The Adventure of the Phantom Chocolate Covered Peanuts

When is a packet of chocolate covered peanuts not a packet of chocolate covered peanuts?  When you try to buy it in a Tesco Metro, apparently.  The other day I was in the aforementioned Tesco Metro when I noticed that the chocolate covered peanuts had been reduced in price, so I made a snap decision to buy a pack with my newspaper, (which was my main reason for going in there).  Taking them to the cash desk, the newspaper's barcode scanned without problem, but the peanuts failed to.  After attempts to enter the barcode manually, the youth manning the till told me that the product I was trying to buy was not on the system, so as far as the store was concerned, didn't exist and therefore couldn't be bought.  I tried pointing out that the packet of chocolate covered peanuts was right there, in front of us both and therefore did exist, (I mean, we both agreed that we could see it, so it wasn't an hallucination on my part).  When this didn't work, I tried pointing out that the peanuts must be for sale as they had a whole bloody shelf of them, prominently displayed with a clearly marked price.  Moreover, the packet was clearly marked 'Tesco', so was an own brand product, so how could he claim that it didn't exist?  What was the alternative explanation for their presence?  Was someone sneaking into the store with packets of chocolate covered peanuts with fake Tesco packaging concealed about their person and secretly placing them on the shelves?  Why would anyone do that?

Of course, it was all to no avail.  The peanuts didn't officially exist.  Fearing for my sanity, let alone blood pressure, I paid for my newspaper and left the shop, leaving the supposedly non-existent nuts behind.  It was one of those incidents that turn you into a raging Luddite, railing against modern commerce where, if something isn't registered on a computer system, then it doesn't exist.  Whatever happened to the good old days of mechanical tills where the cashier entered the price manually and those little flags popped up with the total and a bell rang?  I was left pondering whether this chocolate covered peanut phenomena was simply a local glitch confined to that particular Tesco Metro or whether it was nationwide.  If I had gone to the main Tesco on one of the edge of town retail parks and tried to buy an identical packet of chocolate covered peanuts, would it too have been deemed to be non-existent when i went to the check out?  I honestly couldn't be bothered to find out.  Eventually I bought some chocolate covered peanuts elsewhere: I was in one of my local Lidls (we have three) later in the week and they had chocolate covered peanuts for twenty pence less than Tesco's reduced price.  For the same amount.  I can't deny that I experienced some trepidation when they went through the check out, but they went through with my other items without incident.  So clearly chocolate covered peanuts do exist in Lidl.

Benny Hill in Conclusion

A few more thoughts on Benny Hill, before leaving the subject.  As I've mentioned before, I've recently had the opportunity to watch all fifty eight episodes of The Benny Hill Show that were made for  Thames over a near twenty year period, in broadcast order.  It's been an interesting experience, as Benny Hill seemed to be a big part of my childhood: certainly, his shows were seen as 'must see' events in the early seventies, when he was probably the UK's most popular comic. In retrospect, the shows are problematic, not just for their oft-cited sexism and objectification of women, but also the casual racism, (unfortunately very typical of seventies UK TV output).  But, as I mentioned in an earlier post on the subject, as the show entered the eighties, there did seem to be an attempt on Hill's part to change the format, with more emphasis on the parodies of contemporary TV shows and personalities and the black and yellow face dialed down.  But, there seemed to be regression - after experimenting with replacing that stock Chinaman (Hill in yellow face and false teeth) who couldn't pronounce English properly for comic effect variously with thickly accented Irishmen and badly congested Englishmen, the character made a sudden return.  It seemed more jarring than ever to see this routine repeated in the eighties.  Of course, Hill later maintained that his attempts to change the show were constantly met with resistance from Thames, who feared that changing what had previously been a winning formula might threaten the ratings.  

Perhaps this was the case.  In its later years there was a clear tension between newer material that tried to be innovative and older style sketches and routines featuring lots of female flesh, unsubtle double-entendres and sexual stereotyping.  There is no doubt that hill was right in wanting to update the format: there was a growing backlash, initially from critics, later from the public, to the cruder aspects of his show.  Yet there was a double standard at work - at the same time as Hill was being criticise, the self same critics were lavishing praise on Kenny Everett's TV shows (The Kenny Everett Video Show on ITV,, The Kenny Everett Television Show when it moved to the BBC), which contained just as much unsubtle sexual innuendo, objectification of women and also feature a troupe of scantily clad female dancers performing provocative routines.  A situation which Hill addressed on his own show with a sketch parodying the Everett shoes (featuring Henry McGee as a surrogate Kenny Everett).  Hill also seemed to address the sexist nature of much of his output with sketches such as the one featuring a woman and her troupe of 'performing men' - composed of Hill and his usual sidekicks dressed in long underwear and socks performing like big cats in a circus.  Some of the new material was innovative, (for a prime time comedy show aimed at a mass audience, at least), like the sketch featuring a handyman which is being edited (we hear the editors in voiceover, discussing how to cut it down to length) as we watch it, the narrative and action constantly being reshaped, (often to the annoyance of the lead character).

Ultimately, of course, the problem with The Benny Hill Show is that comes from another era, when standards were different. Back in the seventies the sort of casual sexism and racism of the show represented the accepted norm.  Hill himself, though, was right to recognise that, as his show entered the eighties, he had to reshape the material in line with changing times.  But it always seemed to be one step forward, two steps back, possibly due to pressure from Thames.  Taken in its proper historical context, The Benny Hill Show can still amuse: Hill was a great physical comedian and the sketches highlighting this and the carefully arranged sight gags still work well today.  The parodies are also often highly perceptive (if you are old enough to remember the shows and personalities being parodied), frequently playing on the conventions of TV production for comic effect and can still amuse.  His love of old cinema and comedians like W C Fields and Laurel and Hardy also comes through strongly and is still effective.  Likewise, his occasional monologues, delivered out of character and in front of the curtain are still amusing and often clever, giving us the closest to a glimpse of the real Benny Hill that we are ever likely to get.  The bottom line is that I retain an enormous soft spot for Benny Hill.  While some of the material might now make me flinch, there is never any real harm or malice in it: it is all delivered by Hill with the glee of a naughty schoolboy.  Which, in essence, sums up the whole ethos of his show: schoolboy smut and humour designed simply to get a laugh or even a snigger from a grown up audience.  It is all in a tradition of such British humour, which includes Carry On films and seventies sex comedies - we might profess not to approve of it, but we laugh anyway.  

By all accounts, in real life Benny hill was actually a very nice guy, modest and somewhat introverted, his work - making people laugh - was very much his life.  Moreover, according to the ladies themselves, he never tried it on with any of his female cast.  He was also - to me - a local lad, coming from Eastleigh and living in the Southampton area for much of his life.  Finally, his obvious dislike of Jim Davidson, (famously expressed in his diaries, but also in several disparaging references to the 'comic' in sketches in some of the later shows), is something I can always love him for.

Another Bizarre Moment in Pop Culture History

I always thought that time I saw Mickey Rourke turn up a guest on the Italian Saturday night variety-cum-gameshow Torno Sabato represented just about the most bizarre pop culture moment I had experienced.  (The matter of how and why I was watching the Italian channel RAI Uno is another story entirely).  I mean, it was sort of the equivalent of seeing Orson Welles doing a guest spot on the Generation Game, (which obviously he never did), or Charlton Heston appearing in one Ernie's plays ('wot he wrote;) at the end of a Morecombe and Wise Christmas show, (which again, never happened).  .The point being that, back in the seventies, when I was growing up, it was unthinkable that international film stars would stoop to do doing TV which, back then, was very much considered the poor cousin to theatre and cinema by the acting profession.  Sure, there were instances, mainly in the US, of movie stars doing TV: James Stewart, Dick van Dyke, Doris Day and even Henry Fonda had their own TV series.  But that was the key - they had shows built around them, over which they had a degree of artistic control.  The idea of one of them randomly turning up on a light entertainment show seemed highly unlikely, (unless said show was fronted by another star or pal of theirs).  The only movie stars who appeared on TV, it seemed, were those whose careers were on the skids.  The natural progression was to move from TV to films, it was accepted.

Getting back to my original point - Mickey Rourke on that Italian TV show.  Well, today I encountered a bizarre moment in pop culture history that topped that: Andy Warhol guest starring as himself on an episode of The Love Boat.  Yeah, you read that right: Andy Warhol on The Love Boat, possibly the cheesiest of all seventies and eighties prime time US TV series.  The show was, of course, famous (or infamous, even), for its guest stars, (who, uniquely for a US TV show I think, were listed before the regular cast on the opening titles), usually familiar TV faces of the era, with the odd faded film star everyone thought was dead - Cornel Wilde, Donald O'Connor and Stewart Granger for instance - thrown in for good measure.  (Even Trevor Howard eventually got hard up enough to put in an appearance).  But seeing pop art icon Warhol turn up on those credits was a real shocker.  I mean, we'd already had Mr and Mrs Cunningham from Happy Days listed, not to mention Andy Griffith and Cloris Leachman and the regular audience was doubtless thinking it couldn't get any better, then up pops Warhol.  It isn't just a fleeting appearance either - he plays an integral part of the Cunningham's storyline, (OK, Tom Bosley and Marion Ross aren't playing the Cunninghams, but they might as well have been) - it turns out that in her youth Mrs C had been part of Warhol's crew and was photographed by him.  Obviously, Mr C isn't impressed, (perhaps Fonzie would have been broader minded).  Anyway, Warhol as Warhol has a fair amount of dialogue, which he delivers badly and is clearly uncomfortable playing himself.  Still, when you think about it, Warhol appearing on The Love Boat makes perfect sense - as a product of the US networks, the show was a prime example of the sort of crass commercialism that his art revelled in - truly a match made in heaven.

The Sicilian Cross (1976)

It's one of those questions that isn't asked often enough: what did Roger Moore do between Bond films?  You might think that, with the payday he was getting from the 007 franchise, Moore simply put his feet up and took it easy.  But, in reality, he made a number of non-Bond films of varying quality.  With his first two Bonds being released a year apart (Live and Let Die in 1973 and Man With the Golden Gun in 1974), he obviously didn't have much chance to do anything else between those two, (although he did have another movie, Gold, released in 1974), but with a three year hiatus before The Spy Who Loved Me (1977) was released, (the delay was largely due to legal issues relating to Kevin McClory's ownership of the screen rights to 'Thunderball' and, by extension, SPECTRE and Blofeld), he managed to fit in a bewildering variety of films of wildly varying quality.  The best of them was undoubtedly the big budget Wilbur Smith adaptation Shout at the Devil (1976), but he also found time to appear in the Anglo-German romantic comedy That Lucky Touch (1975) and was bizarrely cast in the title role of the 1976 TV movie Sherlock Holmes in New York.  But the Roger Moore film from this period that has always intrigued me the most (and until recently had eluded me) was the Italian Mafia movie The Sicilian Cross (1976).

On paper, the film looks as if it should be half decent - clearly aimed at the international market, it co-stars Stacy Keach and features Ernest Tidyman and Randal Kleiser among its four credited writers as well as featuring extensive location shooting in San Francisco.  Unfortunately, it turns out to be confused and confusing, with a plot that makes little sense, dialogue that frequently confuses matters rather than clarifying them and choppy editing that adds to the feeling that the whole thing consists of a series of random scenes arbitrarily assembled with little regard for story and character development, let alone basic logic.  There are a number of stand out individual sequences - a spectacular car chase and Keach's 'test drive' of a car spring to mind - but they seem to be there purely to provide a spectacle, rather than being natural plot developments or, indeed, advancing the plot in any significant way.  The root of these problems is a seriously disjointed script - in all probability the result of having so many writers, both Italian and American, work on it - which sets up a main plot which, every time it looks as if it might be going somewhere, diverts into another plot line, ultimately resolving none of them in a particularly satisfactory manner.  

The main plot is ostensibly about that titular cross, which has been imported into the US from Sicily by a local Mafia chief for installation in a new Catholic church.  It turns out that it has been used to smuggle a large quantity of heroin into the US, an act of sacrilege that enrages said Mafia guy, all the other Mafia capos and the capo of capos, not to mention the priest whose church the crucifix was destined for.  Naturally, the Mafia don calls in his nephew Ulysses, an Anglo-Italian lawyer, played by Moore, to find out who was responsible.  He, in turn, brings in his racing car driver friend Charlie (Keach) to help him.  To complicate matters, the heroin discovered by the authorities is stolen by a group of dockers who plan to sell it themselves, there's a power struggle within the Mafia hierarchy culminating in the capo of capos being assassinated and, just when you think it is all drawing to a close, a past family secret is uncovered and it turns into a revenge picture.  Not surprisingly, the resulting action is all over the place, with Moore jetting off to Sicily on what amounts to a wild goose chase, while Keach chases the heroin, before they come together again in the US where they variously try to find who assassinated the big boss, track the dockers with the heroin in the hope they will lead them to whoever originally hid it in the cross, before deciding to seize the stuff themselves with a view to selling it.  Meanwhile, everybody else seems to be scheming against everybody else and double crossing each other, as the film descends into a confusing mess.

It is exhausting work watching The Sicilian Cross, as the plot pulls first one way, then changes tack to pull another, with none of the developments feeling as if they make any real sense let alone be connected to each other.  Events pile upon events, which certainly give the impression that things are happening, but somehow never seem to get us anywhere. It doesn't help that the film is seriously over-long, with too many scenes feeling like padding, resulting in the pace flagging badly every so often.  The idea was clearly to make some kind of 'buddy picture', (perhaps inspired by Moore's pairing with Tony Curtis in The Persuaders), with Moore's smooth and suave Ulysses contrasted with Keach's rough and ready Charlie.  Unfortunately, the script gives Roger Moore few real opportunities to deploy his trademark smooth charisma, with Stacy Keach generally coming out of it better, as he makes the most of his scenes as the more roguish Charlie.  Moreover, despite Moore's undoubted charm, it is difficult to warm to a character who is, essentially, a Mafia stooge.  The end result is that the duo fail to establish any kind of adversarial dynamic between the two characters.  Nonetheless, so long as you don't stop to think about it too hard, The Sicilian Cross is a reasonably entertaining watch - it looks good with a superficial gloss that distracts from the confused plot and a number of well-staged action sequences.  (The version I saw was the UK release version, with a running time of 105 minutes, but it was bought for US distribution by AIP, who cut it to just over ninety minutes and retitled it Street People.  I've yet to see this version, but I can't imagine that the cuts would make it any more confusing and might well improve the film by tightening it up somewhat).

Moore, of course, continued to make films between his Bond assignments - two between Spy Who Loved Me and Moonraker (1979), four between the latter and For Your Eyes Only (1981) and another two between Octopussy (1983) and View to a Kill (1985), (he seems to have taken a sabbatical between For Your Eyes Only and Octopussy).  The most successful of these were those where he played variations on his suave secret agent/adventurer character, such as The Wild Geese (1978) and The Seas Wolves (1980).  Attempts to do something different, like The Naked Face  (1984) or the anthology film Sunday Lovers (1980), or even The Sicilian Cross, were considerably less successful, although a couple of variations on his regular persona - his German officer (and dodgy German accent) in Escape to Athena (1979) and his bearded woman disliking anti-terrorist expert in North Sea Hijack (1979), for instance - are both amusing and enjoyable.  Despite his attempts to prove that he could do something different, by the seventies Moore was too closely identified with The Saint, Brett Sinclair (from The Persuaders) and Bond, that audiences were reluctant to accept him in any other type of role.

Dropped Connections

Well, I've spent an unedifying few hours trying to resolve an issue with my Roku services, namely that a number of livestreaming channels have suddenly had their livestreams vanish from their apps.  The apps load and come up, but are lacking the livestream to click on.  Number one suspect in this are Plusnet's DNS servers, which have been falling over with monotonous regularity of late.  This tends not to affect my laptop, where I have the network adaptor set to alternative DNS servers, (indeed, the channels in question stream without issue from their websites on the laptop).  Unfortunately, changing the DNS servers on either the Roku box or the Plusnet router is a far more complex procedure and well beyond my tech confidence levels.  As a compromise, the Roku box is currently getting its wireless connection via the laptop's wireless hotspot, thereby coming via those alternative DNS servers.  Even with this method, getting even one of the problem Roku apps to stream properly required not just deleting the app, reseting the network, then re-installing it, but also a device reset for the Roku box.  I've a nasty feeling that I'm going to have to do this every time I want to watch this particular channel.  Which is a real pain.

Unreliable DNS servers seems to have been a problem afflicting a number of ISPs of late, (to be fair, Plusnet's DNS servers have always been poor, which is why the laptop is set to alternative servers).  With moves to try and push more and more terrestrial broadcasting onto streaming, (so that they can sell off more of those valuable airwaves to mobile providers), you'd think that ISPs would be investing in better DNS services, otherwise a lot of viewers are going to end up disappointed and frustrated.  Whether it is down to DNS problems, I don't know, but the move to shift everyone's telephone landlines to Voice Over Internet Protocol, (VOIP), certainly hasn't impressed me, with the converted lines frequently cutting off mid-call.  My mother's line was switched a few months ago and sometimes we can be cut off three or more times in the course of a call - it then requires multiple attempts to call back as her receiver has dropped its connection and is effectively dead.  Everyone else I've spoken to who has been switched to VOIP have experienced the same problems.  It is particularly worrying for my mother, who is in her nineties and doesn't have a mobile - if she has a medical emergency and her phone cuts off like this (sometimes it is dead when she tries to call anyone), what is she supposed to do?  Modern technology - in the UK, at least - really can be utter shit these days.

Man to Man

Man-to-Man was one of the first men's pulps to turn to a more obviously softcore 'girlie magazine' format, featuring photographic covers and more adult orientated content.  For the months leading up to this switch, the magazine feature painted covers, but far more salacious and revealing than those that had preceded them.  This is one of the later examples, from January 1965, featuring more nudity than usual, but still falling short of being explicit.  During this transitional period, this style of cover was combined with the regular men's magazine content, as witnessed by the story titles featured on this issue.  The cover painting itself illustrates 'Cannibal Bride of Petty Officer Morey' which, judging by the attacking aircraft, is another tale of World War Two US sailor shipwrecked on a Pacific island full of beautiful naked but savage women.  Obviously, his red-blooded American virility tames the savage women and sets them against the Japanese.  The cover leaves us in no doubt as to exactly how he tames them.

In addition we have an expose: 'Sin on Wheels: America's New Trailer Park Tootsies'.  An early example, I assume, of the US media's obsession with 'trailer trash'.  The demonisation of those who live in non-permanent homes has an obvious analogy in the UK press' treatment of the travelling community: a blanket characterisation of anyone who lived in a trailer or caravan as thieves, fraudsters and violent thugs.  Last up, we have a 'book length' feature in the form of 'Gigantic Passions'.  Apparently, 'everything was big about wrestler Jody Clark - including her need for a man to match her, lust for lust'.  Although presented as a 'true story' (note the 'by Jody Clark, as told to con Sellers' byline), the story is, in fact, fiction.  There never was a real wrestler called Jody Clark and Con Sellers was a prolific author of 'sleaze' paperbacks and men's adventure stories.  'Gigantic Passions' clearly falls into the former category.

A couple of issues later Man to Man had adopted photographic covers, a new logo and had started its switch to more adult-orientated content.  In this format, the magazine survived to the early eighties, by which time its previous identity as a men's adventure magazine had long been forgotten.

The Alien Fakes Are Coming...

How many more of these fake alien videos are we going to have to endure?  Because they are all fake, you know.  This latest one, the Mexican alleged mummified aliens, is no different - some obviously fake alien bodies (they look as if they are made from papier mache) and the usual unverifiable 'scientific tests' that 'prove' their alien origin.  I have to say, I do admire the sheer nerve of the grifters behind it, who generated all manner of publicity by presenting all this horse shit to the Mexican parliament.  If I was Mexican, I'd be bloody worried as to the calibre of my elected representatives if any of them swallowed this obvious hoax.  Bet then I look at some the denizens of our own House of Commons.  But, but,,they subjected these 'aliens' to 'scientific tests' I hear all the crackpots out there splutter.  Sure, they had tests on samples carried out by a lab that, when questioned independently by journalists, refused to share their results with third parties as this would be breaking their confidentiality agreement with their clients.  Which means we have to take the word of these 'Ufologists' that the test results showed the samples were not of terrestrial origin.  Of course, if they are confident of these results, why don't they simply allow testing by other independent, reputable scientific bodies who will share their results publicly and allow them to be scrutinised and peer reviewed?  That, surely, would be the best way of establishing their veracity.

That's the problem with all of the supposed UFO evidence that reaches the public arena - a complete lack of actual, verifiable, facts.  But facts based on hard evidence are the enemy of the conspiracy nuts.  They find them very challenging, so they just try to avoid them at all costs.  They're like like those creationist freaks who wander through natural history museums, denouncing the fossil record they are presented with as being 'fakes' and the 'devil's work'. Rationality doesn't come into - inconvenient truths can simply be arbitrarily dismissed, regardless of the body of evidence backing them up.  Which is why it is impossible to argue with conspiracy fantasists - they simply retreat further into their fantasy world, claiming that anything that contradicts their world view is simply further evidence of a conspiracy to cover up 'the truth'.  Yet these people keep managing to get air time and the ears of politicians.  While we might think the idea of presenting these fake aliens and questionable test data to the Mexican parliament seems strange and perhaps a reflection of eccentricities of Mexican politics, let's not forget that not long before this, we had UFO 'experts' making all sorts of claims about crashed spaceships and secret contacts between aliens and the US government to US legislators.  Not surprisingly, these extravagant claims weren't backed up by a shred of evidence.  I mean, at least the Mexican cranks produced some faked alien mummies....

The Mighty Gorga (1969)

I have to admit that David L Hewitt's The Mighty Gorga (1969) is nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be.  There, I've said it, something I thought I'd never say.  I've seem several of Hewlitt's other films, which vary between the tedious (The Lucifer Complex, which, to be fair, he never actually finished - the footage was bought by another producer who pieced it together using a framing story of newly shot (not mention dull) footage) and the simply cheap and derivative (Wizard of Mars).  While The Mighty Gorga might be derivative, it is never entirely dull.  Which, of course, isn't to say that Heweit's micro-budgeted King Kong knock off is actually good, but by the standards of Z-grade movies it is surprisingly decently made - shots are competently framed, scenes mostly edited reasonably effectively, sound quality is good and some of the cast give passable performances.  As with all of Hewitt's project's, its ambition is far in excess of his available resources.  From the outset, it makes claims above its station, with the titles boldly proclaiming that it was shot on location in the 'USA, Africa and Jingleland'.  Well, if there is an 'Africa, Illinois', then perhaps it was partly shot in Africa, but it certainly wasn't shot in Africa, Africa.  (Also, 'Jungleland' turns out to be the California theme park where many jungle-set movies and TV shows were shot - The Mighty Gorga being one of the last - rather than some wonderful fantasy land).  The reality is far less glamourous, with many of the scenes involving Gorga himself shot in parking lot near Hewlitt's studios and the airport and zoological gardens which are supposedly in the Congo actually being San Diego airport and Zoo, respectively.  (The scenes on the airliner and of Anthony Eisley coming down the steps after it lands were filmed without permission, after the main footage had been shot, when it was found that the film was running short).

The lack of resources also dictated the fact that the titular giant gorilla is only ever seen from the waist up and neither his mouth nor eyes ever move, (let alone blink in the case of the latter) - he consisted of a life-sized novelty gorilla head hollowed out to form a crude mask and a car coat covered in fake fur.  Apparently the budget didn't run to covering a pair of trousers with fake fur.  To be fair, Hewlitt makes a virtue out of this situation, frequently shooting Gorga with the camera at waist level, but angled up, to give the impression that the ape is towering above the scene.  If Gorga seems ropey, then the dinosaur he fights is decidedly dodgy.  Like Gorga, he exists only from the waist up, but while the ape has two arms, the dinosaur has only one.  A papier mache one man puppet, one of the dinosaur puppeteer's arms operated the arm, the other the mouth.  Consequently, the fight between the two monsters is more than mildly hilarious, made more so by the fact that the actor playing the victorious Gorga, (Hewlitt himself), is audibly gasping for breath at its conclusion, to the extent that you expect him to whip out an asthma inhaler.  An earlier scene, where the dinosaur menaces the hero and heroine when it catches them in its nest, is, if anything even more hilarious, as Anthony Eisley throws giant polystyrene eggs vaguely in the direction of the poorly green-screened dinosaur puppet, which is flapping its mouth wildly while never getting anywhere near him.  

Having characterised The Mighty Gorga as a King Kong knock off, in plot terms it also borrows heavily from Irwin Allen's 1960 remake of The Lost World.  It starts off in true King Kong fashion, with Anthony Eisley deciding that the way to save his ailing circus is to follow up his regular animal trapper's reports of a giant ape and to fly to the Congo in order to secure the beast as a new attraction.  Once in the Congo, (or rather San Diego), he finds that the trapper has vanished while trying to find the lost city the ape guards, (which is also the location of King Solomon's treasure), leaving his daughter in charge of the business.  She is busy trying to stop her father's former business partner from a hostile takeover of the business.  Naturally, she and Eisley become allies and decide to try and find her father, the ape, the lost city and the treasure as a solution to both their financial woes, with the rival trapper in pursuit.  Once they locate the lost city - situated atop an isolated plateau - the film settle down to pretty much follow the plot of the 1960 Lost World, complete with the convenient secret tunnel that leads to ground level, the treasure (substituting for the diamonds of the 1960 film) guarded by another dinosaur, (this one is stop motion and actually stock footage from an Italian Hercules film), and the catastrophic volcanic eruption that destroys the plateau.  The lost animal trapper is the equivalent to the earlier film's 'Burton White' character (a survivor of an earlier expedition who knows the way out), while, in a bizarre homage to Irwin Allen's film, the tribe inhabiting the plateau (and worshipping Gorga) appear to be South American Indians, (portrayed by white actors mildly blacked up with tan boot polish).

All of which, doubtless, gives the impression that The Mighty Gorga is an entirely inept piece of low budget film making with no redeeming features, (other than the fact that it is unintentionally hilarious).  Yet, while its special effects sequences and monsters are quite woeful, (the process work combining monsters and actors is amongst the worst I've ever seen), the bits in between are surprisingly solid.  The featuring of competent actors like Anthony Eisley and Scott Brady, (granted, they were B-movie actors, but decent B-movie actors), means that much of the dialogue (bad though it might be) is at least delivered properly and helps mitigate the occaisional stumbling delivery of other cast members.  Many of the sets look cheap and the 'jungle' often looks more like scrubland or even someone's garden, but Hewlitt is an competent and experienced enough director to distract attention from them for a lot of the time, helped immeasurably by Gary Graver's cinematography.  Although it seems to take an age for the film to get to any jungle action, Hewlitt at least gives a brief view of Gorgo in a scene-setting prologue and keeps inserting scenes of him and the natives on the plateau at regular intervals in order to maintain audience interest.  While ramshackle and tatty looking, The Mighty Gorga, unlike many other ultra low budget films, at least feels like a professionally made production.  Of course, the film ultimately belongs to Gorga himself - a truly magnificent piece of low budget audacity, a giant gorilla in a film so cheap that it couldn't even afford a proper gorilla suit.  Fittingly, the last we see of him is at the end of the film as he strides off into the jungle (from the waist up only), eyes unblinking and hair wildly sticking up in all directions, as if he'd just stuck his finger in an electricity socket, proud and undefeated.

Der Hexer (1964)

Another in Rialto's long running series of Krimi films derived from the works of Edgar Wallace, Der Hexer (1964) (The Mysterious Magician in its dubbed English language version), is an adaptation of one of his most filmed works, The Ringer.  Wallace's story concerns a notorious criminal and master of disguise seeking vengeance against a dodgy lawyer for the death of his sister.  This version, like all of these West German adaptations, updates the story to the sixties, adding in various elements to 'jazz up' the story for contemporary audiences.  These include a mini-sub, a white slavery ring, the main policeman's sexy girlfriend and lots of chases and explosions.  As with most of these films, in their English language versions at least, it feels barely comprehensible as murders pile up, sub-plots proliferate and red herrings pop up at every turn as the characters run around a German interpretation of London, (largely shot in a Munich.film studio).

While many of the Rialto Edgar Wallace films were directed by veteran director Harald Reinl, in an efficient, but rather pedestrian and uninspired manner, Der Hexer was in the charge of Alfred Vohrer, who shoots many scenes from unusual angles - someone making a telephone call, for instance, is shot from the perspective of the phone itself, framed by the finger holes in the dial - and generally employs a lighter touch than Reinl.  Vohrer clearly realised just how ridiculous the material he was working with actually was and directs with a suitable sense of the absurd - the bad guys booby trap and blow up an entire house, for instance, in order to try and kill the mysterious Ringer.  With the climax inevitably occurring in the lawyers rambling Gothic house, the Ringer is finally unmasked and if you hadn't already worked out his identity, then you need to hand in your Sherlock Holmes Junior Fan Club magnifying glass.  Packed full of frenzied action, watched post pub, as I did, Der Hexer, like most of the Wallace series, makes for an amusing (and occasionally atmospheric), but quite inconsequential, viewing experience.

'The Golden Spy Nymphs and Their Incredible Bed of Fire'

Another episode of 'The True History of World War Two According to Men's Pulp Magazines'.  This time around it is how 'The Golden Spy Nymphs and Their Incredible Bed of Fire', as related in the July 1969 issue of World of Men, won the war.  Yes indeed, the cover illustrates another tale of how scantily clad, gun-toting women operating behind enemy lines somehow did something vital to the war effort.  Something that none of your history books - which are just too obsessed with 'facts' - will tell you about.  Apparently, setting fire to a dockside prevented the Nazis from doing, well, something.  This something involved V-1 flying bombs being either loaded onto, or off of a ship, (which you can tell is German by that swastika neatly painted on the bow).  But not any V-1s - the one pictured appears to have a cockpit, which would surely turn it into some kind of suicide plane,  (Actually, some prototype V-1s did have cockpits, in order that pilots could test their flight attributes).  Obviously, the valiant efforts of these women prevented the Germans from sending hundreds of V-1s against the UK, causing destruction and significant civilian  casualties....

There's more (presumably Nazi) beastliness in 'The Blood Monster Who Claimed 1,000 Greek Maidens', (it is, of course, possible that this story might be set during the bloody Greek Civil War of the late forties, but this conflict wouldn't have been as well known to US readers as the German occupation of Greece in WW2).  Elsewhere in this issue it is sex, sex, sex.  First off there are the 'Teen Sin Orgies Where Anything Goes', another chapter in the men's magazines' obsession with the sex habits f young people.  Next, we have '10 Unnatural Sex Attitudes That Can Destroy You' - I'd like to think that was about which positions might be the most physically hazardous when having sex.  (I'd imagine anything where the man is upside down, causing a rush of blood to the head might have unfortunate consequences and if they were on a trapeze at the time, they might risk a fatal fall as well).  Finally, we have 'Expose: The Gay Ones - Where and How They Operate' - I'm not sure whether this is intended as a warning for red-blooded American heterosexuals in order that they can avoid such venues and possible induction into 'gayness', or a guide for the curious who fancy a 'bit of the other'.  So, there you have it - business as usual in the World of Men during the swinging sixties' final Summer.

The Pink Angels (1971)

In the strange world of sixties and seventies exploitation there are many films which the makers clearly thought were well-meaning and  ground-breaking, ye today just seem offensive on multiple layers.  The latest example of this I've stumbled across is The Pink Angels (1971), a gay biker comedy.  I'll say that again: a gay biker comedy.  In 1971.  It concerns half a dozen California bikers (who ride in motorbike-sidecar combinations) who are on a road trip to a drag ball in San Francisco - because that's what leather clad gay guys were doing in the early seventies.  Apparently.  Which is where we encounter the film's first problem: it can't differentiate homosexuality and transvestism.  They are two completely different things - the majority of gay guys aren't transvestites or drag queens.  In my (admittedly limited) experience, most transvestites are heterosexual - the just like dressing in women's clothes.  Now, I'm sure that the makers of The Pink Angels thought that, by presenting these gay bikers as the heroes of the film, they were being incredibly progressive.   The problem, though, was that they seemed to know very little about actual homosexuals, (which, as they were working in the movie industry, seems very surprising), taking the attitude that gays, transvestites, transsexuals etc were all the same things - they were just a bunch of crazy 'queers'.

It doesn't help that in their portrayal of homosexuality, they succeed in embracing just about every negative gay stereotype in existence.  But hey, they were obviously equal opportunities offenders as their portrayal of biker culture is equally stereotyped.  The bikers in the film, whether gay or straight, all wear black leather, all exhibit extreme anti-social behaviour, and sport Nazi memorabilia.  The latter is obviously problematic with regard to the gay bikers, one of whom wears a coal scuttle helmet and another has swastikas on his helmet.  Still, the makers intent was obviously to produce a 'zany' road trip comedy, so the film meanders along, stumbling from one surreal situation to another, as the gay bikers encounter various characters along their way.  Their number also includes what appears to be a homage to Laurel and Hardy in the shape of one couple consisting of a large pompous and domineering biker and his skinny hapless companion who writes bad poetry and speaks with a bad Liverpool accent.  They indulge in some mild slapstick during the course of the film.  The road trip is interspersed with scenes of some crazy right-wing general who is - for reasons unexplained (other than that he is clearly a reactionary nut) - trying to stop the 'Pink Angels'.  Which leads us to the film's mind-boggling conclusion, which sees our heroes lynched by the aforementioned general.  One can only assume the makers were trying to emulate the downbeat ending of other biker movies, in particular Easy Rider.  

The film is a mess and, as I have said, offensive on multiple levels.  Yet it remains an intriguing oddity which exerts a strange fascination while it is playing - you just have to keep watching to see how much weirder it is going to get.  It is the kind of film that could only have been made in the early seventies and offers a unique perspective on the whole sub-genre of biker movies, even if its attempts to highlight the innate homoeroticism of the genre is crude.  The Pink Angels might be a terrible film that ultimately doesn't have the courage of its convictions when it comes to exposing the gay sub-text of the biker movie, but it is entertaining in its bizarre and ramshackle way.

Political Attack Dogs?

These XL Bully dogs that Suella Braverman wants to ban because they allegedly keep attacking people - surely the real problem here is that people keep challenging them to fist fights.  Completely out of the blue.  They see one of these dogs, minding its own business as it is being taken for a walk, and just go up to them and start goading them into a fight.  It's because the dogs look so muscle bound and aggressive - they jut look as if they are spoiling for a fight.  So, when you see one, the natural reaction is to push back and shout 'If you think you are hard enough, come and have a go'.  These poor canines were simply defending themselves - but the reactionary press report it as them doing the attacking!  OK, so a few of these dog-provoking bastards got severely mauled and OK, so maybe a few of them were kids,  But what did they expect?  As for the kids, well, I blame the parents - they really should teach their children better than to be cruel to animals.  Damn it, they're the ones who should be facing fines - or being put down.  It's bloody outrageous the way in which these dogs are being victimised when it is them who are the real victims!

It seems clear to me that it is rabid Tory politicians like Braverman who need to have action taken against them.  We need a 'Dangerous Crypto Fascists' Bill introduced into the Commons, designed to address the risk to the public that they pose - if they aren't publicly mauling single mothers, the disabled, judges, climate protesters and just about anyone who disagrees with them, they are busy robbing the public purse.  While extreme measures are needed, I'm obviously not proposing that the likes of Braverman, Lee Anderson or  their ilk should be humanely destroyed.  I'm not a cruel man, after all.  I just think that they should be muzzled and kept on leashes in public, thereby preventing them from biting anyone and giving us some respite from hearing the bile they spout.  If they still get uppity in public, then members of the public should be able to hit them with a rolled up newspaper.  Preferably The Guardian, as that will get them foaming at the mouth, which will give the police an excuse to Taser them.  I know this all sounds a bit extreme but, believe me, it is the only way that he can even hope to start making our streets safe again. 

Super Long Superhero Movies

I've been watching some more of those superhero films, courtesy of one of those dodgy streaming channels on Roku.  I have to say that of the four films I've seen over he past couple of weeks, only one, the third Guardians of the Galaxy film, was what I would describe as an entirely entertaining experience.  That said, it was still far too long, but we'll come back to that point later.  Of the others, Morbius, a Columbia production rather than a pure Marvel product, at least ran under two hours, but it was still, quite probably, the dullest big budget comic book adaptation I've ever seen.  I honestly had real problems giving it my full attention, it was so slow and unengaging and lacking in any remotely likeable characters.  I still have mixed feelings about Chrstopher Nolan's The Dark Knight Rises (which, for some unaccountable reason, I'd never previously gotten around to watching).  While, on the one hand, it was an extremely good-looking and very well made film, at two and three-quarter hours, it was far too long.  Particularly in light of the fact that there just wasn't enough Batman in all that running time, our supposed hero absent from the action for long stretches.  (I know that, for plot purposes, this was a deliberate ploy, but it badly weakened the film, resulting in long talky sequences of other characters explaining the plot, instead of giving us Bat-action sequences to move the story along).  It was also hampered by a poor villain in Bane (who, despite being boring as Hell, was given far too much screen time) - quite why Tom Hardy was cast in the role, when he was hidden behind a mask in all but one scene and quite why he chose to play the part with a Sean Connery vocal impersonation, I really don't know,  But whatever the reason, it just didn't work.

But I still enjoyed the Nolan film far more than I did The Batman which, at just shy of three hours long, became an endurance test.  An hour of that running time could easily have been lost.  Like The Dark Knight Rises, it is an extremely good-looking movie, all dark and moody, with lots of rain falling in Gotham City.  While the decision to take the character back to his roots and focus on Batman's detective skills rather than his prowess in beating up villains was an interesting approach, the film's excessive running time and often glacial pace, resulted in it becoming tedious.  I just kept hoping - largely in vain - for a few proper action sequences to break up the tedium.  It didn't help that Robert Pattinson's performance made no distinction, character-wise, between Bruce Wayne and Batman, leaving me feeling that surely it must be obvious to everyone that they were one and the same.  Still, he did have a very cool Batmobile, fashioned after a late sixties muscle car, which featured in the film's best sequence, a lengthy car chase through Gotham City.  If only the rest of the film had matched this, then it would have been far more entertaining. That said, even if it had been more action orientated, with nearly three hours to fill, I suspect that The Batman would still have dragged.  Which is a problem for most modern superhero films - is the art of succinct story-telling, let alone editing, dead?  Even the Guardians of the Galaxy film, which I liked, was too long at two and a half hours, its length the result, in large part, due to trying to encompass too many sub-plots and tie up too many loose ends set up in previous movies.  

Which is another problem with these films, especially the Marvel adaptations - they don't stand as independent entities.  The Guardians of the Galaxy films being a case in point.  Normally, when it comes to a trilogy of films, one would expect only to have seen the previous entries in order to fully understand the final part.  But in order to fully understand everything going on in the third Guardians of the Galaxy film, you also need to have seen two Avengers films, Infinity Wars and Endgame, which contain vital plot developments which dictate much of the actions in this film.  (Watching the Guardians of the Galaxy Holiday Special, made for TV, would also help you understand this film).  Which represents a considerable investment of time and money.  So, after these experiences, will I watch any more of these type of movies?  Well, if they turn up on dodgy streaming services, very probably, although their excessive running times make them difficult to schedule - watching just one can take up a huge chunk of my day.  Let's face it, I could watch at least two exploitation films in the time it takes to watch something like The Batman and there's a pretty good chance that they'd provide me with more entertainment.

Escape to Adventure

A relatively short-lived entrant in the 'exotic adventures' sub-genre of men's magazines, Escape to Adventure published 41 issues between 1957 and 1964. This is the July 1959 issue and its cover and contents are pretty representative of the magazine's whole run.  The emphasis is firmly upon 'civilised' white men and (more importantly) white women being menaced by 'savages' and their disgusting sex-driven rituals.  The cover story - 'Captured by the Torture Tribe' - pretty much sums it all up: white woman carried off by black native, (although he's clearly assisting the white hunter hero, the image is clearly playing on audience expectations of implied rape and miscegenation - even if this black guy hasn't molested her, another one probably has, is the implication), gun-toting white hero, hostile natives and a sweaty jungle setting.  'Island of the Violent Virgins' promises something similar, but with a white man at the mercy of sex-starved female 'savages'.  Interestingly, 'I Saw the "Beat" Girls Run Wild!' implies a variation on the theme, possibly highlighting the supposed 'primitive' behaviour of modern young western women - frenzied sexually charged 'pagan' dancing and 'loose morals', no doubt.

The rest of the featured content looks to be more conventional 'exotic adventure' fare - 'Blood on the Veldt' an 'Ivory Hunting Saga', sounds like the sort of title you might have found in a Victorian gentleman's magazine, doubtless featuring brawny mustachioed men with big guns blowing away elephants by the dozen.  (Even in 1959 it was still OK to shoot wildlife indiscriminately if you had enough money.  Actually, it apparently still is).  Then there's the 'Bestseller Condensation: Manhunt in Kenya', concerning the 'thrilling pursuit of a Mau-Mau Chief'.  The subject matter here might well have been a bit conflicting for the average reader of a US men's magazine - on the one hand it features a black man being hunted down by his white 'superiors', on the other, that black man was opposing British colonial rule and pursuers were undoubtedly British.  What should they indulge, their racism or their Anglophobia?  (There was a fair amount of the latter in these publications, particularly in World War Two stories - the US never forgave us for starting the war and standing against fascism without them).  So, there you go, a typical edition of Escape to Adventure - its style and content was entirely consistent throughout its run, but by 1964, the appetite for these sorts of 'exotic adventure' stories was beginning to wane as tastes and attitudes changed.

Wind Breaking Performance Cars

So, those so-called performance cars - do they have a tube that connects their exhaust system to the driver's anus?  Because, you know, I find myself increasingly suspecting that the so-called 'throaty' exhaust sound they make is actually the amplified farting of their drivers.  Just yesterday I was watching some idiot parking his Mercedes sports car in the car park at my local Aldi, (I mean, come on, you want us to believe that you are cool enough to drive a performance car, yet shop at a budget supermarket? Not that there's anything wrong with Aldi - obviously, I shop there myself - but, come on), they guy was doing everything to make out sure that everybody could here that exhaust.  Either that or, I mused to myself, he has terrible flatulence and it is all coming out of the tail pipe.  Maybe that's why it cut off so abruptly - he suddenly 'followed through' and clogged up the pipe.  The fact is that, the more I hear those loud exhausts, both on cars and motorcycles, the more like farting that it sounds, leaving me to conclude that the only explanation can be that it the driver (or rider) who is producing it.

This would, of course, explain a lot of things, not least as to why the Batmobile has blue flames shooting out of its exhaust, ('To the Batmobile Robin - I've got a violent one brewing').  Moreover, these sorts of cars (and bikes) represent the ultimate expression of (usually) male machismo.  So it is only fitting that they are fuelled on farts as, for certain types of man, farting is itself seem as a form of mahcismo.  You know the sorts, they usually play rugby and can be found in groups at pubs where they talk loudly and take pride in the fact that they can fart louder and more violently than anyone else, usually raising one leg to let rip some ear-splitting effusion in the direction of any unfortunates simply trying to enjoy a quiet pint.  These are the kind of people who drive these 'performance cars' - usually BMWs, Audis and Mercs - with equally farty exhaust notes.  Now, many years ago, I owned a couple of American  muscle cars in succession and they didn't feel the need to produce farting sounds from their exhausts - the American V-8 produces its own, distinctive sound without the need for assistance from the driver's bowels. 

More About Benny Hill

I've been watching some more of The Benny Hill Show - there's a Roku channel that streams them daily, full unexpurgated episodes as originally broadcast on ITV, rather than the cut down half hour versions prepared for US showings which often show up even in the UK.  As noted before, they are fascinating to watch for a variety of reasons, not least that the culture references seem increasingly obscure - you have to be of a certain age to even know who some of the people Hill is parodying at all.  Most recently, I watched the sole episode produced in 1978, (by the mid seventies Hill was usually putting out three shows a year but, in common with other 'big name' TV stars of the era, he wasn't contractually tied to a specific number of shows a year).  It was notable that there was a significant reduction in the more sexist aspects - fewer sketches with Benny leering at much younger women who are showing lots of cleavage or arse cheeks - and a greater focus on parodying various TV personalities of the day, including Melvyn Bragg and Dave Allen.  The Dave Allen sketch, in particular, is interesting as it seems to be an attempt to address the whole issue of the various 'racial' jokes and sketches that often featured prominently in earlier shows.  It features Dave Allen, (in his trademark chair and glass of whiskey from his BBC show), attempting to tell a series of 'race' jokes about blacks, Pakistanis and the Irish, but being interrupted each time by someone of that ethnicity objecting to his racism.

Of course, the sketch itself, whatever its intent, is problematical, not least because Allen wasn't a comedian noted for telling racist jokes.  Granted, he told plenty of jokes about Irishmen, but he was Irish himself.  Rather, he was better known for weaving elaborate tales with a comic and often surreal pay off.   It's also problematical because an earlier sketch in the show had been a variation on the format of Hill's generic 'oriental' character not being understood by an English interviewer because of his accent - except that this time he's replaced by Hill and Jackie Wright playing a pair of Irish brothers with thick accents, (Wright - the little bloke who always got his bald head slapped - actually was Irish).  Arguably,  pair of Irishmen is less racist than Hill in yellow face, accompanied by Bob Todd in black face as a Pakistani, (it's certainly less cringe worthy to watch today, but it is still playing on racial and cultural stereotypes.  So, does this 1978 edition of The Benny Hill Show mark a step forward in its evolution?  Well, perhaps.  The reduction in the sexism is welcome, (although we still get the traditional finale of an overweight middle aged man being chased around by women in their underwear while 'Yakety Sax' plays), the focus on the parodies is welcome, allowing Hill to showcase his talents as a comic actor and impressionist, but the attempts to address the race-based sketches are decidedly weak and somewhat hypocritical.  Interestingly, Hill once claimed, after his show's cancellation in the eighties, that he wanted to move the programme's focus more toward the parodies and sketches while cutting down the 'sexy' stuff with scantily clad girls, but Thames TV always wanted more of the latter.  Their problem, apparently, was that the shows, like the 1978 show, with less sexual innuendo and more celebrity parody got lower viewing figures.  Just days before died, Hill was offered a new contract by Central TV - it would have been interesting to see what format he might have employed for these new shows.

Stagecoach (1966)

Most people aren't even aware that there was a remake of Stagecoach in 1966.  Despite doing OK at the box office, it has subsequently vanished from view, rarely ever shown on TV and certainly not enjoying the iconic status of the original.  Indeed, contemporary audiences are probably more familiar with the awful 1986 TV remake, which still gets frequent TV outings.  In truth, though, the 1966 version isn't a bad movie judged on its own merits, mustering a decent cast of character actors, boasting some good outdoors photography and some well staged action sequences.  But, in comparison with the original, it lacks a strong leading performance: Alex Cord makes a poor substitute for John Wayne as Ringo, his performance far too bland and low key to provide a focus for the audience.  So low key, in fact, is his performance, that the supporting characters make far more impact and are ultimately far more memorable.  Van Heflin as the Marshal, Bing Crosby as the drunken doctor, Mike Connors as the gambler Hatfield and Red Buttons as the liqueur salesmen all offer far stronger and more sympathetic performances , Van Heflin, in particular, providing far more of a sympathetic focus for the audience than Cord.  Even in his scenes with female interest Dallas (played with vigour and charisma by Ann-Margaret), Cord struggles to make an impression, failing to create any chemistry with her.

Gordon Douglas, a prolific director of big budget star vehicles for the likes of Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope and Jerry Lewis at the time, took the reins of the remake and generally does a decent job.  Never critically lauded, Douglas had a long career in Hollywood, starting out directing shorts and B-movies in the late thirties, (one of his fifties films - Them! (1954) - is now considered something of a low budget science fiction classic), eventually directing three of Frank Sinatra's most enjoyable sixties films:  Tony Rome (1967), The Detective (1968) and Lady in Cement (1968).  Generally seen as a 'safe pair of hands', Douglas' direction on Stagecoach is efficient and professional.  His handling of the action sequences is especially assured, delivering an exciting chase with the titular stagecoach pursued by Indians, which culminates in a tense shoot out, and a climactic gunfight between Ringo and the Plummers which doesn't feel anti-climactic.  Between these scenes, however, the film flags badly, with the script bogging down cast and director in far too many talky and static scenes during which the plot grinds to a halt and all the tension previously built up dispersed.  Of course, the obvious question the film raises is why?  Why was it thought that a remake of the original - already considered a classic by the sixties - was needed at all?  What does the 1966 version bring to the screen that the 1939 film didn't?  In truth, not much, apart from colour photography, a supporting cast more familiar to contemporary audiences and perhaps more frankness with regard to Dallas' profession - we're left in no doubt that she is a prostitute rather than a 'showgirl'.  Nevertheless, in spite of its shortcomings, the 1966 Stagecoach is still streets ahead of that 1986 version, which made numerous changes to both plot and characters and starred a bunch of ageing country and western stars.