eggs and baker.

Scarily both Dame David Lynch and Sir Tom of Baker have their birthdays today so what better way to celebrate than with a film where the aforementioned ex-Time Lord plays a character called Mr Lynch?


The Mutations (AKA Doctor of Evil, The Freakmaker, The Mutation. 1974).
Dir: Jack Cardiff.
Donald Pleasence, Tom Baker, Brad Harris, Julie Ege, Michael Dunn, Scott Antony, Jill Haworth, Olga Anthony, Esther Blackmon, Hugh Bailey, Felix Duarte and Willie Ingram the pop eyed man.

Professor Nick Nolter (Pleasence, looking not unlike a egg dipped in treacle) is just your average everyday science lecturer at some nameless English polytechnic splitting his time between teaching over forties who want to get better qualifications to get back into work (well from the look of the cast this seems to be the case) and conducting frankly bonkers experiments in an attempt to create a human/plant hybrid.

As you do.

But the professor needs a fresh supply of people to work on, so to this end he employs the fucked of face, scraggy haired Mr. Lynch (A pre-Doctor Who Dame Tom of Baker), a stinky ne'er do well who just happens to co-own the local carnival, to help him out.

Lynch happily obtains young men and women for Nolter's mad experiments on the understanding that one day the professor will fix his face for him.

Sounds legit.

Anyway with the basic plot out of the way it's back to the Restart classes where three trendy 'young' students; blonde buxom Hedi (Ege from shitloads of stuff including your granddads bed), luscious Lauren (the bobble headed beauty Haworth star of Tower of Evil) and Tony (Antony, from Ken Russell's Savage Messiah) have decided to have a word with the visiting scholar - and token American hunk - Dr. Brian Redford (B movie lunk Harris from The Mad Butcher amongst other classics) regarding the rumours they've heard about Nolter’s research.

Being a nosy bugger Redford agrees to look into it.

"Shite in mah....oh, someone already has".

Meanwhile back at the carnival the employees are a wee bit unhappy.

And not just because they all smell of cabbage.

Nope, it seems that they're getting a tad suspicious at the amount of new freaks suddenly appearing.

Lynch's partner, a pre-Simpsons Mr. Burns (Dunn, who sadly died at the age of 38 during production not long after completing all his scenes. As a plus point it did mean that he didn't have to sit thru' it) tries to calm his regular workers by saying he put an ad in the paper and an entire family from Cradley Heath turned up for the job.

Could he be lying?

All this talk of bearded ladies and tiny men in hats is beginning to annoy Lynch tho' who vents his frustration on the tent pole before stomping off in a club-footed rage.

A wee bit like your Auntie Jean used to after a few sherries at Christmas.

Deciding that what Lynch needs is a surprise party to show how well liked he is his co-workers throw up some tinsel (not literally mind tho' with hindsight that would be worth seeing), organize a kiddy friendly - as opposed to kiddy fiddling - DeeJay and bake him a cake.

Unfortunately this act of kindness sends him into a violent (and dribbly) rage that can only be sated by a visit to a dirty, baby doll nightie clad whore who lives by the fish market.

What your dad gets up to at camera club.

Meanwhile back at the main plot our trendy tecs have decided to take a break from their investigations to spend an evening at the local fairground.

As over 30's often do.

After a few rides on the waltzers and eating their own body weight in candyfloss the groovy group spy the freakshow tent huddled in a dark corner of the park so decide that half an hour taking the absolute cunt out of those less fortunate than themselves would be the perfect way to end the night.

And before you go all PC and huffy on me remember this, dear reader, is the reason we're watching.

Well it's the reason I'm watching, I mean you're not actually watching it are you?

You're reading this.

Tho' to be honest you could be doing both - how would I know?

I'm not your mum.

For one thing I've never caught chlamydia off your uncle Paul.

And you wonder why her and your dad have separate rooms.

But I digress.

See her? That's your mum that is.

Upon entering the tent our merry band - and the viewer - are confronted by some of the strangest sights known to man.

There's an old lady with a hairy face, a woman with really bad exzema dubbed The Lizard Woman (Blackmon), a boy with no bones in his legs (no, really) non-sensationally named Terry the Frog Boy (Duarte), the bendy backed Human Pretzel (Bailey), a scarily sexy Monkey Woman and everyone's favourite, the fantastic Popeyed Jeff (Willie Ingram - but probably not this one) a man who can make his eyeballs pop out from their sockets.

"Eye son".

Now part of me wants to say that exploiting those born differently for cheap entertainment is distasteful and somewhat sickening in this more aware climate.*

But screw that, this guy can actually make his eyeballs bulge out of his skull!

How fucking cool is that?

Tunnel or funnel?

Anyway, as you can probably guess Nolter's experiments get more and more freaky climaxing with poor Tony getting turned into a hideous Venus flytrap/human/vagina hybrid with a taste for tramps and blondes (and trampy blondes) whilst the Professor makes a speech arguing the case for the creation of a race of super-humans and poor old Lynch is hunted down by a gang of dwarves using attack dogs.

Oh yeah and Ege gets her kit off and is touched up by a tree-type thing**.

There's no denying that The Mutations is a bona fide classic of British exploitation cinema, what should be a crass and tasteless excuse to show differently-abled folk for cheap enjoyment is surprisingly entertaining and almost apologetic when it comes to it's subject matter.

It's almost as if it wants to channel the sympathetic edge of the Tod Browning classic Freaks with it's "Who are the real monsters?" message but kinda drops the ball as soon as Scott Antony stumbles into shot dressed as a giant fanny tho'.

But fair play for trying.

"Look dad! I'm from Sedgley!"

 

Saying that tho' the films mad mix of gore, girls, gritty social commentary and gro-bag induced terrors adds a totally schizophrenic feel to the whole thing that kinda works in it's favour tho' at times the heavy-handed plotline plight of the carnival folk and their abuse at the hands of the loutish Lynch does feel a wee bit  at odds in a story about man eating plants and a saliva slopping bloke with a potato stuck to his face.

But despite (or because) of all this The Mutations is both utterly brilliant and totally crap in equal measures.

Jeremy Corbyn, up the casino, Blackpool, 1978.

Scarily tho' the movie was directed by an honest to goodness Oscar winner, Jack Cardiff (who won best cinematographer for 1948 movie Black Narcissus), showing that he had either a secret love of shlock horror or the onset of Alzheimer's - it's your choice, and it's this unsure style, coupled with his almost erotic obsession with time-lapse footage of plants growing, topless dolly birds and the real life freak show performances at the movies half way point that makes this the cinematic equivalent of drunkenly shagging your best mates mum.

It might be great at the time but with hindsight you end up feeling slightly guilty and even a wee bit itchy from enjoying it so much.


Worth watching, but only if you're alone.

Or just very lonely.

Hopefully I'll pick something a wee bit less controversial next time.

If I can be arsed that is.











































*Let's be honest here, I'm just pissed off that I'm the only Autistic person in the world who can't count cards, is rubbish at maths and never wins owt in the casino.....Imagine how shit it is to not even do Autism properly.





**Which seems to be a running theme in films of this era.....look here if you don't believe me.

double trouble.

Even tho' it's been a couple of weeks since the audience splitting BBC adaptation of Dracula (which I must admit to thoroughly enjoying) was shown we're still on a wee bit of a vampire fix here in Unwell Towers, gorging ourselves on the very best (or is that very beast?) bloodsucking blockbusters.

Oh yes and this.

All I can say is shite movie, vaguely amusing back story.

So prepare yourself dear reader for the truth behind... 

Dracula vs. Frankenstein (1971).
Dir: Al Adamson.
Cast: Anthony Eisley, Regina Carrol, Russ Tamblyn, Jim Davis, Angelo Rossitto, Greydon Clark, Anne Morrell, Forrest J Ackerman, John Bloom, Lon Chaney, Jnr, J. Carrol Naish and Zandor Vorkov.

“She used to have fantasies about being a freak…
Two heads, an eye missing, elongated spine.
Anything that was grotesque turned her on.”

Somewhere in California - the Oakmoor Cemetery to be precise - world famous lord of the undead Count Dracula (disguised by the look of things as an almost AIDS thin pedo with pubes for hair and played to almost cardboard perfection by 'Zandor Vorkov' AKA Roger Engel) is busy unearthing the remains of Doctor Frankenstein's monster.

What? You mean to tell me you skipped the part of the book where the creatures remains are secreted to the US to be experimented on?

Surprised to see a black satin clad sex offender digging around in the middle of the night the cemeteries lone security guard (the directors dad) comes to investigate, getting his neck nibbled for his trouble.

Pay attention at this part, as it's the only vaguely vampiric thing Dracula will partake in during the whole movie.

Meanwhile under Brighton pier a fairly foxy girl is nervously feeling her way thru' a fog of what can only be cigarette smoke before being suddenly - and unconvincingly -  attacked by an axe-wielding, alcoholic Lon Chaney, Jr. (who distressingly looks close to death).

The axe cuts short her scream.

And cuts off her head.

We cut too but fear not, for it's only a cinematic phrase meaning the action (well, I say action) is moving to somewhere else.

And that somewhere else is glorious Las Vegas, where glamorous grannie Judith Fontain (director Adamson's wife, the late Carrol, star of Satan's Sadists and official pin-up girl of raunchy rockers The Sleepfarmers) is performing her groovy nite-club act to a packed audience via the wonders of stock footage (well, takes up a couple of minutes running time) before retiring to her dressing room to let the air out of her breasts and check her fan mail.

Alongside the final demands, STD test results and court summonses is a letter from one Sergeant Martin Martin (Dallas star Davis) of the Californian Police Missings Persons Bureau (yup, that's the name on the envelope), informing Judith that her wee sister Jodie has gone missing.

Dracula, up the casino, 1973.....Yesch!

Judith, being a concerned sister and desperate to get the plot moving rushes to California (I'm assuming it's just down the road) in order to help with the police investigation much to the chagrin of the permanently scowling Sgt. Martin.

"Hey lady, the world is a dark place," Martin informs her as he switches off his desk lamp in order to batter the point home "If you have any wool I suggest you get knitting!" he suggests usefully before heading off to beat up some students.

Left to her own devices, our heroine wanders innocently into the dangerous hippie neighbourhood where her sister was last seen.

Entering the famous Hippie Hilton (500 McLaughlin Dr. Santa Cruz, CA 95064-1084, families welcome) Judith tries to ingratiate herself into the whole hippie thing by asking for a coffee whilst showing pictures of her sis to all and sundry but this only succeeds in getting her mistaken for a cop, leaving the owner no alternative but to spike her drink with LSD.

Smart.

Cue much hair tugging, indiscriminate crash zooms and Judith writhing on a platform whilst wearing a white fishnet body stocking to a frantic bongo beat.

Far out.

Luckily she's rescued by nice guy hipster Clive Strange (hard working Clark, best known - to me anyway - for Without Warning) and his mousy girlfriend Samantha (Morrell, you may remember her as the floating harem girl in John Goldfarb, Please Come Home! or maybe not).

Lon Fancies a wee mooth shite-in....are you man enough for the challenge?

Meanwhile at the local chamber of horrors conveniently located on the end of the pier next to the bingo hall, the wheelchair-bound scientist and former member of NWA Dr. Drea (Naish, desperate to pay his medical bills) is busy attempting to perfect a special formula that will enable mankind to live forever and have perfectly coiffured  hair even after a heavy night out.

Unfortunately he can only make this formula by beheading people then bringing them back to life before finally lobotomizing them.

But if it means I only ever have to style my quiff once a month then I'm game.

Aided by urine stained imbecile Groton (that'll be Lon then, poor sod) and professional little person Grazbo (Rossitto famous for everything from Freaks to Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome via Galaxina), who've been promised physical and mental superiority once the formula is perfected, this dynamic duo find suitable candidates for experimentation via Grazbo's job at the box office, leaving Groton to chop them up.

"Laugh now!"

After one particularly heavy night of lobotomy-based fun, Dr. Drea is surprised when a strange man steps out of the shadows and demands to talk to him.

Examining the strangers ring (snigger) Drea identifies the visitor as Count Dracula, and Dracula not to be outdone, identifies Drea as the last of the Frankenstein family.

With Drea realizing that his Colonel Sanders disguise is fooling no-one and Drac just relieved that he's finally met someone who doesn't piss themselves laughing whilst looking at him they pair settle down for an excruciatingly bad chat that although meant to fill in an important bit of back story just careers off on bizarre tangents.

None of this is helped by the fact that Dracula appears to have been dubbed by someone standing in a well.

"Ahm sorry hen....ave pished mahsel again!"

Anyway, from what I can gather (after rewatching the movie a few times) is that  Drea was adopted (which is why he's not known as Frankenstein and more importantly why he's considerably less hip than other Def Jam stalwarts) and that his work in monster construction was discredited by three evil doctors, one of which caused the accident that crippled him.

This man whom we shall call simply Dr. Bill Beaumont (because that's his name) added insult to injury by stealing the Frankenstein monster and burying it in the graveyard from the films opening.

Luckily for all concerned the infamous Zornov Comet is rapidly approaching the Earth, heralding the beginning of the monster's second life cycle.

Look I'm just typing what was said.

Meanwhile junked up Judith suddenly wakes up in the bed of aged hippie Mike Howard (Eisely from Knots Landing), a local middle-aged guy who looks after the disenfranchised yoof in the area whilst dressed like a teenage rent boy.

Nope, nothing sinister about that at all.

Taking a shine to Judith (he's obviously bored with failing to score at the school gates so he's decided on someone nearer his own - old - age) the pair begin to discuss Jodie's disappearance, eventually coming to the conclusion that, being disabled Dr. Drea is behind it.

Cue hours of wandering around aimlessly back and forth to the house of horrors exhibit intercut with dozens of unnecessary appearances  by a chubby, pube bearded Russ Tamblyn playing an evil rapist biker named Rico.

Truly the man has no shame.

Or a fucking huge rehab bill.

Heath Ledger farted....and it was an eggy one.

Skipping forward a few chapters (look I'm only human) and finally Judith and Mike (after admitting their love for each other and having a wee kiss and cuddle) have decided to take one last look at Drea's horror show.

Only to make it more interesting they've turned up in the middle of the night.

Wandering around in the 'dark', they pair of wannabe investigators completely fail to see or hear Rico and his pals trying to rape Samantha and also miss Groton's subsequent slaughter of the bad boy bikers but, and give credit where it's due, Mike does manage to hear Groton quietly pull a chain that opens a trapdoor to Drea's lab.

Trying to find the source of the noise, the pair also manage to miss the three hacked to pieces bodies at their feet but do spot a teeny tiny locket belonging to Samantha buried in the sand.

I'll be honest, even I've stopped caring at this point.

"Fiona! Where's mah lunch?"

Drea, lying in wait behind a shady model of a giant monkey catches the pair as they sneak around the exhibits and manages to lure our loved up losers into the dank, dark basement below his lair.

If you could take a minute now to consider the layout of Drea's Chamber of Horrors.

If you've been paying attention you'll remember that it's built on a pier over the beach to give Groton easy access to the sands to kill women.

So how (and more importantly where) does the stone clad gothic basement fit in?

I have to be honest and say that at the time I totally accepted this without question showing the true extent of the films almost supernatural mind numbing powers.


It was only the following day that I realized that the whole thing was complete and utter shame trousered shite from start to finish.

Anyway, Drea explains the plot, Judith finds her naked sister in a big jam jar and Mike, being an all American hero type picks a fight with the dwarf, causing Groton's pet cat to fall down the trapdoor.

I kid you not, cinema hardly ever gets as exciting as this baby.

Tosser.

Much infant school slapping and grimacing ensues culminating with wee Grazbo falling onto an axe giving Judith time to escape to the roof.

Of a factory.

Not a pier.

Mike however is trapped behind some boxes as an ever more excited Drea take potshots at his arse with an air pistol before giving chase in what must be modern cinemas slowest wheelchair versus middle aged man race ever.

All looks lost until Mike in a rare flash of intelligence, hides behind the monkey exhibit and shouts "BOO!" as Drea wheels by causing the scientist to shit himself, the runny consistency of which makes Drea slide off his seat and onto a prop  guillotine exhibit, which decapitates him.

Back on the roof Groton, pulling his best sex face, is closing in on Judith but just as all seems lost who should turn up but Sgt. Martin and Clive Strange back from discovering the three bodies under the pier.

Strange spots Judith running across the roof and Martin, desperate to shoot someone, opens fire on Groton.

"Put it in me!"

Running to the roof to comfort Judith, Mark seems to have forgotten one tiny thing.

The title of the film.

For waiting in the shadows Dracula is plotting a terrible revenge on those who have thwarted his plans.

A revenge that will at some point involve him bitch slapping a potato-faced monster whilst Judith's breasts look on in terror....

"I fang you!"

Where to start when it comes to the late king of exploitation Al Adamson and his work?

Director, producer, actor and writer Adamson directed an impressive (in quantity if not quality) thirty movies between 1961 and 1983 before retiring from films and getting involved in real estate.

Tho' probably not beach-front piers with stone basements.

Back to his movies tho' and whilst Dracula vs. Frankenstein is nowhere near one of his better efforts it does have the most comically convoluted stories behind it's journey to the big screen.

Beginning production in 1968 as The Blood Seekers with much the same plot and cast Adamson was reported as being unhappy with the finished product, feeling it lack a certain something and consequently shelved the entire movie, putting all his efforts into the other seven (!) he had in production at the same time.

Jump forward a few years and Al's producer pal Sam Sherman, is panicking into a bottle of Rum.

It appears that he foolishly signed a contract to deliver a brand new full colour Frankenstein film to the drive-in theatre crowd and, after spending the cash on crisps and fizzy pop has only days in which to find one before he gets his legs broken.

In an attempt to cheer his pal up, Adamson took Sherman to the cinema where the pair found themselves watching Paul Naschy's debut film La Marca del Hombre Lobo (AKA The Mark of The Wolfman) alongside Holiday on The Buses.

It was at this point Sherman hatched a cunning plan.

He would buy the rights to the movie and change the title to The Something of Frankenstein therefore filling his obligation and make a few bob on the side.

Unfortunately tho' Holiday on The Buses was too expensive (Hammer wanted £18.60 for the worldwide rights) to purchase so instead he ended up with Naschy's movie which he quickly retitled Frankenstein's Bloody Terror (despite it not featuring Frankenstein) before releasing it onto an unsuspecting audience.

The plan worked and to celebrate Sherman took Adamson out for a baked potato and a pint of cider and it was during this meal, as Adamson looked down on the cheese melting across his lumpy spud that the director realised what was missing from the Blood Seekers footage.

A monster with a potato for a face.

With a cry of "Eureka!" Adamson jumped from his seat causing the man sitting behind to accidentally spray tomato sauce of his wife's heaving bosom.

Noticing the red liquid dripping seductively down her swan-like (if a little too hairy) neck the film making duo looked at each other before both shouting:

"Dracula!"

And thus a legend was born.

"Wahey Blakey! I'm spunking tenners!"

But who had the gravitas to play such an iconic roll?

And who was brave enough to bring the Count kicking and screaming into the 1970's?

Sherman wanted genre veteran John Carradine, thinking that the actor would bring a noble gravitas to a portrayal of an older, more desperate Dracula, out of time and thrust into the modern world for one last attempt at immortality.

But Adamson had other ideas, he wanted someone young and sexy but more importantly he wanted someone with a beard.

A beard fashioned from pubic hair.

With this in mind he called upon his stockbroker Robert 'pubey' Engel who accepted the part on the spot.

Funnel or tunnel?

Renamed Zandor Vorkov (a partial anagram of Talentless tosser), his voicebox replaced with that of a bass-heavy transistor radio slightly off-tuned to medium wave and his skin bleached with ammonia, Engel's was ready to begin shooting.

All that was left to do now was to find and purchase a really big potato and find someone willing to put it on their head.

This job fell to the massive, slack jawed 7 foot, 4 inch bulkily hulky John Bloom. Known as Johnny 'Horsecock' Bloom to his friends, the actor had already appeared in such greats as The Incredible 2-Headed Transplant and Up Your Alley before Adamson came a calling and he too had unique ideas as to how the infamous monster should be portrayed.


As a club-footed tramp obviously.

And how did it all turn out?

Well I would usually say see for yourselves but frankly I'm not that much of an unfeeling bastard.

If you have already seen it there are groups out there to help you adjust back into normal life life.

And if not?

Just memorize this review and kid on that you saw it.

It's for the best.

mudhoney.

We're officially on holiday so plenty of time to indulge my Christmas tradition of only watching quality cinema.


The Spawn of The Slithis (1978).
Dir: Stephen Traxler
Cast: Alan Blanchard, Dennis Lee Fault, Judy Motulsky, J.C. Claire, Steven J. Hoag, John Hatfield, Rocky Fumarelli, Mello Alexandria, Dennis Falt, Hy Pyke, Wendy Rastattar and Win Condict.

“Why is it called Slithis?”  “For the same reason your parents named you ‘Jeff’.”

Our story begins with a sub-Jaws style score and a shaky pan across what looks like one of the rougher areas of Dudley (that's in the West Midlands in Englandshire for any Americans/thick people reading) settling - luckily before any of us vomit from the drunken camerawork - on a couple of kids playing frisbee.

In slow motion for some reason.

Thinking about it it's probably as one of them is morbidly obese so it's a good excuse to focus on his wobbling mantits as he runs about which, if I'm honest is about as exciting/erotic as this movie gets.

Anyway, after a particularly long toss from the fat lad his small ginger pal comes across a pair of mutilated dogs lying by the canal.

As the pair disinterestedly ride away in search of cakes the local radio news announces that there has been a spate of dog attacks around town and as if to prove this to the audience we abruptly cut to evening time where a yappy mutt is busy barking at a camera with a plastic cup sellotaped to the lens in order to give us an 'otherworldly' point of view of the proceedings that just makes it obvious that we're looking thru' a kids tumbler.

At least the thought was there.

If not the budget.

Or the imagination to come up with anything better.

Oh well.

His owners are woken by the noise and head downstairs to investigate only to be cruelly dispatched by the unseen intruder.

By dispatched I mean killed obviously, not packaged up and posted.

Pink ball straight in the pocket.

The police are convinced that the spate of bad murders are the work of a Manson style cult but rugged high school journalism teacher and ex-reporter for the Baldpate Advertiser Wayne Connors (Blanchard who left acting to sell insurance in the Merrimack Valley area of northeastern Massachusetts fact fans) has other ideas.

Mainly about acceptable fashion choices for heterosexual men by the look of his outfits but each to their own.

Anyway Wayne decides that if he alone cracks the case and writes the story (as well as writing and singing the theme tune obviously) it'll safe him from a turgid life teaching scantily clad cheerleader types how to spell, so much to the chagrin of his wife, Jeff (The Big Bus and Idaho Transfer star Motulsky, who was also once married to top Star Trek villain Charlie X himself Robert Walker Jr.), he heads off to the home of the two most recent recent victims for a wee nosy around.

Breaking into the house and having a quick rummage thru' the drawers it's not long before he's accosted by a sneezing policeman whom he placates by giving a cough sweet before leaving with a handful of dried shite he scraped off the carpet which he excitedly takes to be analyzed by the school biology teacher, Doctor John Leslie (Claire in his only film role) before returning home for an evening of snacks, soda and scrabble with his missis.

"Is it in yet?"

Their romantic night is interrupted tho' when an overenthusiastic Dr. John turns up at the door eager to share the results of his tests.

And by that I mean the ones he did on the shit not that he's about to announce that he has Hep B.

Tho' he does have a yellowish pallor to him, which in fairness may just be the lighting.

Anyway John grabs a beer and begins his big scene, explaining that the scraping is a wee bit radioactive and is a - little - piece of organic and inorganic stuff that he's never before encountered.

Tho' the fact that he looks like he's even never encountered a real woman before let alone anything remotely scientific dents the authenticity of the claim somewhat.

All this talk of radiation and shite tho' does remind him of something he read in GetWell! Magazine once when he was in the dentist waiting room.

Get Well Magazine: Get in the fucking sea you uneducated showers of shites - Reversing Autism? I would trust the writer to reverse a fucking go-kart. Wankers. And breathe.

You see nearly twenty years ago, the very first nuclear power plant opened for business in Wisconsin, everything was hunky dory till one afternoon a tipsy cleaning lady accidentally lent on an important lever causing a radiation leak to mutate the mud at the bottom of a nearby lake and made it sentient.

Aye, sounds legit.

This was discovered after a wee boy became ill with sickness and diarrhea after inadvertently drinking some of the water and his mum took him to the doctor for treatment for his explosive poo - or 'shitils' as the boy called them.

Hence the scientists named the organism Slithis as shitils sounded silly and not at all realistic.

True story bro.

But John is quick to point out that mutant mud doesn't have legs or eats folk so this version of the Slithis would have to absorbed a person or something.

"RRRRRRRRRRRRRRangers!"

And with that he bids his farewell and we cut to a pair of homeless men drinking cheap wine and gazing at each other far too intently whilst sitting next to a boat.

Actually it could be behind the scenes footage of the director and writer, who knows?

Anyway as the pair sit, sup and talk bollocks - in order to boost the running time - some spooky music kicks in and we're back with the plastic tumbler as someone - or something, OK we know it's something - watches them from afar in a totally non-pervy manner.

Well I assume it's non-pervy tho' I may be mistaken.

I mean imagine a movie where a mutated pile of shite furtively masturbates over tramps before eating a dog or two.

The fucker would be box office gold.

So the beardy tramp named Bunky and played to piss soaked perfection by John Hatfield who I assume isn't the American professional baseball player from the 1860s and 1870s - decides that after all this imbibing that he really needs a piss so off he trots to find a bin to go behind but just as he's about to unleash his engorged, pock-marked member the Slithis jumps out from the shadows and scares him so he runs away.

His friend and ex Ordinary Boys frontman Preston (Fumarelli, kissy lips and stinky trainers) meanwhile has fallen asleep so sees or hears nothing.

Fuck me that was exciting.

Rolf Harris is taking the divorce well.

Whilst attacks on dogs and fat folk seems to be the norm it appears that attacking the transient community is a step too far as we're now treated to exciting footage of various law enforcement types looking in bins and pushing tramps as the desperately try to find the person responsible for the killings cum piss spying.

Unfortunately everyone they meet is dressed as tho' they were auditioning for an off-Broadway stage musical version of Midnight Cowboy so the film takes an unexpected turn into camp territory as we're subjected to more and more shots of stubbly topless men in a variety of ever shorter - and tighter - cut off denims.

Even Wayne gets in on the act when he heads downtown to pump a few of them for information, decked as he is in a navel revealing cheesecloth shirt and a jaunty panama hat.

Heading over to the boatyard our hero indulges in a vaguely homoerotic chat with Preston - all long lingering looks and lip-licking as they discuss homeless drinking habits and how best to keep warm at night - regarding the whereabouts of Jethro before heading into town to offer cash to a variety of semi-dressed young men lounging on statues with their legs spread and finally turning up at a rundown motel where Bunky is slouched in a chair looking for all the world like an abused beanbag cosplaying Tom Savini.

Which is nice.

"My film."

Offering him a cash incentive to talk Wayne finds out that Bunky did in fact see the beast whilst trying to have a wee but due to outstanding fines for public urination can't go to the police but does give Wayne a pretty good description of the creature.

And a wee hug before he leaves.

Bless.

After a tearful wank, a Pot Noodle and a shower Wayne and Dr. John decide to visit the scientist behind the original Slithis outbreak, the caramel faced human testicle Dr. Erin Burick (voice actor Falt who's done everything from Silent Hill to Castlevania) to see if their idea that the Slithis can now walk about and eat stuff is true.

He reckons so and suggests that they collect some mud samples from the river where the creature originated not only to be 100% certain but to also add a Jaws dimension to the film seeing as that was quite popular and anything that will help this monstrosity to be seen must be a good thing.


S obviously they're gonna need a (bigger) boat.

Enter (roughly from behind whilst indulging in a frantic reacharound) Captain Chris Alexander (Alexandria famous for Psychic Killer and playing a naked dancing hologram in THX 1138) who offers not only the use of a boat and crew but throws in some vaguely stereotypical 'jive-talkin' black dude' dialogue for good measure.

He must be related to the cleaner cum housemaid Elsie in Mausoleum, yo dig?

"So how much for a wee mooth shite-in boys?"

Heading out to sea - OK heading onto the lake, albeit a fairly big one but still - aboard the good ship Creation, they 'anchor' the boat just offshore enough to not need filming permits and Chris scuba dives down in order to get the samples.

Obviously we have to take his word for this seeing as the film's budget wont stretch to any underwater scenes so to make up for this Wayne sits on the boat looking into the water for what seems like days whilst every so often Chris pops up and hands him a jar.

Stunning.


Anyway all this bobbing up and down is tiring work so the boys all head home and after a sweet late night phone chat 'tween Wayne and Dr. John regarding the lack of consistency  between the samples (?) our hero decides it's time to shower Jeff with some of the attention he's been paying to the local tramps.


Unfortunately it goes all soft focus before the good bits.

But Wayne isn't the only person feeling a wee bit amorous this eve as we're suddenly in the towns most happening bar where the swarthy sex obsessed Doug (ex catalogue model and documentary producer Hoag) is busying himself betting on a turtle race - no really - whilst keeping a lookout for any under-aged talent that may wander by.

And he doesn't have to wait too long as the bubble gum popping, cousin visiting  Jennifer (David Cassidy - Man Undercover co-star Rastattar) soon catches his slightly less milky eye.

Checking if she's 'old enough'? ("Does it matter?" is her reply - zoiks!) Doug takes her up the marina where he's parked his boat a seductively tells her to go onboard and pour a drink whilst he has a piss.

The smooth talking devil.

Cue what seems like hours of lecherous small talk and illegal lolita lust as Dug plys Jennifer with more and more cheap wine before inviting her to his bedroom for a nude massage.

Luckily the Slithis turns up and kills Doug before he can get naked but just to make things even more uncomfortable than they already are we're treated to a 5 minute scene of the Slithis tossing Jennifer around the boat in slow motion - with the cameraman making the effort to show her pants as often as possible - before the beasts clumsily tears her blouse (which is a shame as it was smashing) for a much needed breast shot* and then biting her to death.

Just in case you thought I was taking the piss.....

The thing that haunts you about this (totally unnecessary) scene tho' isn't the dubious sexual politics or latent misogyny or even the fact that Doug has a framed photo of himself - surrounded by candles - on his bedside table.

Nope, it's the fact that during the monster molestation bit the photograph is replaced by a shoddy drawing.

No, really....just look:

Sexy portrait.

Shit sketch.

And they thought we'd be too busy looking at some poor actresses breasts to notice?

Well they obviously didn't count on someone with Autism powered super pedantry watching it did they?

With the blatant sexism out of the way it's back to the main plot and Wayne and Dr. John have gone to the police station to explain who all the bad murders have actually been committed by a human sized bit of radioactive sea shite.

And it's during this scene that we find the movie's one saving grace.

Ladies and gentlemen I give you - no fucking take him, please - Hy Pyke as police lieutenant Jack Dunn:

"Is it Giro day?"

In a - slightly shy of - 4 minute performance that bares absolutely fuck all relation to the plot, Pyke delivers one of the greatest - and most terrifying performances ever committed to celluloid, coming across like the bastard child of Joe Spinell and a Fraggle he eye rolls and screams thru' a page and a half of nonsensical dialogue with all the warm, humour and charm of a man with his hemorrhoids trapped in an infants mouth.

They really should have just had him play the lead and have done with it.

Or at least feature him getting his shirt ripped off in slow motion by the beast.

Suffice to say he's tells our dynamic duo to get to fuck leaving them no alternative but to deal with the creature themselves.

After much chat Wayne figures out that the Slithis must be using the water lock to enter the canal from wherever it is he spends his days so to this end decides to close it off leaving it no way to get into town.

And I thought the public transport here was shite.

Anyway as night falls head over to the locks only to find the gate padlocked but luckily Dr. John has the key as his best friend who works at the water authority is really forgetful and hands out keys to folk he trust so he wont lose them.

Shutting (locking?) the, um, lock the pair head over to Captain Chris' boat and armed with some handy sonar equipment from the high school lab set sail to find and kill the Slithis once and for all....

Shot in just twelve days over the long hot summer of  1977, Slithis is a no budget, lo-fi fleamarket 50s throwback that comes across as cheap and downtrodden as the hobos the beast feasts on, with precious screen time taken up with dozens of (non) actors stumbling thru' banal dialogue wearing a succession of more and more uncomfortable charity shop outfits rather than with gruesome killings and when the titular creature finally appears in all his rubber glory you'll be more concerned about how it can manage to walk with such oversized (albeit womanly) hips rather than elicit screams of terror.

But don't worry as there's some underage nudity and murder on a houseboat to keep the audience happy.


Said no director ever.

Talking of directors, the man behind this one, Stephen Traxler, is fairly interesting.

He first got the movie bug - as opposed to a tummy one - whilst serving in  Vietnam and upon his return home got straight to work on creating the greatest monster movie he could.

Unfortunately he was short of time - and money and nearly everything else - so made Spawn of the Slithis instead.

Not too surprisingly it was another 21 years till he directed again but scarily he didn't slack off in the meantime as he stuck by his dreams of film success, ending up becoming an industry renowned production supervisor with stuff like Waterworld, Gleaming The Cube and Windtalkers under his belt.

But not literally obviously.

Scarily he also co-produced Legally Blonde 2: The Crackdown.

Which let's be honest is more than I'll ever achieve sitting here typing shite that no-one reads so fair play to you Stephen, at least you're living the dream as opposed to wanking for coppers at the bus station like most of the cast ended up doing.

"Aya mah BCG!"

And it's this obvious love of cinema - but possibly loathing for the audience - that stops you turning the movie off and setting light to it as soon as a fat lad bouncing in a too tight T-shirt appears or when various local homeless guys are forced into ever more revealing Daisy Dukes.

Seriously it's actually fairly enjoyable despite itself.

Especially if you have a few bottles of wine handy.

And you haven't eaten.

Which is quite possibly the bizarrest recommendation I've ever given.

"You chase me now!"

True there's way too much exposition, many of the scenes drag on for what seems like an eternity and the editing/effects/acting can only be described kindly as utter bollocks but it's heart is in the right place.

It's just a pity it's brain isn't.    

































*This is what we call sarcasm.

rowdy mole.

Ended up watching this after getting home from The Rise of Skywalker this morning as someone had emailed me to say that there's way to much Star Wars on this blog at the moment and far too little John Agar.

Which is fair enough.

The Mole People (1956).
Dir: Virgil W. Vogel.
Cast:  John Agar, Cynthia Patrick, Hugh Beaumont, Alan Napier, Nestor Paiva, Phil Chambers, Rodd Redwing, Robin Hughes and Dr Frank Baxter.

"Archeologists are the underpaid publicity agents for deceased royalty."

Let's be honest, any film that opens with a video essay from the late, great American TV personality, educator and former professor of English at the University of Southern California Dr. Frank Baxter, has to be worth a look.

As regular readers (just regular readers in general, not of this blog obviously) will already know, Baxter was famous for his appearances as "Dr. Research" in the Bell System Science Series of television specials that ran from 1956–1962 becoming a staple of American classrooms right thru' to the 80s.

Which kinda explains a lot if you think about it.

With Baxter acting as a genial and affable host, the specials combined scientific footage, live action and animation to explain complicated concepts (like space travel, radiation and why you shouldn't elected tangerines to the office of President) in a lively, entertaining and simple way and to thousands of Americans young and old these programmes became the 'go to' for all science minded folk, making a star of its trusted host.

So when Baxter rocks up in the prologue to the film chatting about various hollow Earth myths and theories you have to sit up and listen, for what follows must be true.

And so must the film we're about to see.

Spooky.

Patrick Stewart shooting hoops with one of Mark Shannon's genital warts yesterday.

After what seems like hours of flipcharts and children's drawings we're into the movie good and proper with a title card that informs us that we're in Asia, although to be honest it looks like Egypt from the stock footage tho' the painted backdrops features snow covered mountains so we could actually be anywhere.

I'm going for South Wales.

Anyway, geography aside it's time to meet our heroes for the next 70 odd minutes and they are the dashing  Dr. Wes Bentley (Rhythm Ace and former Mr Shirley Temple, Agar) and the slightly less dashing  Dr. Paul Stuart (Chambers) who are busily digging up bits of stone whilst attempting to look intelligent.

And interested.

Suddenly one of the local workers appears with a stone tablet which Stuart notices is engraved in a language "not of these parts".

Bentley excitedly grabs the ancient artifact and, after blowing the dust away (which makes a change from blowing his agent for roles) announces that the text is Sumerian and tells the tale of a city that disappeared from the face from the Earth.

And with that the camera starts to shake whilst the actors pretend to be slightly concerned as the stone tablet falls to the ground and smashes into pieces.

Bloody hell how exciting is this?

"Is it in yet?"

As a new day breaks (fuck they're clumsy) Bentley and Stuart decide a conference is in order so invite Doctors Jud Bellamin (Beaumont) and Geordi Lafarge (Paiva) over for beer, crisps and a quick chat regarding the broken tabley before rounding the day off with a quick game of soggy biscuit.

LaFarge, as ever, wins.

As they're cleaning up a wee native boy approaches them carrying a bit of market tat cunningly disguised as an ancient artifact whilst motioning toward a crudely painted mountain.
"The mountain was the epicenter of the earthquake!" exclaims Dr. Stuart and with that our fabulous foursome decide to go and explore it.

Cue endless stock footage of snow-covered mountain climbing which I'm pretty sure is exactly the same as the stuff used in The Abominable Snowman.

No really, I'm gonna cut it all together and upload it so you can see for yourselves.

Probably.

After what seems like days of scratchy out of focus snow trudging our merry band finally arrive at the ruins of a Sumerian temple, cunningly disguised a an old set left over from a local pantomime, where Bentley is excited (some would say too excited) to find an old shop window dummy head lying in a pile of polystyrene snow.

"It's the goddess Ishtar!" he exclaims!

And as he does poor Dr. Stuart steps on a cracked bit of concrete and falls thru' a hole into a deep, dark chasm.

Obviously he has the team wallet as Bentley a co. decide to climb after him, giving the viewer the exciting prospect of watching the cast carefully tie ropes, hammer hooks into walls and slide down a spooky shaft all very, very slowly.

Seriously the scene seems to go on for days, the only relief being a long lingering shot of Hugh Beaumont gently easing a rope between his thighs.

One tearful wank and cold shower later and the group are finally at the bottom - tho' not rock bottom, not yet - and crouched over Stuart's corpse, riffling thru' his pockets for photos of his wife in the nude.

The sheer excitement of seeing something so hot raises the temperature in the cave causing the shaft to collapse leaving Bentley, Bellamin and Lafarge no other choice but to press on ever deeper into the dark tunnel ahead.

But as they do a sinister pair of clawed hands appear in the dirt behind them.

That's your Nan that is.

After much walking and waving a torch around he tunnel eventually opens into an underground cavern housing an entire city.

Or at least a painted approximation of one.

Which would probably be OK if the matte artist in question hadn't decided to illustrate the whole thing in really thick Sharpie.

You drew this.

Deciding that they've had enough adventuring for one day the tired time team lie down on the cavern floor to get some sleep.

As you do.

As the trio snore and fart away their troubles a group of the mysterious Mole People (I'm assuming) begins to dig their way up from the under the ground, popping canvas sacks over the shocked archeologists’ heads and dragging them kicking and screaming underground.

Tho' seeing as they're already underground surely that should be underground the underground?

Or more undergrounder?

John Agar is coming for tea? Aaah Lovely!

Waking in a makeshift dungeon resplendent with creepy cobwebs and hanging Halloween style skeleton decorations, Bentley, Bellamin and Lafarge sit around twiddling their thumbs and spouty psuedo-science bollocks till a wall opens and they're motioned to walk forward by a couple of visibly embarrassed extras covered in greasepaint and decked out in children's nativity costumes carrying plastic swords.

Sorry, I meant to type they're motioned to walk forward by a couple of scary  Sumerian warriors.

My bad.

The archeologists are escorted to an ancient - is there any other kind? -  Sumerian temple where a mysterious ceremony, which seems to involve Elinu, the high priest (Alfred the butler himself, Napier looking visibly embarrassed even under a 6 inch layer of white face) shaking a giant cardboard Star Trek badge at a group of 'sexy' dancers, is taking place.

It appears that this is the dance of Ishtar.

Fair enough.

Concluding the ceremony Elinu approaches King Rollo (you can tell he's the king because he appears to be wearing a cardboard hedgehog on his head) and announces that there are 'intruders among them!"

Tho' to be honest from the look of them I'd be less worried about intruders and more concerned about latent arse banditry.

The fucking state of this.

Eyeing them up (and down) with a suspicious gaze the King stands erect and regal before pronouncing that the archeologists are to be put to death via the "Fire of Ishtar" so Bentley and Bellamin, not waiting to wait to find out what this entails,  punches the guards and steals their swords before fleeing into a convenient tunnel with resident oldster Lafarge lagging behind.

As the guards draw ever closer the poor old guy falls to the ground calling on his buddies for help and when Bentley hears Lafarge’s calls he spins around, shining his flashlight into the faces of their pursuers which not only temporarily blinds them but scares them into submission as they shout about Ishtar's light.

Bizarrely tho' the torch isn't actually as bright as the  lights in the city they live in.

Maybe it's actually circles that they're scared of.

Or it might just be shit film-making.

Who knows?

Leaving Lafarge leaning against a cardboard wall (he's tired the poor lamb), Bentley and Bellamin continue to explore the cave eventually reaching the slave quarters where the skirted Sumarian guards spend their days whipping the poor Mole People for some reason or another.

Realizing that nothing exciting has happened for a few minutes one of the mole folk attacks the archeologists and attacks them, alerting the Sumarian guards to their presence.

Cue more pointless running around in the dark till  Lafarge is killed by one of the beasts due to the torch jamming.

No really.

The surviving pair just shrug their shoulders and move on.

Confession time: This scene gave me strange feelings in my tummy as a child.

As the pair continue into the cave system who should pop out from behind a wall but the high priest, it seems that the king has changed his mind about the strangers and wants to invite them around for tea to say sorry.

Sounds legit.

All that hot torch action has convinced the king that the archeologists are actually holy messengers rather than B-movie actors trying to earn a buck and to this end he's organised a party for them that includes fizzy pop, music and scantily clad maidens serving paper plates full of mushrooms.

Standing out from the sexy slaves tho' is the wistful Adele (Patrick strangely credited as Adad in the titles) who is constantly beaten and abuse because unlike everyone else she has normal skin colour and blonde hair.

Obviously she will become Bentley love interest for the remainder of the film.

Meanwhile, whilst all this scoffin' 'n' romancin' is going down the high priest is busily plotting behind the scenes to overthrow the king.

It's almost like that after so many boring scenes of endless cave wanderings and climbing that the writer has decided that what the film needs is an actual plot.

Unfortunately rather than anything remotely involving action this involves lots of forgettable characters in silly hats sitting around talking about stuff.

Case in point as to achieve control of the city the priest sits on a garden chair and slowly orders his co-conspirators to steal Bentley's torch.

The king however has other ideas and demands that Bentley and Bellamin use the magic fire to control the mole people and stop their plans to take over the city.

Bentley however is more interested in Adele and her skills at playing the banjo.

No really.

They look how I feel.

Anyway, more stuff happens, a few mole people get whipped and Bentley continues to gaze wistfully at Adele whilst all the time him and Bellamin are fed mushrooms by sexy albino chicks like the gods they've been mistaken for.

But the film is almost over so it's time to ramp up the action.

Or at least have the priest come across (who are we to judge? it might be a religious thing) LaFarge's corpse proving that our heroes are just mere mortals and deserve to die.

But first there's just time for a fucking terribly choreographed dance routine to accompany three 'sexy' maidens who, one by one disrobe and enter the sunlit room thru' a huge cardboard door and into Ishtar's Flame.
Yup that's right, the high priest is effectively threatening our heroes with death by sunroof.

I mean what if it's raining?

Or cloudy?

Or nighttime?

What your Mum, Nan and Auntie Jean get up to when they say they're at bingo.

Well the guards - after a few minutes waiting - go and retrieve the now burnt remains so their must be a scientific reason for it working.

Oh that's right, Bentley explains that because they've lived underground sunlight is deadly to them.

Well that's OK then.


Anyway some more stuff happens* that leads to Bentley and co. starting a mole man revolution that culminates in the titular beasts attacking the city.

Having stolen the torch the king waves it frantically at the mole men but the batteries are dead which allows the beasts to murder everyone in cold blood, opening the doors to fry the survivors in the blazing sunlight.

Which isn't at all extreme.

Luckily Adele - being a freak with normal skin - is immune to the sun and survives.

With the palace littered in corpses and drenched in blood Bentley, Bellamin and Adele leave the city via Ishtar's flame and climb up the rock face to freedom.

Your sister's wedding night.

"It’s warm…and beautiful," Adele exclaims as she limbs out of the hole and onto the studio set.

Bentley gazes at her lustfully and laughs.

For those of you who think they know how films of this ilk end the makers of The Mole People have an ace up their sleeve.

Or more accurately no idea what constitutes a satisfying ending because 
suddenly as the trio start their journey down the mountain to home an earthquake rocks the mountain causing  Adele to be crushed by a falling stone pillar.

No, really.

Amazingly for a film with such a short running time The Mole People seems to go on forever. 'Directed' (and I use that term in it's loosest possible sense) by Virgil Vogel - the man behind such classics as Space Invasion of Lapland and The Kettles on Old MacDonald's Farm - and 'starring' lug-headed 50s sci-fi icon (as in he was cheap) John (Zontar the Thing from Venus, Attack of the Puppet People, The Brain from Planet Arous, Women of the Prehistoric Planet - top quality one and all) Agar, The Mole People is the cinematic equivalent of a really unsatisfying toilet trip, you know what I mean - you settle down, trousers round your ankles with a good book ready to let slip the (poo) dogs of war and then nothing.

Just painful pushing and grunting followed by a wet fart (if your lucky) 25 minutes later and culminating in a streaky stain on the bowl glistening sadly in the harsh light of the naked bulb.

Just me then?

See that? That's  your film that is.

Ploddingly paced, stiffly acted (if you can call it acted) and as engaging as watching someone nail bent nails into an old piece of wood - which if anything would be a better use of it's cast - The Mole People is so inexcusably horrendous that its only redeeming feature and the only interesting thing about it is the fact that footage from it was reused in a film ever more shite than this one, Jerry Warren's 1966 shitfest The Wild World of Batwoman.

A film so arse-numbingly bad that it even managed to steal the non-sexy bits from a Swedish porn film.**

Avoid.

Unless you have trouble sleeping that is.

Not even with your Dad's.

*All of which is frankly way too boring to even consider typing, tho' it does involve poisoned mushrooms, beast beating and (even) more vaguely erotic dancing whilst John Agar looks on with that smug, punchable expression on his face.

Agar: Punchable.

**In certain establishing shots there's a sign reading "Livsmedel", the Swedish word for grocery store.