Monday, August 28, 2017

slayer-rific.

With everyone getting all hyped for the series finale of Game of Thrones I thought I'd revisit the pinnacle of sword and sorcery film making plus I thought it was about time I introduced the kids to it.

Which probably means I'll get a call from social work tomorrow.

Oh well.

Hawk The Slayer (1980).
Dir: Terry Marcel.
Cast: John Terry, Jack Palance, Bernard Bresslaw, Morgan Sheppard, Annette Crosbie, Shane Bryant, Ray Charleson, Peter O'Farrell, Patricia Quinn and Catriona MacColl.


I am no messenger. But I will give you a message. The message of DEATH!



It is a time of darkness (around 3:30 in the afternoon by the look of the sky) when evil walks the land.

Witches wander the woods whilst common folk sit on tree stumps wearing tights and tidy beards and every bad man possesses a shiny helmet.

One such chrome hatted horror is the wicked Steve Voltan (Jack Palance in a performance so over the top he's almost in orbit) who, after a huge argument with his dad (probably over not paying his board or being out too late), kills the old fella before doing a runner.

It's like the Jeremy Kyle show but with more tooled leather.

Enter from stage left the luxurious locked nice son Hawk (John - not the footballer - Terry) who's just turned up to see if his dad needs any shopping done.

Cradling his dying father in his arms (but luckily not in his mooth) our hero listens intently (tho' from Terry's acting he could have constipation) as the old man mutters on about the kids of today having no respect and the price of bread before finally bestowing the mysterious 'Mind Sword' on his son.

A magical weapon with bizarre powers represented by a kids torch stuck to the hilt.

As dad breathes his last Hawk turns to camera and vows to avenge his death.

But not before he gets his hair blow dried and his eyebrows done obviously.




"Don't touch the hair."


Meanwhile Voltan's evil ways have eclipsed the entire kingdom; his followers appear to have stolen all the buildings and replaced them with paintings, night time has been outlawed and replaced with a nicotine filter and the whole country has been reduced to the wooded bit next to the play park behind the directors house, just ever so slightly redressed between scenes in an attempt to confuse the locals.

Luckily there's at least one real building left in the land, a convent run by Victor Meldrew's missis and a last shining beacon of hope in an otherwise dark world.

And currently limping bravely towards this beacon  is the bearded and bashed Ranulf (genre stalwart Sheppard), sole survivor of one of Voltan's massacres.

Arriving at the front door he's quickly ushered into the dining hall and inbetween mouthfuls of egg and cress sandwiches and crisps helpfully informs the nuns  - and by default the viewers - of just how evil Voltan is.

It appears that the evil one attacked Ranulf's village without reason or warning, hacking the women and children to pieces and digging up the adventure playground before twisting the swings around so high that no-one could use them and sitting on the slide.

I shudder as to what he did to the men folk tho' as their fate is never mentioned.

Maybe he sent them to work in his secret licorice mines?



Hel-met.


Luckily for Ranulf he's a bloody good runner  - who seems not too bothered to lose his family, perhaps they weren't speaking?-  and managed to escape before things got too bloody.

Tho' he does appear to have left most of his hand behind and what's left of it is beyond saving,  so the nuns wrap a scarf around it and send him to bed.

On the other - only?- hand his beard and crooked teeth are perfectly fine so it's not all bad.

It's not all saucy young nuns and snacks tho' as before long Voltan appears at the convent intent on bad deeds, first he roughly takes Annette Crosbie to his lair (dirty boy), before demanding 'all the gold!' as a ransom.
 
Understandably pissed off at all these naughty shenanigans Ranulf, blaming Voltan for cutting short his promising career as a professional knitter decides to challenge him to a duel but unfortunately falls for the villains taunts of "I can fight you with one arm behind my back" (probably) which results in our bearded pal getting a damn good kicking.



"You should really see a doctor about that son."


Left battered, bruised and surrounded by crying nuns, Ranulf quickly rides off - he's getting good at this legging it lark - to the Abbey for a meeting with the High Abbot (unfortunately not Russ), who after much chin stroking sends Ranulf off to search for one who can help defeat Voltan.

A man named Hawk.....The Slayer.

Obviously everyone else was busy.


Ranulf quickly leaves to begin his quest to find Hawk but is almost immediately  accosted by some gypsies and after refusing to buy some pegs is locked up in a cage.

Come on, how unlucky is this guy?

Help is at hand tho' when Hawk just happens to come riding past - with his sexy blind sorceress companion (the raunchy redhead that fuelled so many teen fantasies thanks to Rocky Horror, Patricia Quinn) that he rescued from being burnt as a witch a few scenes earlier - and kills the dirty criminals using his 'Mind Sword'.

Which it turns out is exactly like a normal sword apart from the fact that it can float into its owners hand as if carried - just out of shot - by a member of the crew.



Spock: The Pikey years.


After listening to Ranulf's tale of woe, Hawk decides to help rescue Ms. Crosbie  and begins to round up his posse from 'the mystic hood' as they probably said in the olden days to kick Voltan's arse.

Contrary to what you might be thinking this isn't as heroic and selfless as it sounds seeing as he was on his way to kill Voltan anyway, it just means that now he'll be getting some readies for doing it so it's not long (well the film has a fairly short running time) before our hero has got his merry band (The Slayerettes?)  together.



"'Ere Sid! This is a real carry on!"

This (slightly) super six consists of Hawk himself, Ranulf, the aforementioned sexy sorceress, a seriously short mallet wielding 'giant' named Gort (Carry On star Bresslaw), an elf dressed in a knitted tracksuit Cameron Crow (Charleson, famous for playing the Bishop in London's first multi-racial production of Jean Genet's 'The Balcony' fact fans) and Alec Baldin (professional short-arse O'Farrell) an overly tall dwarf with a bullwhip, pointy shoes and a fish fetish.

Voltan must be shitting himself.



"Trout in mah mooth!"


Heading back to the convent, our heroes soon get to work protecting the nuns, eating sandwiches and trying to work out how to get enough gold to lure Voltan into a trap.

You see, they've figure out that it'd be impossible to literally get 'all the gold' seeing as no-one is quite sure where it's all kept but reckon that some - mixed inn with some chocolate coins and old Ferrero Rocher packets would probably be better than none.

I mean Voltan only has one good eye so it's not like he'll be looking too closely.


After much deliberation and deciding that whoring out the nuns for pennies would be a bad idea, our heroes decide the easiest way to get the gold is to head out into the woods and relieve Tony Trafficker, the local news agent cum slave trader of his stash.

Oh yeah and free his slaves too obviously.

Surprisingly this all goes without a hitch and our merry band are soon back at the convent celebrating with crisps and lashings of ginger beer.

There's always one miserable git who manages to sour any celebration tho' and in this case it's Hawk himself.

Seems he's beginning to have second thoughts about trusting Voltan to keep his side of the bargain.

Seeing as he's already killed their dad and - in a soft focus flashback sequence - Hawk's wife Eliane (the legend that is Catriona MacColl) you can kinds see where he's coming from.


Pissed up on Buckfast and spoiling for a fight our heroes grab their weapons and head out to Voltan's castle in order to rescue Annette (and no doubt keep the gold for themselves) and hopefully persuade Voltan to change his ways and therefore avoid any unnecessary bloodshed.

Or any prohibitively expensive action sequences obviously.

It'll come as no surprise when I say that this plan fails abysmally and the dirty half dozen end up retreating back to the abbey with bruised ego's and slightly ruddy arses.

From having them kicked that is.

Minds like sewers you lot.

It's not all bad tho' as during the botched rescue, Hawk did manage to run his nephew Drogo thru' with a sword.

Which is nice.



"Buns you say?!?"


Obviously this doesn't go down too well with  Voltan, who on hearing the news of the death of his son goes completely mental and after throwing a dinner service at his trusty servant decides to attack the abbey, kill everybody in it and just take 'all the gold' for himself.

Which if you think about it is much more in keeping with his evil image.

With the help of a well-meaning (yet ultimately misguided) nun he breaks into the abbey whilst everyone is sleeping/hungover and captures our motley crew, tying them up in the basement ready for a wee bit of torture porn.

And he's going to start by introducing his brother Hawk to a red hot poker.

All looks lost but can the sorceress use her magical powers plus her seemingly unending supply of glowing ping-pong balls and silly string to rescue our heroes from evil?


Five go mad on meth.

Before I go any further can I just say I fucking love this movie and nothing - or no-one - will ever change my mind.

It's sad but true that Terry (co-writer and producer of Norman J. Warren's Prey- see? this blog's not just chucked together randomly) Marcel's vastly underrated British entry into the early 80's sword and sorcery genre is often ridiculed for it's poor effects, lack of budget, pseudo-disco score and the varying quality of the performances but if you can look past that lot you'll find a gem as bright as the one in the 'Mind Sword' just under the surface.

Well maybe not that bright otherwise you'd probably go blind but you get the point.

OK I'll admit that the cast are, on the whole as stilted and wooden as the trees surrounding them, but this almost high arch delivery evokes a less sophisticated age.

Take John Terry's performance as Hawk, who's to say that medieval noblemen didn't speak in broad Yankee accents and I've never read anything in history books to say that they had to move their upper bodies whilst talking.

Who knows, it might be that seeing as the 80's was the height of the toy tie-in, Terry might just be the greatest actor of them all, choosing to play Hawk as a living, breathing full size Palitoy action figure.

Now how's that for post modernism?

Luckily the late, great Jack Palance appears to be compensating for everyone else's lack of energy, spitting and snarling every single syllable like some huge brutish bull terrier with it's balls being slowly squeezed by a fresh smelling Emma Thompson whilst Air's Sexy Boy plays in the background and all the time whilst wearing a swing bin on his head.

C'mon, what's not to love?



"Touch my ring!"


Of the other cast members Ray Charleson's portrayal of Crow the Elf, whilst seemingly spookily mysterious to me as a child now just comes across like a whispering pikey peadophile bedecked in his mums best PJ's, which I admit says more about me than him whilst Bernard Bresslaw is basically having a dry run for the same character in Krull a few years later.

Only in that they could afford to give him some built-up shoes and a mask.

Tho' in all honesty it doesn't make it any less a bind to sit thru', at least with Hawk the cast look like they're at least enjoying themselves, unlike Krull where half the budget seems to have gone on inserting poles up the casts arses.

Talking of arses, Patricia Quinn is as sexy/scary (tick as applicable) as she was in The Rocky Horror Picture Show and The Hammer House of Horror episode Witching Time (the first full frontal nudity I ever saw) even tho' she's forced to wear a headband with an eye chalked on it and an old sleeping bag but let's be honest here, can you imagine any other actress managing to pull that off and still look sultry?

Thought not.

Patricia Quinn: You would (and your dad probably did. Twice).


Of the rest of the cast, the fantastic Morgan Sheppard is all hangdog looks, world weary sighs and muscular thighs (well maybe not the last bit) whilst O'Farrell gives it his all, which seeing as he's stuck wearing a pair of child's black ballet tights, winkle-pickers and a hoodie with a plastic mackerel in the pocket is pretty damn good if I'm honest.

Talking of plastic joke shop toys, any film that makes no apologies for using silly string, glowing ping-pong balls, pound shop spiders and hula hoops stolen from the set of Superman II as a serious replacement for a lack of effects budget deserves all the praise you can muster.

I mean you have to at least admire the crews balls for even thinking about attempting a movie of this scale on a budget that wouldn't even begin to cover the cost of Lena Headey's tattoo camouflaging cream on Game of Thrones.

Headey: No reason.


And what of the high energy synth score by ex Six-Five Special and Oh Boy musical director Harry Robertson I hear you ask?

Well it's nothing short of genius, giving Claudio Simonetti a run for his money and perfectly evocative of a spooky age of sorcery, swords and magic.

Albiet one where holiday resort discos are all the rage obviously.

Just give it a listen now and see if you're not transported back to a time of mucky maidens and medieval mayhem.

Or at the very least overtaken by the urge to give your evil sibling a damn good hiding.

Had there been any justice in the world someone would have penned lyrics to this and given us another Eurovision hit thereby ushering in an age of Hawk-based fashions and films.

Instead we got Prima Donna: Love Enough For Two and the cementing of Thatcherism.

Bastards.


But then again, I may be just a sad, sad fan boy who needs to get out more.

energizer honey.

Christina Lindberg, star of the cult exploitation sleazefest 'Thriller' (AKA They Call Her One Eye) advertising batteries.

Just because.



Saturday, August 26, 2017

prey away.

The laydees are away today so it's boys fun all the way for me and the Cass-man and he gets to choose the movie.

Prey (AKA Alien Prey. 1977)
Dir: Norman J. Warren
Cast: Barry Stokes, Sally Faulkner and Gloria Annen.


"Do you take sugar?
I should think so, most men do!"




The day after a weird green light is seen in the English sky, luscious lesbians Jessica (cutesy Annen, best known for her spot on performance as 'Midvale Protestor' in Supergirl) and the bullish, lantern jawed Josephine (knicker flashing, boy haired, Cyberman stomping sixties strumpet Faulkner) are shocked to find not only three dead bunnies in the local woods but also a strange, polo necked young man with a gammy leg and a nice line in Burton's 'action slacks' hiding in the apple tree.

Being friendly, non men hating lesbians the pair decide to take him home.

Wahey.



Some quality knitwear yesterday.


Oblivious to his fairly odd behavior, his even odder name (Anders Anderson, short we find out later for Kator, go figure) and the fact that he appears to be the only Englishman in the world who doesn't drink tea, the ladies fawn over their new house guest as if he were a stray moggie they'd found in the rain.

Which, bizarrely enough is very close to the truth.

kind of.

The next morning whilst wandering around the scene of the mysterious rabbit massacre, Anders is accosted by two of the local constabulary who are busy investigating the crime.

It appears that one of the rabbits was seventies teevee star Hartley Hare's nephew and they desperately want to keep it out of the papers.

Panicking that he'll be uncovered as the phantom rabbit slasher, Anders morphs into his terrifying true form and kills the coppers dead.

Can I just take a moment to say that Anders' 'alien' make-up does, in fact border on pure genius.

Imagine if you will a kiddie forcibly face painted as Tigger by a tipsy Salvador Dali at a local funfair before having an Elvis wig plonked violently onto his tiny head and finally being made to wear a pair of pointy teeth cut from orange peel to complete the outfit.

Then imagine this very same child - high as a kite on E numbers - launching himself out of a garden bush at a policeman accompanied by a terrifyingly tune defying synth score.

I really don't have the words it's that bloody scary.



"Laugh now!"


Returning to the house for a light lunch (all that killing does take it out of a man/space-cat) Josephine suddenly announces that "Jessica and I are lovers," whilst Anders is tucking into a fondant surprise, causing him to vomit all over the cucumber sandwiches completely ruining the afternoon.

Far from being a scary lesbian hating bigot tho' it's due to the fact that he can only digest raw meat.

I guess that's alright then.

All this sick and sarnies seems to have a very strange effect on Jessica tho', who whilst licking her lips and stroking her neck admits to Josephine that "Anders is very attractive....for a man".

Crikey.

And if that wasn't enough, the constant talk of man lust has sparked our luscious ladies passions meaning only one thing, yup it's time for a wee bit of big pants, seventies's style lesbo loving.

All shot in brightly lit blackhead (and black bush) revealing close-up, our only relief (apart from the obvious) is when it cuts to Anders watching silently thru' a crack in the door.

Reminds me of boarding school.

Josephine's public hare on
show for everyone to see.


Returning to his room Anders has a quick conversation with the alarm clock before bed.

"Have made contact with human life forms, new identity established." he intones menacingly.

Well as menacingly as he can for a man clad in a nipple revealing sports shirt and arse hugging polyester slacks.

Waking the next morning to the dulcet tones of Josephine screaming, Anders and Jessica quickly head downstairs to find that a crafty fox has eaten all the chickens.

Obviously shocked by the senseless chicken choking, Anders heads off into the woods whilst Josephine buries her disturbingly large head in Jessica's fluffy pillow-like cleavage.

Gloria: pillows.


Slightly annoyed at the chicken massacre, Josephine decides to spend the entire day busily (and huffily) setting all manner of traps for the fox (including heat seeking missiles and bear-pits) but to no avail, luckily tho' Anders has kindly gone out and slaughtered the wee fella for her and returns home proudly carrying it's furry body aloft.

He'll be a Tory then.

Overcome with joy, Josephine decides to celebrate with a dead fox party.

As you do.

This involves (as if readers of the Arena need telling) Anders getting dragged up like a butch(er) Liza Minelli with the sole purpose the evening gazing seductively at Jessica whilst tapping away to a Foreigner tribute band on the stereogram.

Which we've all done at some point if we're honest.

And if that wasn't enough excitement for one night the evening culminates in a marvelously mind-bending game of hide and seek in which Josephine inexplicably arms herself with a flick knife and hides in a wardrobe.

But not before attempting to beat the keyhole at a staring competition.

"Blood on mah chest".


Scarily things get stranger still when the next afternoon (fuck, how long did she spend in the cupboard?) Josephine finds the half eaten remains of Mr. Fox under Anders pillow (sounds like a song title).

Slightly concerned by this turn of events she runs out of the house before coming across Jessica (you can tell she's a squirter) and begins to rant wildly about how Anders is a mentalist and no better than an animal himself.

Typical man then really.

Jessica, God bless her just stares at her lover with a look of mild apathy and the vague hope of a quick knicker fiddle in her eyes.

As do I most afternoons.

There's - unfortunately - no time for any sapphic fumblings tho' as the sexual tension is cut short by the sound of Anders screaming.

It appears he's fallen into a muddy pond whilst stalking a duck.

At this point I must warn readers of a nervous disposition that the scene that follows is frankly unparalleled in the history of mental movie moments, featuring as it does Jessica, Josephine and Anders erotically rolling about in mud - in slow motion - to the accompaniment of a truly terrifying tonal track of the kind not usually heard outside Wendy Carlos' gin fueled night terrors.

Probably.

Shite (quite literally) in her mooth.


The result of all this mentalist mayhem coupled with Jessica's hitherto hidden mud fetish and Anders' creepy conversation regarding needing a good duck has the effect of curing the by now jolly Jessica of her lesbian tendencies leaving her free to attempt to seduce Anders.....

Will Anders succumb to Jessica's ample charms and (quite literally) lunch out on her womanly thighs?

And whatever will Josephine do when she finds out?

What the French call 'Prey' yesterday.



When a film's credits include the names Norman J. Warren, Terry Marcel (director of the Legendary 'Hawk The Slayer'), Handyman hunk Barry Stokes, Confessions cutie Sally Faulkner and writer Max Cuff you know you're going to get something that's a wee bit different from the norm.

Obviously followed by a shameful wank and a hot 'n' spicy Pot Noodle.

The isolated locations (the splendidly imposing country house, the directors garden and a big muddy puddle) and the sparsely populated cast work to make this movie an uncomfortable powder keg of lustful emotions, strange undercurrents, market stall knitwear and disapproving looks ready to explode at any moment.

And that's before you add a talking parrot, Gloria Annen's incredibly sexy stretched polkadot knickers, a cake with a tiny iced fox on it and Sally Faulkner's vertigo inducing portrayal of a trackie sporting mad dyke with a flick knife to the mix.

Put it all together and you know you're in the presence of greatness.

It's like a post watershed version of the 70's sitcom Butterflies as reimagined by David Lynch with make-up effects by a group of particularly disturbed - yet scarily talented - hook-handed children and scored by Karlheinz Stockhausen.

And you can't get higher praise than that.

Well you probably can if you visit a proper film site but not here.


Sally Faulkner and your dad yesterday.


Like most of Warren's output, the movie's tone veers wildly from the just plain sinister to fairly bizarre to bizzarely sinister via the ever popular 'What did I just see?", lulling us into a false sense of security by appearing to peak early with Anders alien reveal but sneakily managing to keep getting better and better.

And madder and madder.

It's then, just when you think the surprises can't get any more freakish that muddy lake scene appears from nowhere.

Why Warren has never been knighted (or at least given the bumps in a playground) is a crime against cinema.

The fact that one of our greatest genre directors goes so unheralded should be made a crime.

Fuck Shakespeare (tho' not literally seeing as he's been dead for nearly 400 years) it should be Warren's back catalogue on the school curriculum.

If you don't already own this then there's really no hope for you.

Sunday, August 20, 2017

danny boy.

Noticed an acquaintance of mine had posted the This Is Your Life episode featuring the star of this movie on his Facebook wall earlier today so reckoned I'd revisit this criminally unloved classic of crossdressing cinema in tribute.

Plus I've been dead busy working so haven't watched anything new for an age.

Except  José Ramón Larraz's erotic masterpiece Black Candles but more on that later.

Well as soon as I've bleached my eyeballs.

But I digress.

As readers with long memories (and short fingernails) may remember whilst my dear old Granddad introduced me to the joys of Saturday night B & W horror double bills as a child it was my Nan (she of Cannibal Ferox and not murdering wee boys fame) who opened (some would say poisoned) my young mind to the joys of Dick Emery, Norman Wisdom, Lord Bruce of Forsyth and the fantastic Danny La Rue.

You see, in her younger days she worked at the local theatre cum 'entertainment' club and would often chat away to these Gods of British comedy whilst selling fags in a strange hat.

Which as a small child made summer trips to Blackpool interesting as you'd never guess who'd accost her in the street next.

One day it'd be Tarbie the next 'Mad' Max Bygraves.

Tho' I feel I must confess that none of them ever gave me sweets or commented on my kissy lips.

Bastards.

And you wonder why I grew up the way I did?

Our Miss Fred (AKA Beyond The Call of Duty, Operation: Fred. 1972).
Dir: Bob Kellett.
Cast: Danny La Rue, Alfred Marks, Lance Percival, Lally Bowers, Frances de la Tour, Walter Gotell, Jenny Twigge, Frank Thornton, Cyril Shaps and Barrie Gosney.

"You're all woman and something more!"
"You're right!"


Pretty of mouth and slender of hip Thespian Fred Wimbush (the worlds greatest female impersonator and my real Dad La Rue) is busy preparing what will undoubtedly be the greatest ever performance of Hamlet but, as is always the case in these situations, those pesky Germans decide to start the Second World War forcing our hero to do the right thing and join the army as a manly (albeit grease covered) mechanic type.

Your Granddad did. Twice.


Although Fred enjoys his oil covered antics, banging his tool and cracking his nuts all day, he misses the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd so decides to join one of the army's stage troupes.

Unfortunately the only place left is that of a female impersonator.

What are the chances?

Swallowing his pride (and tucking his ample tackle between his smooth thighs) Fred throws himself wholeheartedly into the role and soon finds himself shipped off to France to 'entertain' the troops.

Everything is going swimmingly until one night, halfway thru' Fred's rousing melody of Cher hits a squad of Jew hating, minority exterminating (yet incredibly well dressed) Nazis burst in and take every single one of the soldiers prisoner.

Everyone that is except Fred.

You see, his drag act is so convincing that the Germans have mistaken him for a real woman!

Seizing his chance, Fred totters out of the theatre in an attempt to evade capture - and possibly a severe arse shagging - by the nasty Nazi's and get back to dear old Blighty before his true gender is discovered and he's shot as a spy.

And then arse shagged.

"The gas bill's HOW much?"


Dodging totally non-racially stereotyped horny, garlic eating Frenchmen and randy, sausage guzzling German soldiers along the way, Fred finally joins forces with two upper crust English schoolteachers, Miss Flodden (Harry Worth sidekick Bowers) and Miss Lockhart (Rising Damps Ms. Jones, the horse faced yet vaguely erotic de la Tour) plus their group of sex starved schoolgirls (none of whom are under 25) stuck in Paris after a trip to the Louvre.

Or something.


Comme quoi se sent-il pour

être merde dans la bouche?"


This causes even more problems for poor Fred, you see even tho' he's camp as pants with scary blue rinsed man-gran hair he's actually the most heterosexual man on the planet and can barely control his almost Trump-like urges to jump on the schoolies, rip off their flimsy white cotton shirts and cup their smooth, budding breasts before knobbing them senseless.

Especially as the script has then continuously bending over and exposing their huge blue pants and formidable 1970's arses.

Which I'll admit had me fairly aroused but Danny La Rue?

Sometimes you just find it impossible to suspend your disbelief.

Somewhere to leave your Grifter.


Suddenly the movie veers from trannie-based action movie to tragically camp holiday sightseeing film as endless scenes of Fred and co. traveling thru war torn France on a lorry singing the classic schoolyard (well, it was if you attended Hogwarts like me) ditty Hitler Has Only Got One Ball play out ad infinitum before the pace suddenly picks up with the introduction of Fred's nemesis, the evil, Gerbil cheeked General Brincker (Brit Teevee stalwart Marks) who (not too surprisingly) falls for Fred's ample charms (and curvy buttocks) and invites our hero to join him for a romantic dinner in a scene so great that it was copied (sorry, homaged) in the criminally underrated 2001 Stefan Ruzowitzky movie All The Queen's Men.

Only this time the pairing was of a tarted up Matt LeBlanc (who actually looked hot as fuck) and the world's sexiest man, Dame Udo of Kier, dressed to the nines in a gorgeous white SS uniform.

My pants have never recovered.

But I digress.

"Believe us, you wouldn't survive the titwank!"


Discovering that the have a transvestite and a group of young girls trapped behind enemy lines (and needing a way to steer the movie to a climax that doesn't involve Fred being forced to fellate a Luger whilst a trouser-less and scarily aroused General Brincker orders his troops to violently deflower the defenceless schoolgirls), the British Army have no choice but to send their best man in to rescue them.

Enter (roughly from behind obviously) the Rat-faced upper crust air force officer Colonel Smallpiece (Percival) who, knowing Fred's true identity (if not his sexuality) rushes over to France to save his friend and hopefully score some underage tail for himself in the process.

But will he get to Fred before General Brincker discovers the truth?

What your Gran did during the War.



Written specifically as a vehicle to launch top Teevee 'comic in a frock' Danny La Rue onto the big screen (his only other movie role was in the Freddie and The Dreamers fiasco Every Day's A Holiday), Our Miss Fred is a gentle enough comedy that's as harmless as it is inconsequential.

At the time criticized due to the problem of tailoring an entire script around a man whose talent was the very theatre friendly art of female impersonation, La Rue does a good enough job of holding his own whilst the dependable TeeVee friendly cast fire a volley of sub Talbot Rothwell Carry On gags at all and sundry.

Plus good old Danny has a stunning set of pins that even the straightest of men would be hard pushed not to want to ski down.

And you can't say fairer that that.

Comedy Gold from a comely comedy God.

Bluray when please? 

Friday, August 18, 2017

the king is dead.

RiP Sir Bruce Forsyth.














Wednesday, August 16, 2017

dave dates.


As a wee change from piss soaked right wing arseholes around of late (literally if the last few movies I've watched are any example) here's a quick guide to the do's and dont's of dating David Hasslehoff.

Don't say I'm not good to you.


Saturday, August 12, 2017

bareback mountain.

If ever a film deserved (nay demanded) a rewatch in Trump's America it's this one.

Or so the reader who sent it me wrote in the note that accompanied the DVD.

I assumed it was going to be a modern reworking of that 1977 William Sanderson, Robert Judd classic Fight For Your Life.

Or maybe even a Charles Bronsan style revenge thriller.

That'll teach me.



N*ggas' Revenge (2001).
Dir: Dick Wadd.
Cast: Chane Adams, Bobby Blake, Chris Blake, Flex-Deon Blake, Dallas Chalmers Bud Cockerham and Eric Top Stud.

"We're gonna have a barbecue tonight...and the main course is fresh Nazi ass!"



The small, everyday American town of Felchington is idyllic in every way; from it's picket fences, fat folk in high waist plaid trousers to it's neatly kept lawns.

But scratch the surface of any seemingly perfect place and something vile and slimy (and slightly rancid smelling) is bound to appear.

In this case it's a band of buffed up, bastard neo-Nazi bad boys going by the terrifying monikers of Bud, Dallas and Chane who seem to spend their entire waking life shouting slightly sexually charged yet incredibly racist abuse at their brick shithouse of a neighbour, Mr. Robert Blake (not that one).

"Excuse me! Do you require any scissors sharpening?"


Hurling remarks that would make the writers of Love Thy Neighbour proud it's only a matter of time before Bobby (as he likes to be called), tired of the police doing nothing takes matters into his own hand.

Alongside his massive cock.

Ringing his 'partner', Flex (who works as a baker fact fans) and his brother (not too sure if it's his real brother or a 'brother' brother, showing a slight lack of important character development methinks) Chris, Bobby only needs to say three little words to get the (mini) posse running.

And those words?

"White boy trouble!"

Can you dig it?

Indeed I can sir.


Bunnet.


And so the fight begins as three skinny arsed white supremacists face off against three hulking, body building black blokes.

Now who do you think will win?

The clue is in the title by the way.

As the good ol' racist boys fight valiantly to protect their right to be arseholes, the gangs leader, Dallas interjects with some choice insults between his punches referring to Bobby as 'Uncle Tom', which I assume is a continuity mistake by the way, seeing as his name is Bobby and he's not an uncle.

Shame on you for such a glaring mistake Mr. Wadd.

Who's ready for a wee mooth shite-in?


You know what they say about sticks and stones tho' and before too long Dallas is knocked to the ground, a bloodied, muddy mess.

But Bobby/Tom/whatever has a special surprise for our racist chum.

Pulling down his leather trousers whilst pulling out his frankly terrifyingly large penis, the Bobster drenches Dallas in the golden warmth of his urine.

In the mooth.

Shaking every last drop from his mammoth member, Bobby leans toward Dallas and, with a big cheesy grin on his face announces that "There's gonna be a barbecue at Twelve Oaks tonight...and the main course is Nazi ass drenched in nigga piss!"

It was at this point I began to suspect that this wasn't actually an action movie ala Death Wish and that I was, in fact watching what could be referred to as 'the porn'.

Tho' not being 100% sure I bravely soldiered on.

Bobby by now high on the smell of man sweat and piss fumes decides to clean up the urine soaked racist and dunks poor Dallas in a nearby septic tank before bending him (a wee bit like Beckham probably) over a barrel and beating his bare arse with a handy piece of 2x4 that just happened to be lying about in the back yard.

His fun is cut short tho' when the wood breaks, leaving Bobby weapon-less and Dallas with what looks like a bright red baboon bum covered in splinters.

But if he thinks this is as sore as his bottom is gonna get then he's in for a big surprise.

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


Bored with merely standing back and watching (albeit whilst sitting on Dallas' wriggly pals), Flex and Chris decide it's time to have some fun of their own and drag the three badboys off to bobby's basement games room cum sex dungeon...

And how do you think poor Dallas will explain this to his gran?


Now there's a mooth made for shite-in in.



From director Rchard 'Dick' Wadd, the worlds finest purveyor of the oft ignored genre of bareback arse assault comes what will probably go down in cinema history (but not down on your mum) as the greatest - and most successful - attempt to portray the grim reality of racially motivated intolerance ever committed to celluloid.

Utilizing the harsh black and white colour palette of both the sets and performers bodies to subtly represent the violent transfer of power between the attackers and the attacked, the film culminates with what is quite possibly the most powerful statement on racism ever seen; the image of the persecuted African American transforming the oppressive white man into his slave.

Then violently bumming him for 40 minutes inbetween forcing him to drink warm urine from a dog bowl.

No wonder your Dad has this hidden in his bedside cabinet.

"Here come the Belgians!"

As with all great works of art tho' Niggas' Revenge has it's critics.

Unbelievable as it seems there are some (very stupid) individuals tho' that disagree with the accepted interpretation of the movie, seeing it as nothing more than an excuse for 113 minutes (!) of forced interracial buggery and fisting intercut with the occasional golden shower scene and angry men shouting "Nigga!" a lot.

As if.

But even if arse informed politics isn't your thing it's a must see for any self respecting film fan in order to experience the final on-screen performance by the legendary Bobby Blake - star of High Rollin': A Black Thang,  White Nuts & Black Bolts, Pumping Black: Hold on Tight amongst many others, go on ask your dad for more info - who, in his autobiography (that bears the fantastically original title of "My Life in Porn: The Bobby Blake Story", musta taken weeks to come up with that) admits that due to the animalistic intensity of his buggery and pissing scenes that many performers refused to do movies with him, which aided his decision to retire.

Frankly I was terrified enough by the size of his cock.

I mean it was so big it hand an adult knee in the middle.

And a spine.

A spine of a giant.

Still need convincing?

Well it does feature the largest amount of urine ever unleashed in the man of interracial pornography.

Which in itself is frankly spectacular and worth the admission price (and shame filled evenings) alone.

Recommended.