standby for action!

Celebrating the genius of Gerry Anderson on his birthday with 60 minutes of Spectrum Sounds and Terrahawk tunes in one mighty Mysteron mix.....

 

 

doctor in distress.

 

It's time to celebrate the return of the children's hero that adults adore coming back to our screens  - and looking as great as ever - after spending the last couple of years languishing in the backwaters of audience popularity. 

Suffice to say it's been an odd few years as a Doctor Who fan.

Sorry, enthusiast.

I was at Longleat, your argument is invalid.

 

To fill in those who have lives, it all started with the much maligned Jodie Whittaker era which decided that after years of fairly fast moving and exciting plots coupled with genuinely charismatic actors (and Jenna Coleman) and a menagerie of terrifying monsters to relaunch the show with a cast of cardboard non-personalities (and Bradley Walsh), stumbling about bits of South Africa reciting obvious first drafts of scripts before turning to camera and explaining the point of it all.

A particularly bold move was to cast a genuinely funny and likeable actress in the lead then proceed to make her reign all of that in giving us a one-note version of your favourite drunken aunt performing a fairly atrocious impression of David Tennant whilst scrunching her (albeit fairly cute) button nose and then tear up the shows entire backstory for no other reason than to make sense of a throwaway scene from The Brain of Morbius. 

As Jodie left in a nostalgia-fueled tale that still makes absolutely fuck all sense it looked like the writing was on the wall for our favourite show until Russell 'T' Davies stepped back into the breach to save us all.

And with a message for any of us worried that the faux-caring, sharing, lefty lecturing would continue:

 

Phew! Less moralizing messaging and more monsters, Masters and mad adventures ahoy! 

And then this happened:

 

 

What a time to be a Doctor Who fan.

A proper one I mean, not one of those anorak-clad wankers with NHS specs that the Metro was talking about.

 

Anyway to help remember the good times let's enjoy this look back at probably THE greatest bit of Who inspired entertainment ever.

Unless you're one of the few folk who read the original review back in 2007 in which case enjoy again.

Abducted By The Daleks (AKA Abducted by The Daloids, 2005)   

Dir: Don Skaro (Aye sure).

Cast: Eliza Borecka, Sonja Karina, Lina Black, Maria Vaslova and The Daleks.

Who buys this shite?...oh yes, me.

It's a cold wet night in November and a banged up and rusty Ford Fiesta is trundling down a deserted country lane.

Tho' to be honest it's not as banged up as the occupants.

And what of those occupants?

Please welcome our  'young' (well, younger than your nan) leads, a freaky foursome of plastic of tit and very harsh of face Eastern European women heading home after a hard days work letting Soho media types spunk in their hair for coppers.

Tragedy  strikes tho' when they run over an extraterrestrial being who - to all intents and purposes was out for a stroll and minding his own business - smudging their lipstick and totaling the motor in the process.

So far so Torchwood.

If that wasn't enough to put a downer on the evening (the crash I mean not comparing the whole thing to everyone's favourite Who spin-off - sorry Class) it turns out that the woods our crack whore heroines have found themselves in are said to be the hunting ground of a particularly mental murderer type bloke and ex member of The Streets (ask your mum), the amusingly monikered 'Serial Skinner'.

At least in this light you
can't see how harsh they look.

Being girls, they decide that the best course of action would be to abandon the relative safety of the car and wander around in the darkened woods and look for help.

Or a way out of the despair that is Brexit Britain if they're lucky.

Whilst skulking about in the bushes (armed with a handy torch) one of our foxy foursome trips over some roots, twisting her ankle and loses her clothes in the process.

But things are about to turn even more sinister tho' for watching the scene from space are the dreaded Daleks, bubbling lumps of hate trapped inside bonded polycarbide war machines and determined to exterminate all inferior life forms.

Using a Trans-Mat beam (cunningly disguised as a mid eighties Top of the Pops effect) they transport the injured woman aboard their spacecraft. 

Spookily she doesn't seem to notice as she continues to crouch down and rub her ankle whilst the Daleks glide menacingly round her.

Ignore the nudity just check the neck on the red Dalek!

It appears that the Daleks are kidnapping humans to examine and study in preparation for an invasion of Earth.

Again.

Which, if I'm honest is quite lucky seeing as it means that Who fans - sorry 'enthusiasts' - can make it a semi-official prequel to The Dalek Invasion of Earth and therefore not worry about whether it's 'canon' or not and just enjoy furiously masturbating over the home-made casings on show.

Anyway, back to the plot and the three other ladies are still in the woods arguing about whether to look for their missing friend or strip naked and rub each other in a slightly unnatural and incredibly wooden manner. 

Decisions, decisions.

Luckily one of the girls (the least chiseled one) volunteers to look for their pal, meaning the other pair can happily indulge in the uncomfortable (for them and us) stroking of each others harsh, cold bodies.

See? everyone's a winner in this film.

Except the estate of the late, great Terry Nation that is as I'm pretty sure they've not paid for the rights to the Daleks.

But I digress.

Fortunately (for us) these sexy shenanigans are cut short when they too are trans-matted aboard the Dalek ship ready to be experimented on.

These experiments by the way appear to consist of sticking two of the ladies to the wall with tin foil and cardboard straps whilst a Dalek aimlessly fires balls of yellowy melted cheese at their shoes.

The other captive just lies on a decorating table wiggling her arse.

And grunting like a pig.

Too. Much. Acting.

Just as you're contemplating slashing your wrists the last lady is brought aboard, but lo and behold it transpires that she's really an evil spandex clad alien in league with the Daleks!

Be honest you didn't see that coming. 

I mean you heard it obviously but definitely didn't see it.

Beats Rodney Bewes I guess.

Having had enough of their shoes being abused (and possibly getting a sore back from the table) our fearless heroines escape from the torture lab in a blaze of strobe lights, fog and shitey laser effects, only to be gunned down by their evil captors.

One survives (umm...the blonde one) and manages to reverse the T-Mat, returning (naked apart from her aforementioned hideous footwear) to the woods where she is quickly captured by Albert Steptoe (probably but let's be honest do you really care?) who just happens to be hunting the 'Serial Skinner'.

Albert decides to use her as bait, tying her to a tree and hiding in a bush (not hers) whilst waiting - but not alas wanking - for the Skinner to pounce.

A (non serial killer but radio-based) Skinner yesterday.

Bound and gagged (yay! no more of that gruff accent) she can only watch on in horror as the Skinner kills old man Steptoe (which is more than we can seeing as it happens off screen) and advance menacingly towards her.


To her - and our - horror she realizes that the infamous Skinner is actually an evil alien.

And I have to be honest, the creature's reveal is one of the few moments of terror in the whole production, decked out as it is in a red shell suit, sporting what looks like a cheap pound shop turtles mask and armed with a tiny wee pen knife.

I was shaking like a shaky thing as he prepared to skin the girl by drawing on her breasts in lipstick.

For what seems like twenty minutes.

Did I say terrifying?.

Sorry I meant to say utter shite.

Don't worry tho' because just as he goes to put it in her, the Skinner gets beamed aboard the Dalek spaceship 'by mistake' (either that or they fancied a bit of cock for a change) leaving the lady trussed up like a turkey and covered in lippy tied against a tree.

Fade to black, it's a couple of days later and the (still naked and surprisingly even harsher lit) survivor is telling her tale of woe to a couple of nonchalant policemen.

Interestingly one of which looks like Matt Berry but with a squeaky voice. 

This is in no way important, it's just that I felt like sharing.

Sorry.

They dismiss her story as utter bollocks but announce that someone has arrived at the station to collect her......

The poor woman looks on in terror as the room is filled with cries of EXTERMINATE!

Davros farted...and it's an eggy one.

It appears that some 'critics' have been a tad unkind to this film, so I'd like to say that Don Skaro (possibly not the directors real name) has crafted a sinister yet sexy tale of alien abduction that belies it's low budget, soft core roots. 

The performances from the first time cast are top notch, the effects are a wonder to behold and the shocking ending will burn itself onto your memory and haunt you for years to come.

Yes, I'd love to say those things if any of them were true but unfortunately the film is utter shite from start to finish.

Matt Berry, Mark Kermode and Jo Whiley
discuss environmental issues yesterday.

But saying that,  if you're a fan of bottle bleached, middle aged and stony faced illegally imported European women battling 'the strange robot people from BBC TV's Doctor Who' whilst standing in a hastily tin foiled garage tho' then this is the film for you.

From dizzying shots of the girls buttock skirting hemlines and horrendous market store shoes to a fantastically half arsed lesbian scene (with visibly giggling ladies) via the bizarro Dalek S & M torture chamber - complete with stolen Star Trek sound effects - the film hits the 'wrong wrong wrong' button so many times it's a wonder it didn't drop off from overuse.

It's wrong on so many levels and not just because none of the casings match.

Fair play to the producers tho' who were confident enough that people would purchase this quality product just because it has the Daleks in it rather than for the pale arsed, silicon enhanced grannies cavorting around in the woods naked in it.

I mean they even replace lead actress Lina Black halfway thru with Maria Vaslova (due to her being on holiday or something)  and no-one noticed as viewers were too busy making notes regarding the Dalek casings on show.

And purchase they did.

This was possibly helped by the outrage shown by that quality newspaper The Sun when it's headline screamed:
 
"BEEB bosses have gone ballistic after discovering the Daleks are starring in a porn flick!"

I'd pop the link up but the story was deleted years ago so you'll have to take my word for it. 

Mum, Dad I'm sorry.

 
We should also give them credit too for actually featuring the Daleks and not some amusingly named vaguely Dalek shaped villain (ala the Alicia Rhodes starrer Dr. Loo and the Phaleks), seeing as most Doctor Who based porn movies (of which there are a few, trust me) appear to think that calling the lead characters time machine the 'TURDIS' is worthy of a Talbot Rothwell 'Carry On' script and enough to keep folk happy.

But compared to a certain Pertwee story that features only three of those infamous meanies, a blonde that flashes her pants at every opportunity and unconvincing green aliens,  Abducted By The Daleks is slightly more enjoyable and has a better plot.

Plus it's a load more enjoyable - and way less preachy - than anything the actually show has produced in the last 7 years.

Yes, that's THE Karla Romana!

Saying that tho' even the (late lamented) Adult Channel's very own Doctor Who based porn show from about 20 years back (cleverly entitled 'Doctor Screw', must have taken hours that one) was a work of utter genius compared to what passes as quality Who today and deserves a special mention.

I mean it even based a few of it's installments on actual episodes, for example in a riff of the Paul Cornell classic 'Father's Day', The Doctor travels back in time to 1969 so he can shag his companion Holly's 'swinger' mother. 

Which let's be honest is more exciting than watching Billie Piper crying over a ginger bloke getting hit by a Volvo in slow motion as a big black rubber chicken tries to eat Christopher Eccleston whole.

Which is a bit they usually spit out. 

 

 

It loses points tho' for having the tagline 'Shagging his way through time' and having a lead actor (a genuinely funny and likeable turn from Mark Sloan) with really crap facial fuzz and hair.

Which obviously would never happen in the real show.*

Haircut.

Doctor Screw Sucking a lemon yesterday.

But it really doesn't matter what I say, if you're a Doctor Who completest you'll have purchased all of these anyway. 

Probably more likely two copies of each; one for best and one for weekends.

I only bought it for review purposes and then only to give as a birthday present when I'd finished.

Honest.

 

*This for our American readers is what we call sarcasm.

language timothy!

Seeing as today is the birthday of my favourite James Bond I thought It'd be a good time to share an overview I wrote of the ultimate Bond movie from way back in 2015.

Partly because it's not too badly written (for me) but mainly in the hope of attracting some (any?) new readers.

Originally published in the late lamented Multitude of Movies Magazine - hence the distinct lack of 'mooth shite' and 'laugh now' gags - sit back and enjoy (again if you read it first time around) some classic bondage as we revisit....


Licence To Kill (1989).
Dir: John Glen.
Cast: Timothy Dalton, Carey Lowell, Robert Davi, Talisa Soto, Anthony Zerbe, David Hedison, Benicio del Toro, Everett McGill, Desmond Llewellyn, Robert Brown and Wayne Newton.

“loyalty is more important than money”

It’s 1989 and the world of cinematic heroism is in a state of flux… as Indiana Jones rides off into the sunset in the company of his dad and Captain Kirk has a cut-price family-friendly face-off with God, a hero from our childhood is about to emerge onto the big screen darker, dourer and much, much more leathery than ever before…

Indeed, 1989 was the year of the Bat.

But Bob Kane and Bill Finger’s eponymous Dark Knight detective wasn’t the only character of old being dragged kicking-and-screaming into the modern age.

Another 60’s pop culture icon was about to receive a much needed make-over.

Bond was back.

And, after the frankly schizophrenically scripted The Living Daylights tried somewhat unsuccessfully to mix Moore-style quips with Connery era arse-kicking, 007’s new adventure Licence Revoked looked to return to a Bond with a more realistic edge (but with a dreamy Welsh accent), the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the franchise’s very beginning.

But evil machinations of which Blofeld himself would be proud were about to scupper the super spy in his attempts to regain his action crown.

The least of which was the worry from Eon that no-one in America would know what ‘revoked’ meant.

And, if they did, would they assume that the title referred to Bond’s driving licence?

There is no such thing as a totally straight man, just a man who's never experienced Timothy Dalton as James Bond.

A dozen meetings and one swift title change later – well, I say swift… but not swift enough to save Eon from having to dump Robert Peak’s darkly daring promotional artwork and quickly replace it with what looked like a hastily Pritt-sticked community centre panto poster – and Licence To Kill was born.

And with it a grittier and, let’s be honest, a damn sight sexier Bond for a new and more dangerous age.

A Bond out for revenge and out for justice.

A Bond that bled, cried and wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.

And, unfortunately, a Bond that no-one save the die-hard fan seemed to have had any interest in seeing.

Which is a pity really because those of us who did see it at the time realised that we were witnessing probably the greatest Bond movie ever.

And if you don’t believe me, then I’d happily listen to you explain why they’ve been remaking it every few years under a variety of titles only this time with Daniel Craig in the lead role.

Welcome to the weird, wonderful and high-wired world of Licence To Kill.
And by its end the Bond franchise will never be the same again.

But first, for those few who’ve still not seen it, I think a wee recap is in order.

Helping his best bud Felix Leiter (David Hedison, the only other actor save Jeffrey Wright to play the role twice) prepare for his wedding, suave super spy James Bond (Mr. Vegas himself Wayne Newton – nah, only joking, Timothy ‘Bloody’ Dalton obviously) finds himself and Leiter sidelined by the DEA to help in the capture of the evil drug kingpin Franz Sanchez (the great beast himself and star of Maniac Cop II and III, Robert Davi).

In a feat of airborne daring so great that Christopher Nolan would later rip it off for The Dark Knight Rises, Bond and Leiter – using only a big hook and a few metres of old rope – capture Sanchez by literally ‘fishing’ his plane out of the sky before parachuting into the wedding ceremony to a sexy Gladys Knight theme.

Phwoar indeed.

Unfortunately (for Felix, that is… I mean for us it’s a godsend, otherwise the movie would be over), Sanchez bribes slimy DEA agent Ed Killifer (Twin Peaks‘ Big Ed himself, Everett McGill) and escapes, but not before setting in motion a raging rampage of revenge that begins with feeding Felix to a shark before murdering his wife.

Bond, upon discovering this, is understandably a wee bit upset.

His temper isn't helped by the fact that the DEA refuse to assist our hero in bringing Sanchez to justice, due to him being out of his jurisdiction, leaving Bond – alongside his buddy Sharkey (Frank McRae) – to start their own investigation.

The dashing duo soon discover that not only is the nearby marine research centre run by a henchman of Sanchez, the twitchy, bitchy Milton Krest (the always fantastic Anthony Zerbe), but it’s also in reality a cover for Sanchez’ cocaine smuggling operation. As it happens, Killifer is there to pick up his cash.

What are the chances?

Bond, by this point not only annoyed about bits of his best friend becoming fish food but visibly angry at spending a whole 30 minutes without chinning someone, angrily feeds Killifer to the same shark (c’mon, they’re expensive to hire) that maimed Leiter.

Which is nice.

Imagine being the filling in this sandwich.

Concerned by Bond’s mood swings, M (Robert Brown) meets up with our hero and orders him to travel to Istanbul for a new assignment which frankly is the last thing Bond needs to hear, causing him to resign from the secret service before headbutting M’s bodyguards and legging it into the bushes.

Bond is now a rogue agent, bereft of official backing and on the run from both the US and UK secret services (and quite possibly Rumbelows), with only his trusty PPK and a suave line in blouson leather jackets and boating shoes for company.

Is there anyone Bond can turn to in his hour of need?

As luck would have it Major Boothroyd – or as we know him ‘Q’ (Desmond Llewellyn) – just happens to be taking a well earned holiday in exactly the same hotel that Bond is staying in; not only that, he’s come equipped with everything Bond could need to complete his mission.

All quite by chance, you understand.

The reunion has to wait though, as Bond has a drug shipment to foil.

Boarding Milton Krest’s ship, the none too originally monikered Wavekrest, Bond does indeed foil the shipment and also steals five million dollars of Sanchez’ cash in the process.

It’s not all joy and happiness though, as Sharkey ends up dead at the hands of the evil Dario (a frighteningly baby-faced Benicio Del Toro, sporting a fantastic quiff).

All this wanton violence is all well and good (and a little refreshing if I’m honest) but 007 soon realises that the film is missing one vital ingredient.

Yup it can’t be a proper Bond film without some top totty, so to that end James teams up with the tomboyish ex-CIA agent and bush pilot (ooeerr) Pam Bouvier (second best Bond girl Carey Lowell) who, alongside Bond and Q, head to the Republic of Isthmus where Sanchez holds court.

By that I mean he runs the joint, he doesn’t wander around in a powdered wig hitting a hammer on an old table whilst shouting “Order!” and the like.

Though he may have done in a deleted scene.

Who knows?

But I digress.

Posing as an unemployed hitman (his undercover binman disguise must have been in the wash), Bond manages to get a job working for the evil Sanchez but an attempt to ‘take out’ (in a non Paddy McGuinness way, obviously) the deranged drug dealer is thwarted by two jobs-worth Hong Kong narcotics agents who unceremoniously bundle our hero into the back of a van before taking him along to a deserted warehouse (is there any other kind?) where an MI6 operative named Fallon (Hammer stalwart Christopher Neame) is waiting to take Bond back to London.

Dead or alive.

Crikey.

Injected with a potent sleeping drug, wrapped in bubble wrap and bunged in a box, all looks lost for Bond… until that is a couple of Sanchez’s goons turn up, machine gun the three agents, and rescue our hero.

It appears that they thought that the secret service types were the actual assassins and that Bond was trying to stop them.

How more twisty turny can this plot get?

Sanchez handling his massive chopper.

Now well placed (on the right, just behind the drinks cabinet) in Sanchez’s inner circle, Bond decides to have some fun. Firstly, with the aide of Sanchez’s exotic girlfriend Lupe Lamora (Vampirella herself, the slinkily sexy Talisa Soto), he frames Krest by hiding the $5 million he stole earlier in one of the Wavekrest‘s hyperbaric (bless you) chambers, before dropping hints to Sanchez that it was Krest who nicked it.

Ever the reasonable employer Sanchez responds by locking Krest in the very same chamber, before smashing it with an axe causing the poor guy to explode.
Wondering how they’ll ever explain that to his Gran, Sanchez invites Bond along to his secret lair (cunningly hidden beneath a new-age meditation centre) to explain his plan to him – and us.

And what a plan it is.

Like a particularly over-excited child with a new toy, Sanchez explains how his scientists have discovered a way to dissolve cocaine in petrol, which they can them just roll out across the world in big trucks disguised as common or garden fuel and then sell it to evil Asian drug dealers.

Which is a pretty specific market if you ask me, but hey-ho what do I know about international drugs trafficking?

The best bit of the plan though is the fact that all of the dodgy drug transactions are conducted via the broadcasts of the centre’s leader, the porn ‘tashed televangelist Professor Joe Butcher (the afore-mentioned Mr. Las Vegas Wayne Newton), who just repeats whatever Sanchez’s ‘business manager’ Truman-Lodge (Iron Man himself, Starke) tells him to.

Obviously adding a “Praise The Lord!” or “Hallelujah!” occasionally, just to make sure no-one suspects anything.

Preparing to end Sanchez’s plan (and let’s be honest his life), Bond is surprised when Dario arrives unannounced and reveals 007’s true identity.

As a British agent, that is: he doesn’t turn up and shout “Bugger me, it’s Timothy Dalton star of Flash Gordon and Sextette!” because that would be silly.

Though probably perfectly acceptable in one of the latter Moore movies.

His cover blown, Bond does what any self respecting Welshman would do in that situation and sets fire to some stuff before attempting to flee.

But Dario has other plans and ties our hero up before dangling him feet first over a giant shredding machine.

Just as Bond is about to be sliced like so much bacon, Pam turns up and shoots Dario, allowing Bond, in one of the franchise’s most unpleasant deaths, to kick him into the shredder instead.

Which is as painful as it sounds.

Fleeing his burning base, Sanchez commandeers four tankers full of the cocaine and petrol mix and attempts to drive to freedom (or at least somewhere the Feds wont get him – Coventry, perhaps?) but Bond is in hot pursuit.

Well, actually he’s in a plane piloted by Pam, but let’s not be too anal about it.
Careering to an explosive climax, it’s soon one on one as Bond faces off with Sanchez…

Released on 13th June 1989, Licence To Kill, the 16th official James Bond, has a number of (fairly) interesting firsts and lasts attached to it.

It was last to be directed by long time Bond director John Glen (his fifth movie in succession) and the last to be produced by Albert ‘Cubby’ Broccoli who had handed the production reigns over to his stepson Michael G Wilson due to ill health, and last to make direct use of any of Ian Fleming’s story concepts and characters until Die Another Day in 2002, taking as it does elements from the novel Live and Let Die (the Leiter/shark scenes and the tactics employed by Sanchez to smuggle drugs) as well as from the short story The Hildebrand Rarity.

Though it’s been years since I read that so, to be honest, I really can’t remember which bits.

Probably the bit where Bond seduces a lady or something.

Pam Bouvier: Crick neck and side arm.

Staying true to Fleming didn’t go as far as the title though, it being the first not taken from a Fleming story (though A View To A Kill does cheat slightly by removing the ‘From’ from the short story title, allegedly to make it easier for Duran Duran to write the song).

Staying with songs, the film’s frankly fantastic title theme – as sung by Gladys Knight – was actually written as an homage to the classic Goldfinger*, meaning that composer John Barry – alongside lyricists Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley- received royalty payments from it, which is nice.

But the more things stayed the same,the more things changed: the main thing being that, due to budgetary concerns (which for a Bond movie is bizarre), the film was the first in the franchise to be shot totally outside the UK, though with locations in such glorious climes as Florida and Mexico I doubt the cast and crew complained.

I mean it’s not like they had a two week shoot in Bognor or something, was it?

And what of that sun-kissed cast I hear you cry?

Well, frankly, there’s never been a Bond film before this with such a top rate (or let’s be honest as sexy) group of thesps than this.

Eon must have agreed as it took 17 years before they even attempted to up the sheer sexual magnetism and raw talent of the movies again when they gave us the frankly magnificent duo of Eva Green and Mads Mikklesen in Casino Royale.

And even then they had to balance out the sexiness and cast a big potato as Bond, for fear of a thousand spontaneous pregnancies during the card playing finale.

But let’s ignore Mr Craig and wax lyrical on the actor who, in my humble opinion, gave us the definitive portrayal of 007, Timothy Dalton.

The dark and gritty Man About The House remake looks good.

It’s reported that on securing the role Dalton admitted to never having seen a Bond movie so decided to head back to the books for his inspiration and here it shows.

Dalton gives us a Bond that we can believe in, a cold-blooded killer for Queen and country but with a softer edge around those who know him, a flawed hero who will risk everything for a friend, and, in a lovely throwback to his ill-fated marriage to Tracey, a man haunted by his past.

If anything, Licence To Kill can actually be seen as a sequel of sorts to On Her Majesty’s Secret Service as it’s the murder of his best (only?) friend’s wife that sends Bond over the edge and on the path to revenge and ultimately redemption.

Imagine this movie following OHMSS, with Blofeld replacing Sanchez and a rogue Bond out for his blood to avenge Tracey’s death, no that would have been a swansong for Connery plus with the added bonus of the franchise being still (relatively) new enough to actually make the audience doubt that Bond would return to the fold by the movie’s end.

And, whilst you sit back and imagine that scenario, let’s look at the supporting cast.

Like all good leads Dalton isn’t afraid to let his co-stars shine, especially franchise stalwart Desmond Llewelyn as ‘Q’ who, in a role far expanded on any other movie, positively revels in the genuinely warm father/son relationship the pair share. It’s only beaten by Llewelyn’s final words to Bond in The World Is Not Enough which act as a fitting tribute to a much missed actor.

And it’s worth the price of admission for these scenes alone if I’m honest.

As for the villains, the casting director really struck gold with the amount of up and coming – and firmly established – talent on show, from a pitch-perfect Robert Davi, channeling real-life former dictator of Panama and all round bad boy Manuel Noriega, to Benicio Del Toro’s loon-tastically lecherous Dario, via Anthony Zerbe’s twitchy Krest.

The cast of villains are at the top of their game with every single one of them bringing something unique to their roles.

Not one main star or bit-part actor is out of place and all add to something, however small, to the film.

And in the much coveted ‘Bond Girl’ roles Talisa Soto is all exotically charged and smouldering beauty as bad-girl-with-a-heart Lupe Lamora, whilst Carey Lowell plays Pam with an energetic mix of wholesome cookie-cutting boy scout, wide-eyed sweetness and thighs you could happily ski down, ever so slightly reminiscent of Peanut‘s Lucy armed with a big gun.

Which says more about me than her, if I’m honest.

Any excuse.

If the film has any fault it’s that, with hindsight it was just too much of a departure too soon for those used to the Roger Moore style of Bond…but bravo to Eon for not taking the safe route and attempting something different when staying safe would have been the easier option.

At the film’s end we find Bond slightly shaken, with his loins stirred by the pouting Pam as the pair flirt in a swimming pool to the dulcet tones of Patti LaBelle warbling If You Asked Me To. Who would have guessed that it would be 6 years before Bond returned, refreshed and re-imagined again, but this time as a post Cold War warrior with a scary bouffant, a smart line in Moore-style quips and taking orders from the woman from A Fine Romance?

No sane person that’s for sure.

But that change resonated with a by-now more cinema-savvy audience, and once again cemented Bond as the world’s foremost action hero and, seemingly cemented Dalton as the true forgotten Bond, left awash in an uncertain point in the franchise’s history.

Which is why I feel it’s my duty to champion this, if not ‘unloved’ then ‘criminally neglected’ classic, because although I was brought up on a steady cinematic diet of Moore’s mischievous mayhem whilst encountering Connery on TV, Licence To Kill will always be ‘my’ Bond.

It’s genuine wit, style and grit (plus an over-reliance on 80’s hair products), perfectly summing up Bond in all its forms.

Plus, as an aside in these more enlightened days it’s the only action film I can think of that relies on the lead character being a smoker to defeat the villain.





































































































*It’s the sexy trumpet bit if you’re still wondering.

computer says no.

 Just because - A collection of Yugoslavian Računari Computer Magazine Covers.

There were many, many more but frankly I lost the will to live.

Enjoy. 

sigh-borg.

Can't believe it's been 40 years since The Terminator was released in UK cinemas (11 January 1985 fact fans) and I've noticed that to celebrate they're doing a massive (and very expensive) stadium tour where you can watch the film from miles away whilst someone plays the plinky plonk farty synth score on a Yamaha keyboard as you do.

Sounds fantastic I'm sure you'll agree.

 

Anyway as a tribute (and in the hope of pulling in (as opposed to pulling off) new readers I thought I'd post my own tribute by way of a review of the (much superior) film it ripped off.

You're welcome.

Cyborg 2087 (1966).

Dir: Franklin Adreon.

Cast: Michael Rennie, Karen Steele, Wendell Corey, Warren Stevens, Eduard Franz, Sherry Alberoni, Harry Carey, Jr., Dale Van Sickel, Troy Melton, John Beck,  Jo Ann Pflug and Larry Dean.

Half Human... Half Machine! Programmed to Kill!

 

The year is 2087, a totalitarian world where motorcycle helmeted androids rule with a rod of iron and form fitting, khaki polyester pantsuits are legally required to be worn by all women.

But not everyone is happy to live in this nightmarish (and fairly beige) world, and so we begin our exciting tale with two scientists (Dean in man-tit disguising black braces and the bewitchingly beehived Pflug, who I will spend the rest of the film thinking about) secretly preparing a time machine in order to send a bequiffed part man/part machine named Garth (Rennie, slumming it for coppers) on a quick trip back to 1966 in order to save humanity from Skynet or something.

To be fair this plot seems vaguely familiar.

Déjà vu?

 

"I can see your house from here Peter!"

 

But just as the pair send the capsule (which looks a wee bit like a giant metallic suppository) back in time a couple of shiny helmeted, elderly badmen burst in and arrest the pair for crimes against bri-nylon.

 Possibly.

Arriving in California at a deserted western town called Desert City, Garth heads off to complete his mission - which we find out involves kidnapping Professor Sigmund Marx (screen stalwart Franz), a scientist whose work welding crash helmets onto monkey's heads will lead to humanities destruction or something so after freezing a bearded man and his 'nephew' (he can't kill anyone in case it changes the future) and stealing their Jeep Garth drives into town to visit Marx in his lab.

 

"Fire engine!"

 

 

Unfortunately Marx is out at a dinner/dance in LA that night and has left his sexy assistant Dr. Sharon Mason (Steele best known for her role as Eve McHuron in the Star Trek episode Mudd's Women) in charge for the day.

This is no problem for Garth tho' as he possesses the power of mental persuasion so with a flick of his wrist and a wee bit of intense staring he convinces Sharon of his mission and gets her on side. 

Not everything is going to plan tho' as Garth hadn't taken daylight saving time into account or something and is now behind schedule meaning that the evil future people have had time to send a pair of terrifying “Tracer Agents” (in reality two fat old men in comedy helmets wearing Kwik Fit overalls and light up kiddies watches - Dale Van Sickel and Troy Melton take a bow) after him in order to prevent him from completing his mission. 

And with that in mind the two of them head off to see Sharon's friend Doctor Zeller (Forbidden Planet's Stevens), an eminent heart surgeon who they task with removing the transmitter from Garth's chest (or a close paper-mache approximation of it) so that they can't track his movements.

With that done, Zeller and Garth borrow a hotrod (no seriously) and head off to the local power station in order to electrocute the Tracers allowing Garth to continue his mission.

Which has gone from kidnapping Marx to offering him a quick trip in the time machine so he can see the dystopian future he'll create first hand and hopefully get him to change his research.

Sounds legit. 

And all while Zeller's hip 'n' happening daughter Laura (ex Mickey Mouse Clubber Alberoni) and her pals frug away to some hit rock n' roll sounds in the living room.

Yowzers!

Unfortunately the Tracers have a description of Garth's car and within minutes have turned up at Zeller's house, smashed the stereo radiogram and chased his daughter around the living room ala The Benny Hill Show.

 

The lights are on.

 

Cue 40 odd minutes of high octane chase scenes (kinda) and action that would shame the makers of the Bourne films as our heroes embark on a (fairly leisurely) race against time to kill the Tracers before they kill Garth.

Or something.

Anyway the plan sorta works and Garth - with the help of Zeller - manage to kill one of the Tracers but as they're celebrating with a big manly hug the other one has sneaked off and kidnapped Sharon, trussing in her up like a big pointy bra wearing turkey in the same deserted town from the films opening so the pair, accompanied by a recently arrived Marx head out to save her.

And to Garth it's personal as he appears to have fallen in love with Sharon and her with him.

Tho' in her case it's probably more to do with all the brain washing shite he was subjecting her to earlier rather than she's got a thing for skinny, turkey necked old men in silver wellingtons.

All this love chat seems to have had an effect on Zeller too seeing as he's just realised that he also fancies Sharon.

Fuck me it's like Eastenders.

 

I wouldn't want one of them swimming up my arse.

 

Will Garth rescue Sharon from the evil Tracer?

Will Marx be convinced to halt his work after a quick jaunt to the bri-nylon future hellscape?

Will everyone forget everything when Garth goes back to the future meaning that Sharon will settle on dating Zeller instead?

And will I ever get over my flu-fueled obsession with Jo Ann Pflug's jumpsuit?

Produced by United Pictures Corporation as part of a series of nine low-budget films intended for TV distribution, Cyborg 2087 is a decidedly lo-fi affair that manages to win you over solely on the performances of the leads,  Jo Ann Pflug's jumpsuit and by the fact that it's always nice to see something else that James Cameron ripped off for The Terminator (I'm looking at you Demon with a Glass Hand and Soldier  - The Outer Limits episode that is, not the Kurt Russell starring unofficial Blade Runner prequel).

It's true that teevee stalwart Franklin (director of episodes of Lassie, Bat Masterson and Sea Hunt among others) Adreon is uninspired and utterly workman-like but given the simplicity of what's on show that's maybe not a bad thing and yes the effects, what there is of them, are threadbare and the 'futuristic' costumes have a distinctly sub 1950s Video Ranger look about them but despite (or because) of all that I must admit I actually had fun watching.

 

"Are you looking at my bra?"

Plus Adreon must have impressed (or been shagging) somebody important as both him and writer Arthur C. Pierce went straight from this to the Jeffrey Hunter starring time travel thriller Dimension 5, which by some strange quirk of fate features Maggie Thrett who also appear in the Star Trek episode Mudd's Women with Karen Steele.

It is indeed a small world.

But I wouldn't want to paint it.

To be fair the film is so inconsequential that there's very little you can say about it but fuck it I enjoyed it and I'm pretty sure it's not just because I'm delirious right now plus it's a damn sight more enjoyable - and honest - than most sci-fi on release of late.

Damning with faint praise?

It's what I do best.