Peeping Eyes in the Sky?

These drones which are plaguing Europe, leading to airport disruption and security alert, which most likely emanate from Russia,  just what are they about, eh?  Apart from the obvious that is: causing security scares, testing defences and generally trying to spook people.  But there must be more to it than that, surely?  I mean, it involves a Hell of a lot of effort to effectively play games with Russia's rivals.  The thing that I can't away from is that here in the UK, I generally associate drones with peeping Toms and voyeurism.  Because, let's be honest, that's what most people buy those camera equipped drones for - not aerial photography, as many of them claim, but actually for trying to spy on young female neighbours sunbathing in their gardens or undressing in their bedrooms or bathrooms.  If they stumble across some amateur outdoor porn shoots while doing that 'aerial photography' of the local woods or common, then all the better.  So I just can't help but suspect that the Russian drone swarms have similar intent - to snap illicit nude footage of Western women.  Damn it, which country has been plagued the most over the past couple of weeks?  That's right: Denmark.  A Scandinavian country - and what is Scandinavia renowned for - apart from gloomy crime series and novels?  That's right - pornography.  Not just any pornography, but some of the filthiest in existence, all freely available off the shelf at your local newsagent.  Everybody knows that the Scandinavian countries are just chock-full of beautiful, liberated women who take their clothes off at the drop of a hat.  So, where better for Russia to launch the pilot scheme for its voyeur drone operations than a Scandinavian country?

But exactly why would Russia be expending its resources on filming naked Scandinavian women?  Well, I thank that's pretty obvious - it all comes down to the war with Ukraine and the terrible toll that has taken on the indigenous Russian porn sector.  The fact is that most of the strapping young men who used to get naked and do the business onscreen are now cannon fodder on the front lines, being maimed and killed in alarming numbers.  Consequently, many of the top Russian female porn performers have gone overseas to get naked and perform sex acts on screen with foreign male porn stars.  Potential replacements, meanwhile, are also fleeing the country whenever they can in order to escape the repression of the Putin regime.  The severe shortage of beautiful men and women willing to get their kit off for porn shoots has been exacerbated by Western sanctions which have cut off supplies of Western pornography, leaving everyone in Russia, from those at on the homefront looking for some erotic arousal as distraction from a collapsing economy and repressive laws, to soldiers on the front line desperate for the sight of female flesh so as to stave off their gay thoughts about their colleagues, are just gasping for some good honest smut.  Hence, the drone operations intended to snatch illicit shots of Danish women getting and, hopefully, having sex, whether it be with themselves, with each other or with guys.  That's why the drones are being sent out en masse - by the laws of statistics, if enough of them are out there filming, then some of them are bound to get some hot footage for Russian porn sites.  Believe me, the drone activity in Denmark is just the beginning: if they get results there, then they'll move onto Sweden, where the really good stuff orginates.  After that, they'll probably try their luck in the Netherlands, another hotbed of top rated Euro-porn.  NATO needs to act quickly if we're to stop these airborne voyeurs from turning our unsuspecting women into porn stars.

The Curse of Simba (1965)

A follow up to Lindsay Shonteff's 1964 horror thriller Devil Doll, The Curse of Simba (1965) - Curse of the Voodoo in the US - is a typically ramshackle low budget shocker from the director and his then production partner Richard Gordon.  One of those would be 'exotic' horror films where civilised white men find themselves on the receiving end of literal 'black magic', (at which they had previously scoffed), the film is as full of casual racism as any other British film of the era featuring race issues and culture clashes.  Every black man encountered by the white protagonist, whether in South Africa or Britain, is just a hairsbreadth away from reverting to savagery and witchcraft.  As in all such tales where white culture finds itself apparently powerless in the face of the magic of witch doctors, the white man eventually prevails through use of his superior reason, science and technology.  Or by running the witch doctor over with a jeep, which resort to brute force, one might argue, rather undermines the film's subtext of white superiority.

That said, it is actually very difficult to dislike the film on the grounds of its inherent racism due to its sheer ineptness.  'This is neither Surrey nor Southsea' intones Dennis Price early on, as he chastises a British tourist on safari who has tried to dismiss a local curse.  Well, it might not be either of those places, but it is quite clearly a park in England which they are standing in, Regent's Park to be precise, rather than the South African veldt.  The sight of Price and star Bryant Haliday striding around in bush hats and safari suits, with various black extras running around in loincloths and war paint, waving spears, is simply not convincing.  Not even the presence of a couple of war surplus vehicles - a Jeep and a Dodge 3/4 ton truck - helps.  While the film was pseudonymously scripted by Brian Clemens, it has none of the flair and quirkiness associated with his TV scripts for series like The Avengers, instead being a plodding, po-faced piece that seemingly takes itself far too seriously.  Its slight scenario involving Haliday being forced to kill a wounded lion in the territory of a tribe that worships the animals, thereby bringing down a curse on himself that follows him back to England, is stretched very thinly, with barely anything happening for long stretches of the movie.  While Shonteff's previous movie, Devil Doll, (which also starred Haliday), had also been slow moving, it at least had a more interesting (if still derivative) plot and included sufficient incident and general weirdness to keep the viewer watching.  The Curse of Simba, by contrast, is something of a chore to sit through, with only its ridiculous portrayal of both Africa and native culture to provide unintentional entertainment.

More Proof of Identity

My problem with this proposed compulsory ID scheme for the UK is essentially the same as my objections to the Online Safety Act.  Primarily, neither will actually do what it is claimed they are being implemented for - just as the latter won't 'protect' children from online porn by getting us adults to give our credit card details to sketchy third parties, the former won't do anything to stop the unscrupulous from employing illegal immigrants.  Bearing in mind that these people are happy to employ and exploit immigrants 'off the books' without the documentation currently required to prove a 'right to work', I somehow don't think that they are going to worry whether or not they have digital ID.  You see, that's the point, they are already operating illegally, without regard for employment laws, safety regulations, tax regimes or national insurance contributions.  Unfortunately for the government, they've made this issue the central raison d'etre for their proposals, despite the fact that it is glaringly obvious that it will do absolutely nothing to control illegal immigration.  Because, like those who are happy to employ them, people entering the country without documentation simply don't care - that's why they are illegal immigrants.  If they are desperate enough to attempt Channel crossings in rubber boats, then not having digital ID when they arrive really isn't going to deter them.  

The other big problem, obviously, is that of data protection.  As with the Online Safety Act, the question is just who ends up holding your data, who can access it and how secure is it?  My recent (indeed, ongoing) problems with people hacking into various of my online accounts using login details they've obtained as a result of data breaches on the part of the likes of Meta, Google and Amazon, has highlighted the fact that the main problem with online security is the apparent inability of these organisations to protect our data.  Now, I know that people are going to cite all those pre-existing digital ID schemes in various EU countries that have run for decades without data breaches, but we're talking about the UK here, where, as we know, everything is implemented in the most inefficient and cack handed way possible.  This country's recent history of trying to implement public sector IT based systems simply doesn't fill me with confidence that they can do this without exposing everyone's data to the world.  To get back to the original point - if this scheme can't actually address the main problem its introduction is supposed to address, just what is it for?  Aside from being a distraction from the government's other problems and a desperate attempt to outflank the likes of Farage by being even more repressive and reactionary than them?  We're being told that it will somehow make it easier to access the services we already pay for with our taxes and - strangely enough - already can access without digital ID.  The government really does need to start articulating a far more coherent argument to justify this scheme if they are to convince us that it is anything more than yet another shiny gimmick designed to hog the headlines for a while.

The Flight That Disappeared (1961)

The Flight That Disappeared (1961) is one of that sub-genre of films from the height of the Cold War era that tried to tap into contemporary fears of nuclear conflict and pitch a case for nuclear disarmament.  Or, at the very least, a halt to further development of nuclear weapons.   A painfully low budget independent production, distributed by United Artists, comes over today as being terribly naive in its belief that the development of ever more destructive weapons can be stymied simply by changing the minds of a tiny handful of scientists.  Its perspective on the nature of scientific advancement is rooted in the B-movie and pulp magazines of the thirties and forties, where brilliant, but eccentric, scientists worked alone in their basement labs, their research unknown to their peers (who would probably dismiss it out of hand, anyway).  In reality, of course, scientists worked in teams in institutions with well-equipped labs and shared their findings with their peers.  So the film's ending, with a top nuclear scientist destroying his latest work which could lead to the creation of an even more destructive bomb, (which is all contained within the pages of a single notebook), is essentially meaningless.  As are the vows of two fellow scientists to end their research into rockets and trajectories.  The fact is that such unilateral acts wouldn't stop further development of a super-weapon, as they would merely be small parts of wider teams working on such a project.

In dramatic terms, though, the film's biggest drawback is that it takes an age to get anywhere, with more than half the running length being taken up with scene-setting and introducing the various members of the eponymous flight's air crew and passengers and developing their back stories.  All of which is subsequently rendered pointless as, when the flight finally disappears, having climbed, out of control, far above normal flight ceilings and radar contact, it only the three scientists on the flight who matter.  As the airliner lies apparently motionless in limbo, they are the only ones left conscious and the only ones who the abductors of the flight are interested in.  The three scientists find themselves in a 'moment between time',  facing a 'jury' of future generations whose existence depends upon whether the new bomb the three scientists' research could create.  Consequently, they are given the usual visions of bombed out and ruined cities which will result from 'their' bomb.  Judged guilty, they are sentenced to remain in the 'moment' for all eternity, but are let off on the technicality that people from the past cannot be judged for actions they have not yet taken by those from the future.  Returned to the present, only the scientists remember their experience and the plane finally arrives at its destination, with the bemused crew and passengers being told that they are twenty four hours late.  The scientists decide to halt their research.

The Flight That Disappeared isn't a particularly bad movie, despite its shortcomings, but it stretches a thin central idea out too far.  Even at only seventy two minutes, it feels far too long for the material.  Indeed, its low budget and limited locations - most of the action takes place either in the airliner interior set or the mainly featureless limbo -  results in the film feeling very much like an episode of an old radio or TV anthology series - which would have had the entire scenario satisfactorily wrapped up in less than half an hour.  This feeling is reinforced by the strictly second string B-movie cast and black and white photography.  Veteran director of second features Reginald LeBorg does his best with the resources he has at hand and delivers a suitably serious and low-key film but can't disguise the fact that the film is essentially seventy two minutes of preaching as to the evils of nuclear weapons.  Which is a fine and well-meaning sentiment, but hardly entertaining.

The Nation That Died of Shame (Or If It Hasn't, It Should)

You know, I was somewhat disappointed to wake up this morning and find that 'The Rapture' hadn't taken place (as it was predicted to by American - where else - religious loons).  I was rather looking forward to all those holier-than-thou religious types who seem to thank that they will be God's chosen ascending and leaving the rest of us in peace.  But then I saw that Trump was addressing the UN with one of his rambling, ill-informed senile rants and it occurred to me that 'The Rapture' had taken place, but years ago and we hadn't noticed.  Perhaps all the truly good people have already been taken and all that we're left with now are evil scumbags.  It would certainly explain why all these right-wing extremists and crypto fascists are seizing power all over the world, destroying economies and  communities wherever they are.  How else can we explain the rise of someone as unprepossessing and utterly lacking in charisma, intellect and ability as Nigel Farage other than that we are now living through the post-rapture End Times?  Which brings us back to Trump and that UN address.  Many years ago there was a film titled The Ship That Died of Shame, about a one time Royal Navy torpedo boat which, after service in World War Two, was sold into civilian service and eventually ends up being used by smugglers.  After that UN address, hot on the heels of Trump's rambling address to the nation about how taking Paracetamol causes autism, which flies in the face of scientific opinion, the US must surely now be the 'Nation That Died of Shame'.  Because, how couldn't you squirm with humiliation seeing that lard ass (who you elected) humiliating America in front of the world?

I remember vividly the shame I felt when Boris Johnson was our Prime Minister.  I mean, Jesus, it was just an embarrassment every time that gross slob opened his mouth.  Particularly on the international stage, because, like it or not, the rest of the world saw that fat git as the face of Britain.  They would assume that because he had been elected PM, (or rather the party that he led was given a parliamentary majority by voters), he must somehow represent us.  We had chosen him and his idiotic policies, graft, venality, sexual misconduct and law breaking.  It didn't matter that I hadn't voted for him, the fact remained that the country had and that meant that he legitimately represented our political will.  So, I ask myself, how much more ashamed must Americans feel about the dishonour and ridicule that Trump is bringing down on their country?  I mean, it's just humiliation after humiliation, as he bullies his way around the world, doing his best to coerce the civilised world into descending to his level.  How can anyone be happy with their country - and by extension them - being represented by an adjudicated rapist, convicted felon and cowardly bully who is so nakedly interested only in exploiting the presidency for his own, personal, gain?  It's no good saying 'But I didn't vote for him' - sometimes that alone isn't enough.  During those fourteen years of Tory governments, which we thought had reached its nadir with Johnson, but then we had the insanity of Truss and the leaden mediocrity of Sunak, I used to say 'Well, I didn't vote for them', while, deep inside, knowing that it wasn't enough.  Always, I had to ask myself, did I do enough to support the opposition, did I argue the case against the Tories when given opportunities?  Or did I sit back and complacently assume that 'it couldn't happen here'?  That there was no way that people were stupid enough to let wreckers like Johnson take power?  Was my complacency (and that of millions like me) at least in part the reason that we're now living in such dangerous (not to mention shameful) times?

Patron Saint of Hate?

With sinister right-wing influencer of young people Charlie Kirk now officially a MAGA martyr, whose assassination is now being opportunistically used by every extreme right-wing lunatic in the US to fuel yet more hate directed at anyone they don't like, can we now expect him to start manifesting from beyond the grave?  How long can it be before his devout followers start seeing visions of him?  Perhaps his spirit will start turning up to address meetings of his acolytes - if not in person then perhaps via a Ouija board.  Indeed, maybe he could continue his podcast this way - each week in the studio he transmits his latest hateful bile through the medium of a Ouija board or automatic writing via a medium.  If nothing else, it would free up J D Vance to get on with his actual job of spewing out barely coherent hate in his capacity of Vice President rather than spewing out incoherent hate as a stand in presenter on a right-wing podcast.  It can only be a matter of time before he starts encouraging the most rabid of his followers to go out and smite down his foes.  Remember how crazies always used to claim 'God told me to' in response to questioning as to why they'd just massacred a bunch of innocent people?  Well, brace yourself for 'Charlie told me to do it' the next time some crazy goes nutzoid with an AK-47 and mows down a crowd of people he thought were illegal immigrants (on account of them not being white).  Doubtless he'll tell the court that before he took up arms the spirit of Charlie Kirk whispered in his ear that he needed to save white America from a bunch of would-be foreign terrorists, rapists and psychos - Charlie was even by his side when he pulled the trigger, pointing out who he had to shoot.

Obviously, all of this would only be signposts on the road to Kirk becoming the first MAGA saint.  The patron saint of hateful racists, misogynists and transphobes.  To be canonised, of course, the candidate has to have been shown to perform three miraculous things, you know, like someone recovering from a terminal illness after seeing a vision of them, or growing an amputated limb back after praying at a shrine set up for them.  That sort of thing.  In Kirk's case, I suppose that the sort of 'MAGA miracles' his acolytes might accept would be along the lines of a man successfully beating his wife into submission and renouncing feminism after Kirk visited him in a dream and told him to 'thrash the liberal devil out of her'.  Or perhaps parents who succeeded in 'converting' their gay child to heterosexuality through electroshock treatment after a plaster statue of Kirk (face it, it will only be a matter of time before they start selling them), they had on top of their old-style tube TV came to life and lectured them on the evils of homosexuality.  AS for the third miracle, Hell, it could be anything from 'curing' a kid of autism to causing a dozen 'black militants' to 'lynch themselves' from lampposts in Alabama.  Now, such occurrences most certainly wouldn't be accepted by the Pope (particularly the present one) as miracles but that sort of thing surely wouldn't bother the MAG faithful, who answer to a higher power - The Almighty Donald J Trump.  Because, face it, MAGA is pretty much a religion already and tilting ever more that way in the wake of the Kirk killing as every religious crackpot cranking up the violent rhetoric against the 'enemies' of the righteous.  It would only be fitting for Charlie Kirk, hate monger to America's youth, to be anointed as its first saint.

A Citizen Concerned About Neo Nazis

I'm afraid that it is time to speak of that neo Nazi rally in London last week, organised by convicted mortgage fraudster and violent football hooligan Stephen Yaxley-Lennon, alias 'Tommy Robinson'.  You know, the one where Elon Musk, via the safety of a video link from the US, incited violence and, lo and behold, the Nazis obliged by assaulting a large number of police officers.  (Although, notably, there were far fewer arrests of these neo-Nazis than there were of people peacefully protesting about genocide in Gaza the other week).  Apparently, though, I shouldn't be calling these bastards neo-Nazis - they're just 'concerned citizens' and I'm some kind of leftie extremist making a fuss over a perfectly legitimate political movement.  Really?  So, I'm meant to ignore the evidence of my own eyes and just accept a rally organised by a right-wing extremist with form for violence and racism, which included an endorsement of violence by a foreign billionaire and which targeted, vilified and scapegoated a minority group, (immigrants, specifically non-white immigrants), as the new normal?  This is gaslighting on an epic scale.  (Which is what I really want to talk about).  It's trying to tell all decent people 'No, no, no, you were mistaken - there was no fascistic mob, it was just a legitimate meeting of 'concerned citizens'.  Just like those mobs outside hotels housing immigrants, threatening and intimidating the occupants - including masked 'vigilantes' trying to break into the premises to do God knows what to women and children - are all just peaceful protests organised by those self same 'concerned citizens' and misrepresented by the liberal media and lefty activists.  Look, it's really simple:  if it goose steps like a Nazi, 'Sieg Heils' like a Nazi and hates like a Nazi, then it's a Nazi.

But of course, I'm wrong because these people have been denied any legitimate means of expressing their views because, in the UK, we have a 'free speech problem'.  (As many have noted, the fact that a hundred thousand Nazis can gather in London and spew out their hate would seem to be conclusive evidence that there is no problem with people being allowed to express themselves publically.  Even when they are hateful Nazi scumbags).  As with most things unpleasant and utterly shit, this nonsense originates in the US - a country which is currently 'disappearing' people who say things the right don't like, getting people fired from their jobs for 'objectionable' social media posts (apparently Tweeting that you think that Charlie Kirk was a right-wing extremist with unacceptable views is now considered anti-American) and is currently firing TV hosts for expressing opinions that are deemed 'unacceptable'.  So I really don't think that they are in a position to lecture anyone.  Not that repression of free speech is anything new for the US - have we already forgotten the McCarthy hearings?  You know what?  I'm getting heartily sick and tired of being sanctimoniously lectured by the US about how they are a scion of free speech, a beacon of liberty, despite all the evidence to the contrary.  Sure, we've humoured them in the past and put up with their holier-than-thou attitudes to us Europeans, ignoring how hypocritical they actually are, but now that they've devolved into full blown fascism, I think that it is high time we started to tell them to stick it up their collective tight arses and start telling them a few home truths.

I digress, but not entirely, because most of that gaslighting about neo-Nazis emanates from the US, not just from their politicians, but from those MAGA adjacent stooges who swallow all of their shit completely uncritically.  The fact is that if you are one of those people doing the gaslighting and telling me I'm just too 'woke' well, you are the problem.  You are the one who needs to be 'woke' in the sense that you need to wake up to what is going on, particularly in your own country.  Your gaslighting of people like me is simply an extension of your own deluded attempts to justify to yourself that what is happening in the US is normal.  All that you are doing is trying to normalise and legitimise extremist politics, the politics of hate, that were deemed unacceptable eighty odd years ago in the aftermath of the world war that they caused.  So, just stop it.  Stop it now.  Before it is too late.  Wake up and smell the Nazi bullshit.  So, moving from foreign Nazi enablers to our own homegrown neo-Nazis, just who are these 'concerned citizens?  How are their views formed?  Well, the Daily Star, of all places, recently provided a surprisingly insightful profile of one such individual.  This young woman, 'Little Miss Nazi' or whatever she calls herself online, featured prominently at the recent Nazi rally and freely admits that all of her opinions on immigration and UK politics generally are derived from watching TikTok videos from right-wing influencers - some of whom are holocaust deniers, including one so extreme that he was even kicked out of UKIP.  At no point did it ever occur to her to fact check anything she was watching using independent sources.  This is the problem: people swallowing decontextualised 'facts' hook, lime and sinker.  (The irony of this analysis being in the Daily Star is rich, bearing in mind that in pre social media times, these same people were getting their 'opinions' from biased and decontextualised stories in the tabloids).  On the one hand, this is a sad indictment of our education policy as it clearly isn't teaching people to think, while on the other it is a sad indictment of our media, which has conditioned people to accept what amounts to propaganda without ever putting it into any kind of context, by the way they 'report' the news.  Because, like I said a few posts ago, 'Context is King' and when you look at that rally of 'concerned citizens' in a wider context, then there's no choice but to call them what they really are: neo Nazis.

Artificial Wardrobe Advice

Remember when AI was being heralded as the greatest thing since sliced bread?  How it was going to change the world, revolutionise the way we did, well, everything?  Yet here we are, down the road a bit, and the practical applications of this technology are still thin on the ground.  Most depressingly, one web giant is reduced to trying to sell AI to the public on the basis that it can tell you how to make cookies or what clothes to wear before you go out.  I'm sure you've seen all those ads for, I think, Google Gemini, the most pathetic being the one where it is used to give wardrobe advice to a user, even down to whether they should put a matching hat on their dog.  I mean, really, is this what billions of dollars have been spent for, what vast amounts of energy and resources are being expended on?  Wardrobe advice?  For dogs?  I don't which is worse, the idea that this is an appropriate use for this technology, or that its developers think that people really are incapable of making decisions on what clothes to wear without AI assistance.  I mean, if I'm in a quandary as to what to wear before venturing out of my house, I just look out of the window: if it is raining I know that I need a raincoat, if it is cold, I might want a scarf, if it is sunny, then lightweight clothing would be appropriate.  See, it's easy, you don't need an AI assistant for that.  Just like you shouldn't need it for doing your school work, baking cookies, medical advice or, indeed, virtually any other everyday task.

Now, I'm not going to be a hypocrite here and pretend that I never use AI.  But at least I confine myself to utilising it for stuff that lies outside of my expertise and ability.  Namely, the production of images used mainly over on The Sleaze.  Ok, it is still a trivial pretext for burning up valuable resources, but hey, it is at least pretty harmless.  Moreover, when I interact with things like ChatGPT, I always treat them purely as utilities, tools to get a specific job done.  I keep my requests short and concise.  Curt, even.  After all, they are just a bunch of code, they aren't alive, they aren't sentient, they don't experience emotions, they don't get upset if you don't say 'please' and 'thank you'.  Yet there are many users out there who seem to treat them as if they human as if, even, they are somehow their 'friends'.  It is something I just don't understand, talking to machines as if they are human and therefore capable of giving a genuine response based upon empathy and emotion.  

Sure, I talk to some animals, particularly the local cat population and the swans over at the local pond, as if they human, but they, at least, are living beings, capable of expressing emotions, even empathy.  Indeed, while I'm under no illusions that they understand me in literal terms, they do understand my tone and therefore my intent and respond in like fashion, (I've built up a surprisingly good relationship with those swans, mainly based upon the fact that I feed them, but also because of the way I approach and interact with them, they accept me as entirely non-threatening and therefore have no fear of me, accepting my friendly intent).  The point is that machines and codes will never be able to give you such responses, yet there are people who vainly persist in deluding themselves that they do.  Which is why I won't waste time trying to make friends with them.  Besides, my limited experiences with AI have taught me that it is actually pretty stupid, in creative terms, at least, frequently incapable of grasping exactly what it is that you are requesting it to do, regardless of how literal your instructions are.  Perhaps it will improve with time.  These are, after all, early days.  But with the amount of money and resources it has taken to get it to the stage where it can advise you on what hat your dog should wear, one has to question how many more it will take to get AI to a stage where it is actually useful and capable of properly comprehending what it is being asked to do and, indeed, whether it is worth it.

In the Folds of the Flesh (1970)

An Italian/Spanish giallo, In the Folds of the Flesh (1970) boasts a fabulously convoluted plot in which identities are uncertain, memories are unreliable and reality ever changing.  After a mildly psychedelic title sequence, the film starts off with a flashback, with an on-the-run criminal stumbling into the grounds of a remote coastal property to see a woman apparently burying her murdered lover, after which he is arrested and sent to prison.  The film continues episodically in the present, with various characters visiting the property, only to be murdered in bizarre fashion.  First of all, a cousin of the vanished lover turns up, only to end up stabbed to death by his cousin's daughter after he comes onto her - with the cousin's lover and her son covering up the murder.  They even kill the visitor's dog.  Then a friend of the murdered man turns up looking for him, again tries to seduce the daughter, only to be decapitated by her.  At which point it becomes clear without a doubt that she is completely insane, as she has no recollection of the first killing and quickly forgets that she has decapitated another man.  Again, the crime is covered up.  With two bodies dissolved in an acid bath, ostensibly used for cleaning up the bones and other artefacts of ancient Etruscans supposedly found on the property, the convict, now released after spending thirteen years in prison, turns up with blackmail on his mind.  After terrorising the three occupants of the villa, he ends up poisoned in the bath, before also taking a trip to the acid bath.  Just when they think they are going to get some peace, another visitor arrives, claiming to be the missing lover who has been in hiding due to threats on his life by a criminal gang he had fallen out with, explaining his change in appearance on having had plastic surgery.  But is he who he says he is?  Is he really the murderous girl's father?  Indeed, is she the real daughter?  And what happened to the woman's daughter?  Everything is answered via a series of fraught flashbacks that turn the plot on its head and the arrival of another visitor.

Not satisfied with a plot that twists and turns like a corkscrew and numerous stabbings, poisonings and decapitations, director and co-writer Sergio Bergonzelli embellishes In the Folds of the Flesh with as many bizarre embellishments as he can think of.  These include a pair of pet vultures at the villa, scenes in a psychiatric hospital, implied incest child rape and even a flashback to a Nazi concentration camp.  It also has one of the most perfunctory endings of any giallo, with a detective who has just spent most of his screen time pretending to be her father, cheerfully telling a girl that has just been released from psychiatric care and has just been subjected to a series of traumatic revelations about her past, that the villa is now hers and leaving her there as he drives off with her surrogate family in custody for multiple murders.  Ultimately, In the Folds of the Flesh can't help but be entertaining with its bizarre plot and trappings, with the constant plot twists and revelations keeping you watching to see just how much weirder it can get.  Unfortunately, it is all so overwrought that it is impossible to ever take seriously, with several of the characters grotesquely overplayed and the supposedly shocking decapitations quite unconvincing, with rubber heads bouncing all over the place.  Many elements, like the concentration camp flashback, are entirely gratuitous, (but nonetheless were, predictably, exploited to full effect on the video cover of the film's VHS release).  In spite of the bizarreness of the plot and characters, Bergonzelli's direction is relatively straightforward, boasting little in the way of fluid camerawork and off beat framing of shots often associated with the giallo genre and with the episodic nature of the script giving it a halting pace.  Which, perhaps, is no bad thing, as a flamboyant visual style on top of all the other weirdness would most likely have pushed the film over into complete incomprehensibility.  Overall, however, the film's production values are generally pretty good, with an attractive and well utilised main location and some wonderfully late sixties/early seventies decor on view.  Special mention should be made of Fernando Sancho, a familiar face in many Spanish genre films of the era, who plays the convict with obvious relish, making him a truly repulsive uncouth slob devoid of any redeeming features.  Lacking the style of the best of its genre, In the Folds of the Flesh does its best to make up for this with its lunatic plotting, overheated melodrama and its cast of neurotic and disturbed characters.

Sol Madrid (1968)

Sol Madrid (1968) is something of an oddball espionage thriller that never really finds a pace or tone and never fully settles into a format, seemingly unable to decide whether it wants to be an action movie, a tense crime thriller or a twisty spy movie.  While much of the film's problems stem from an indifferent script which never seems to know where it is going with any degree of certainty, its biggest problem lies in a miscast lead.  David McCallum's casting as the eponymous undercover narcotics agent was doubtless motivated by his recent popularity playing Ilya Kuryakin in The Man From Uncle TV series, but whereas there he was the second lead, effectively a supporting character to Robert Vaughn's Napoleon Solo, here he is expected to carry the film as a ruthless no-nonsense, two fisted secret agent, which he simply lacks the necessary charisma or screen presence to pull off.  McCallum tended to specialise in quieter, more intellectual characters who achieved their ends through relatively subtle and more thoughtful means.  The complete opposite of his character in Sol Madrid.  With McCallum's somewhat muted performance in the lead, it is hardly surprising that other performers move in to fill the vacuum, most notably Telly Savalas as Dietrich, one of the main villains, who delivers a charismatic and often dominant performance.  Ricardo Montalban, as one of Madrid's South-of-the border allies, who might not be all that he seems, also turns in a typically colourful and charismatic performance, easily eclipsing McCallum every time they share screen time.  Other cast members fare less well, with Stella Stevens as the female lead feeling as miscast as McCallum and enjoying zero onscreen chemistry with him, while Rip Torn makes for a generic feeling villain and Michael Ansara's Mexican police captain a stock figure, with both roles badly underwritten,

While the most obvious inspiration for Sol Madrid would seem to be the Bond movies, particularly the earliest examples with Connery's much tougher interpretation of 007, with its tough, ruthless and often seemingly amoral central character, some aspects of the script, with McCallum trying to play the two main hoods off against each other and its various plot twists would seem to indicate that the makers might also have had the Michael Caine starring Len Deighton 'Harry Palmer' adaptations.  Whichever the inspiration, the execution is scuppered by McCallum's lead, who is neither as convincingly tough as Connery nor as smart and charismatic as Caine's Palmer, instead, mor often than not, coming over as dull and dislikable.  None of which is to say that Sol Madrid doesn't have its pleasures - for one thing it makes good use of some colourful Acapulco locations, plus director Brian G Hutton - whose next two projects would be the all action Clint Eastwood war pictures Where Eagles Dare (1968) and Kelly's Heroes (1970) - handles the action scenes well.  The problem is that, for a film of this type, there simply aren't enough of them. The plot keeps digressing, with valuable running time taken up with a drug smuggling via oil pipeline caper by McCallum in order to ingratiate himself with Savalas, a kidnap plot that removes Stevens from the film for a large part of its running time and various crosses and double crosses, none of are very interestingly executed and don't really feel as if they are advancing the plot in any meaningful way.  The main plot, with Madrid going South of the border to track down Mafia man Rip Torn's accountant and persuade him to turn state's evidence, coercing Torn's ex-girlfriend and the accountant's co-conspirator in ripping off the mob for a large sum of money, makes the film feel more like a crime thriller than the espionage movie format it is clearly trying to emulate.  Overall, Sol Madrid is a misfire, but one with some incidental pleasures, most particularly Telly Savalas, nice locations and some fitfully decent direction.

Scorchy (1976)

Scorchy (1976) is one of those films where you spend the entire running time wondering when the title is going to be explained.  Who or what is 'Scorchy'?  After ninety nine minutes of frantic action, we're still none the wiser.  Apparently, the film's publicity at the time of release claimed that it was the nickname of the lead character, although nobody actually calls her by it.  The movie was actually shot under a number of working titles, including the bland and generic Race With Death and The Young Merchants having started out as Federal Undercover Agent Jackie Parker - explanatory, but uninspiring.  It was no wonder that, before release, they opted for something catchier, even if it had little connection with the actual movie.  The film itself, produced, written and directed by Howard Avedis, a prolific maker of exploitation films in the seventies and eighties, is actually a pretty typical example of a seventies action-orientated crime thriller.  It's sufficiently generic in look, style and plot that if you substituted Pam Grier for Connie Stevens in the lead, it would have easily passed muster as Blaxploitation.  Plot wise, Scorchy bears more than a passing resemblance to The French Connection (1971), which had recently been a hit and had recently had a sequel released, with its story of an undercover American drugs operative attempting to run down a foreign drug kingpin (in this case an Italian) importing narcotics into the US.  Like that film, it involves a lengthy chase part way through, with the title character trying to catch a hit man working for the drug lord and culminates with the kingpin being chased by the heroine after a raid on a drug deal.  

Avedis script is commendably twisty, with everybody on the bad guys' side double crossing everyone else and numerous plot developments to pull; the film off in various directions.  This constant springing of new plot twists and an injection of regular action sequences, including the aforementioned chases and a rooftop fight, a ferocious climactic gun fight followed by a speed boat and helicopter chase, means that the film never flags and the viewer never has too much of an opportunity to think about the many holes in the plot.  Overall, Avedis' direction is actually pretty good for this type of film, well paced and nicely photographed, with interesting backdrops and framing for most sequences.  Indeed, Scorchy features an extensive use of locations around Seattle (leading one to suspect a deal with the local tourist board), which makes a refreshing change from the more usual New York/LA/San Francisco locations used in such films.  It has to be said that Scorchy looks as if it had more money spent on it than the average AIP released crime movie of the era, with its well staged car chases around actual city locations, rather than back streets, excellent production values and a cast that, by exploitation standards at least, is pretty superior, including not just Connie Stevens, but also Cesare Danova as the main villain, William Smith as his henchman turned rival and Norman Burton as Stevens' boss.  While Danova makes for a smooth villain and Smith is reliably tough and mean, while Burton is suitably irascible in his role, Stevens herself is never quite convincing as a tough undercover operative, bonking and shooting her way through the film.  It really is more the sort of role suited to the likes of Pam Grier rather than the Barbie-like Stevens, whose performance all too often relies upon her getting her knockers out rather than convincingly kicking ass.  But hey, as an exploitation film Scorchy has it all: sex, violence, car chases, gunfights, even a murder by spear gun (while the guy is in bed with Stevens) and Connie Stevens' knockers.  While there's nothing in Scorchy that will linger long in the memory, while it is playing it is an enjoyable experience, a very professional slice of exploitation which serves up the requisite action and thrills at reliably regular intervals.

A History of Violence

I find it more than a little disingenuous of US politicians and commentators to wring their hands and declare that violence should have no place in politics when one bears in mind that this a nation which, in its relatively short history, had no less than four of its presidents assassinated.  Not to mention scores of attempted presidential assassinations and the murder of numerous other political figures, from presidential candidates like Robert F Kennedy to civil rights leaders like Martin Luther King.  this is also a country that opposes gun control and regularly suffers mass shootings, particularly in schools and colleges.  This is a nation defined by violence.  I've said it before and I'll say it again, they're a nation of fucking psychopaths.  How else can we explain the fact that they elected Trump president twice?  The second time despite him, by then, being an adjudicated rapist, convicted felon and having tried to overturn the result of a democratic election by unleashing a violent mob against Congress.  And there we have it again: the political violence they keep saying is unacceptable.  Yet, once again, when one of their own dies by the gun, we're back to the crocodile tears from the right about how US politics is too full of violent rhetoric, (despite the fact that most of it comes from their side, with Trump as the fountainhead), which encourages actual violence, (obviously, the combination of their violent language and the widespread availability of firearms has nothing to do with it).  Somehow, it is all the fault of those damn liberals with their gun control talk and peaceful values (and I see that the shitbag Nigel Farage has already jumped on this particular bandwagon).

With the killing of neo Nazi Trump supporter Charlie Kirk, we once again find ourselves in the position of being expected to publicly mourn him and somehow praise him, despite his despicable record of racism, misogyny and homophobia.  Failure to do so makes you complicit with whoever assassinated him.  But, as I've said before, I'm afraid that I just don't buy that old adage about not speaking ill of the dead.  Quite frankly, it is surely the best time to speak ill of them - they can no longer try to tie you up in spurious legal cases for speaking the truth about them.  Because I don't believe that we should indiscriminately speak ill of any dead - but if they were scumbags in life, spreading noxious extreme right propaganda to the young, then by all means speak the truth about them.  Look, I'm well aware that Kirk had a wife and young children and I do feel empathy for them, whatever I might think about the guy, they've clearly suffered the terrible loss of a loved one.  But please don't ask me to mourn him.  Let's not forget that he was one of those right-wing psychos who liked to bang on about how empathy was a weakness that needed to be eliminated from humanity.  So surely he wouldn't want us to feel empathy for him.  None of which is to say that I think that he deserved to die.  I wouldn't wish that on anyone.  But hey, it isn't as if his buddies on the right are mourning him so much as seizing upon his violent death as an opportunity to further harass and threaten their opponents, trying to whip up the spectre of a widespread (and non-existent) leftist conspiracy to 'take out' leading figures on the right.  Maybe we should humour them and start posting messages (using fake profiles) on social media aimed at them saying stuff like 'We're coming for you all' and 'That was just the start' - you get the picture.  Believe me, if they really thought that there were left-wing hit squads targeting them, the bastards would be shitting themselves and renouncing their Nazi views like there was no tomorrow.

(As ever, for the benefit of any bots from Google, MI5, the CIA or whoever, trawling the web for alleged 'security threats', the above is a satire intended for comical effect and is in no way endorsing political violence or the online harassment of neo Nazis or other undesirables).

Fatso vs Fatso

It's always a shock to the system when one finds oneself agreeing with someone you consider to, otherwise, be a colossal turd, but it is an even bigger shock when said colossal turd is Boris 'Fatso' Johnson.  But that is exactly the position I found myself in the other day when reading about 'Fatso' Johnson's set to with Nottingham Forest owner and all round shady Greek Evangelos 'Fatso' Marinakis during a debate about the best way forward for peace in Ukraine.  Marinakis, not surprisingly, argued that appeasement of Putin was in order, suggesting that Ukraine should exchange territory for peace.  His motivation, of course, being a desire to see those pesky economic sanctions against Russia to be lifted so that he can go back to his (allegedly) shady trade dealings with Moscow.  'Fatso' Johnson, to his credit, weighed in, (he couldn't do anything else really, in view of his bulk), rightly pointing out that such an approach didn't work with Nazi Germany, allowing it to annex parts of Czechoslovakia and annex Austria didn't prevent the further aggression which resulted in World War Two.  Of course, the fact that 'Fatso' Johnson is right on this particular issue doesn't mean that he isn't still a charlatan and a shit in any other respect.  But hey, even a stopped clock is right twice a day (if it's analogue, of course, if it is digital then it is just blank, all day).   

Nevertheless, I did find it quite starling that, for once, I found 'Fatso' Johnson the lesser of two evils.  Because 'Fatso' Marinakis is undoubtedly the bigger evil and not just in terms of girth.  OK, I'm biased here as a Spurs supporter, who saw Marinakis throw a tantrum when Tottenham succeeded in triggering Nottingham Forest's Morgan Gibbs-White's release clause, agreed terms with the player and were on the verge of signing him.  Marinakis effectively reneged on the release clause (despite it being part of the player's contract), blocked Gibbs-White from moving and effectively bullied him into signing a new contract with Forest.  What a scumbag.  He has subsequently sacked Nuno Espirito Santo, Forest's most successful manager since Brian Clough, after a series of disagreements.  Now, I was never keen on Nuno when he was Spurs manager - he was just wrong for the club - but he's always seemed a decent enough guy who, under the right circumstances, can get decent results with limited resources.  He certainly didn't deserved the boot from Marinakis.  An all round scumbag, (quite literally a round scumbag).  But my dislike of 'Fatso' Marinakis goes way beyond football - he has links to the dodgy right-wingers in power in Greece and has been accused of being involved in organised crime, most specifically in large scale international narcotics trade.  I hasten to add that these are only allegations and that no charges have been made (witnesses have a tendency to mysteriously die), but it makes you think.  Say what you like about 'Fatso' Johnson, he might have been accused of adultery, fraud, incompetence, dodgy financial dealings and lying to parliament, but at least he's never been alleged to have trafficked drugs.    

Daughter of Dr Jekyll (1957)

Daughter of Dr Jekyll (1957) is, infamously, the film of which critic Andrew Sarris noted as having a scenario so atrocious that it took forty minutes to establish that the daughter of Dr Jekyll is indeed the daughter of Dr Jekyll.   To be fair, he exaggerated somewhat - it doesn't take quite that long to establish the leading lady's parentage, but the film does take an inordinate amount of time to build up to something that the title has already revealed.  That the film is poorly constructed should come as no surprise as it is a painfully cheaply made Allied Artists co-feature, eventually destined to form half of a double bill with another low budget horror feature from the same studio, The Cyclops (1957).  The film's real problem lies with Jack Pollexfen's script which, despite invoking the name of Dr Jekyll, strays far from its inspiration, furnishing the titular scientist with a whole new backstory.  No longer a lone scientist toiling in secret in his lab, it now seems that he had a whole roster of medical colleagues who all seemed to know what his experiments were about.  Moreover, rather than transforming into Mr Hyde after taking his elixir, he instead turned into a werewolf, carrying out a series of bloody murders before being staked through the heart.  Most of this is related to us via a voiceover in a prologue which ends with a very poorly made up werewolf in a lab who, after the narrator declares that Dr Jekyll is dead, cackles 'Are you sure?'  The rest of the backstory is filled in by Jekyll's former colleague Dr Lomas (Arthur Shields) as he reveals to his orphaned ward Janet Smith (Gloria Talbott) - who has travelled to his house with fiancé George Hastings (John Agar) on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday - that she is actually the daughter of the late Dr Jekyll and heir to his fortune, which includes the house.

The situation that Janet and George walk into - a remote spooky old house complete with secret rooms, a surly groundskeeper, frightened maid who doesn't like to be out when the full moon shines, a family mausoleum and some creepy woods out back - seems to promise some sort of Gothic melodrama, full of mad women and nefarious goings on.  In this respect, it doesn't disappoint as, after a number of werewolf killings, Janet begins to suspect that she has inherited her father's lycanthropic tendencies, (despite these having been chemically induced).  Despite the best efforts of Dr Lomas and George, she can't be dissuaded from her suspicions - fuelled by some weird dreams in which she sees herself as a monster, murdering women - and hovers on the brink of madness.  But, of course, nothing is as it seems and, as just about everyone has guessed long ago, mild-mannered Dr Lomas is actually the werewolf and is trying to frame Janet, in order to gain control of her inheritance, just as he had her father.  (Which rather implies that Jekyll's experiments had actually been a failure, as, in that case, he hadn't transformed into a werewolf, let lone Mr Hyde).  Having hypnotised Janet, hidden her in the mausoleum and murdered another local woman, werewolf Lomas is shot and wounded by a mob of angry villagers, before fleeing back to the mausoleum, where he fights George before that surly groundskeeper turns up and stakes him through the heart.  Finally, with the narrator intoning that the werewolf is dead, that lycanthrope in the lab reappears and asks again (albeit in a deeper voice) 'Are you sure?', implying a sequel, which thankfully never materialised.

This utterly confused and confusing scenario, substituting a werewolf for Hyde then having him behave like a vampire (he drinks blood) before dispatching him like a vampire, with a stake rather than a silver bullet, completely scuppers Daughter of Dr Jekyll.  Interestingly, writer/producer Pollexfen had previously co-scripted a similar film for Columbia: Son of Dr Jekyll (1951).  The two films share many plot elements, most obviously the central idea of a child of Dr Jekyll uncovering that their father had, in fact, been innocent of the crimes he had been accused of, framed by a colleague who is the one who really transforms into a monster.  The crucial difference is that whereas Jekyll's son proactively investigates his father’s legacy in order to prove his innocence, his daughter is a victim of circumstance, an innocent caught up in a melodrama over which she has no control and is manipulated by men throughout the film.  Indeed, this would, superficially, seem to reinforce the view of some critics that Daughter of Dr Jekyll is essentially a story of patriarchal domination, with its main female character alternately subjugated to the whims and desires of her fiance, who wants her to conform to the 'ideals' of womanhood, ie becoming an obedient wife and her guardian, who tries to turn her into a bestial (ie sexual) force that only he can control.  Whether such a sub-text is intentional, or simply the construct of some viewers, is open to debate.  What isn't in doubt is that Daughter of Dr Jekyll is an astoundingly strange film, full of crackpot ideas and plot developments, which completely subverts its source material.  It is almost saved by Edgar G Ullmer's typically moody and stylish direction, which is particularly impressive in the strikingly shot dream sequences, which, overall, gives the film a suitably dark and downbeat feel.  Moreover, it is difficult to dislike any film insane enough to cast Barry Fitzgerald's brother as a werewolf...

Context is King

Whilst not wishing to comment upon a court case currently in progress, it has to be said that Graham Linehan's trial for allegedly harassing a trans activist does serve to highlight the fact that the Tweets which resulted in him being arrested for incitement to violence as he stepped off of a plane from the US, aren't an isolated incident.  I recall that, with regard to getting good rankings on search engines, people used to declare that 'Content is King!' (how naive we were then).  In real life, however, it is context that is king when it comes to information.  Hence, put into the wider context of Linehan's social media activities, those Tweets intimating that a legitimate way of dealing with the thorny issue of single sex spaces for women would be to punch any trans interlopers in the balls might well be taken seriously by the authorities when a complaint was made about them.  Taken alone, they can be passed off as a joke - a poor one, but a joke, nonetheless - but seen against the background of his relentless, obsessive, some might say, anti-trans campaign and the often aggressive and violent language employed in said campaign, they might well be a cause for concern.  Because that's the nub of the matter:  nobody is saying that Linehan, or anyone else, can't have, or even express, views sceptical of trans rights, only that they should be expressed in reasonable, rational terms, without recourse to angry and violent language which could be taken as an incitement to violence.

Which is why, of course, the likes of Fartage, the Tories and the rabid right-wing press, do their best to avoid mentioning the context of the case. Instead, they try to present Linehan as a victim of wokeness-gone-mad, a hero for standing up against political correctness and left-wing bullying, wheras, in truth, he's just a very angry man who, despite being a writer, is seemingly incapable of expressing himself in a reasonable and coherent manner.  Obviously, this isn't an isolate phenomenon: it's the right's stock-in-trade to always omit context from any issue, instead presenting everything as an entirely isolated incident.  Take the business of the current campaign by shady players to stick England flags everywhere.  If we were to believe the right-wing press, it is a simple expression of patriotism and attempts to remove them represent a typical left-wing repression of our freedoms.  What they omit to mention is the context of this campaign, that the England flag has, in recent years, been co-opted by various extreme right groups and used to intimidate not just immigrants, but anyone who disagrees with their pound shop fascism - oppose the posting of that flag and you are obviously an unpatriotic traitor trying to undermine our national identity.  'It's only a flag - what's your problem?' they ask, a sentiment echoed by Fartage, Tories and the press, as if they are completely unaware that flags are never 'just' flags.  They can have all manner of connotations according to context, often amplifying their innate symbolism.  Moreover, the motivation for wanting to fly them is never questioned - I mean, why do you need to have England flags plastered all over England?  I don't know about anyone else, but I know that I'm in England, I don't need visual confirmation everywhere, even painted on mini-roundabouts.  Are those putting them up saying that they think people are so stupid that they don't know where they are?

Look, if somebody wants to fly a flag, any flag, on their own property then, so long as it doesn't contravene planning or safety laws or it isn't offensive (ie a Nazi swastika), then good luck to them (although I don't know why anyone would want to have a flagpole in their garden).  But sticking them in public places without permission, or painting them on roads, is simply vandalism, regardless of the flag involved and I find it fascinating that the sorts of right-wingers and newspapers who usually decry vandalism seem to want to defend this particular instance of vandalism.  Which they can only do by their perverse refusal to properly contextualise the issue. 

Mancunian Man (2023)

The other day I finally got around to watching Mancunian Man, the documentary about the late great Cliff Twemlow that's available on Tubi.  Twemlow, in case you didn't know, was, during the eighties and nineties, Manchester's own low budget movie mogul, producing and starring in a string of action-orientate movies intended for home video, all made on a shoestring.  Bearing in mind Twemlow and co's complete lack of resources, the quality of the films are quite remarkable.  Sure, they were never going to win awards and are decidedly rough around the edges, but they are as good as most of the US direct-to-video fodder of their era and definitely several steps above the sort of no-budget direct-to-streaming dross I see today (much of it, I'm sorry to say, made in the UK).  On occasion, Twemlow was even able to bring in 'name' actors - Fiona Fullerton in Ibiza Connection and Oliver Tobias and Charles Grey in Starfire).  Many of the films were shot, guerilla style, on the streets of Manchester, without permission from the relevant authorities.  As with many films, even mainstream ones, the biggest problem that Twemlow had was in actually getting distribution deals for his movies.  Despite the first, GBH, being something of a hit when released on video (particularly popular in Manchester, not surprisingly), some of his subsequent, far more polished productions, went virtually unseen for many years.  The problem, as various of his former associates noted in the documentary, was that Twemlow, whilst a dynamic creative force, was no businessman.  The hard truth about low budget movie making is that, more often than not, the producer has to be prepared to sell the film to distributors, on a territory by territory basis, (as described in an interview I once read by fellow low budget filmmaker Lindsay Shonteff, talking about his later, independent, productions).

The documentary's greatest strength was its evocation of Twemlow as a dynamic creative force, drawing people into his orbit through a combination of infectious enthusiasm and charisma in order to drive forward his film projects against apparently insurmountable odds.  With an often chaotic creative process, it seems a miracle that Twemlow was able to complete even a single film, let alone a whole string of them.  A truly fascinating character, Cliff Twemlow would seem an unlikely figure to have spearheaded a low budget film making phenomena - a one time boxer, body builder and night club bouncer, he was also a successful composer who had made a lot of money from royalties after selling his compositions to music libraries and authored three paperbacks.   One of the few regrets in life that I have is that I've never met anyone like Twemlow - I would love to be caught up in the wild creative schemes of such a character and taken on an exhilarating and wild ride of chaotic creativity.  Ultimately, Cliff Twemlow's movie career burned brightly, but relatively briefly.  The documentary paints a very poignant picture of his final years, leading up to his untimely death, as his personal relationships broke down, his personal finaces floundered and he found it increasingly difficult to set up new film projects, eventually being forced to source finance from some very shady characters.  A renewed interest in body building led to his dabbling in steroids, which, ultimately, led to his death.  It was a sad end to a beguilingly eclectic yet hugely entertaining career.  The fact that he is nowhere nearly as well known as he should be is, in part at least, down to the fact that Twemlow frequently hid behind assumed names, both for his music and his film making.  The lack of availability of many of his films for many years has also contributed to this lack of recognition.  In truth, Twemlow's should be a revered name in the history of low-budget British exploitation film production.  Indeed, I'd say that if you are at all interested in such films then Mancunian Man should be essential viewing (as are any Cliff Twemlow films you can manage to access, obviously).

More False Alarms

I spoke too soon about finally getting a respite from the various Meta alerts and panics over my Facebook and Instagram accounts being hacked.  Yesterday, it was Google's turn to start trying to panic me.  Not that anyone actually accessed my account, but it was the usual 'suspicious activity' vagueness from Google.  So vague that  they couldn't even tell me what this activity was or where it had originated.  The only clue given was that it involved a Windows device I was logged out of - which could be any one of three devices in my possession, none of which I was logged into at the time of this supposed 'suspicious activity'.  As before I suspect that it all comes down to a years ago data breach on their part, since when my passwords have been changed numerous times, so anyone with my login details from then are on a hiding to nothing.  As soon as I got that sorted out (involving being forced to change my password yet again), I had Instagram freezing my account again over unspecified 'suspicious activity' (probably the fact that I'd had the audacity to follow someone back).  Another enforced password change and I had my account back.  This merry-go-round of alarmist false alerts really is becoming extremely tiring.

More Meta Woes

The problems with Meta seem never-ending.  After last week's fiasco of having my Facebook account deactivated because of alleged 'suspicious activity' and the struggle I had to regain access to it across all of my devices, today I had my Instagram account briefly hacked.   I was first alerted when my Facebook account helpfully told me that it had been removed from my Meta Accounts Centre, where I have it linked to the Facebook account.  I then found one of those e-mails from Instagram telling me that the email address used as a login ID had been changed and if it wasn't me who had changed it, then to reclaim the account.  Which I promptly did -it was a far easier process than it is for Facebook.  Luckily, apart from changing the bio on my account to some kind of link (probably to a dodgy crypto site) and following a hundred dodgy accounts, no damage seemed to have been done and I've been able to set everything right.  What I found somewhat bemusing was that it had taken four or five hours from the time that the email had been changed to Meta sending the email alerting me to the fact - with the hacker having all that time to do damage.  

The crucial question remains as to just how the hack was done - I'm pretty paranoid about the security of my devices, so I was reluctant to consider a hack of any of them, plus the account had one of those randomly generated passwords, different to the one I use on Facebook.  After some 'research' (ie, looking on Reddit), it seems that the most likely explanation is that the leaking of the login details lies with Meta itself which, apparently, was itself hacked some months ago and significant numbers of account details leaked.   If so, it might also explain the alleged 'suspicious activity' that got my Facebook account deactivated last week.  The reason that a hack of that, even if the login details were leaked, is unlikely to be successful is because that account has two-step verification and without access to my mobile phone, the login can't be completed.  All of which raises the perennial question of why do the likes of Meta try and pry more and more personal information out of us when they apparently cannot protect the data they already hold?  I feel vindicated in refusing to give social media sites personal info like addresses and phone numbers when these could so easily be obtained by third parties via a hack enabled by information already stolen from the companies themselves.  It seems ironic that they make such a fuss about the need for us users to use secure passwords, two-step verification and the like, yet themselves can't seem to be able to guarantee the security of even the most basic personal data that they already hold.  Hopefully, with a new Instagram password, I can have a respite from all of this nonsense.  I'm looking forward to getting back to posting about my usual shit...

The Comedy of Terrors (1963)

I've never really made up my mind as to whether or not I actually like horror comedies.   In my younger days, as a horror purist, they were anathema to me - horror, I believed was a serious business, with no place for comedy undercutting the scares.  Also, most of the horror comedies of the era were pretty lame.  Either they were directed by horror directors with a leaden touch when it came to levity, or by comedy directors with no grasp of the horror genre.  All too often they displayed a condescending attitude toward the horror elements.  In truth, of course, their main problem was that they tried to inject the wrong type of humour into horror scenarios.  The most appropriate type of humour for horror is, of course, black humour.  Whish isn't to say that all horror comedies built around more conventional comedy and comedians failed - things like the Bob Hope version of the Cat and the Canary and its follow up, The Ghost Breakers, for instance, are a lot of fun, but more often than not, the star comedians plonked down into horror comedies looked all at sea in the horror genre.  Horror comedies employing black humour, though, were in short supply, with James Whale's The Old Dark House coming to mind (Whale also injected a fair amount of sly black humour into Bride of Frankenstein which, like The Old Dark House eschewed importing star comedians and instead drew its humour from the scenarios and performances of the cast).

All of which brings us, in a roundabout way, to The Comedy of Terrors (1963), which I rewatched for the first time in years the other day.   The film was an attempt by AIP to follow up the success of the Roger Corman's recent comedic Edgar Allan Poe adaptation The Raven (1963) and features the same leads:  Vincent Price, Boris Karloff and Peter Lorre (in his last film appearance).  It also adds Basil Rathbone to the cast. It certainly meets my younger self's criteria for being blackly humourous, with its plot involving undertaker Vincent Price drumming up business by helping various potential clients 'on their way', then offering his services to their grieving families.  He is reluctantly assisted in this by his associate Lorre, under threat of blackmail, while all the time being harassed by his wife and her senile father (Karloff), the business' former owner, (who Price is constantly trying to poison).  The greatest threat comes from his landlord (Rathbone), who is continually attempting to collect his unpaid rent, making him a prime target for Price.  Unfortunately, every time Price thinks he's killed Rathbone, he keeps reviving, sitting up in his coffin at the wrong moment and so on.  Comedy of Terrors is a fascinating film to watch, with a cast and sets clearly left over from the Corman-Poe films and sharing an overall atmosphere of dank morbidity with those films but, instead of following their usual descent into madness and terror, it consistently pushes its scenario into the absurd.  

To be sure, seen today, it doesn't come over as funny as the writer (Richard Matheson) and director (Jacques Tourneur) clearly intended, but its humour is certainly pitch black.  It is, nonetheless, still amusing to watch, due mainly to the carefully pitched performances of Price, Karloff, Lorre and Rathbone.  Interestingly, it was something of a box office failure, with 1963 audiences clearly not knowing to make of it - the cast and AIP connection doubtless making them think that were going to get another Poe film.  Even if they were expecting a comedy, audiences were probably expecting something lighter, along the lines of The Raven, unprepared for the relentless blackness of Comedy of Terrors, which replaced the amusing antics of the duelling magicians of the earlier film with murder plots devised by grasping and venal poverty row undertakers.  To go back to my original point, the passing of the years has made me more benign in my attitude toward horror comedies - I'm still a bit conflicted about them, but more inclined to give them a chance.  Comedy of Terrors I now find admirable, not because it is particularly successful in its comedic elements, but it at least makes the attempt to match its comedic approach and style to its subject matter.