who says necromance is dead?

Seeing as it's almost Christmas I thought I'd try something a wee bitty different and share a few romantic movies with you just for those nights when it's you and a loved one alone.

Providing she's not got school the next day that is.

Sextette (1978).
Dir: Ken Hughes.
Cast: Mae West, Timothy Dalton, Tony Curtis, Ringo Starr, Alice Cooper, Regis Philbin, Keith Moon, George Raft, George Hamilton and Dom DeLuise....Yes, it's THAT good.

Marriage is like a book. The whole story takes place between the covers.

Mummified screen superstar Marlo Manners (golden age cum bucket West) and her latest husband, Sir Michael Barrington (Rassilon himself, Sir Timothy of Dalton) are spending their wedding night in a swanky London hotel. 

The couple, expecting a few relaxing days (and nights) of top shag action are surprised - well Dalton is I mean West's faced just kinda lolls there like a botched burns victims - to find themselves caught in an international incident that could have serious ramifications for the whole world.


And to good taste.

"Aye son....touch mah titties!"

In a bizarre case of movie coincidences, who should be in the next room but Marlo's ex-hubbie, the Russian diplomat Alexei (ex Persuader! Curtis) busy taking part in an important UN peace conference.

The problem is that he's refusing to sign anything unless he can spend one last night with his ex wife.

Obviously he just can't get the thought of her ample (and varicose veined) arse out of his head.

But let's be honest, who could?

And if that wasn't confusing (or clichéd) enough yet another ex hubbie, the film director Laslo (Ringo Starr) wants to film her in a 'romantic' scene for his new movie.

It's enough to make a whore vomit.

Tony Curtis: the mark of cinematic quality.

Understandably, Sir Michael feels he should be chivalrous and defend his (very) old ladies honour. 

Unluckily for him a misunderstanding about the use of the word 'gay' means the evil gutter press have branded him a homosexualist.

Oh. 

My. 

Sides.

Just when you thought that matters - or ludicrous plotting - couldn't get any worse, Marlo's taped memoirs (dishing the dirt on everyone she's ever shagged) have gone missing and her back from the dead, gangster ex-husband, the evil Dan The Fish (comedy God DeLuise) is determined to have them.

"Just close your eyes
and think of Roger Moore".

In a bizarre twist of fate (of which David Lynch would be proud) the cassette ends up first in a cake being delivered to Curtis, then in a dog before finally ending up in the US track and field team's private gym.

Luckily Marlo is visiting the hunky athletes and, in a scene more painful than circumcision with a rusty tin lid , starts fondling the young bucks before making a slew of lewd suggestions as to where she'd like them to put it.

This frankly terrifying act of sexual harassment is thankfully cut short when she notices the cassette bounce off a trampoline and thru' the roof.

Tho' how she can see anything thru' her melted plastic face is beyond me.

"Five fingers, never touched the sides!"

By this point Sir Michael is behaving like Barrymore at a pool party, barely able to control the raging erection in his monogrammed silk undies, the sexual tension he feels at not yet being able to consummate the marriage liable to burst at any moment covering anyone standing close in gooey thick Welsh joy-jism.

Which if I'm honest I wouldn't say no to.

His sexual frustration isn't helped by his wife tho', who's taken to wandering around their room in a baby doll nightie so tiny that you can see her nipples swinging freely just below the hem.

So being a true Brit, plus not fancying being caught hunched over the bed in the company of mother fist and her five young daughters (but most likely because there are no old peoples homes near) Sir Michael decides to find the tape himself.

Using his almost Bond-like detecting skills he actually manages to find the pesky cassette before dodgy Dan and his Mafia mo-fo's and finally discovers the reason as to why it's so important.

Would you believe that in her old age poor Marlo can't remember if she divorced Dan or not. 

Only by listening to her frankly sordid past in full Dolby surround can Dan and the mob determine if she now has two husbands.

If you think that sounds harmless just imagine your gran talking dirty to you as you try to polish one off.


Again.

"Smell my finger!"

Thinking about it (the plot that is not your gran) I still can't figure out why this is so important.

Anyway, back to the movie and just when you think it can't get any worse (or that West may get all naked and dirty with Dalton) the tape ends up in the United Nations conference hall along with the bad guys, the new hubbie, Alice Cooper, Laslo, Regis Philbin and practically every other wannabe, has-been and celebrity junkie after money for a quick fix that you can name. 

Just check the cast list.

And for some unfathomable reason the delegates want to hear it all.

Well it beats trying to stop acts of genocide and backing illegal invasions doesn't it? 

The poor guy on the right says it all.

Will the conference be a success or will the contents of the tape plunge everyone into World War 3 meaning that Damnation Alley really happened? 

Will the newly weds ever get to have 'the sex'?


Will West keep her teeth in as Dalton slowly eases his rock solid member into her lipstick covered mouth, his pendulous testicles slowly and rhythmically slapping against the fine hairs on her chin?

Or will he, at the moment of climax plead with his new bride to allow him to cover her unblinking corpse-like visage in his off-white man-muck but then without waiting for a reply, violently fire his seed over Marlo's unflinching face, the sperm glistening like early morning dew on some haunted death mask?

And will Dalton's career survive if he does?


The answer to the last one is yes by the way.

"So you think you'll be able to find the car keys?"

From Ken Hughes, the director behind Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, the Rachel Ward slasher Night School and the Berlin bits in the unofficial Bond movie Casino Royale, comes this star-packed musical comedy, conceived with the idea of relaunching Mae (by this point older than Methuselah) West's career as a sex goddess and glamour queen.

And you have to admit that whatever else is wrong with this movie (and there's a lot) it shows that West could still deliver a kinky quip and a sexual innuendo with the best of them.

Which would be fine if at this point in her career she wasn't an 85 year old leathery necked, tucked and stapled white wigged living corpse.

Imagine if some young guy asked your Gran "How do you like it in London?" and she answered, "I like it anywhere!" whilst stroking herself only wearing a see thru' nightie.

It's just so wrong (unless your Gran happens to be Diana Rigg), almost as if someone travelled back in time to make a star studded role reversed musical version of Jörg Buttgereit's Nekromantik ten years early.


And make it even more disturbing.

Heath Ledger's audition for the new James Bond didn't go quite according to plan.

Remarkably it becomes an even scarier proposition as soon as you realise that every single male cast member is meant to fancy the - scaffolded to fuck - arse off West, this knowledge added to the sight of Bond to be Timothy Dalton exclaiming that upon arrival at the hotel (Marlo) won't be wearing many clothes over the next few days still gives me nightmares. 

This is the man that pulled Ornella Muti in Flash Gordon for Christ sake.

Begrudgingly (well it is nearly Christmas) I will admit that there are a few good bits (and a couple of dangling leathery bits in West's case) including Dalton crooning Love will Keep Us Together to West and a really freaky Jimmy Carter pedo-alike belting out You've got the cutest little baby face to a visibly nipple aroused Marlo, add to that the final revelation that Sir Michael is, in fact a spy ("Just like your James Bond!") and you can't help but let out a giggle.

Or at the very least a little bit of white wee wee.

Camper than Udo Kier in an immaculately clean SS uniform running barefoot thru' a forest of cock, the film does have one final surprise, an ending that rivals Carrie and Rosemary's Baby in the terror stakes.

Yep, I'm talking about the final shot of a scantily clad Ms. West writhing in bed next to a topless Timothy Dalton whilst moaning "Oooohhhhhhhhhhhhh, the British are COMING!"

What more can I say?

View at your peril.