According to the mummy movies that I've seen (and trust me, I've seen quite a few), reviving some cloth wrapped living corpse was achieved via boiling up some Tana leaves and getting the bandaged one to sip some of the brew, or by reading the sacred words from an ancient scroll. But, according to the cover of the March 1933 edition of Dime Detective Magazine, there was a third way: blood transfusions. As ever with these old pulp covers, a young woman in a state of partial undress is apparently also essential for the process of revivification. It isn't clear from the cover painting, though, whether the blood about to be pumped into that mummy is the girl's, or whether she's there for another purpose. Note what appears to be one cup of a brass brassiere over her left breast, seemingly connected by a cable to the other cup, which is over the mummy's left breast. Is the idea to somehow use her heartbeat to kick start that of the mummy, so that it can pump all that lovely fresh blood through its desiccated veins? I'm also not clear as to the gender of the mummy - if female, could it be that the girl is a present day reincarnation? (Reincarnation is a persistent theme in mummy movies and stories, despite the fact that it wasn't part of the Ancient Egyptian belief system).
The cover, obviously, is illustrating 'Blood for the Mummy' by Brent North (not the parliamentary constituency of Barry Gardiner MP, but a pulp writer about whom I can find no information, leading me to suspect that it was a 'house name' used by several different authors). Dime Detective Magazine was published by Popular Publications and was a companion to their Dime Mystery Stories pulp. Immensely popular, it published some 274 issues between 1931 and 1953. This issue comes from its most prolific period, when it went to a twice-monthly publication schedule, which lasted until 1935, after which it reverted to being a monthly. In its final years, it dropped to a bi-monthly schedule. With ts garish women-in-peril covers and lurid story titles, Dime Detective Magazine was very much the archetypal cheap pulp magazine, eschewing sophistication and literary pretensions in favour of crude thrills. That said, later issues featured early stories from the likes of John D McDonald. As this particular cover indicates, it wasn't afraid to encroach upon the subject matter of the horror and weird pulps, particularly during this twice-monthly period, when it was running through content at twice the usual pace. So there you have it - another reminder of pop culture past.
Another spy movie from the 'golden era' of the genre in the mid sixties to early seventies, The Double Man (1967), like the last couple we looked at, has a literary basis, but not a Helen MacInnes novel this time, but rather a late fifties effort titled 'Legacy of a Spy' by Henry S Maxfield. It is apparently only a loose adaptation of the novel and a UK production, despite the American star and director and the Austrian locations. Indeed, it does everything it can to convince the viewer that it is a big budget US studio production, which, by and large, it succeeds in doing. It is far slicker than either of the MacInnes adaptations, (which were both US studio backed productions), with a decent script and a relatively complex, but entirely comprehensible, plot. Yul Brynner stars as a CIA operative lured from Washington to Austria after he teenaged son dies in an apparent ski-ing accident while attending a ski school run by a former colleague. Evidence of murder quickly emerges, with Brynner questioning who he can trust as he investigates. A KGB plot to replace him with a double and thereby infiltrate the KGB gradually unfolds. To the film's credit, while on the surface the main plot device might seem bizarre, the manner in which it is presented and the details of the KGB plan make it, fr the duration of the film at least, seem believable.
Yul Brynner usually came across an odd choice when cast as a leading man - his persona always seemed too distant and too ambivalent to be a conventional and sympathetic hero. He always looked more comfortable cast in more authoritarian roles, where he wasn't required to emote or visibly empathise too much. All of which made him the perfect casting for the lead in The Double Man, where he plays an absolutely cold hearted CIA officer, for whom any display of emotion or affection is regarded as a sign of weakness. Of course, he actually plays a dual role, also portraying the villainous doppelganger the KGB are trying to replace him with. The film's climax hinges on the fact that, no matter how much of a cold bastard the double is, he can never be as emotionally repressed as the real Brynner. The Double Man sensibly keeps its main cast of characters relatively small, allowing them a chance to develop and the audience to understand and, in some cases, empathise with them. While Brynner provides a strong central character, he is more than ably supported by Clive Revill as his ex-British agent turned teacher friend, who has lost his nerve with regard to the espionage business, Anton Diffring as KGB officer behind the substitution plot and Britt Eckland as a crucial witness and eventual romantic interest. While never the strongest of actresses, Eckland nevertheless puts in a decent performance, as her character ends up caught between the two Brynners.
But the film's biggest asset is Franklin J Schaffner's direction, which moves the film along at a steady enough pace that it never flags too badly, but that also allows the plot to develop properly, without it feeling rushed or disjointed. The scenery, in the form of the snowy vistas of the Austrian Alps provides a striking (and nicely photographed) backdrop, but never overshadows the action. Despite the giveaway of the title, Schaffner still manages to build up a degree of suspense with regard to the nature of the plot unfolding around Brynner's character. Probably Schaffner's greatest strength as a director was his ability to tell a story without resort to lengthy expository dialogue, whether directing on an epic scale, as in Patton (1970) or Nicholas and Alexander (1971), or smaller scale dramas like Welcome Home (1989) or The Best Man (1964), and regardless of genre, moving between historical subjects like The Warlord (1965) and science fiction in Planet of the Apes (1968). While The Double Man was a film that, by his own admission, Schaffner did solely for money, he nonetheless does a thoroughly professional job. It might not be an outstanding entry in the spy movie stakes, but it is nevertheless an enjoyable and well made piece of entertainment.
Another Helen MacInnis adaptation, albeit one that is somewhat easier to see than The Venetian Affair (1966), The Salzburg Connection (1972) unfortunately repeats many of the mistakes of the earlier film. Most damagingly, it also tries to condense a lengthy and complex novel into a ninety minute film, resulting in a confusing and disjointed story line with far too many characters to keep track of, let alone care about. A lack of charismatic leads doesn't help either - Barry Newman is one of those actors who while not dislikeable, is also not exactly likeable and makes for a bland lead. He lacks the presence to headline a film, (although there were several attempts in the early seventies to turn him into a leading man, including this film), but found his greatest success on TV. His leading lady, Anna Karina, has more presence and is a better actor, but the script here gives her little t do, her character an eternal victim, forever at the mercy of other characters' actions. Wolfgang Preiss, taking time off from playing World War Two German generals, gives sterling support, while Klaus Maria Brandauer gains his first screen credit, starting as means to go on, playing Karina's shady brother with a surfeit of manic grins, giggles and gesticulations. Really, if you've seen one of his performances, you've seen them all.
The film's biggest problem lies in Lee H Katzin's direction. Katzin was a TV director who had made some interesting forays into features, directing cult favourites Whatever Happened to Aunt Alice? (1969) and The Phynx (1970), not to mention the Steve McQueen film Le Mans (1971). Unfortunately, for The Salzburg Connection he seemed to revert to his TV roots, with cramped shots, the actors usually seen only from the waist up, few long shots, far too many scenes of characters spouting exposition in a vain attempt to explain the plot and a rushed pace which doesn't give that plot, already condensed from its source, much of a chance to develop, let alone the characters. It also prevents the film from building up anything in the way of real suspense - an essential ingredient in a spy thriller. There are a few action sequences, which Katzin handles reasonably well, although they ultimately fail to generate much excitement. The cinematography, though, is very good, with the Austrian locations well filmed and well employed. The scenes in the mountains are particularly well shot and very nice to look at. It is perhaps significant that, after The Salzburg Connection, Katzin wouldn't direct another feature until 1987, reverting to TV movies and series during the interim.
The plot, as far as it can be discerned from the confused and confusing script, might have held some promise, given a better treatment. It concerns a list of Nazi collaborators recovered from a lake in Austria, which the world and his wife want to get their hands on. Consequently, hordes of intelligence agents from various agencies converge on Salzburg in search of the list. The CIA, who want it because some of the names on it might now be working for them and would therefore be susceptible to blackmail, enlist the aid of holidaying US lawyer Barry Newman.. He had already broken his holiday to investigate why a missing photographer thought he had been commissioned by Newman's publisher client to produce a book, when the publisher has no record of a contract. Of course, the photographer is the one who had recovered the case containing the list, then been killed by foreign agents in search of the list, which he had already hidden. Meanwhile, various agents search his shop, run by his wife (Karina) and her brother (Brandauer). Nobody quite knows who anybody else is or who they can trust and there is some reasonably effective misdirection with regard to the loyalties of some of the key characters. But a potentially intriguing set-up quickly degenerates into a welter of chases, double crosses and shootings. With so many characters and so much plot shoe horned into ninety or so minutes, it is difficult to care about any of it - none of the characters enjoy sufficient screen time to become properly established and the plot stumbles and stutters from one static and talky scene to another.
While The Salzburg Connection is certainly a very good-looking film with handsome production values and great locations, it is also hopelessly confused, failing to tell its complicated story with any clarity. There's no compensation in the way of intelligent dialogue or engaging characters - they come over as universally bland, the actors seemingly jut going through the motions. You can't help but feel that the film is something of a missed opportunity to produce an intelligent and suspenseful spy thriller.
Made during the height of Bond-mania, The Venetian Affair (1966) was another attempt to cash in on the success of the franchise. Taking as its source a recent novel from Helen McInness, a writer of popular spy thrillers since the 1940s, and starring an actor from a then popular TV Bond cash in, The Man From Uncle (which has a 007 connection in that Ian Fleming was originally meant to be involved and that the main character took his surname from a minor character in Goldfinger), The Venetian Affair would seem to have all the ingredients to be a success. Yet today it is virtually forgotten, while Bond marches on. (Likewise, while Ian Fleming's novels still enjoy some popularity, Helen McInness' canon of work, much admired and read at the time of their publication, now seem to have been forgotten). What the producers of The Venetian Affair seem not to have realised was that the Bond formula was more than just having a popular star actor, lots of attractive women, foreign locations and a few explosions and chases. It also involved striking and instantly recognisable production design, a supporting cast of memorable character actors, excellent cinematography, a good script with witty dialogue and, perhaps most importantly, careful direction, as successfully co-ordinating all of the elements into a coherent whole was no easy task.
While The Venetian Affair boasts some recognisable faces in its supporting cast - Boris Karloff and Ed Asner, for instance - it isn't up to the calibre of those in the Bond series. Also, star Robert Vaughn, although known for being Napoleon Solo on TV wasn't an actor really associated with action roles or, indeed, playing heroes - Solo was something of an aberration as he mostly seemed to be cast as shady politicians and outright villains. The direction is left to Jerry Thorpe, a producer and director who mainly worked in television and the film is noted for being somewhat flat and pedestrian. Points of interest include that the plot hinges on a suicide bombing, something that wasn't that common at the time of the film's release. Moreover, the fact that the main character is a washed up ex-spy now working as a journalist, suggests that perhaps both source novel and script were originally drawing some inspiration from Len Deighton's novels (the first two film adaptations of which had recently been released), rather than those of Ian Fleming. Whatever the intent, the trailer is clearly pitching The Venetian Affair as some kind of Bond-style action espionage film. Whatever the producers' intent, the film has, historically speaking, fallen by the wayside, becoming very difficult to actually see, (I only vaguely remember it from seventies TV outings). Indeed, it is nowadays easier to see most of the various cheap Italian produced Bond knock offs from the sixties.
Late fifties America was clearly a hotbed of lust and kinky sex - if this cover from the August 1959 issue of Man's Wildcat Adventures is any indication. Even the magazine's title is evocative of 'untamed', sexually provocative women - 'wildcats'. The stories trailed on the cover are clearly designed to back up this idea - 'Lash of desire' conjures up all sorts of images of whips and sadomasochism, for instance. The cover story is likely 'Sgt Duran's Secret Sex Invasion' - even the war in the Pacific was fuelled by sex it seems. Those were the days when the only liberation wartime invasions had in mind was liberating young women of their virtue. There's more exotica with 'The Nympho Huntress of Buckoo Reef' - one can make a pretty good guess at what she was hunting and how eager her 'prey' were to be caught. Best of all is 'Erotic Picture Clubs are Sex-Urbia's Latest Kick', a story doubtless designed to reassure readers that you didn't have to fight the Japanese in the Pacific campaign or seek out tropical reefs in order to get yourself some erotic thrills. You could just stay at home in middle class suburban USA and cop an eyeful of some home made porn involving your neighbours' wives.
This was only the second issue of Man's Wildcat Adventures, one of only three that carried the prefix 'Men's' - from the fourth issue in January 1960, it became simply Wildcat Adventures, with the 'Adventures' suffix becoming smaller and smaller with each issue. At the same time, the cover paintings became ever more lurid, focusing on semi-naked women in various states of bondage being variously menaced by Nazis, Reds, spear wielding natives, gangs, wild animals or some combination of these. In January 1965 it became one of the first men;s magazines to transition completely into a 'girly' mag, featuring photo covers, which became ever more softcore, contents that tended more obviously toward sex and erotica than action and adventure and a further contraction of the title to simply Wildcat. In this form it survived until the mid seventies. By the last issue, in 1976, the girls on the covers had gone completely topless, with even their nipples on show. Interestingly, despite, in its original format, being one of the more downmarket men's adventure magazines, its very first issue contained a condensation of William S Burroughs' 'Junkie'. In its later Wildcat incarnation, when it became yet another downmarket Playboy clone, it published Barry N Malzberg's first story. These literary milestones, however, were only isolated aberrations.
Twitter has always been a hotbed of crazy conspiracy nuts, but since Musk bought it, things seem to have gotten worse. Before, if you were unlucky, one or two might pop up in a trending topic, (unless you deliberately clicked on an obviously crackpot trending topic, of course), nowadays it doesn't matter how serious the topic is, you'll find it just full of these idiots, spewing out their demented 'opinions'. I'm guessing it is because, thanks to Musk and the 'Nazification' of Twitter, most regular, sane,people just don't bother posting any more. (I increasingly find myself asking why I'm still there). But some of their delusions are just so cracked that you are left wondering just how demented someone needs to be in order to swallow them. A lot of them still centre on the war in Ukraine, with the Putin apologists not just regurgitating every piece of Russian propaganda and disinformation out there, but also coming up with some bizarre shit of their own. Just the other day I came across one who kept posting in a topic which had nothing to do with the conflict, that aid to Ukraine is in fact the world's biggest money laundering scheme. I'm not sure how they think it works - nobody is actually getting any money back for the weapons which are mostly donated rather than bought for Ukraine, in order that they can defend themselves against Russia's unprovoked aggression. But I suppose that starting a war in order to launder money (which is presumably 'dirty' for some unspecified reason) is the obvious way to do it. Presumably Russia must be getting a cut as payment for invading Ukraine in the first place, in order to set it all off.
But the cranks have got a new conflict to spin their moronic conspiracy fantasies around in the form of the Gaza-Israeli hostilities. Here, it gets interesting with regard to who supports which side in the conspiracies they weave. Now, while you might expect it to be a simple left-right split, with the former favouring the Palestinians and the right Israel, a visit to any trending topic or hashtag about the conflict on Twitter will reveal a clear schism between different parts of the extreme right. I was, for instance, surprised to find Nick Griffin, late of the BNP, supporting the Palestinians, (not as surprised as I was to find that he was actually still around, having been eclipsed in the realm of right-wing lunacy years ago, by the likes of the EDL, UKIP and Reform). But when you think about it, his position makes sense - those Israelis are Jews, after all, and Nick is an old school right-wing extremist, true to his cracked principles. Stephen Yaxley-Lennon (aka 'Tommy Robinson'), football hooligan, convicted mortgage fraudster and would be leader of the British 'patriotic' extreme right, on the other hand, favours Israel in the conflict, because in his wing of far-right extremism the Muslims have replaced the Jews as their main bogeyman, (presumably because they are easier for his idiot supporters to recognise - I mean, those Jews, they can look just like us you know). So we have the fascinating sight of Nick Griffin and his ex-BNP right-wing extremists lining up with the left's Cult of Corbyn in supporting Hamas, while our other favourite British nationalist bastard, Yaxley-Lennon lines up with mainstream British politicians of all stripes in backing Israel. A situation which should give our legitimate parties and movements on both left and right cause for concern.
It took me a few minutes of Silk (1986) to realise that the action was meant to be taking place in Hawaii, thinking that it looked more like the Philippines - which is probably because that's where it was filmed. Another low budget action movie from prolific Filipino director Cirio H Santiago, Silk, as can be gathered from the trailer, was marketed as part of the 'lone rogue cop' genre, but with a female star, promising lots of shootings, explosions and beatings along the way as she kicks arse in order to get results. The reality of the film, however, is somewhat different - while it does, indeed, muster plenty of action, not to mention shootings, explosions and beatings, anyone expecting see a sassy female bad ass cop defying authority, bending the law to breaking point and telling the DA to shove their indictments up their jacksie, they are likely to be disappointed. Detective Jenny 'Silk' Sleighton might be tough as nails, but surprisingly, she is quite the team player, co-operating with colleagues and other agencies to bring down the bad guys.
Silk is one of those movies that falls into that vast category of films that could never be described as good, yet isn't actually particularly bad. There's certainly nothing remotely original about its story line, which works its way through just about every cop movie cliche already established by a thousand other movies. Moreover, the script serves up uninspired and sometimes clunky dialogue to a cast of mostly servicable actors. Star Cec Verrell, while not exactly charismatic, is curiously impressive with her hair slicked back for the action sequences, looking quite convincing as she variously shoots, beats and kicks assorted thugs and villains. But Santiago moves it all along at a good pace, setting up a sufficient action sequences to maintain the audience's attention - which isn't surprising as he'd making these sorts of movies since the early seventies, (he turned out Fly Me (1973) and TNT Jackson (1974) for Roger Corman's New World Pictures, for instance). This time, it has to be said, he does to seem to up his game, with some larger scale action sequences than usual. Unfortunately, the best of these - an impressively staged chase and shoot out involving cars and a train, comes right at the beginning of the film - and nothing that follows can ever quite live up to this early promise. Nevertheless, Silk is a somewhat above average for a direct-to-video action film. Silk was successful enough that a sequel, Silk 2 (1989), followed a few years later, with Santiago still at the helm, but a different leading lady.
A while ago I was ranting on here as to how much I hated Quantum Leap, despite its apparent popularity with the rest of the world. The thing is that I knew I didn't like practically from the first time that I saw it - I knew that I would never warm to it. Sometimes, of course, the opposite happens - you start out disliking something then come back to it and find, for a while at least, that it is at least tolerable. Which is what happened with Red Dwarf, although the period during which I found it tolerable didn't last that long, but, to be fair, instead of going back to disliking it, I simply became indifferent to it. Conversely, there are those TV shows you really liked when you first saw them but, upon becoming reacquainted them after a long period of not seeing them, you find that you can now no longer stand the show. This has certainly been my recent experience upon encountering Monty Python's Flying Circus when a streaming channel I have access to ran a marathon of the programme, with back-to-back episodes. I initially tuned in right in the middle of that sketch featuring Eric Idle in drag screaming 'Spam, spam, spam!' I immediately recoiled, thinking 'Jesus, this is horrible'. Further attempts to watch episodes elicited the same reaction. Apart from Terry Gilliam's animations, none of it seemed funny anymore. It just came over as a bunch of Oxbridge undergraduates showing off.
Bearing in mind that I first saw Python when I was a child in the early seventies and then thought it absolutely hilarious, I thought at first that it was simply a case of both the material and the presentation of having aged badly. That and the fact that it had subsequently been repeated to death, imitated and parodied to exhaustion, I thought, was probably another reason why it no longer seemed funny - it had just become over familiar. But then I thought back to my childhood and realised, in retrospect, that the younger me had really only been entranced by those aforementioned animations and sketches like the 'Ministry of Funny Walks' - most of the rest of it frequently baffled my seven year old self. As I got older I appreciated the stuff I hadn't really understood more, but I never found as funny as I thought that I had as a young child. Of course, hearing every sketch being badly recounted by idiots in the Student's Union common room, then the saloon bars of various pubs, for decades afterward has doubtless also blunted the show's impact. Still, as I've discovered as a result of binge watching various other old TV series on the aforementioned streaming channel, TV comedy often doesn't age well - they've run Mork and Mindy a few times and boy, how irritating does Robin Williams seem now? Yet, back in the day it all seemed so fresh and innovative, (well, the first season, at least - then they started tinkering with the format from season two and it rapidly went down the toilet). Much as I like nostalgia, there are definitely ties when it is better not to go back and binge watch, as those shows you used to love will only disappoint you. It's probably better just to hang on to your cherished memories of what you thought they were like.
Somebody says 'fuck pig' at the Covid inquiry and, lo and behold, David Cameron reappears. Coincidence? I think not. I know that 'elitism' has become a dirty word and we're not meant to use it these days because it's, you know, 'elitist', but I think that it is long overdue a comeback in British politics. Not in the sense of us being ruled by elites drawn from Eton and other public schools, which is what we have now, even those these self-same political leaders are the very people condemning the idea of 'elites' and 'elitism', but in the sense that maybe we should be more selective as to we allow to even stand for elected office. I mean, just look at the likes of Suella Braverman - a card carrying right wing loon and probable sociopath - and ask yourself just how any sane person could possibly think that she was fit for public office and vote for her? Not just her, of course - there's a whole legion of them out there: Liz Truss, Lee Anderson, Michael Gove, Boris Johnson, Nadine Dorries, the list seems endless. They're all certifiably insane, not to say incompetent, yet have been elected as our representatives and elevated to senior governmental positions. What does this tell us? That there are a lot of equally foaming at the mouth insane psychopaths eligible to vote out there, who keep electing these loons? Or is it just that they are given no choice, as they are the only candidates they are being offered to vote for if they want to vote for a 'conservative' candidate?
Because that's the real problem: the selection process for candidates is clearly flawed, allowing any loon to stand for public office. Clearly, the selection process needs to be taken out of the hands of local political parties and an agreed set of criteria need to be set out in order that would be candidates meet a certain minimum standard. Like not being mad. Or a Nazi. Or an idiot. For those meeting these standards, certification could be issued, qualifying individuals to stand as candidates for elected office. No certificate, no election. Yeah, I know, we'd be creating a new political elite. But at least it would be an elite based upon sanity, decency and competence. Just look at the state of our political leadership and ask yourself whether that would really be so bad? It certainly couldn't be any worse than what we have now, where patronage, money and a willingness to pander to the basest prejudices of a tiny number of party activists seem to be the overriding factors when it comes to getting a chance to stand as an elected representative. After all, we expect other professionals to be properly qualified, from doctors and lawyers to quantity surveyors, so why not political representatives? Damn it, it isn't just professionals we expect to be licenced - to drive a vehicle, operate heavy machinery or look after children you have to hold the requisite qualifications. So yeah, I'm all for political elites, just as long as they are properly qualified and regulated according a set of agreed rules.
Filmed in 1969 and released in 1970, One More Time looked to recreate the success of Salt and Pepper, but proved to be a somewhat different film. From the off, it pretty much sidelines the whole 'Swinging London' vibe of the previous picture, with the 'Salt and Pepper' club being closed down by the authorities on suspicion of violating various regulations within minutes of the titles finishing. With their assets frozen, Sammy Davis Jr's Charlie Salt and Peter Lawford's Chris Pepper are left scrabbling around trying to find the money to pay a fine or face six months in prison. Pepper, naturally, turns to his twin brother, Lord Pepper, (it was alluded to the previous film that he was the 'black sheep' of a wealthy and connected family). As always seems to be case in cinema, his twin, although also played by Lawford, is his complete opposite and disapproves of his lifestyle and friends. While agreeing to pay Salt and Pepper's fines, he insists that, in return, they leave the country for good and that Chris Pepper gives up any claim to the family money or estates. Before any of this can happen, Lord Pepper is murdered - Chris Pepper finds him and decides to swap places with him, not even telling Charlie Salt of his subterfuge. He then decamps to the family seat in the vague hope of finding out why his brother was killed, with Charlie, who thinks that he, Lord Pepper, murdered Chris. Every English upper class country life cliche is run through and mistaken identities and various hi-jinks involving Davis and Lawford abound. Which is pretty much the entire film. Except for the revelation that Lord Pepper had been working for Interpol to crack a diamond smuggling ring in Africa, but had double crossed them to work with the smugglers, then double crossed them in order to abscond with a fortune in diamonds. Which is why everyone is trying to kill either him or his brother pretending to be him.
As can be gathered from this synopsis, in contrast to Salt and Pepper, the thriller part of this comedy-thriller has been relegated to being virtually a sub-plot. Indeed, there are times when it feels like an afterthought as the film instead focuses on the comedy part, which largely consists of a series of 'zany' set-pieces, sometimes bordering on the surreal and involving lots of physical comedy. The influence of the director, Jerry Lewis, seems clear here - there are times when it feels as if he is trying to make a Jerry Lewis film without Jerry Lewis in it. It feels, at times, as if Lewis is trying to make Sammy Davis his on-screen proxy, as he is involved on most of the slapstick set pieces. Lawford, consequently, feels as if he has been relegated to a secondary role for most of the film - in his 'Lord Pepper' persona he seems to have been forced very much into the role of straight man to Davis, (shades of Lewis' partnership with Dean Martin, where Martin seemed ever more marginalised until Lewis finally ditched him and went solo). While some of these sequences are mildly amusing, most have little or no relevance to the plot, not moving the story along at all. Eventually, in a sequence in which Davis finds a secret panel in the castle library, which leads to a dungeon occupied by Frankenstein's laboratory, complete with Peter Cushing as the Baron and Christopher Lee as a vampire, (but definitely not Dracula), these comic interludes tumble over into complete irrelevance.
The focus on these comedic interludes means that, compared to Salt and Pepper, the action sequences in One More Time take on a secondary role. For sure, those that are present are competently staged - a fight with heavies in Lord Pepper's London flat, a horseback chase in the course of a hunt, culminating in a shoot out in a country pub, for example - but none can really compare to the car chase or the various fights and shoot outs in Salt and Pepper. The wrap up of the plot feels pretty perfunctory and is followed by a fourth wall breaking final scene in which Sammy Davis Jr and Peter Lawford, as Davis and Lawford rather than Salt and Pepper, directly address the audience and discuss their next film. It just feels like a step too far and undermines the integrity of the whole film. Which isn't to say that the film didn't already have problems - with Lawford, in effect, playing a different character for much of the film, his scenes separate from Davis, there are few opportunities for the interplay and banter between the Salt and Pepper characters that had been a key feature of the earlier film. The relative neglect of the thriller elements means that One More Time lacks any strong adversaries for Davis and Lawford - whereas Salt and Pepper boasted John Le Mesurier's ruthless spy-master and Michael Bates' Inspector Crabbe as antagonists, the bad guys behind the smuggling ring in One More Time remain shadowy figures, never really established as proper characters. As a result, there is little sense of peril for the main characters.
The film does have some positive aspects, though. The ditching of the whole 'swinging sixties' background early on was undoubtedly wise - by 1969 it was obvious that the whole cycle was running out of steam and to give it a central part in a film slated for a 1970 release would immediately have given the movie a dated feel. Like Salt and Pepper, One More Time's supporting cast boasts a plethora of familiar British character actors: while Michael Bates' Inspector Crabbe might have vanished, he is replaced by Leslie Sands' Inspector Crock. Allan Cuthbertson and Anthony Nicholls play Interpol chiefs, while Percy Herbert, Bill Maynard and Dudley Sutton turn up as heavies and John Wood is a chauffeur. Despite the emphasis upon would be 'madcap' set pieces, some of the humour from the first film continues in One More Time - the race jokes and Sammy Davis confusion over British colloquialisms, this time he misinterprets an enquiry as to whether Lord Pepper is still 'holding his ball', or whether he's going to drop it, turn up. Moreover, like the first film, it does look good, with great production values and impressive locations, (the castle that had doubled for the military college in Salt and Pepper here doubles as the Pepper family castle).
Ultimately, though, Michael Pertwee's script is scuppered by Jerry Lewis' direction and his relentless focus on slapstick comedy rather than wit, clever dialogue and plot development. He just seemed incapable of integrating any of the film's elements into a satisfactory whole. Even Davis musical numbers feel forced - in Salt and Pepper they are staged as part of his nightclub act, but in One More Time they jarringly seem to come out of nowhere. In a contemporary newspaper interview actress Fiona Lewis, who was cast in the film, described Lewis as an 'egomaniac' - when the film appeared, she was absent, her scenes apparently cut in their entirety. he film as it stands would seem to back up her assessment of the director, though, as Lewis' direction seems designed to force the film into his own image - a slapstick comedy with an irritating tendency to sentimentality when it comes to the relationship between the central characters. It isn't that One More Time isn't entertaining - in parts it is certainly enjoyable, largely thanks to the presence of Davis and Lawford and a strong supporting cast - but as a sequel to Salt and Pepper it is pretty disappointing, lacking most of the elements, (strong and interesting plot, amusing dialogue, action set-pieces) which made that film so likeable. Still, it does have a good opening, as Salt and Pepper drive through 1969 London in an open top Rolls Royce, as the opening titles roll. Unfortunately, it is pretty much all downhill after that.
Shot during 1967's 'Summer of Love' and released the following year, Salt and Pepper (1968) is one of those star vehicle, 'swinging London', comedy thrillers that seemed to be so popular in the late sixties. Headlined by Sammy Davis Jr and Peter Lawford, it proved very popular upon its release. (popular enough to spawn a sequel, One More Time (1970)), yet seems to have been quickly forgotten - it certainly doesn't seem to get the airplay accorded some of its contemporaries, never seeming to turn up on nostalgia TV channels, for instance. But, having recently seen the film, it is hard to see why. All the ingredients are there: bantering superstar leads, sixties Soho setting, several decently staged action scenes, an intriguing plot premise and a supporting cast packed full of well-known British character actors. On top of that, it clearly had a decent budget, reflected in the excellent production values, an occasionally witty and always clever script from Michael Pertwee and some assured and efficient direction from Richard Donner (taking charge of only his second feature film). One of the film's most interesting features is that, rather than the usual focus on hippies, 'happenings', psychedelia and other 'swinging London' cliches, the film focuses on the Soho club scene for its background, with the eponymous club, run by Davis' Charles Salt and Lawford's Chris Pepper, seemingly catering to a far more middle class clientele. Which was one of the nowadays often forgotten aspects of the real 'swinging sixties' - that it was largely a middle class phenomena, enjoyed primarily by those who could afford its trappings of drugs, dropping out and free love.
Indeed, Salt and Pepper themselves, played by Davis and Lawford as slight variations on their usual screen personas, pretty much embody the true face of 'swinging London': a pair of middle aged chancers who have seized upon the 'permissive society' as an opportunity to set up their nightclub, packed full of exotic dancers, groovy decor and 'modern' music and make some money. The portrayal of Soho is also interesting. Rather than the fantasy version packed full of hippies, mini-skirts, guys dressed like Sgt Pepper and colourful boutiques, Donner chooses instead to give us something closer to the actual Soho of 1967 - somewhat rundown, decidedly grimy and full of shops and stalls selling over priced sixties tat. Which isn't to say that Salt and Pepper doesn't offer the viewers plenty of 'swinging sixties' trappings. The central car chase, for instance, features Davis' yellow, customised, Mini-Moke being chased through Soho by the bad guys in a Mark Two Jaguar - various Ford Zephyrs and Vauxhalls get forced off the road or bashed into in the course of the chase. It doesn't come much more sixties than that. What the film catches best about the era is the way in which the modernity of the 'swinging sixties' co-existed, side-by-side, with more traditional British institutions: public schools, gentleman's clubs and the like all carry on as if nothing outside of them has changed. Government ministers and senior policemen are all middle class and middle aged establishment figures, uniformly dressed in sober, conventional, suits. The more things change, the more they stay the same, as they say.
Obviously, the central focus of the film - not to mention its raison d'etre - is the interplay between the two stars. While this is, indeed, entertaining, to director Donner's credit, he never allows the wise cracking to overwhelm the plot, allowing a fairly complicated plot to unfold at the same time. That said, the nature of the plot and the sometimes surprisingly hard-edged action scenes do frequently jar with the jokiness of the stars and the various comedic antics of their police nemesis, Inspector Crabbe. In places the film is surprisingly violent, with a very high body count. The plot itself, which sees the two club owners unwittingly stumbling into an attempt to overthrow the British government in an armed coup, involving nuclear blackmail, also touches on surprisingly serious subject matter for this sort of film. (Their involvement is instigated by the dying words of a stabbed girl found in Davis' apartment - an apparent reference to The Thirty Nine Steps). Which is perhaps the film's main flaw - it can never quite settle down to be one thing or another, seemingly undecided as to whether it wants to parody the whole spy genre, (Davis' Mini-Moke, with all its 007-style gadgets, none of which quite works as it should, suggests parody), or to present a serious thriller with comedic elements, (as the various murders and violent fights suggest). There are times when the elements feel like an uneasy fit. Nevertheless, Donner drives it all along at a good pace, which helps distract from its absurdities, moving smoothly from one set-piece to the next. He also handles the script's various pieces of misdirection, designed to keep the audience guessing as to what's really going on, with aplomb - for a fair amount of the running time, like the main characters, the viewer can't be entirely clear as to who is working for who and exactly who the good guys are - is the government behind whatever is going on, or is it a third party?
The film is very much of its time. Sexism and misogyny abound and there are, inevitably in view of Davis' presence, a fair number of 'race' gags. Although, with regard to the latter, it has to be said that Sammy Davis generally comes out on top in these. There's also a fair amount of humour derived from Davis' misunderstanding of various English colloquialisms, in particular the use of the term 'Fag' when he and Lawford visit the latter's old school. In a refreshing break from the usual portrayals of the police in British films of this era, the cops on display here are not just incompetent, but bent as well, (some things never change, it seems). By his own admission, Detective Inspector Crabbe is prepared to fabricate evidence and lie in the witness box in order to secure a conviction - he even has a whole network of unauthorised bugs set up across Soho, which are eventually used by Davis to feed him misinformation. With regard to the coup plot, it is interesting to note that at the time the film was made, Harold Wilson's Labour government was in power, yet the government of the film are portrayed as the usual sort of establishment figures. Nonetheless, one is left wondering whether Pertwee's script was in any way inspired by the various rumours of plots to stage military coups against Wilson, supposedly organised by dissident military leaders and right-wing businessmen, which swirled around his various ministries well into the seventies.
The film looks good, from its not so glamourous Soho locations to Pepper's old school and a an impressive-looking military college where the coup is based and the film climaxes. (The school sequences were actually filmed quite close to where I now live at Elvetham Hall, which I'm quite familiar with and is now a hotel). The cast is first rate, even down to the minor roles, which, as noted, are all played by recognisable British character actors. Crabbe is played with malevolent relish by Michael Bates, while Graham Stark portrays his hapless assistant. John Le Mesurier is very effective as a black eye patch sporting villain, while Ernest Clarke turns up as a British intelligence chief who might, or might not, be trusted by our heroes. Ivor Dean (Inspector Teale in The Saint TV series), is the Metropolitan Police Commissioner while Oliver MacGreevey, (one of British film's most notable 'heavies' in this era, with notable appearances in The Ipcress File (1965) and When Eight Bells Toll (1971)), portrays an assaasin, (with more dialogue than he usually got). Robertson Hare also turns up as Pepper's former headmaster. The whole film, though, rests on the performances of the leads, who deliver exactly the sorts of performances expected of them: Sammy Davis is all singing, all dancing, wise cracking and full of manic energy, while Lawford, as befits his image as an upper class smoothy, spends his time womanising and looking louche. But they do it all well and are enormously charismatic, their characters complementing each other perfectly.
Ultimately, your enjoyment of Salt and Pepper will be very dependent upon whether you like Sammy Davis and Peter Lawford, (personally, I'm a big fan of Davis and have always felt Lawford somewhat underrated - he might have been something of a cut price David Niven, but he was a good cut price Niven). It will also help if, like me, you are fascinated by Britain in the sixties, particularly the so called 'swinging sixties', as the picture serves up a magnificent slice of the era. But it also of some interest to the film historian, representing Richard Donner's first attempt at the comedy-action-thriller formula he was eventually to perfect with the Lethal Weapon films. Most of all, Salt and Pepper is a hugely likeable film, despite its unevenness of tone, it delivers as both comedy and thriller, carried along both by well staged action scenes and enjoyable performances from both stars and supporting cast. Besides, how can anyone possibly dislike a film that casts dear old Robinson Hare as a right wing coup plotter?
The May 1965 issue of Man to Man marks the point at which it made the decisive transition from standard men's pulp to more of an adult publication, with a more open emphasis upon sexual content. The most obvious change was the adoption of a photo cover instead of the previous lurid cover paintings. This particular cover is obviously aiming for an 'artistic' look with its nude study, (which still doesn't actually show anything), which, coupled with the change in the styling of the title text, suggests that the publisher's were trying to move the magazine to a more 'sophisticated' feel, doubtless inspired by the likes of Playboy and Penthouse, which combined erotica with 'serious' articles, (often by well known writers). But this is still Man to Man, so some of the stories trailed on the cover don't exactly drip with sophistication.
'The Wolf's Handbook - Some Crazy Ways to Flip a Female' sounds pretty much like the sort of 'How to Get Laid' articles that could be found in just about every issue of every men's magazine in the fifties and sixties. Except that, in line with the new pretensions of sophistication, it at least refers to women as 'females', rather than 'dames' or similar unflattering slang terms. Then there's the 'All American Sex Survey' - a feature that was to serve the magazine well for a few months, by encouraging readers to send in their absolutely 'true' sexual experiences. A variation on the 'true sex' stories of the magazine's previous incarnation. 'The Rise and Fall of the Libidinous Limerick' sounds like an excuse to publish lewd poetry on the excuse that it is somehow an exercise in literary criticism. 'Oswald - The Assassin Who Wasn't a Man' again sounds like an attempt to cloak a typical 'true conspiracy' type of story that was a staple of men's magazines. (Obviously, I'm not sure whether the story is suggesting that Lee Harvey Oswald was a homosexual, transsexual or actually a woman - back in the magazine's previous incarnation you can guarantee it would have been one of these). As for 'Incredible! The Incredible Jazz Organ of Jimmy Smith', well, back in the old days there would have been a pretty good chance this would have been the double entendre you expected. But in this version, it probably is a factual piece aimed at establishing the publication's new 'legitimacy'.
Interestingly, this incarnation of Man to Man lasted for only five issues before, in early 1966, the logo changed to a less 'sophisticated' design and the photo covers went for a more 'titillating' rather than 'artistic' look. Trying to imitate the likes of Playboy and Penthouse on a low budget was clearly proving unsuccessful, so a move downmarket to try and retain the men's magazine readership was considered appropriate. By the early seventies it had moved to being a full on softcore sex magazine, with no pretence of 'sophistication'.
Not only have the Christmas - or as we like to call it here at Sleaze Diary, Winterval - TV ads started appearing, but the seasonal decorations have started appearing in Crapchester town centre. So far, they're all pretty low key - both privately administered parts of the shopping mall have their rival Christmas trees up, (in the past, they've also had rival light switching on events, sometimes scheduled on the same day), but the council controlled part has, so far, only had a few (still switched off) lights strung from the lampposts. Will there be more? And will they be as crap as last year's council decorations? I mean, the Christmas tree they put up in the market place looked as if it had come out of someone's living room - it was so small and puny tat it was eventually kicked over by some thugs. But it isn't just the municipal decorations that are going up: a house further down my street has already got decorations up in the front window. In November, for God's sake. I mean, we've only just got over Halloween and Guy Fawkes night and still have Black Friday - that celebration of crazed consumerism and naked greed - to come before we can even think about Christmas.
Still, Home Secretary Suella Braverman is doing her best to get us into the spirit of the season of goodwill to all men. Fresh from declaring that the homeless shouldn't be allowed tents, she is now complaining that the Metropolitan Police are too soft when it comes to policing peaceful protests. Apparently they are far tougher on extreme right wing marches than they are on those against the war in Iraq or calling for ceasefires in Gaza. Presumably, she wants to see some good old fashioned policing applied, with peaceful protesters being given a bloody good kicking - but only after they've already been given a bloody good beating and charged by police horses. Not that they ever did that to right wing marches. That's the problem - they've always let Nazis march anywhere they like in London, in the most provocative manner possible, with their hatred inciting banners and chants. But hey, such things don't concern Braverman, who is interested only in whipping up some good old race hatred as part of her scheme to become leader of the Tory party - and all in time for Christmas.
Jeff Lieberman's second directorial effort is every bit as offbeat, quirky and uncategorisable as his first, Squirm (1976). While the earlier film might nominally be an eco-horror film, (with a sub-text of sexual violence and the reactionary and repressive societal norms of isolated rural communities), Blue Sunshine (1977) is far less easily categorised. Perhaps its closest equivalents, though, are Cronenberg's Rabid and Shivers, sharing their depictions of eruptions of brutality against an otherwise unremarkable urban backdrop and protagonists transformed from ordinary citizens into violent monsters as a result of their bodies being infected. But where Cronenberg's films featured literal infections by viruses and parasites, Blue Sunshine focuses upon chemical infection by the eponymous LSD variant, which, after a ten year delay, wreaks both physical and mental transformations upon those who had taken it. The ultimate in bad trips, in fact. On the face of it, this would seem to make the film some kind of reactionary cautionary tale about the perils of drugs:'See, those damn liberal hippies and their LSD really were a bunch of degenerates who will destroy society!' Except that it isn't that simple, with the film gradually revealing that both those who had taken the drugs and those who had peddled them are actually all respectable middle class professionals, many occupying positions of authority.
The weirdness of the events that unfold in Blue Sunshine are emphasised by Lieberman's use of highly conventional narrative structures. The plot, for instance, unfolds in the form of an investigation by a hero constantly being blamed by the authorities for the killings being committed by the 'Blue Sunshine' victims, forcing him to be a fugitive - a classic noir motif. From the outset he is on the run, with the film opening with a college reunion at cabin in the woods - during some horseplay it is revealed that one of the participants is bald, when his wig is inadvertently pulled off. He runs off into the woods, but when some of the others go to look for him, he returns and brutally murders those still at the cabin, before attacking the returning searchers, before running off again. The hero, Jerry Zipkin, finds himself chased through the woods by his homicidal friend, reaching a road where the maniac is hit and killed by a truck. Zipkin finds himself blamed both for this death and the murders at the cabin, evading the police to get to the city, where he tries to figure out what turned his friend into a bald, violent maniac.
In the course of his investigation, he finds that his friend's experience wasn't unique - a police officer suffering severe hair loss, for example, had recently suddenly gone berserk and murdered his family. In a sub-plot, a divorced mother of two young children finds herself suffering hair loss and feelings of aggression, while he estranged husband campaigns for a seat in Congress. Eventually, Zipkin finds that the common denominator between those affected is that they were all at college together ten years earlier and had taken the LSD variant 'Blue Sunshine' - except the ex-husband, who was the one selling the drug. Something he, of course, denies and - Zipkin facing murder charges - is confident won't come out. Unfortunately, however, his own campaign manager/bodyguard was himself one of the politician's best customers back in college. This very conventional investigatory plot is punctuated by outbursts of bizarre violence, producing some striking and highly memorable images of bald headed lunatics wielding knives or breaking up shopping centres. The bodyguard's climactic rampage through a disco, overspilling into a shopping mall, ('There's a bald maniac in there and he's going apeshit!'), though can't quite top the sight of the politician's ex-wife suddenly pull off her wig and menace her children with a large kitchen knife for disturbing bizareness.
It is, of course, significant, that much of the violence takes place against backdrops symbolic of seventies consumerism - a shopping mall, a disco, the ex-wife's neat apartment of the type seen in commercials for lifestyle products - as the story is, in essence, about the subversion of sixties ideals by naked capitalism, in the form of the drug dealing future congressman. The quest for profit and material gain, rather than fee love hippies or even hallucinogenic drugs themselves, lies at the root of all the mayhem that unfolds in Blue Sunshine. Lieberman's direction plays fast and loose with audience expectations, the backwoods opening suggesting some kind of rural slasher scenario, which ends abruptly when the killer goes under the wheels of a truck, with the action switching instead to sunlit urban California - all concrete malls and modernist buildings as it turns into more of a suspense drama, as we wait to see who is going to go bald and crazy next. Unfortunately, the change in scenario also results in a slowing of the film's pace, which Lieberman never quite manages to speed up again. Some quirky casting, including Zalman King, before he turned director of erotica, as Zipkin and Lost in Space's Mark Goddard as the politician, his secret shadiness contrasting radically with his image as upright space pilot Major West in the Irwin Allen series, helps things along. In turns bewildering, bizarre and unsettling, Blue Sunshine's main fault is that, ultimately, it doesn't really know where to go with its central idea, resulting in a somewhat underwhelming conclusion. Probably best seen as a satirical black comedy rather than a pure horror or science fiction film, it does, however, boast an original concept, setting it apart from the usual zombies, slashers and out-of-control wild animals that seemed to be increasingly dominating those genres in the seventies.
I've mentioned before that since I've been taking various pills for my blood pressure my dreams have become remarkably vivid and frequently memorable to my waking self. They seem to have gone through many phases, from 'widescreen' action, through the surreal, to curiously knowing, where my dream self can actually remember and reference, in-dream, previous dreams. Increasingly, I'm well aware that I'm dreaming, but let it carry on to see where it goes, (my usual cue for realising that it is a dream is the presence of someone I know is dead, or sometimes simply the fact that the whole scene has changed around me, without a logical segue). Of late, they've taken a cinematic turn, whereby the perspective seems to 'pull out', in order to reveal that the weird stuff that's been going on is actually a film that I'm watching on a TV, or sometimes a film that I'm involved with making. Into the latter category falls a dream that I had last week in which some kind of video nasty version of an Agatha Christie 'And Then There Was One' style drama was unfolding, with the various characters dying truly bizarre and gory deaths. then, just as it was coming to a climax, the 'camera' pulled back and instead of being involved in events, I was directing them on a film set. At which point, I woke up.
Then, just last night, I found myself involved in some kind of bizarre giallo-type drams. Actually, it didn't start that way, but I don't really recall the earlier part of the dream, only the part where a hunt for some crazy killer ended up at a creepy house in a cemetery (at night, naturally), where he'd stashed loads of his victims. There were bodies everywhere -their common denominator being that they all had birth marks of some kind. That, apparently, was how he selected his victims. Lots of Italian exploitation traits were on display in the dream. Even that red-haired little girl who seemed to turn up in every other Italian horror film made in the early to mid seventies, (the actress' career went on hiatus when she reached her teens, while she finished her education - she made some film appearances as an adult but left acting to pursue a career as, I believe, a speech therapist). Indeed, in the dream it was her murder that led to the house - she was, (as her character was in Baron Blood), possessed of some kind of psychic powers and about to reveal the killer' identity. While this was going on, I sort of knew that it wasn't real - I noted that the chief pathologist had a head like a skull, but decided not say anything as nobody else was commenting on it - then it suddenly pulled back to reveal that it was a film I was watching on TV. At which point things went off on a tangent as the dream became about some kind of school reunion I was preparing for which involved me having to wear my old school tie. (Quite why that tie was so significant in this part of the dream, I don't know, as I went to a state school and it was probably the same design of tie used by scores of other state schools. I t certainly wouldn't have opened any doors for me!).
I have no idea what any of this means, if anything at all. Maybe this new development in the way in which my sleeping brain presents my dreams to me is the result of having watched too much schlock of late. Who knows? All that I do know is that my medication-fueled dreams, (I'm told that the Statin I take daily is a likely culprit), continue to entertain me hugely in both my sleeping and waking hours.
The title might be True War, but if you were to take this July 1958 cover at face value you'd be forgiven for thinking that it was mostly about sex. Indeed, it gives the impression that the US Army shagged its way through multiple conflicts, (Brits who experienced their sojourn in the UK during WW2 might well agree with this assessment: 'Over paid, over sexed and over here'). According to this edition of True War, the Second World War was 'The Sex Best Years of Your Lives - A Thousand Nights of Beds and Booze', while the Korean War didn't just have spies, but the 'Sex Spies of Yonchon'. Lest you thought that all the WW2 fun was on the Western front, over in the Far East the US could be proud of the 'Shack-Up Heroes of Bambang City'. But hey, war is a serious business, as the cover reminds us with 'Death March: 1853' and the grim sounding 'They Ate My Buddies' Flesh!' (A tale of how starving Japanese soldiers ate dead GIs).
To be fair, the contents of the magazine overall have a somewhat less sex obsessed focus, with articles about the Battle of the Bulge, the Rhineland campaign and how Nazi secret weapons helped the soviets develop their post-war missile programme. There's also 'Why I Fought For the Nazis', a title so sensational that it really should have been a cover story. The lesson to be learned from this is that, by the fifties, if you wanted to compete on the newsstands, then you had to sell your men's magazine on the basis of sex, regardless of its actual subject matter. For a war magazine, tales of battles, cannibalism and whacky Nazi secret weapons just weren't enough to guarantee sales. Of course, the men's general adventure magazines perfected the union of sex and war with their lurid covers illustrating stories of Nazi depravities being visited upon chained up semi-naked women. Perhaps not surprisingly, this was to be the last of True War's eleven issues, its cover's emphasis on sex one last desperate throw of the dice to try and generate sales.
AIP's 'other' teenage monster movie from the fifties, Blood of Dracula (1957), whilst not usually recognised by most writers on the subject as part of the cycle, is most definitely a follow-up to the first, I Was a Teenage Werewolf (1956). Indeed, it shared its writers, most of its plot and some of its cast with the earlier film, and was originally released on a double bill with I Was a Teenage Frankenstein (1957). Both films were directed by Herbert L Strock, (who also co-wrote all three films). Blood of Dracula is very much a gender (and monster) switched version of I Was a Teenage Werewolf. Both films feature a troubled teenager with anger management issues being used by an unscrupulous adult authority figure as a subject for their experiments. While in Werewolf counsellor Whit Bissell had tested his new drug that could regress subjects back to their primitive instincts on Michael Landon, Blood of Dracula we have science teacher Louse Lewis using Sandra Harrison as a subject for her experiments in tapping into the primal energies locked inside humans. In both cases, the adults use hypnosis to try and control their victims, who both periodically regress into a bestial state and murder fellow students. In fact, while Harrison is meant to be turning into a vampire, her make up actually makes her look a lot like a less hairy, female version of Landon's teen werewolf.
Unfortunately, Blood of the Vampire is nowhere near as entertaining a film as I Was a Teenage Werewolf, despite being patterned on that film. For one thing it is painfully slow, never getting above walking pace and even at only sixty nine minutes, seriously drags. Most of the action is confined to a private girls' boarding school, which, I'm guessing is intended to help give the film a claustrophobic skill, increasing the tension through the fact that the monsters and victims are effectively trapped together in a remote, enclosed, location. Sadly, production values are so low, the sets so cheap and the direction so flat the film fails to generate any atmosphere. The performances are also highly variable - while Lewis makes for a convincing villain, Harrison and the other twenty five year old 'schoolgirls' are all too one-dimensional to elicit any audience sympathy. The whole production seems somewhat perfunctory, as if it was made simply to pad out a double bill. Which, of course, it was. The truth is that director Strock and the rest of the production team seem to have expended most of their effort on producing I Was a Teenage Frankenstein, which is by far the superior of the two films, featuring a better script, a more original plot, better production values and stronger performances. Of course, Strock directed a further film connected to the 'teenage monster' cycle, How to Make a Monster (1958), which critics tend to regard as a legitimate sequel to Werewolf and Frankenstein, despite the fact that, unlike Blood of Dracula, it actually isn't thematically connected to them, despite featuring the monster make-ups.
