one dark knight...

With all the buzz surrounding the Todd Phillips directed, Joaquin Phoenix starring Joker movie culminating in the first stills of Phoenix as the Clown Prince of Crime being released this week I remembered a very lucid bat-based dream I experienced a couple of years back after partaking in a few ales.

"Laugh Now!"

Luckily I awoke to find a pen and paper on the bedside cabinet and excitedly wrote it down.

Obviously I did this before I noticed the dead rent boy at the bottom of the bed but that's a different story.

Obviously it has to be based on The Dark Knight Returns due to the fact that in the passed 30-odd years it appears that no fucker as ever read anything else.

So anyway, here goes*.

"No, Joker. You’re playing the wrong game. The old game. Tonight you’re taking no hostages. Tonight I’m taking no prisoners!" John Cassavetes as an older, wiser Bruce Wayne.

'Batman: The Dark Knight Returns'

(loosely) based on the graphic novel by Frank Miller.


Dir. Nicolas Winding Refn.

Prod: Stanley Kubrick.

Adapted for the screen by Truman Capote and Anthony Burgess

Original music: Cliff Martinez and Wendy Carlos.


Cast:

Bruce Wayne/Batman: John Cassavetes

The Joker: Malcolm McDowell
 
Commissioner Gordon: Lee Marvin

Two Face: Udo Kier
 
Alfred Pennyworth: Vincent Price

Robin: Emma Stone

Superman: John Phillip Law 

Bruno: Ajita Wilson

Oliver Queen: Doug McClure

Selina Kyle: Helga Line

Dave Endochrine: Dustin Hoffman.

For added realism McDowell actually underwent a painful bleaching process to obtain The Joker's deathly pallor.

 

Despised by critics yet loved by cinema goers, the big screen adaptation of The Dark Knight Returns popularity among lefties annoyed it's creator, Frank Miller so much that vowed never to allow another one of his stories to be adapted in any medium. 

Eventually, after realizing that he needed cash for a new cowboy hat he relented and finally allowed all of his properties to be adapted by anyone with a dollar and/or right wing leanings.

The Bat mask interior as envisaged by  Jean Giraud

 

The behind the scenes story is as exciting as anything on screen tho', with triple Oscar winner Nicolas Winding Refn taking over the project after Dario Argento, Alejandro Jodorwosky, Shane Black, John Boorman, and Takashi Miike failed to stay attached to the film. 

During the Jodorwosky production, Mick Jagger was slated to play the Joker, tho' Jagger reportedly actually appeared on set, his scenes shot at various locations around the world due to The Rolling Stones being in the middle of a world tour.

These scenes were to be inserted into the final film at a later date using technology created by producer Stanley Kubrick. 

It was this period that saw pre-production costs spiraling 12 years and 250 million dollars over-budget, almost bankrupting Warner Brothers and causing Jodorwosky to secretly escape from America seeking refuge in Mexico where he hoped to film the entire movie and where construction of the full sized Gotham City sets had begun in earnest. 

The Jean Giraud inspired Batmobile. 47 different versions were built for the film.

Trivia:

Some of the concept art by French cartoonist Jean (Moebius) Giraud were eventually used in Terry Zwigoff's stage adaptation of Marvel's Alpha Flight (2019).

Scarily Klaus Kinski was cast as the Joker for Argento's version and 70% percent of his scenes were in the can before he became increasingly deluded that he was being stalked by Mick Jagger in revenge for 'stealing' his role. 

Three weeks before the end of shooting Kinski disappeared on the same day that Jagger went missing from a Florida hotel room.

After a countrywide search it was discovered that after numerous phone altercations with the Jagger, Kinski had kidnapped the singer in an attempt to replace him on stage and during a gig in Washington blow himself and the rest of The Stones to pieces in revenge for what he said were Great Britain's crimes against popular culture.

No charges were filed.



























*If anyone from Warner's is reading this I'm available.

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, 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, 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.

brothers in arms.

Just woke up (well not literally, I mean I've been awake for hours what I just typed was a figure of speech to set the scene but hopefully you knew that) to the news that top children's entertainer and scourge of the left wing Barry Chuckle has died.

This reminded me that over a decade ago (yes I've been blogging in undeniable obscurity for that long - tragic I know) I wrote a rather nice piece about the brothers celebrating twenty years as Britain's premiere comedy duo.

Many folk (well two) found it vaguely amusing so I thought I'd re-post it now (with some added stuff so you don't feel cheated) as a tribute.

Enjoy.

Twin brothers Barry (born 24 December 1843) and Paul Von Chuckle (born 18 October 1870) were abandoned by their parents in the forests of Lithuania when it was discovered that they suffered from a rare form of Lycanthropy that caused them to be born with a full head of thick, spiky brown hair, mustaches and mullets.

The earliest existing photo of Paul and
Barry Von Chuckle, aged 3.

Saved from certain death and raised by a passing band of cannibalistic circus gypsies, the brothers were versed in the dark and ancient rites of 'knockabout comedy', entertaining the crown heads of Europe until a fateful night in 1907 when they found themselves shipwrecked off the coast of Scotland after a particularly violent storm.

Left penniless and homeless (but not mustache-less) the brothers survived the only way they knew how, desecrating graves and feasting on the flesh of corpses, absorbing the very essence of the recently deceased bodies before pawning their rings.

A rare (colourised) photo of the brothers parents, Lord Hailstrom and Lady Vindictiva Von Chuckle, Duisberg 1867.

It was during one such graveyard excursion that they discovered tickets to the ITV talent show New Faces in the jacket pocket of a murdered country singer - Wailin' Wayne Wilton and after consuming the singers face the brothers stole the tickets and decided to audition.

It came as a surprise to audiences and contestants alike when the duo won the series in 1974 after the bookies favourite, Wee Charlie Hadcock (an Edinburgh-based ventriloquist suffering from leprosy whose catchphrase "moldy bread!" had taken the nation by storm at the time) was found dead in his dressing room with his throat ripped out.

The last known photo of
Wee Charlie Hadcock.

The boys should have been catapulted to stardom had it not been for a terrifying incident during the final curtain call where the full moon like shape of the arc lights coupled with the over excited pheromones of fellow contestant Marti Caine caused the brothers to revert to their true form...that of giant humanoid dog-like creatures (with mullets) and attack the audience.

This incident went on to be known as the great Teddington terror and for many years became a favourite staple of the Dennis Norden gaffs 'n' gashes compilation show It'll Be Alright On The Night as well as inspiring the little seen 1978 Hindi horror classic Darwaza.

Grade: pseudo-sexual
science.

Luckily too much bloodshed was avoided when one of Caine's fellow judges, Lord Lew Grade managed to calm the brothers by singing an old Lithuanian lullaby in his native tongue before subduing them with his silver topped walking stick and whisking them away to a top secret research facility hidden beneath Pinewood studios.

What happened to Paul and Barry in the intervening ten years is difficult to know, rumour has it that Grade spent millions trying to harness their sheer animalistic entertainment talent (and luxurious hair length) to create a new race of Teevee personality (ex Magpie frontman Mick Robertson was discovered to be part of this breeding programme), this would explain the sightings of large wolf-like beasts reported around the studio's in the mid seventies and the excessive amounts of missing persons the police have on file for the Pinewood area at the time.

Mick Robertson, Algarve 1978.

The brothers would have become a footnote in history had it not been for the efforts of world renowned animal expert and geneticist Rod Hull, who in late 1984, launched a daring raid on the studio to free Paul and Barry and offer them a lucrative BBC contract.

The mission (codenamed: Entertainment Express) did not go smoothly however, a spy in the ranks meant that Grades crack ITC elite were waiting for them, mortally wounding funnyman Peter Glaze. and had it not been for the sacrifice of Bernie Clifton's ostrich Oswald there would have been many more casualties.

Clifton and Oswald shortly before

the raid that would claim his life.

The story tho' had a happy ending (and a new beginning) for the Chuckle Brothers, thanks to the help and guidance of Hull and Barbara Woodhouse, Paul and Barry launched themselves onto our Teevee screens in 1985 with the spectacular Chucklehounds, a series of short shows (usualy featuring the brothers attempting to move pianos for pensioners) with no dialogue aimed at a pre-school  (and post pub) audience.

"To me to yooooooooooo!" The Chucklehounds attempt to move a piano.

The viewing public, caught up in the excitement of the show failed to realise that the brothers were not, in fact wearing costumes but still trapped in their Vulpine form and tho' ratings were high the duo were kept away from public appearances for fear that they may eat the children.

Pyke: Five fingers, never touched the sides.

In 1986 however a breakthru' occurred when famous Doctor of Scientific things, Magnus Pyke discovered that an enzyme secreted from the brother's forebrain - usually found at the ballooning end of the neural tube and located most rostrally (toward the nose) was the cause of their affliction.

In an average human the caudal end of this ballooning portion is the rhombencephalon (4th ventricle), the middle part of the balloon is the mesencephelon, and the anterior part of the balloon is the proencephelon/forebrain but in the brothers case it was discovered that the  proencephalon was divided by the ballooning inwards - rather than out.

Further studies showed that the telencephalic vesicles could be used to ferment a change in their physiognomy, returning them to their 'human' form permanently.


But you all probably knew that.


The procedure was a success and the brothers, with the the last vestige of their wolf form, razor sharp incisors cunningly hidden behind bushy moustaches quickly moved on to their most famous show, Chuckle Vision in 1987 and, with catchphrases such as "To me....To you!", "Fancy a spin in me motor?" and "Ooooh....he's a suave bugger!" the show was an overnight hit bringing in over 19 million viewers.

Suave buggers indeed!

There was nothing to stop the brothers now, wining the BAFTA for best children's series and launching the quiz 'To Me, To You', the basic format of which was deceptively cunning; involving as it did two teams, competing each round for prizes on a morticians trolley (albeit with a fake corpse attached). By rolling a dice carved from human bone the teams had to get the trolley to their end of the board. The 'squares' leading up to their end of the board often represented dangerous challenges such as piranha pools, quick lime pits and gun emplacements manned by ex-Soviet special forces.

The rounds ended when this was achieved and new prizes were put on the trolley, which was reset to the centre with a cry of "Oh how fortitude doth forgive the foolish!" delivered by a cage of lank-haired homeless ex- bus conductors.

The show lasted for three series before being banned under the UN war crimes committee.

"But who will help me with this piano?" Tensions run high as the UN arrest the brothers.

The brothers were soon acquitted of any wrong doing blaming co-host Dave Lee Travis for the numerous violations of human rights on show, even going as far as to give evidence against the so-called 'Human Cornflake at The Hague despite death threats from a sinister cabal of showbiz luminaries led by Jimmy's Savile and Krankie.

It was during the final day of the trial when the brothers escaped death for a third time (after the Scottish shipwreck and an ill-advised summer season in Weston Super Mare obviously) when comedy superstar Billy Pearce - brainwashed by Travis and high on Tizer - attempted to attack the courtroom with stinkbombs given away free with that weeks Whizzer And Chips comic.

Luckily Three of A Kind star and ex-SAS sergeant David Copperfield was present, managing to wrestle the bombs before they could be used, diffusing the smell by lying on top of them therefore allowing his brand new Arran sweater to soak up the stench whilst armed guards cleared the area.

Pearce: Hypnotized.

 Thanks to a massive multi-agency operation the evil cabal was eventually broken up allowing the brothers to return to their second love (their first being grave robbing) appearing on stage almost constantly throughout the rest of year as they toured with their semi-autobiographical show "'Boiled Onions and Bangers" across the UK.

And it was the success of the show that led to the brothers to concentrate more on stage than TV as over the next 18 months they premiered over a thousand new shows including  The Erotic Adventures of the Chuckle Brothers, The Chuckle Brothers in - Trouble at Sea, Raiders of the Lost Bark, Barry Potty and his Smarter Brother Paul in the Chamber of Horrors, The Chuckle Brothers meet Pol Pot, Star Doors, Pirates of the River Rother, Doctor What and The Return Of The Garlics, Spooky Goings On, Spooky Goings On 2: Prayer of the Crack Ho's and their biggest success to date the fantastic plea for peace in the Middle East Chuckling All The Way To The West Bank.



But all this success couldn't save Barry from the nightmares and flashbacks caused by his experiences with the showbiz terrorist group that tried to kill him.

And it would be these fears that would almost cause the brothers career to come crashing down around them as when researching a new show about an overweight feminist set on a 70s council estate - the controversially titled "Lip Up Fatty" that Barry was drawn into the world of fringe British politics, posting threads on Facebook regarding the banning of Foreign-made Spoons and bringing back the death penalty for the use of canned laughter during the recording of sitcoms.

Paul desperate to save not only his brothers sanity but a lucrative marketing deal that had just been signed with chemical giants Glaxo hatched a plan to kidnap his brother andtake him back to the wilds of Scotland to recover.

And this he did, leaving British TV and theatre bereft of any mustache-based monkey business for almost a decade.

But as suddenly as they'd vanished they returned with the news that after a massive bidding war (and at the cost of over 20,000 lives, mainly in marketing so no loss really) that The pair had signed a massive multi-million pound contract with well-respected arts broadcasters Channel Five to produce an in no way derivative (yet still hilarious) clip show cleverly titled Chuckle Time (with The Chuckle Brothers.

Harry Hill was unavailable for comment.

As was Lisa Riley.

Tho' that might be because the restraining order is still in force.

Riley: Twice.

But let's forget all the Dodgy politics and even dodgier fashion choices and just remember The brothers as they would have wanted.

As comedies (elder) gods.

And with this quote from their management when The Huffington Post asked for a statement on the rise of the right in the UK:

Barry Chuckle - (born 24 December 1843 - died 5 August 2018)

hand job.

Bizarrely enough a Twitter chat I was having the other night regarding the terrifying Night Of The Lepus (yes, I know) ended up as a wee bit of a Stuart Whitman love-in so in tribute to all the folk who listed the myriad of great films he made and in which he gave top notch performances I give you this.

It's just a quickie tho' cos frankly this movie isn't even worth pissing on.

Enjoy.

I must point out tho' that the film was so arse numbingly tedious that I ended up making things up for this review.

See if you can guess which bits.

Demonoid: Messenger of Death (AKA Macabra: La mano del diablo, 1981).
Dir: Alfredo Zacarías.
Cast: Samantha Eggar, Stuart Whitman, Roy Cameron Jenson, Lew Saunders, Narciso Busquets Erika Carlsson and José Chávez.

You either cut off my hand, or I'll kill you!

It's modern day - but still pre-wall - Mexico where portly porn 'tached mine owner Mark Baines (tubby teevee stalwart Jenson) is excitedly awaiting the arrival of his wife Jennifer (Eggar - desperate to pay of her rehab bill) so he can show her around the strawberry jam mine he's recently purchased.

He reckons that once it's running at full capacity it will not only solve the problem of world hunger but also net them a tidy profit.

Sorted.

Well they would be if the superstitious locals weren't too scared to work.

Or is it that they're just lazy?

Picking Jennifer up at the airport, Mark's right hand man Pepe (Romancing The Stone's Chávez) explains that according to local legend the mine is built on the remains of a Conserve cult temple and is the resting place of the ancient Jam Demon ievārījums famous for sacrificing virgins and making yummy sandwiches.

Possibly.

Not being ill-educated, superstitious common types the Baines laugh (now) at such tales deciding to explore the mines themselves to show the workers that there's nothing to fear.

Except giant ants obviously.

And the French.

Armed with jaunty torch hats and a bag of jars the couple head down into the mine to explore soon coming across the aforementioned temple as well as a small tin casket containing a severed hand.

Hmmm....could the locals concerns be justified?

Realizing that they may get a few quid for it at Cash Converters Mark pockets the casket and the pair head back to their hotel for an evening of food, wine and heavy (in Mark's case extremely heavy) petting.

"Spice Girls number one for Christmas.....MONSTA!"

As is the way when you organize a night of hot passion with a loved one Jennifer invariably comes down with a headache leaving Mark moping around on the sofa with his flaccid member in one hand and a cheap bottle of plonk in the other.

Unable to resist his urges yet filled with guilt at the thought of cracking one of whilst his wife sleeps next door Mark removes the severed hand from the casket and clumsily attempts to pleasure himself with it.

Without warning - and just before climax - the hand springs to life and attacks the couple before turning to dust as it tries to suffocate Mark leaving nothing but a dusty residue in his dribbly mouth.

And no doubt a sense of shame in all those involved.

Things go from bad to worse tho' as the next day Mark turns up at the mine and herds all the workers inside before blowing it up.

Which is nice if a wee bit unexpected.

Suddenly thanks to the magic of scratched to fuck stock footage we're in Las Vegas, where Mark has set himself up as a plaid-jacketed gambling god whilst Jennifer wanders the strip trying to find him.

Can I just point out that at no point will anyone mention the fact that he's murdered hundreds of poor mine workers.

It's almost like being Mexicans the American Government didn't really give two fucks about them.

C'mon how far-fetched is that?

His winning streak spotted by a local gambling shark and his whorish girlfriend Mark is bundled into the back of a car and driven to a remote cabin where the pair attempt to beat the secret of his gambling success from him.

"Shite in mah mooth!"

 Mark calmly - well as calmly as a sweaty fat man strapped to a table can - explains that his hand is possessed by the devil and that's how he wins so much but to no avail so to prove the fact he breaks free of his bonds and proceeds to kill the creepy couple before dousing himself in petrol and lighting a match.

Surely there are easier ways of ridding yourself of the stink of such a movie?

With his body being all burned and crispy the authorities mistake him for someone else and ship his body to Los Angeles for burial at the church run by the dippily drunken and questioning of faith Father Richie Cunningham (Whitman with a comedy 'Oirish' accent and a bad case of the DT's).

Arriving at the church Jennifer attempts to warn Cunningham that her husband's body (well his hand) was possessed by a demon and requests that he be exhumed and an autopsy be performed.

On him obviously not just on some passing stranger.

Because the best way to prove demonic possession is by getting someone to cut open your corpse.

Probably.

Look by this point the writer was obviously passed caring so why should I?

As the pair continue their heated discussion - well Eggar attempts to feed Whitman his lines as he stands swaying from side too side with a glazed look in his eyes - Mark’s severely charred and crispy corpse - in a fantastic display of chutzpah over cash - bursts from its grave and bounces down a nearby path.

Hearing the noise of breaking wood (and realizing it's not his legs) Cunnigham quickly calls the police and soon LA's finest Sergeant Leo Matson (Saunders, son of Jennifer best known for his stand out role as an orderly at Murdock's V.A. Hospital in The A Team) arrives to investigate.

Searching the grounds he soon comes across Mark's lifeless (no it really is this time) body hanging out of the police car, his left hand severed at the wrist.

"Put it in me!"

Bending down to examine the corpse (and check for loose change) Matson is surprised when the hand suddenly gooses him, causing the clumsy cop to jump up and bang his head on the car roof knocking himself unconscious.

We unfortunately are still awake.

Menacingly it crawls toward our prone police pal.

Bored with all this existentialist chat and in dire need of a dump Cunningham offers to pick Jennifer up at her hotel the next day to discuss things further, she reluctantly agrees and heads off for a good nights sleep and an angry call to her agent to see who she has to fuck to get out of this mess.

There's then a bizarre boxing match between a sweaty Whitman and the policeman that ends with Matson running away screaming from Cunningham's huge crucifix but it's kinda irrelevant to the plot so forget I mentioned it.

Like I wish I could the whole movie. 

Anyway imagine Jennifer's surprise the next morn when she opens the door to find not a sweet smelling Catholic priest but an angry Officer Matson shouting something about our heroine being a lousy car thief and how he has to take her (roughly) up the station.

Handcuffing Jennifer before bundling her into the back of his car the pair drive away just as Father Cunnigham waddles into view.

Instead of taking her into custody (or violently up the casino) Matson drives to the surgery of local plastic surgeon and part-time ice skater Dr. Julian Rivkin (Busquets famed for his portrayal of Don Indalecio in the hit show El padre Gallo) where he threatens to shoot the surgeon in the face if he doesn't remove his hand there and then.

Rivkin agrees to his demands and removes the hand which then grabs Matson's gun and shoots naughty nurse Morgan (Carlsson...look do you really care?) in the back as she tries to ring for help before jumping off a table and messily ripping the Sergeant’s face off.

On a roll now the horrible hand worms its way into Rivken's trousers and possesses him by forcing its way (two fingers at a time) up his ample arse.

"If you lie on it first it'll feel like someone else is doing it!"

Chillingly announcing that Jennifer is the true owner of the hands power Rivkin begins to chase her around the surgery brandishing a child's toy syringe, poking her with a needle at any opportunity only stopping when Cunningham and a cop turn up and punch him in the head.

Being demon possessed tho' Rivkin just laughs it off and escapes by car to the local railway station where he lays his arm on the track in order to severe the hand.

It really hasn't got the idea behind possessing and controlling people has it?

With all the exciting things that are happening it's no wonder that Jennifer is feeling a little tired so heads back to her motel room for a rest.

It'll come as no surprise to anyone that the hands follows her and sneaks in thru' the catflap wiggling it's rubbery fingers in her general direction.

Its fearful finger threats are cut short by the arrival of Father Cunningham and the pair flee to the church, which should give them plenty of time to formulate a plan seeing as they're in a car and the hand is following them by slowly crawling along the freeway but guess what? Yup it arrives almost simultaneously and cuts the power and phone lines.

How?

Does it use its fingernails?

And how does a severed hand have the leverage to do half the shit it's doing?

I was going to mention it earlier but thought I'd give them the benefit of the doubt but now I really can't be bothered.

Will good prevail or will the hand finally possess Jennifer and rule the world?

Will Whitman make it to the movie's climax without falling into an alcoholic daze?

Will the much promised gore and nudity ever surface?

Does anyone outside the director's immediate family care?

After being given this as a birthday present I'll admit that the only reason I watched this movie was on the basis of how cool the poster art was.

Scary hands, buff devils and shiny bikini wearing babes all done in an overly airbrushed 80's style.

What's not to love?

Plus we know that great cover art is always a sign of cinematic quality.

Disappointingly the version I was given was called Macabra which I then discovered features fuck all nudity or violence.

What it does feature tho' is some of the most laughable, threadbare and downright bizarre scenes ever to be committed to celluloid.

From it's shaky point and shoot and shockingly overlit cinematography to it's kindergarten quality special effects via  a visibly intoxicated lead desperate to stay upright  Demonoid: Messenger of Death is a perfect example of low budget, no talent film-making made flesh.

Everything on show is a brightly lit location, every actor a family friend and every effect seems to be pulled from a pound shop Christmas cracker.

Even the rubber hand looks embarrassed to be there.

Especially the scene where it's forced to sexily fondle Samantha Eggar's beefy knees.

Beefy.

Talking of knees - beefy or otherwise - Demonoid: Messenger of Death is at least slightly more enjoyable than the director's previous foray into horror the instantly forgettable John Saxon snoozefest The Bees so for that at least we can be grateful.

Tho' not as grateful as poor old Stuart Whitman was for the free holiday and extra drink money.

Just a pity none of it was thrown our way.

You'll fucking need it cos there's no way you'll be able to sit thru this sober.

love bites.

Three days into the school holidays and we've exhausted the Paul Naschy collection, bizarrely it wasn't the werewolf stuff the kids enjoyed but Count Dracula's Great Love so been desperately searching for any other vampire movies I own that may be kid friendly.

This one, it seems may not be.

Gayracula (1983).
Dir: Roger Earl.
Cast: Tim Kramer, Steve Collins, Rand Remington, Randal Butler, Michael Christopher, Ray Medina, Max Montoya, Doug Weston, Douglas Poston and Davin McNeil.

"You have done me a great service....

now I shall service you!"

Our dark tale of undead bloodlust begins with a group of robed and mysteriously seventies haired monks carrying a coffin thru' the California desert to a fairly inoffensive sub-Jerry Goldsmith Omen-esque score.

So far so so.

Entering a dark, dank cave our hooded pals force open the coffin to reveal a jug-eared young man in his granddad's tuxedo lying within.

As the lead monk Brian attempts to stake him thru' the heart our be-suited chum suddenly opens his eyes and sits upright before metamorphosing into a bat whilst filling the cave with what looks like eggy bad-dad gas.

As the monks shriek and scream in terror the bat - via a handy fishing wire and a big stick - flies to the cave entrance before reverting back to it's human form.

Naked apart from a cape, patent leather brogues and socks the monks can only cower in fear at the evil that is Gayracula.

Ladies and gentlemen....
live on stage....5ive!

Jump forward (backwards? sideways?) to the year is 1783  - well according to the dodgy Letraset font superimposed over a kids drawing of a Halloween castle it is - where the fantastically monikered Gaylord Young (The late Tim Kramer of California Jackoff fame), a courier for the legal firm of Crotchley, Bloomfield and Smythe (like it matters) has been dispatched to Transylvania to deliver a family heirloom to the mysteriously mustachioed Mark Shannon alike (and even more fantastically monikered) Marquis de Suede (Collins last seen in Falconhead Part II: The Maneaters).

Being so grateful for the personal touch of delivering the said artifact to his imposing castle by hand, de Suede offers Young a hot meal and a bed for the night.

Oh yes, and also insists on sucking the young man's huge throbbing member as if it were an oversized Chupa Chup before firing his own undead vampiric muck all over Young's lily-white arse and at the point of climax biting him on the neck.

All in gloriously over-lit clinical colour.

Which reminds me, how is your dad?

The year they invented Crayola obviously.

Waking the next morning to a head full of red and an arse like a sugared doughnut, poor Gaylord stumbles over to the mirror to examine his neck only to see not his own reflection but the face of de Suede laughing maniacally at him before the mirror explodes in a shower of sharp pointy shards.

The curse of the vampire has been passed to a new victim.

Gaylord Young, legal eagle is no more.

He has become the king of the undead.

Something less than human but with a cock the size of a newborn baby.

A very muscley new born baby.

With shotputters arms.

Which is a plus point if you think about it.

Your Dads works night out.

Suddenly (and without so much as a warning or even a crudely crayoned flashframe) we're transported to 'modern day' Los Angeles, where Boris the manservant (allegedly some bloke named Rand Remington but frankly I'm convinced is Tom Savini) and Geoff the delivery boy (Christopher last seen in the 1991 erotic thriller Fade In, an undiscovered classic that featured gay half-men, half-spiders who devour their sexual partners after trapping them in webs of sticky cum...seriously) are busy decorating a huge mansion ready for the new owner to move in.

Worn out after carrying a big wooden coffin into the lounge Geoff has to rest for a while but luckily Boris appears to be a trained sports therapist and offers to massage his stiff shoulders.

With his penis.

Obviously.

Geoff, grateful for the help notices that Boris looks uncomfortable sitting on a rough wooden box so, assuming his bottom must be getting a wee bit sore offers to massage that in return.

Boris agrees and the two men indulge themselves in a bout of manly massage.

It was at this point I realised that this may not be, in fact, a 'proper' vampire film.

"Tonight Matthew I'm going to be...
Gary Barlow!"

All this excitement, groaning and testosterone (not to mention the copious amounts of semen dripping into his coffin) is enough to wake Gaylord from his slumber.

Having been asleep for 200 hundred years tho' he's rather peckish and makes short work of poor Geoff's bum draining every speck of blood from his body.

And now Gaylord, rested and fed can begin to explore his new home.

Your dad, working late at the office last night.

And it's whilst taking in the LA sights (as well as taking a few other things in obviously) that Gaylord discovers that the Marquis de Suede is still alive - posing as an agent and running an all male dance troupe in a theatre just off Hollywood Boulevard.

And you guessed it our vampiric chum and the Marquis have some unfinished business to attend to.

Revenge for turning Gaylord into a vampire?

A battle to the death to decide who is the king of the undead?

Or is it that Gaylord just can't get enough of the Marquis' ungodly shaft?

Go on, guess.

"Flames in mah mooth!"

Arriving at rehearsals and given a front row seat - alongside a key to the mysterious 'backroom' - by the Marquis, Gaylord's sex plans are thrown into disarray when he comes across (not literally, well not yet) the young, virginal Gavin (McNeil star of Malibu Days Big Bear Nights), a waiter at the theatre and falls instantly and hopelessly in love with him.

Using his powers of persuasion to entice Gavin to his home the pair make beautiful (well sticky and sweaty) love together and, as Gavin falls asleep in Gaylord's arms, the vampire vows never to suck the young boys blood and to only indulge in rimming on a Tuesday.

Aw, ain't love sweet?

Abstaining from blood drinking tho' leaves Gaylord weakened and stumbling thru' the streets in a daze and it's only thru' sheer luck that he manages across the local bloodbank where, as is usually the way with these things, the hunky doctor is far too busy sodomising one of the (even hunkier) patients to notice our hero draining the blood supply dry.

Returning home Gaylord vows to tell Gavin the truth about his unusual affliction.

But will their love survive?

"Put it in me!"

Three cheers for Roger Earl for producing a vampire movie with all the passion, romance, horror and copious scenes of buggery sadly missing from such big budget offerings as Bram Stoker's Dracula, Twilight and the like.

It's micro-budget never once compromises Earl's vision and tho' he may have had to incorporate props and sets left over from the arse end of the seventies (cracked and wobbly disco balls, silver clad dance 'numbers' and a couple of unfortunate mustaches) he stays true to his aim of producing a film that not only delves deep into vampire lore whilst dealing with the universal issues of love and belonging but also manages to feature the most varied and frankly disturbing scenes of fucking, rimming, sucking and cupping I have ever seen.

And for this reason alone I take my hat off to him.

Who am I to judge tho?

 They may be smiling now but just wait till the fisting starts.

Earl may have just been making a low budget gay porn film and not realised the truly heart warming effect it would have on viewers so felt it my duty to spread the word.

To this end I invited my next door neighbours 14 year old Twilight fan daughter Agnes to watch it with me and she was left crying and shaking with emotion as the tender love story played out in front of her*.

Something I'm sure Robert Pattinson has never manage to do with his big square face and glittering shite.

I've not seen her since but when I do I'm sure she'll thank me for sharing the experience with her.

As will you after viewing this lost classic.































*only joking.**






























































**Or am I?