a Window Cleaner (1974) and Confessions of a Pop Performer (1975).  The former is definitely the superior of the two, enjoying the advantage of freshness and novelty that most series first entries have.  Despite having seen it before, I was surprised at how little of it I remembered in detail, so the gags, corny though they might be, still made me snicker.  The movie's biggest asset lay with its cast of British comedy veterans, who gave the whole thing a degree of classiness.  The sheer charisma of star Robin Askwith, of course, was key to keeping the film moving and maintaining audience engagement.  Already a familiar face in British exploitation films and TV, Confessions of a Window Cleaner catapulted Askwith to fame, making him a star - of sex comedies, at least.

The secret of the film's success lay with Askwith's portrayal of protagonist Timmy Lea as a slightly gormless, utterly hapless average bloke who, for all his sexual fantasies, when he finally gets an opportunity with a real woman, proves to be a fumbling, nervous and more often than not, slightly scared, lover.  In other words, someone that most male viewers could more easily identify with than the usual sorts of athletic he-men potraying screen lovers.  Likewise, female audiences could more easily relate their own experiences with men to Askwith's character than to the erotic fantasies usually played out on screen.  Simplicity of concept also helps: randy but inexperienced window cleaner is 'mentored' by boss and brother-in-law Sid (Anthony Booth) in properly 'satisfying' his customers - mainly lonely and unfulfilled housewives left at home all day while their husbands are at work.  All of the sex scenes flow naturally and logically, as a consequence, so never feel contrived or forced.  Lea's ever cheery first person narration, regardless of what disaster's have befallen him, provide the perfect accompaniment.  Which is one of the reasons the sequels don't feel as fresh or spontaneous - there has to be a degree of contrivance and plot convolutions in order to set up the new scenario.  Confessions of a Pop Performer manages this rather better than the later films, opening with Timmy and Sid still pursuing the window cleaning.  While Sid's interest in managing a pop group (who happen to be performing at the pub where his wife works), seems somewhat arbitrary and reliant on coincidence, the plot does allow the window cleaning gig to have a bearing on the subsequent plot development, with one of Sid's clients being the wife of a pop impresario.

Thanks to backing from Columbia's UK offices, the Confessions films, despite their low budgets, boasted excellent production values and looked great, beautifully capturing Britain in the mid-seventies.  Perhaps this is why I have such an affection for them - it was the decade of my childhood, my formative years as a grew into a teenager and it is marvelously nostalgic to be transported back to that pre-internet, pre-mobile phone era, when we only had three TV channels and even video recorders were unheard of.  Hanging around red brick built main suburban shopping streets full of store like Woolworths and Radio Rentals and populated with Vauxhall Vivas, Ford Escorts and Austin Maxis were my Saturday afternoons back then.  It all seemed so much simpler back then - an impression re-inforced by the films' themes of pulling birds by being a cheeky and mildly charming.  But isn't just the ambience of seventies Britain that is preserved in these films, but also the social attitudes: it's difficult to argue with those who point out the relentless sexism of these movies, with their almost obsessive objectification of women as simply sexual playthings.  Then again, a closer watching of them reveals that the women portrayed are frequently less than submissive, they are often, particularly where nervous and naive Askwith is concerned, far more proactive in initiating sex, but rarely in a predatory way.  The stereotypes aren't quite as clearly defined as those who would dismiss these films would like to believe.  Moreover, the sex itself is never portrayed as anything glamourous, taking place not in luxury hotel rooms or on yachts and private beaches, but rather in the back bedrooms of suburban semis, or even cupboards and storerooms.  It is frequently fumbling and all too quickly over, with the participants in considerable discomfort - particularly Timmy Lea, who suffers such indignities as burning his bare bum on a hot radiation in Pop Performer, for instance.

It's all too easy to dismiss these films (and, by extension, all other British sex comedies of the era), as crude and sexist but I honestly believe that they still constitute an important piece of British popular culture.  They belong to a long and rich tradition of vulgar and raucous comedy, (stretching all the way back to the Romans and even ancient Athens - just read the surviving plays of Greek humorist Aristophanes for some the best ever fart and knob gags), which celebrates the scatalogical and pokes fun at our sexual hang ups and anxieties, while also offering a bit of mild titillation along the way.  Sure, the gags are hoary, but no more so than the average Carry On film - another British cinematic institution once dismissed but now rehabilitated.  I'm sorry, but the sight of Rita Webb as a battle axe of a mother looking for her daughter in Pop Performer asking 'Has anyone seen my fanny?', (which elicits the reply from Askwith of 'Blimey, I saw the Curse of Frankenstein and that was bad enough'), still makes me laugh.  God, I'm unsophisticated and easily amused, aren't I?  Anyway, I look forward to catching up with the other two films later in the week.