The Power (1984)

I seem to have spent a fair amount of time lately trawling the depths of eighties low-budget monster movies.  So, inevitably, I ended up watching The Power (1984), which most definitely shouldn't be confused with any other movie of this same title.  This is a modestly budgeted horror from the directorial team of Stephen Carpenter and Geoffrey Obrow, who turned out a number of such pictures in the eighties.  Individually, they both wrote, produced and directed several more.  The Power concerns an ancient Aztec idol, through which an evil god exerts control over whoever holds it, allowing them to unleash psychic powers.  A straightforward enough premise which the film, nonetheless, has difficulty in properly articulating, with an awkwardly structured and episodic script.  From the outset, the stuttering narrative structure results in the film having a couple of false starts, opening with a university lecturer who is possessed of 'the power', using it to harm a sceptical student before himself falling victim to it, but not before he tells another character who is in search of 'the power', where the idol is to be found.  At which point the action moves South of the border, where the character seeking 'the power' is shown the idol in a remote desert shack by its custodian, an old man.  Despite the latter's warnings, he tries to steal the idol, murders the old man and his grandson, before finding himself unable to handle the power, which seemingly begins to tear his body apart, dropping the idol.  

We then have another narrative jump, to a US town, where a trio of High School students are experimenting with Ouija boards and the like and have a supernatural experience.  One of the boys, it seems, is now in possession of the idol, although not knowing what it is, as his parents apparently found it at a market in Mexico - there's no explanation of how it got from that shack to the market.  At which point, you begin to think that, OK, it's these kids we're going to follow in the plot proper.  Except, that we suddenly find ourselves in the newsroom of a National Enquirer-type tabloid and start following one of its reporters, whose old college friend has just come to stay with her.  After much internal politics at the paper and more strange experiences for the kids, the plot lines finally cross over when the kids take the idol to the reporter and her friend, hoping the paper will investigate the weird stuff they've been experiencing.  The reporter's friend becomes obsessed with the idol and, surprise, surprise, becomes possessed of 'the power'.  At which point the film finally proceeds along more obvious plot lines.  Bearing in  mind that the film only runs ninety minutes, the extremely lengthy set-up means that the bit we've all been waiting for - possessed guy with psychic powers does evil stuff - ends up feeling somewhat rushed.

Apart from the halting, fractured feel that the episodic script gives the film, the constant introduction of new characters makes it all somewhat unfocused, as the viewer is never sure exactly who the main character or characters are meant to be.  Just as we think we've identified the angle character, they vanish and we find ourselves following someone else.  The reporter eventually emerges as the more or less the main protagonist and her friend the main antagonist.  But, despite being absent for a lengthy period, those kids turn up again at the right moment.  Even with the High School kids, it is never clear which of the three is the main character - at first it seems like its the boy with the idol, but he rapidly gets eclipsed by the girl with the interest in the supernatural, who eventually emerges as their leader.  It's unfortunate that the film's scenario unfolds in such a confusing and lacklustre way, the script's structure mitigating against any attempts to pick up the pace or build suspense, as the movie actually has a lot of good points, including some decent make-up effects, reasonable production values and an overall feel of solid professionalism, in spite of the obviously low budget.  The cast are pretty much the sort of no-name actors who you vaguely recognise from other low budget genre movies of the era, but generally acquit themselves well enough.  In the end, The Power was successful enough for directors Carpenter and Obrow to be able to follow it up with a couple of better-budget films along similar lines, the last of which was even able to boast the likes of Rod Steiger in its cast.

Splitting the Hate Vote

It's becoming increasingly clear that Andy Burnham must have something in terms of ideas, policies, appeal or whatever, that might just halt the rise of the UK's rather pathetic extreme right in its tracks.  How do I know this?  Not from anything he's said, that's for sure, but rather from the way in which the likes of the Mail, Express and Telegraph have gone on the offensive against him since he became Labour's candidate in the forthcoming by-election.  Starmer seems forgotten about already as, day in, day out, they pump out spurious headlines trying to discredit Burnham: he's a U-turner because he's prepared to seek compromise on his position with regard to some issues, he's anti-woman because he doesn't hate trans people, he probably eats babies and he was really shit as 'Mayor of the North'.  All highly questionable in terms of veracity and reeking of desperation.  He's clearly got them spooked.  I find it interesting that Burnham is now seen as some kind of centre-left, progressive, leadership candidate, whereas, the last time contested for the leadership he was rejected as some kind of Blairite right-winger in favour of Jeremy Corbyn. (Possibly Labour's greatest ever act of self-harm, at least since Foot's leadership, or the split with Ramsay McDonald's National Labour faction back in the twenties).  It's a measure, though, of how far to the right the political discourse has been pushed in recent years, that Burnham, of all people, should be characterised by the right-wing media as some kind of 'left-wing firebrand'.

Still, it seems for once that Elon 'Never Met a Nazi I Didn't Like' Musk's attempts to interfere in UK politics might actually turn out to be beneficial.  He's allegedly been backing Rupert Lowe's band of extremists in the by-election, resulting in Farage bleating on about how he's thereby splitting the Nazi vote and calling for a 'United Extreme Right' front.  Which is ironic, as he doesn't seem to like it when parties on the left do such things.  But hey, hypocrisy and Farage are pretty much synonymous.  But it all throws up the strange question of which fascist-lite is worse: Farage or Lowe?  I mean, they are both  utterly repugnant individuals, with their hectoring, bullying approaches and loud-mouthed bottom-of-the-barrel, rabble rousing, rhetoric.  I remember when Lowe was chairman of Southampton Football Club, (maybe that was when Portsmouth fans started calling them 'scummers'), and he was an utterly hateful character then - an arrogant and ignorant snob who alienate fans and foes alike.  So it was no surprise when he started dabbling in extreme right-wing politics, first with Reform UK, then setting up his own, one man, party after his inevitable falling out with Farage.  Not that any of this makes Farage any less repulsive in comparison. He's a hateful grifter and bigot, too.  The fact that he enabled the likes of Lowe in the first place possibly, though, makes him slightly worse, just edging Lowe out in the 'most repulsive extremist bastard' stakes.

Hooray! Hooray!

Hooray!  Hooray!  Tottenham Hotspur are still in the Premier League!  Much to the chagrin of many pundits, commentators and sports writers, it seems.  The pathological hatred of Spurs in the media continues unabated, with many headlines carrying the implication that Spurs were somehow unjustified in avoiding relegation at the expense of West Ham.  'West Ham relegated despite winning final match' was a common theme amongst the headlines.  Yeah, so what?  Spurs also won their last match of the season and finished above West Ham because they already had more points.  It's that simple.  West Ham winning would only have mattered if Spurs had lost.  Which, much to the annoyance of the pundits, they didn't have the good grace to do.  Once more, where Spurs are concerned, the media conveniently ignores the facts in favour of manufactured outrage.  And don't get me started on Gary Neville's rant about how everybody at Spurs should be apologising to the fans for such a shitty season.  Yeah, it was a shitty season, due largely to poor decision making at the top, but surely his foaming at the mouth fake anger should be directed at those running the clubs that were relegated?  Shouldn't they be apologising to their fanbases?  But, as Ange Postecoglu, our former and Europa League-winning manager, noted, when it comes to Spurs, the media just go completely crazy and lose all sight of reality.

But hey, we survived to face another season in the Premier League.  Sure, it took three managers to do it, not to mention a down-to-the-wire finish on the final day of the season, but we did it.  We start afresh again in the 2026/27 season.  Will we be any better?  Will the ownership have learned the hard lessons of this disaster of a season?  It's highly questionable that they will.  Sure, they're saying all the right things now, but we've heard it all before.  Still, at least we'll be going into the transfer window and new season with a manager who seems to know how to win matches and play attacking football.  I'm still not entirely convinced that DeZerbi is the long-term solution - I'm still wary as to his volatile temperament - but there's no question that he's done well so far.  When he arrived, with seven matches to go following that strange Igor Tudor interlude, Spurs looked doomed, incapable of stringing together a coherent performance and wracked by injuries.  Despite yet more injuries to key players, DeZerbi actually managed to get some decent performances and results from the team.  Which all goes to show, well, something.  We started the season with Thomas Frank who, on paper at least, looked to be a decent choice and a safe pair of hands, but he just seemed out of his depth from early on.  The club's ownership really should have put him out of his misery far earlier than February and, with a decent interim coach, might have avoided Spurs' flirtation with relegation.  Still, that's all in the past now and we need to look forward to next season.

Oh, before we go, I suppose I should address the question of whether I feel sorry for West Ham, at whose expense we survived.  Nah, I don't give a toss about them.   Just as they wouldn't give a toss if the situation reversed - in fact, they'd be gleefully dancing all over our relegation.  So they can fuck right off.  Them and all their celebrity 'mockney' fans who like to believe that supporting West Ham gives them some kind of authentic 'common man' credentials.  They can cry all the way to their banks - I wonder how many of them we'll see attending matches in the Championship?  Middlesborough away doesn't have quite the same cachet as Liverpool or City, does it?

 

Hat's Off

 

My new hat was about the most exciting thing that happened today.  For many, many years now, I've kept meaning to replace the fedora hat I once owned.  It wasn't a particularly great fedora - it was cheap and definitely not crushable, as they should be.  I also never risked finding out whether it was waterproof.  I eventually donated it to an amateur dramatics group, meaning to buy a replacement.  Which I never did.  Until I bought this one.  This one most definitely is crushable and waterproof.  It should be, as it wasn't exactly cheap.  There are many fedora-type hats available online, many claiming to be wool felt and crushable.  Most are made in China and the cheaper ones are of the 'single size' variety.  In the end, I opted for one that was UK-made and came in variety of sizes.  Now, hat sizes are problematic for me - I find 'medium' a little too tight and 'large' too loose.  I've learned, though, that slightly oversize is better than tight, so I ordered this one in 'large'.  It is, indeed, slightly too loose, but I employed my usual solution of inserting a band of thin foam rubber into the band inside, resulting in a comfortable fit.  

Anyway, I wore it out for the first time today, when it served as a sun hat while I was on my country walk.  A function it performed admirably.  I've long had a bit of a thing for fedora hats - the result, doubtless, of watching far too many forties crime movies, where everyone, particularly private eyes, sported them.  They also feature prominently in French cinema - Alain Delon, in particular, frequently wore a fedora in his period films.  In Borsalino (1970) both he and Jean-Paul Belmondo wear them, made by the Italian company that lends its name to the film, as they take over the Marseilles underworld.  For both actors, a scene of them carefully adjusting their fedoras in a mirror before going into action, became characteristic - Delon's hitman in Le Samourai (1966), for instance, always ensures his hat is at the right angle before he leaves his flat, while in Le Doulos (1962), Belmondo carefully adjusts his fedora in a mirror before collapsing, having been fatally wounded.  Not to forget that Tom Baker often wore a fedora when playing the Fourth Doctor.  So it's no wonder that I ended up with such a hankering after them.  Mind you, there are those who would suggest that my current interest in fedoras stems from watching Indiana Jones movies, where he always sports one whilst beating up Nazis.  Not that I'd do any such thing.  But if I do see Nigel Farage while I'm wearing this hat, well...

The Portrait of Donald Trump

I caught a film called The Sins of Dorian Gray (1983) a while ago.   Obviously, it was a version of 'The Portrait of Dorian Gray', updated to the then present day and with the gender of the title character switched.  As updatings of oft-told tales go, it wasn't badly done, although suffering from the fact that it was made for TV with TV movie resources.  Instead of a portrait which ages instead of her, the protagonist, an actress, has an audition tape that takes on her age and depravities.  Which actually wasn't an original twist - Brian DePalma's Phantom of the Paradise (1975) used the same conceit with regard to Paul Williams' character.  Anyway, this got me to wondering whether Donald Trump has something similar going, but in reverse.  As he, quite literally, decomposes before our eyes, does he, perhaps, have a picture of himself in the attic that gets younger?  Because, if so, by now it must be slim, healthy looking and sporting a full head of hair.  The big question, though, is whether Trump's ability to be utterly self-serving and downright evil, is because he's been able to suppress completely his conscience and compassion, by transferring them to that picture: the more evil he is, the more physically ugly and completely repugnant his real self becomes and the more saintly that picture of him becomes.

Of course, the biggest question is, what happens to that picture when the real Trump finally dies?  Will it come to life and step out of its frame, a fully three dimensional, youthful Donald Trump, in perfect health, ready for another fifty or sixty years?  We'd hope, obviously, that bearing in mind that the picture had absorbed all of Trump's good side, that this would be a new, benign Donald Trump.  A Trump that gives away his money to good causes, fights against injustice and who is humble and modest.  Perhaps this Trump will also run for president - but as Democrat so far to the left that he makes Bernie Sanders look like Mussolini.  He could run of a platform of socialised health care, the expansion of welfare, workers' rights and racial equality.  Maybe he could be the friend of immigrants.  Maybe he could even win the Nobel Peace Prize legitimately, with his tireless work to promote peace instead of conflict, championing reductions in defence spending and nuclear disarmament.  Doubtless, he would be passionate about women's rights, gay, rights, trans rights, the whole damn lot.  In fact, he might even be gay himself.  Ah, a man can dream of a better future, even if it is unlikely to materialise, because, even if Trump does have that reverse Dorian Gray thing going on, there was so little good in him in the first place, his picture would, in reality, turn out stunted and under nourished, too weak to do anything.  But, like I said, a man can dream...

Massage Parlour Murders (1973)

I have a real affection for films whose titles tell you pretty much all you need to know about them. Like Massage Parlour Murders (1973) - girls are being murdered by a client as they work in massage parlours.  That's it, that's what the film is about.  Two police detectives, one of whom frequents said parlours to get away from his wife, investigate.  His partner proceeds to have an affair with another girl from a massage parlour, (the room mate of the first victim).  Their investigation seems pretty perfunctory, mainly involving them intimidating various weirdo clients of New York's massage parlours, who include 'Mr Creepy', a private client of the first victim, played by George Dzunda in his screen debut, (he also has an assistant director credit) and an astrologer played by Brother Theodore.  In the meantime, more murders occur, the cop bonking the room mate gets involved in a car chase when, as he attends some kind of naked love in with his girl friend at a swimming pool, he spots a peeping Tom.  Rushing into the street clad only in a towel, he commandeers a cab to pursue the peeper.  The car chase which ensues is actually pretty well done, with plenty of crashes and squealing tyres.  But it is ultimately meaningless, as the peeping Tom isn't their man.  Which pretty much sums up the film: much of its running length is nothing more than padding between murders.  

But much of this padding is actually what makes the film so fascinating to watch from a contemporary perspective.  Whilst the car chase is peripherally related to the plot, much of the movie's footage seems to be made up of lingering shots of New York's less salubrious districts in all their grimy glory.  And 'grimy' is the word - these streets are filthy and litter strewn. It's a perfect time capsule of the early seventies, which, to my recollection were incredibly grimy.  The big cities at least.  I'm assuming that it was a legacy of decades, centuries even, of fossil fuel use laying down strata of soot on them, combined with cuts in public spending that reduced the number of people employed to clean the streets.  Coming from a provincial town, I always remember the shock of visiting London when a young child - it was all so filthy.  Nowadays, of course, most big cities have been extensively cleaned up and restrictions of fossil fuel use and traffic management ensure that it stays that way.  But thanks to artefacts like Massage Parlour Murders, you can still marvel at our filthy, dirty urban past.  Getting back to the film itself, its gritty, grimy and downright sleazy feel, along with some quite brutal murders, is probably its strongest aspect.  It features a primarily no-name cast who give adequate performances, a spartan script and direction, rough and ready production values and plenty of sex and nudity.  After vast amounts of padding, it rushes to a conclusion, with the lead detective finally figuring out the killer's theme, (it comes to him in church) - he's murdering girls at massage parlours whose names relate to the seven deadly sins - but failing to save the other detective's girlfriend.  The killer turns out to be some random guy, who ends up having hot oil thrown over him by his last prospective victim, then set on fire.  The two cops arrive just in time to fill his blazing body full of lead, (if they hadn't stopped for a beer on the way, they might have taken him alive).  And that's it - eighty two minutes or so of low budget sleaze which, nonetheless, has a few scenes, notably that car chase, which linger in the memory.

Euro Ingratitude

I was going to concoct a satirical piece on how, if they aren't going to let us win it, the UK should pull out of the Eurovision Song Contest.  Much in the manner of Trump's rant about not getting the Nobel Peace Prize, so why should he be concerned with peace any more?  But yesterday I came across a piece in the Express which said much the same thing, then went further.  Now, ordinarily, I'd assume that something like that was written ironically, but the Express doesn't do irony, (it's writers can't spell it, let alone understand what it means), so I have to take it at face value.  Anyway, the gist of the piece was that those Europeans are so bloody ungrateful for everything we've done for them - most notably funding Eurovision - that they only give us one bloody point.  The fact that this single point came from Ukraine drove the author to further apoplexy - apparently, after all that aid we've given them, not to mention the fact that we've let so many of them come to live here, without requiring the usual visa requirements, plus the fact that they can claim benefits more easily than British layabouts, you'd think that they'd be more bloody grateful and at least give us ten points.  So, in retaliation we should cut off support to them, not to mention all the other foreign aid we give to people who don't vote for us at Eurovision.  In fact, can't vote for us at Eurovision.  Because we could better spend that money at home helping good British people.

Apart from sounding like the Reform UK manifesto, there is just so much wrong with this it is hard to know where to start.   Bearing in mind that Ukraine is engaged in an existential conflict with Russia (and that those Ukrainians we've so 'generously' allowed to come here are war refugees), the idea that we should abandon them because they wouldn't give is more points at Eurovision is utterly perverse.  Then there's the hoary old chestnut of foreign aid - quite apart from the moral aspects of giving less well off countries assistance, in terms of national self-interest, it represents 'soft power', a way of influencing and winning around the sympathies of potential allies.  You'd think that the US's plummeting standing in the world and inability to get anyone to support them in their foreign adventures, would stand as a dire warning as to the perils of cutting off foreign aid - particularly when the likes of china are standing ready to fill the aid vacuum.  As Trump has shown, flexing your military muscles in trying to intimidate smaller nations is no substitute for the influence that the soft power of aid gives you, (at a far lower price, also).  As for the idea that any money saved might be used to help the 'deserving poor' of Britain, well, we all know that, in reality, it would simply finance tax breaks for the wealthy, or be paid out to private companies via dodgy 'outsourcing' contracts for public services.

Now, I could say that I think that the sort of people who write this drivel should be sent to re-education camps in an attempt to drill some kind of basic education into them, accompanied by being forced to work on community projects in deprived areas, (wearing day glo orange jackets with 'Moron' or 'Ignorant Bastard' printed on the back).  But if I were to do that I'd have all those right-wing bastards, (the very same people who think that working class 'young offenders' should be put in the army, that asylum seekers should be confined in concentration camps, or that people should be made to 'work' for their benefits by being put into slave-like indentures to filthy rich companies who could easily pay them proper wages), screaming about how I'm a typical lefty git who just wants to suppress free speech and who is showing their true colours as a supporter of Soviet-style brainwashing and gulags for dissidents etc. So, instead, I'll just confine myself to observing that maybe, just maybe, the reason why nobody votes for us at Eurovision is because we keep entering unrelentingly shit acts.  Just a thought.

Human Slop

So, first of all it was to pay for his security, now it is a 'reward' for campaigning for Brexit.  Come on Nige, just tell us, once and for all, what was it really for?  I refer, of course, to that five million quid that was surreptitiously slipped to Nigel Farage in used fivers inside a crumpled brown envelope, in a deserted multi-storey car park at midnight, by some shady non-dom tech billionaire.  But at least we've established that it didn't pay for that house he bought in 2024 - that was apparently paid for with his fee from appearing in that reality TV show.  Mind you, we still haven't had any explanation as to how his girlfriend - that French fascist bird - was able to pay for that other house in Clacton-on-Sea, despite apparently not having any funds.  Obviously, the fact that she is being investigated by the EU over fraud allegations has nothing to do with it.  Just sayin'.  (As the fascist kiddies like to say on social media every time they post yet more defamatory misinformation).  But hey, Nigel Farage and his dodgy financial dealings aren't what I want to talk about today.  I actually want to talk about 'slop'.  Because, you know, I hear a lot of whining about 'AI slop', particularly on social media, amongst the would-be artistic types who use the alleged prevalence of AI generated content for their own lack of success, but the reality is that, particularly on You Tube, I encounter a lot of non-AI, human generated slop.  Some of it actually quite sinister.  You know the sort of stuff I mean: those videos, framed as nostalgia, going on about how much better Britain was way-back-when and how we need to get back to those good old fashioned conservative values.  The right-wing propaganda undertones should be obvious to a blind, deaf and dumb person it is so blatant.

Because this 'golden age' they all hark back to is inevitably portrayed as some soft-focus vision of a middle England predominantly populated by nice, middle class, people.  It's a world where the working classes know their place and immigrants are rightfully grateful for the opportunities afforded them by being generously allowed to tread foot on our hallowed shores.  It's all utter bollocks, of course.  But it's a pretty standard right-wing tactic - the creation of a fake past that has supposedly been corrupted by socialism, the welfare state, immigrants, single mothers or whatever, despite the fact that it never existed.  They juxtapose it with an equally distorted version of current reality - that civilisation is on the brink of collapse and that we're all going to be murdered in our beds by foreign criminal, out-of-control juvenile delinquents, militant drag queens or mad Islamic fundamentalist bastards.  Again, all utter bollocks.  I've heard all before over the past few decades - the tune remains the same, only the musicians and the medium of delivery change.  Anyway, what set me off on this particular journey of ranting was one of these videos which popped up my You Tube homepage, promising to tell me why people were so much happier in the 1970s.  Now, I lived through the seventies, it was the decade I grew up in  and I can assure you that people were no happier then than they are now.  In fact, I recall much of the seventies being utterly miserable, characterised by lengthy industrial disputes which resulted in power cuts, refuse not being collected, transport grinding to a halt and so on.  On top of that, OPEC ensured that oil prices soared, resulting in fuel rationing.  Inflation was rampant, unemployment rising.  Sound familiar?  Yeah, some things never change, do they?

But let's humour these bozos and pretend that people were happier then - why might that have been?  Well, maybe it was down to the fact that, despite all the problems and industrial disputes, we still had extensive and functioning public services.  Perhaps it was because, back then, if you had the misfortune to have to claim benefits, you weren't treated like a criminal.  Then again, maybe it was because we still had the prospect of full employment, although Thatcher, when she arrived in 1979, put paid to that. Our utilities and key industries hadn't been sold off to offshore investors who took their profits away from the UK - something else Thatcher put paid to.  But I can guarantee that the video in question didn't say any of those things, (I can't say for sure, because I didn't bother watching it, but I'm pretty damned confident based upon past experience), instead it no doubt harped on about some mythical golden age of 'community values' and low crime, ('you could go out and leave your doors unlocked' - I never knew anyone do this, if they did, it was only because they were so poor they had nothing worth stealing).  Doubtless, this all ended because of immigration, too much liberalism, the end of corporal punishment in schools, etc.  Ignoring the reality that any 'community values' were based around the post-war settlement and the creation of the welfare state - something that the sort of politicians those who make these videos destroyed.  If people are nostalgic for the seventies it was because, thanks to Keynsian economics and the welfare state, living standards had improved and people across society were, in general, better off than they had ever been before.  So, yeah, to get back to the point - human, or rather quasi-fascist, generated slop.

Godmonster of Indian Flats (1973)

A monster movie from Frederic Hobbs, the eccentric and enigmatic artist and sometime film director, Godmonster of Indian Flats (1973) is as unorthodox as one might expect from the man who also brought us Alabama's Ghost (1973).  The film ostensibly follows the pattern of a typical fifties or sixties low-budget monster B-movie, with a local farmer discovering a mutated sheep embryo, which his scientist friend takes back to his lab, believing that it might have been caused by the phosphorous vapours given off by a local mine, which itself is associated with stories of a legendary monster.  Of course, after incubation in the lab, the embryo grows into a ten foot tall bipedal sheep monster, which eventually goes on a rampage.  But all of this is really secondary to the wider story it is embedded in, which involves the local town, which is effectively owned by its mayor, who wants to develop into an 'Old West' tourist attraction, which in turn involves barring the 'wrong types', (ie non-whites) from the town's facilities.  In the midst of the town's western-themed festival, a black, East Coast representative of a wealthy financier, approaches the mayor with a view to buying local land for a mining development.  The mayor's opposition to this schemes seems to have as much to do with the representative's race as it does his desire to historically preserve the town.  In order to foil the financier's scheme, the mayor, whilst inviting the representative to stay for the festival, sets his henchmen to work harassing him, eventually framing him for killing a dog (!), which nearly leads to him being lynched by an angry mob.  He is subsequently framed for wounding the chief henchman and held in jail, but escapes and is hunted down by an armed posse, seeking sanctuary at the scientist's lab.  The mob descends on the lab, resulting in the monster getting free.

In a final twist, the monster is captured by the mayor, who plans to exploit it as 'The Eighth Wonder of the World', in part to distract the townsfolk that he has done his own deal to sell their land claims.  A riot ensues, culminating in the monster in its cage being pushed over a cliff and perishing when the truck carrying the cage explodes.  The financier's representative flees under cover of the mayhem, while it seems that more mutated sheep are being born.  As to be expected from a film by Frederic Hobbs, Godmonster of Indian Flats is full of bizarre touches and scenes, the whole business with the dog for instance, which hasn't really been shot, it is just very good at playing dead, is spirited away after a funeral, to live with the mayor's nephew.  The monster itself is a truly shambolic creation, staggering around the countryside and looking decidedly non-menacing, with most of the destruction inadvertently caused by frightened would-be victims.  But, as indicated earlier, the whole monster business is really a sub-plot, with Hobbs seemingly more interested in exploring the issue of small town racism, which itself is the result of a community attempting to recreate and preserve a past that never really existed.  In this case, that past is the traditional 'Old West' derived from the imagery of films and dime novels, which all conveniently ignored the diversity of the historical west.  Whereas in the real west, black and Mexican cowboys were relatively commonplace, here they are perceived as representing a threat to the carefully constructed 'Old West' facade created by the mayor.  (The film opens with the farmer, who is of Hispanic heritage, being harassed by the police and thrown out of town).  

Like Alabama's Ghost, Godmonster of Indian Flats was clearly made on a very restricted budget, with a cast composed largely of unknowns, yet still looks surprisingly good, with some decent performances from the cast.  The Nevada locations are deployed to great effect, juxtaposing the 'Old West' theme of the town and the landscape which is largely unchanged since those times, with the encroachment of modernity, in the form of the laboratory, a scrap yard and dump that dominates the outskirts of the town.  The set-pieces are all surprisingly well staged and photographed by Hobbs, in spite of obviously limited resources.  The black business representative is played by Hobbs favourite Christopher Brooks - Alabama himself from Alabama's Ghost - whilst Russ Meyer regular Stuart Lancaster plays the mayor.  Perhaps the most recognisable face in the cast is Robert Hirschfield as the slovenly sheriff, who would later become a regular in Hill Street Blues, playing Leo, the admin officer.  Like Hobbs' other work, Godmonster of Indian Flats is agreeably off beat and eccentric in its approach, deploying familiar genre tropes to explore more complex social issues.  Not really a monster movie in the traditional sense, but still hugely entertaining.

Triang Converter Wagon

 Meanwhile, back on the model railway - a recent acquisition: a Triang-Hornby converter wagon.

These were introduced when Lines Brothers, owners of Triang Railways, bought out Meccano and its Hornby Dublo system, (thereby creating Triang-Hornby), in order to allow the rolling stock of both systems to be run together, despite their incompatible couplings.  In the above photo, the green CCT on the left, fitted with Triang couplings, is coupled to the Triang coupler end of the converter wagon, while the cattle wagon on the left, fitted with Dublo couplings (despite, perversely, being a Triang-Hornby wagon), is coupled to the Dublo coupler end.

A view of the converter wagon from above shows its coupling arrangement more clearly:

 

Anyway, I purchased the converter wagon so as to allow the locos I have with Dublo anf Trix couplings, (Trix used a version of the Dublo coupling, slightly smaller and more compact), to haul the majority of my goods stock, which have the Triang style of couplings.  It is much easier than changing the couplings on the locos, which are riveted on and would have to be drilled out.  I already have several rakes of Trix coaches, some with Triang, others with Trix couplers at one end, so now my Trix and Dublo locos can operate both goods and passenger traffic.  

Here's a brief (and not very good) video of my Trix Standard Class 5 hauling a freight train consisting of wagons with both types of coupling.  The first wagon has Trix couplings, the second has Dublo couplings, with the converter wagon running third to connect to the rest of the stock, which all have Triang couplings.  (As ever, as soon as the video started recording, everything went wrong, with derailments and stallings galore, so the video had to be pieced together from multiple takes). 

I'm now looking at creating a couple more converter wagons from some cheap old Trix wagons I've picked up the local toy and train fair.  One has been fitted with very wonky Triang couplings, one of which will be replaced with a spare Trix coupling I have, while the other wagon is missing a coupler at one end, so will receive the Triang coupler removed from the first one.

Today's tribulations while filming the video have convinced me that when I finally expand the layout, I'm going to have to rip up and re-lay the existing trackwork on the parts that I'd hoped I could retain.  There's always something, isn't there?