Monday, November 30, 2020

console me.

A belated sequel to the Moscow Museum of Arcade games post, here's a collection of cult consoles that'd be perfect for Christmas.





















people you fancy but shouldn't (part 96).

 Sanna Mirella Marin - Prime Minister of Finland. 

A member of the Social Democratic Party, she has been a member of the Parliament of Finland since 2015, and served as the Minister of Transport and Communications from 6 June to 10 December 2019.

Who says this blog isn't educational?







 

Sunday, November 29, 2020

the freaked zone II.

 Another lovingly curated collection of all things freakish in tribute to Stuart Maconie's 6Music masterclass.....

 

Thursday, November 26, 2020

dear, deadly daria.

 


Farewell to a brilliant actress and a great friend - dearest, dark and dangerous Daria Nicolodi - THE one true mistress of the Macabre. xx
 

 

Monday, November 23, 2020

time and relative dimensions in sound.

 

Celebrate 57 years of the children's hero that adults adore with these heady mixes of Mondasian music, Cyber sounds, Bok beats and all things Doctor Who.


Monday, November 16, 2020

more mooncup.

After rewatching the frankly fantastic The Man From Planet X I immediately (well almost immediately, I had a wee first) went online to see if there had ever been a sequel or the like and to find out who owns the rights because let's be honest it deserves a remake.

In a bizarre bit of (fearful) symmetry - seeing as it was rediscovering my Robot Monster strip that made me watch it - I discovered that Fawcett Publications actually produced a comic adaptation of the movie in 1952 (which actually ain't too shady).




Not only that tho' but after even more digging I found that way back in 1975 top scribe Hunter Adams (AKA Jack Lancer, AKA Jim Lawrence) penned a three book series chronicling the further adventures of The Man From Planet X.

Excitedly I scurried to Ebay to find the books and after a few weeks (and a large part of the kids college fund) they arrived at Unwell Towers.

So imagine my surprise upon reading them when I realised that they had absolutely fuck all to do with the film but were actually a series of sexy stories about some bloke named Peter Lance,  who although looking human was in fact an alien from the planet Tharb named Pritan Lansol, sent to Earth to study our customs and learn more about us before his race finally announce their presence.

Obviously being aliens they have absolutely no concept of sex so to discover more about it the alien leader, Dr. Kraag, sends Lansol to Earth to look into it.

Obviously this involves him bedding as many beautiful women as possible and all in the name of science.


Sounds legit.

Invariably he ends up involved in spy rings, human trafficking and the like  forcing him to  use his amazing physical prowess, telepathic abilities, and alien technology to defeat the bad guys and save the damsel.

Before having some more of 'the sex' with them obviously.

And whilst this may seem a tiring proposition to us mere mortals, it turns out that the planet Tharb is actually the size of  Jupiter (tho' not alas Uranus) with a similarly immense gravity meaning that the muscles of its people are tremendous compared to Earthlings.

Obviously this means that Lance is able to 'perform' for hours and hours.

If all this wasn't manly enough Lance also freelances for the CIA on a part-time basis, investigating such mysteries as:

The She-Beast.



An exciting sexcapade involving an old hag who needs an experimental drug called Novitol in order to continue to look young and beautiful, therefore being able to continue having sex.
 
Unfortunately the company that manufactured it has just been bought by a rich industrialist who wants to cease its production so the old hag attempts to kill him.

Luckily Lance is shagging the guys daughter so steps in to help.





Tiger By The Tail.



When Lance rescues a beautiful young (nude) woman from a tiger attack - as you do - he finds himself in the middle of an attempt by a cabal of bad men trying to acquire a secret weapon known as C.O.D. AKA Crack of Doom.



The Devil To Play.




A rash of muggings and rapes in Manhattan can be connected (as is usually the way) to a group of Satanic worshipers who intend on controlling the oil industry by kidnapping a woman who has created a synthetic oil formula.



Unfortunately, on account of them being utter shite, Lawrence (who for years scripted the James Bond newspaper strip, eventually creating more adventures than any other writer including Ian Fleming) called it a day after book 3 and returned to writing Tom Swift Jr. (as Victor Appleton II) and The Hardy Boys Adventures (as Franklin Dixon) before going on to co-create two highly complex adventure games for the Infocom series in the 80s.


Shit! That means this computer is made entirely out of your dad's arse!

 

As an aside, all this talk of the 80s got me thinking, does anyone else remember/care that the 1962 classic Creation of The Humanoids was bizarrely feature on the inside sleeve of the Bronski Beat album Age of Consent?

This was quite possibly due as much to it being Andy Warhol's favourite SciFi movie as well as it's plot regarding forbidden love and the like.

Caught up with it again recently and surprisingly it still stands up well.

Tho' that's probably because all the sets are really thick cardboard.

Creation of The Humanoids (1962)
Dir: Wesley Barry.
Cast: Don Megowan, Erica Elliot, Frances McCann, Don Doolittle, George Milan, Dudley Manlove and David Cross.


Was She One Of The Green-Blooded People?



The place: A future Earth.

The time: Just after lunch where a nasty (let's be honest,is there any other kind?) nuclear war has resulted in the total extermination of 92% of the human race and left the remaining survivors riddled with radiation poisoning, scabs and bad teeth meaning the prospect for humanity surviving via the medium of having 'the sex' looking very grim.

To keep civilization ticking over smoothly, the remaining humans go into overdrive building over a billion robots to handle all the everyday jobs (bin men, STV voiceover announcers, working in the off licences, saying "In a world...." at the start of trailers etc.) and over the years these automatons have been constructed to emulate humans more and more, eventually becoming sentient and possibly even more human than their human 'masters'.

As is usual in situations like this, a nasty group of bad men (somewhat kinkily) named the “Order of Flesh and Blood” push for a ban on these human looking machines (know bizarrely as 'clickers') insisting that any new robots must be bald, blue and dressed in boiler suits left over from Brian Tilsley's garage.

Which is fair enough I guess.

The situation goes from bad to worse tho' when one such clicker goes a wee bit mental, killing his creator Dr. Mike Raven (Doolittle, best know for his sterling performance as a DA in a 1971 episode of Hawaii Five -O) to death.

Robot hater, founder member of the Order and all round rugged tough guy Kenneth Cragis (Blazing Saddles gum chewer himself, Megowan) suggests a solution to the problem.

Kill all the clickers.

Kill them a lot.

Which is nice.




"I love you....could it be magic?"



The rest of the group think this may be a wee bit extreme and start to distance themselves from 'crazy' Cragis, who decides to go visit his sister Esme (McCann from fuck all else) for a few days of bitching and badness.


Unfortunately upon arriving at her house our racist rebel-rouser is surprised - and oh-so slightly annoyed - to find that Esme has become 'involved' in the state of 'rapport' with a robot named Pax (The Magic Swords Sir Pedro of Spain himself, Cross).

And what, you may ask, is 'Rapport'?

Well 'Rapport' occurs when a robot and a human begin to share the same mindset and the humans every desire is instantly understood by the robot partner and immediately fulfilled.

Which if I'm honest isn't as rude as it sounds really.

Sorry.

Shocked and upset Cragis storms off to his fantastic plastic bachelor pad for a tearful wank and a pot noodle.

Probably.



Hanson have let themselves go.


Even this small solace is interrupted tho' when the beautiful (and very 60s breasted) Maxine Megan (Elliott from, um, Peter Gunn) appears out of the blue and falls into his arms.

Hmmmm.

After a whirlwind romance - plus shedloads of cheesy B-grade SciFi dialogue - Cragis and Maxine stumble across a secret that will shake their beliefs to the very core and my explain the terrifying secret of the Creation of The Humanoids...



Looked at from a purely production point of view Creation of The Humanoids is a cheaply made, warehouse bound 'B' flick populated by bald-pated, blue toned men with acting as stilted as the wooden slats pretending to be a futuristic laboratory and talky to a point where you can imagine that writer Jay Simms originally envisaged this as a stage production, the whole threadbare endeavor is  topped off by a particularly lurid poster design and not much else.

But look passed all this and you'll find a quirky and intelligent lo-fi movie that's ideas pre-date many of the themes and concepts that would go on to dominate books and movies under the 'cyberpunk' banner more than two decades later.

Yup, it's basically Blade Runner 2049 but with sturdier underwear.

I'd better stop now before someone mistakes this for a real film blog.

mummy dearest.

So, who had mummies on their 2020 bingo card?




Dawn of The Mummy (1981)
Dir: Frank Agrama.
Cast: Brenda King, Barry Sattels, George Peck, John Salvo, Ibrahim Khan, Joan Levy, Ellen Faison, Diane Beatty with the 'lovely' Laila Nasr and her dancing teeth.


It lives! It kills!
And it smells of old man wee!

or

“If ever this tomb is disturbed, Safiraman will rise and kill. His armies will rise and kill.”

Take yer pick.


Welcome everyone to sunny and sandy Egypt in the year 3000 B.C. (Before Continuity), it's a Tuesday afternoon just after 3.20 and the evil Pharaoh Safiraman (who does whatever a Safira can allegedly) is up to his normal weekday tricks raiding local villages for hunky teen boys to abduct, shave and used as 'slaves'.

Which is nice work if you can get it.

But unfortunately for those who enjoy a wee bit of sticky teen action - Dad, social work said to stop coming round the house by the way) - all this oiled boy kinkiness is skipped over in favour of jumping forward in time a few years to Safiraman's funeral.

Well it is an actual horror movie we're watching as opposed to say, a sweaty gay porn film pretending to be one.

Which is nice for a change.

Anyway, we join this obviously sad day just as his mysterious, tombstone toothed high priestess (one hit wonder Nasr) is ranting and raving about Osiris (the Egyptian one, not the shop that does cheap nose piercings in Glasgow city centre) and how fantastic and bloody a tyrant Safiraman was to crowds of nearly a dozen of his followers.

Yup, the budget could stretch to that many.

Knowing that it's best to stop on a high she finishes her speech with a saucy wiggle of her ample old lady arse before muttering an obligatory curse over the mummified body and locking six leather pant clad slaves into his burial chamber to keep him company.

Oh yes, then she fills the whole place with toxic gas.

But not from her bottom obviously because she's a nice lady.


Beware! This van is NOT full of sweeties.


 

Cut to the 'modern' day where a trio of sexy grave robbers led by the hunky blond bad boy Rick Cannon (the easy going co-star of Zoolander and Starsky and Hutch, Owen 'Lightning McQueen' Wilson acting here under the pseudonym Salvo) have just uncovered Safiraman’s still sealed back passage and, after a quick chat and chin stroke decide to blow the bugger open with handy dynamite sticks.

You never get that on Time Team.

Noticing the noxious stench of sweat, spunk and gravy emanating from Safiraman’s cracked entrance, Rick reckons that the burial chamber may have been booby trapped to prevent anyone doing what he's attempting to do, therefore it'd probably be safer to wait for the poisoned gas to dissipate before stealing all of the Pharaohs trinkets.

Brains, beauty and man-boobs, this guy has it all.

Telling the hired help Iain and Jeanette to stay on guard, Rick jumps into his jeep and prepares to head back to town to buy some crisps and pop for everyone.

Or something.

But as our hero guns his throttle (as I assume you drivers say) he's accosted by a dog blanketed old harridan stinking of piss shouting obscenities at him from the depths of her tar covered toothless mouth.

That'll be Laila Nasr back then, only this time caked in shit and wearing a comedy Cher wig.


Zena (for it is she) angrily spouts and spits at poor Rick, telling him and his team that they're about to desecrate a holy site, and if they're not careful, the mighty Safiraman an his (six man) army of the dead will be forced to “rise from the tomb and kill the infidels!”

Which is nice.


Rick tho', being a rascally type of guy just shrugs his manly shoulders and laughs the threat off before driving to the local shops, leaving his buddies tanking crates of Carling at the tombs entrance.

"Hows this for a Pharaohs entrance Gary?"


Pissed up and passed out on the sands Iain and Jeanette fail to notice the couple of boorish Bedouin neighbourhood watch members skulking behind a nearby cactus and licking their lips at the sight of Jeanette's ample thigh.

It appears that Zena has paid the pair (not in kisses I hope) to keep an eye on the grave robbers but, being foreign and therefore untrustworthy, the bearded bozo's  have decided to steal the treasure for themselves.

Bad, bad Bedouins.

"Nick it!"


Unfortunately the sinister smell of Zena must have affected their noses (and memories) as the pair walk straight into the still gas filled chamber and after a wee bit of dribbling and coughing drop down dead.

Which is actually quite lucky because it leaves the tomb fresh and smelling of daises the next morning just in time for Rick and co. to enjoy a death  trap free day of looting.

Result.

Meanwhile over in New York (well that's what it says on the grainy footage), that top selling women's mag Fashion Monthly has decided that the time is right to send a team, consisting of (camp as pants) photographer Bill (Peck, not Bob), makeup lady Jenny (Levy, tho' not Jane) and sexy 'models' Lisa (King not Steven), Melinda (Faison, Bless you), Joan (Diane Beatty not Ned) plus not forgetting gorgeous Gary (Sattels) over to Egypt for a sexy new fashion shoot.

You can see where this is going can't you?

What all the two-bit whore's will be wearing next summer, go on ask your mum.


The magazines Egyptian correspondent, Norman has decided that the little town of Barqa would make a suitable backdrop for a few days of clothes based shenanigans, especially the sand dunes overlooking the tomb of some guy named Safiraman.

Who'd have guessed?

Fairly unsurprisingly (it's that kinda movie) the fashion glitterati almost immediately bump into Rick and his band, seemingly hitting it off (as opposed to having it off) with our hero right away.

Tho' that could have something to do with the fact that they're all clean(ish) and good-looking - well I say good looking - laydees from the good old US of A, unlike the buck-toothed local women that keep trying to get to grips with his newly recovered Pharaoh staff.

By which I probably mean his penis.

They get on so well that, after a little persuasion Rick even agrees to let them use the tombs interior for the fashion shoot.

As you can probably imagine, this is possibly going to be a very, very bad idea.

"Fuck me! It's Robin Thicke!"


OK so you're thinking to yourself 'so far so horribly clichéd' but surprisingly for a film so threadbare it does have the distinction of adding a new piece of lore to the mummy genre.

And that's a brilliantly unique reason for the mummies resurrection that I'm amazed no other movie since has stolen.

Can you guess, dear reader what actually causes Safiraman to finally rise from his sandy grave?

Is it the messily dynamiting of his sacred burial chamber?

Is it when one of Rick's buddies (not Ben Stiller or even Mater) steals his golden walking stick before snipping away at his bandages?

Or is it the fact that the heat from Bills arc light is a wee bit too warm for him?

Go on, guess.

"Sand in mah mooth!"



Yup that's right, Safiraman gets all hot and bothered by the lights, waking up in a  strop of Tyra Banks proportions and ready to kick some model arse.

Imagine classic era America's Next Top Model but with more eating disorders but without the hunksome Nigel Barker.

Summoning his zombie slaves, who, in the intervening years appear to have moved out of the tomb and set up home amongst the dunes, Safiraman prepares for his revenge.

Only not right away.

"You wore hotpants in my tomb!!??!!"

After what seems like months of planning (look there are only so many times I can watch underfed wannabe models pose in hideous chiffon dresses before I want to force a pie into the screen - or up someone's arse) Safiraman finally gets up and decides on a plan of action.

Firstly he makes a surprise visit to Jeanette's butcher shop and sticks a meat cleaver in his head before sneaking up on the lovely Melinda whilst she's swimming at the local oasis (but not the one of the zombies) and kills her too.

Luckily for the viewer - if not the poor cast, once Safiraman and his zombie minions get a taste for blood there's no stopping them as they chow down on Gary, enjoy a main course of beefy Bill in a basket before quickly following that with a juicy  Jenny dessert.

Yum.

Jimmy Savile...The Return.


All this blood-letting, burping and general badness seems to be just what our undead chums have been missing all these years and, not wanting to be seen as lightweights they decide to vote on who or what to do next.

Democracy in Egypt?

Who'd have thunk it?

Noticing the sound of riotous laughter and rocking good music in the distance,  Safiraman and his horde reckon it'd be a bit of a laugh to head right into Barqa town centre and crash local drug dealer Steve Hamid's wedding party for a wee dance and some good natured banter.

Oh and to eat the guests whole of course.

Tho' they may spit that bit out.

Dave's Dalek impression was always a hit at kids parties.


It's not too long (or too well shot) before Safiraman and co. have managed to eat their way thru' the aunts, uncles and cousins until only Lisa, Joan, Rick plus a few other folk I've already forgotten are left.

With the undead slowly closing in on them our heroes become embroiled in a battle for survival.

And more importantly against crushing tedium.

Will our heroes escape?

Will Safiraman and his greedy pals ever be full?

And will Rick possibly use the handy stash of dynamite sitting nearby to blow Safiraman up?

Patrick Stewart: the face AIDS years.



The worlds first (and only) joint Egyptian/Italian/American production to feature both flesh eating mummies and high fashion, Frank Agrama's Dawn of The Mummy is a laugh a minute, schizophrenic thrill ride of cack handed dubbing, bad teeth, Lego hair and a cast so unclean you'd swear you could smell the stale urine oozing thru' your Teevee screen.

I had to mop up after sitting thru' it but then again that may have been my excitement showing.

Owen Wilson, up the casino, Cairo, 1982...YESCH!


A big name in the Egyptian film industry (yes it has one) Agrama - the man who brought Super Dimension Fortress Macross to the English-speaking world, a thing that we are eternally grateful for - had already produced and directed over 40 movies before deciding to turn his hand to the horror genre.

Looking to Italy for his inspiration, he (unfortunately) skipped the films of Agento, Fulci and (Mario) Bava and went straight to the shelf containing the complete works of Bruno (Zombie Creeping Flesh) Mattei and Andrea (Burial Ground) Bianchi, delivering a movie of such appalling tardiness that’s only claim to fame is its frightening ability to appear to last even longer than its relatively short 97 minute running time.

It's as if you enter a spooky slow dimension that quietly eats away at your soul whilst watching it.

As this is coming from a man who once sat thru' the entire celluloid abortions that are Cradle of Fear, Lords of Salem and Little Deaths in one sitting.

But, if self harm appeals to you and you still feel compelled to view this movie you can at least look forward to the amusing (and possibly arousing) delights of sweaty Egyptians whipping small boys, John Salvo's hair and Laila Nasr's teeth, not to mention the cheap market stall fashions and the gore-tastic climax.

Which beats a good plot any day really.

Doesn't it?

Plus it gives you a warm glow inside knowing that the director was cleared of all charges of alleged tax fraud after a nine year case and is sitting happily by his pool in LA counting his cash as you watch, not being bummed by a bin man in prison whilst counting his teeth.

Which I guess is an enduring an image as anything on screen here.