hobly city.

Was on the phone to the famous design guru and mastermixer Master Jamie (of Mad Foxes fame) today and bizarrely this film came up.

Noticed the review had originally been posted way back in 2010 so thought I'd drag it into the light, add a few more 'laugh nows' and pass it off as a new one.

I've kinda given the game away now tho.

Horror Hospital (AKA Computer Killers, Frankenstein's Horror-Klinik, 1973).
Dir: Anthony Balch.
Cast: Michael Gough, Robin Askwith, Vanessa Shaw, Ellen Pollock, Dennis Price, Kurt Christian, Barbara Wendy, Kenneth Benda and Skip Martin.

"Now make a clean job of it, Frederick, the car was washed this morning."

It's a grim, grey day in 1970s England, empty Smith's Crisps salt n' shake bags drift across an untidy bit of unkempt woodland as a couple of blood covered 'teens' fashionably decked in dirty, egg stained bandages run from an unseen assailant.

Or from someone attempting to wash their hair.

Meanwhile perched on a nearby hill snug in his shiny Rolls-Royce is the enigmatic (re: camp as pink pants) Dr. Christian Storm (the late, great Gough dressed as your nan) and his delightful dwarf assistant Frederick (genre stalwart and one time owner of Yorkshire's best stocked tobacconist Martin).

But why?

Are they dogging?

Taking in the scenery?

Or just taking it generally?

I mean I can never tell these days.

Noticing the car our dirty duo attempt to run for the hills  but as the Rolls-Royce approaches, huge plastic blades extend from the bodywork and slice off the unfortunate couples heads.

Which means they were either very short or the car is very tall.

"That’ll teach them to try and run away from us," says Frederick in a voice that suggests that the disc must be running at the wrong speed, pushing the heads into a Sainsbury's bag for life as he goes.

Cue the titles and a blast of the DeWolf library music used in Dawn of The Dead.

Which is fairly disconcerting if I'm honest.

"Oi Henri Paul, are you sure this is the quickest way to the chip shop?"

Leaving Grimsville for swinging London, we soon come across (which makes a nice change seeing as it's usually him doing the coming) an angry young man with a lion's mane of hair, the sexy songwriter Jason (The great god that is Sir Robin of Askwith) who's decided to spend his evening drunkenly shouting (fairly) homophobic abuse at top prog-rock band Mystic (or are they actually just a mystic prog-rock band?) in revenge for them stealing one of his songs.

But not this one.

Unfortunately (for Jason) the 'silly red faggot' of a lead singer is actually hard as nails, answering the heckles by giving Jason a bloody good kicking.

Now even angrier and with a bloody nose to boot, Jason decides what he really needs is a break and noticing a flyer for Hairy Holidays - Sun and Fun For The Under 30s, decides to book one the very next day.

Visiting the local travel agency - run as it happens by the enigmatic Mr Jackson Pollack (an incredibly, ahem,  merry Pryce) - Jason excitedly rummages thru' the brochures for anything that tickles his fancy.

Jackson tho', being a totally non clichéd predatory old homosexualist is more interested in eyeing up our blond babe-magnets trouser area than sorting out a suitable break but after realizing he's backing a loser (as opposed to backing slowly yet steadily on his engorged member) in Jason, he packs our hero off to the world famous (it says here) Doctor Storm’s well-being clinic in the aforementioned Grimsville (see how it's all coming together? clever eh?) for a week of drizzle, grey skies and school dinners.

Being integral to the plot Jason agrees and is soon traveling to the clinic via some grainy British Rail stock footage.

It's not all bad weather and bad fashions tho',  as during the journey Jason meets up with the fantastically thighed Judy (button nosed beauty Shaw in her only starring role, tho' she does a great dance in the 1969 Yul Brynner thriller The File of the Golden Goose) and, after announcing that he isn't going to rape her, settles down to a nice chat and a chunk of cheese.

Judy explains that she’s going to the clinic to visit her Aunt Harris (a fantastically thin lipped performance from stage star Pollock) who originally ran a brothel in Holland but is now her sole relative.

No idea why or how these things are connected but there you go.

It seems that poor Judy was conceived out of wedlock causing her mother and aunt to fall out.

But the creepiest revelation is yet to come as it appears that Harris isn't even her aunts real name, yup she actually gets called that due of her love for Harris tweed.

It'd be worth the jail time just to cum over those smooth Lilly white knees.

Anyway, arriving at Grimsville railway station (it's the stop just after Little Rimming and just before Cleft) they're greeted by a morose station master by the name of Linda Carter (the amusingly monickered Benda, best known as the minister in the Pertwee Who classic The Claws of Axos) who begrudgingly gives them directions to the clinic.

Halfway up the bumpy country road tho' it begins to rain but luckily two motorbikes bearing the number plates Storm 1 and Storm 2 - and complete with black, leather-clad riders - arrive to carry the delectable duo the rest of the way.

Greeted at the front door by a bemused (or is that just drunk?) Frederick, Jason and Judy are ushered along to the front desk where Aunt Harris issues the pair with a key to the only room available.

You can almost smell Jason's joy at this news.

And my jealousy obviously.

Introductions out of the way and it's back to more time consuming filler material as Frederick slowly takes them upstairs (ooeerr) with the haunted look of a man trying to remember his lines.

Cut to an open door and a blood soaked bed.

And an uncomfortably long silence before our tiny chum mutters "Nothing to worry about here, I mean we all have our little accidents, you know."

Which is fair enough I suppose.

"It's my anti-mooth shite-in helmet!"

So far we've had gruesome gore, groovy tunes and some top comedy turns.

Unfortunately there's been no nudity so it's lucky for us that the shapely Judy has decided to take an incredibly soapy shower.

But before you can make a grab for the pause button on the remote control, Jason appears clad in only a pair of  Y fronts and a knight’s helmet.

Despite all this cringe inducing helmet based malarkey (or maybe, shudder, because of it) Jason does, in fact get to have 'the sex' with a still visibly wet Judy.

First Liz Fraser then Linda Bellingham and now the voluptuous Vanessa Shaw.

How can us mere mortals ever compete?

"Is it in yet?"

Feeling a wee bit peckish after such hot lovin' the couple head down for dinner where Aunt Harris seats them at a huge table alongside about a dozen bowl haired, bright blue 'teens' resplendent with plastic scars stuck haphazardly to their brows.

"These are our advanced students". explains a helpful Harris. "Don't worry about the dribbling and farting, they won’t speak properly until they've been totally cured."

Before Jason can ask what the fuck she's on about the only other girl at the table, a Ms. Millie Peed (the Erika Blanc alike Wendy from Sex and the Other Woman) starts screaming (badly) before being carried out by a couple of bikers.

Five fingers - never touched the sides. The James Arthur tribute act failed to win any fans at the orphanage Christmas party.

Deciding to skip dessert, Judy and Jason he upstairs to retire to bed (and maybe a bit more sexiness) but any amorous thoughts are soon shattered when the tap starts gushing blood.

Judy screams as the door opens finally revealing the wheelchair bound form of Doctor Christian Storm, MD, BSc, RAC and Tufty Club member no. 465.

It seems he's made a special effort to come and meet his associates niece but can hardly disguise the anger he feels for poor Frederick who, it seems has not only stashed a couple of rotting heads in the cold water tank but he's also failed to post a letter to Judy telling her to stay at home.

"Women can be terribly troublesome, but then so can little men!" he creepily informs Jason just before he slaps Frederick in the face with his riding crop.

And with that he squeakily leaves the room.

Michael Gough: Tunnel or funnel?

As night descends upon Storm Manor Jason decides to go and explore leaving Judy alone in bed.

But not for long tho' as she's soon up and about giving it her best Nancy Drew impression, until that is she stumbles across a dormitory full of lobotomized youngsters clad only in greying Marks and Spencer vest and pants combo's.

Escaping this underwear nightmare our screaming sex kitten is suddenly overcome by what appears to be a man made from Plasticine skulking about in a corridor.

Hearing her screams, Jason jumps to the rescue but is soon overpowered by those shiny helmeted leather boys from earlier.

Your nan's cum face. Trust me, I should know.

Obviously there's not enough plot going on at the moment so let's welcome back the sleazy Mr. Pollack who turns up out of the blue in an attempt to blackmail Storm for more cash and a pair of Jason's undies.

Dirty man.

Unfortunately our bum fun loving chum finds himself on the wrong end of the blade wielding Rolls Royce (actually it's the right end if you think about it) adding not only a new meaning to the phrase 'giving head' but also giving Jason the rudest awakening he's had since he did Linda Bellingham in a sandpit.

His only choice now?

To grab little Frederick and attempt to pump him for information.

The Price is right.

Luckily (for both Fred and viewers of a nervous disposition) Doctor Storm arrives in the nick of time with the offer of showing Jason his army of lobotomized muscle men in the gym.

Homo-erotic subtext anyone?

That's not all tho' as within minutes of unveiling his creations, Storm is proving their might by punching them in the stomach as they do star jumps and making them do back flips by remote control.

Jason, no doubt feeling confused by all the male flesh on show makes a break for the woods followed by two of Storm's biker gang, a very slow fight ensues, ending when one of the leather boys falls into a convenient swamp.

Must admit I never saw that coming.

A wee bit like our hero who manages to not hear two more leatherette’s  squeaking up behind him ready to administer a fucking good kicking.

Confessions of a dangerous mind.

If getting beaten up by two members of The Village People wasn't enough of an indignity, Jason is thrown into the cellar and gassed to sleep, giving us the chance to see a recap of what's happened so far.

Which is very considerate of the producers if you think about it.

Meanwhile back in the main plot, Storm is sticking a kebab stick into the skull of one of his patients, trying not to be too upset that Aunt Harris has decided to go back to running a brothel.

You never get this kinda stuff on The Archers.

Realizing that there is in fact a distinct lack of bona fide male tottie on screen (as much as he tries Askwith can't manage alone), the producers introduce us to a funky young traveler named Abraham (Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger's Christian) who, by the way he's walking has sold more than his soul to be in this movie.

It appears that our exotic pal is looking for his girlfriend Millie (you remember) but before he even has a chance to flutter his cow-like eyelashes at Harris the poor sod is taken from behind and thrown into the cellar alongside a slowly recovering Jason.

"excuse me...I have a women's period".

Tired of seeing so many young men beaten off by Storm's henchmen, Aunt Harris goes back to packing her collection of market stall dildos and Russian dolls but is rudely interrupted by the plasticine man who appears to rub her face to death, whilst back in the cellar Abraham is explaining his character motivation to Jason.

Clicking seamlessly into Shatner mode, Jason deduces that their only hope of escape is if Frederick has had a change of heart and decided to become a good guy.

Which, bizarrely enough is exactly what happens because at that very moment our pint sized pal is busy cooking our heroes some hearty porridge whilst spiking the guards’ Limeade.

Cue scenes of knockabout comedy gold that'd shame David Lynch as lil' Fred has to drag the comatose guards around before piling them up so he can reach the door handle, totally ignoring the handy bucket on the wall right next to him.

Escaping the cellar our buff boys (and Frederick) race to the gym to free Jenny (hands up if you'd forgotten about her too) only to bump into Doctor Storm (again) who appears to have been sitting there all night waiting patiently for our heroes to turn up so he can explain his motivation to them.
Nah....that'd be too silly even for this film.

Wouldn't it?

Cue even more flashbacks only this time they're in order to give us a wee bit of background on the doc.

She might look uncomfortable now but just you wait till the Karaoke starts.

Surprisingly he wasn't always a camp cripple but used to be a handsome womanizer with the dress sense of Peter Wyngarde, the hair of Martin Fry and a pair of working legs.

Tutored by Pavlov (but not alas his dog) and employed by Stalin, Storm soon became obsessed with the idea of raising an army of remote controlled circus performers and gymnasts in order to entertain - then maybe even take over - the world.

As one would.

Unfortunately a passing gypsy accidentally burned his laboratory down forcing him to move to the UK.

Illegally.

UKiP would have a field day.

Actually they probably wouldn't care because he's white.

Tho' he does sound a wee bit Polish so maybe they would.

But I digress.

Bored with all this mindless smalltalk and random footage of an ugly couple attempting to fuck in a kiddies sandpit Storm orders his men to give Jason and Abraham another kicking before locking them up, this time alongside Frederick.

That's the look, that's the look, the look of love.

Bored with the constant running away, getting captured and frightful beatings our by now terrific threesome reckon that enough is enough and decide that this time they're gonna fuck some shit up.

But first they need to escape.

If only they could find someone small enough to crawl out of the window, crawl along the ledge, climb in thru' the catflap, beat the guard and let them out.

All eyes on Frederick then.

Again.

Believe it or not he does indeed make his way thru' the window, round the ledge and back in the catflap, even beatings the pesky guard to death with an axe before freeing the boys.

His heroism is short lived (as well as short arsed) for no sooner have they started down the stairs when a sneaky leather guy throws the poor little sod over the balcony to his doom.

One Direction...and we all know where that is.

After rescuing Judy from the operating table, Jason and Abraham set out to find Millie but alas it's too late to save her seeing as whilst all this fighting and escaping has been going on the poor girl has been totally brainwashed by Storm.

And if that wasn't enough the pervy plasticine man from earlier has just sneaked into her room and fucked her to death before making his escape out of a window just as Jason and Abraham burst in.


But he's left something behind.

Lying on the bed covered in egg, sweat and semen stains is the remains of Doctor Storms full body latex suit.

Turns out he burned more than his fingers during the lab fire.

Abraham obviously upset by the fact that his girlfriend has been murdered starts to smash stuff, stopping only to piss in the doctor's filing cabinets and torching the place before getting chased away by the remaining staff.

Stealing the Rolls Royce Jason gives chase to the doctor, hoping at last for a wee taste of revenge...

Or at least a cheeky squeeze of his Playdoh-like man boobs.

After years in the cinematic wilderness, the release of Horror Hospital on shiny Bluray a few years back means that this lost gem from a talent hardly mentioned in serious film tomes will - hopefully - and deservedly take it's place in the annals of classic British Horror.

Quite possibly the first post-modern horror movie ever made, coming across as it does like Acorn Antiques directed by Sam Raimi or Casualty produced by David Cronenberg.

Yes it's that good.

Made at a time when British horror was floundering as it tried to match it's American counterparts after years of Hammer house based costume chills Horror Hospital perfectly encapsulating everything that's great about the genre at the time.

I mean what other country would counter the fearsome sight of Leatherface wielding a chainsaw with doddery old dear Sheila Keith brandishing a Woolworth's bought Black and Decker drill as the legendary Pete Walker did in Frightmare?

It's just a pity that unlike Walker, director Anthony Balch never became a household horror name.

Well apart from in our house anyway.

And for those of you scratching your collective heads here's a wee bit of background info on the great man.

But not too much obviously I mean you're not reading Sight And Sound.

Well if you're on this blog chances are you're struggling with the words and just looking at the pictures.

Anyway, a legend within the industry, Balch was well known for snapping up European arthouse and exploitation movies at cut down prices before re-releasing them in the UK with sexed up new titles.

What a guy.

Häxan: a load of old arse.

If that wasn't enough he was also the man behind the infamous sound version of Benjamin Christensen's brilliantly batshit documentary Häxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages (1922), getting his old pal, the drug, lemur and arse obsessed genius William S. Burroughs (with whom he made two short movies in the early 60's) to write and record the commentary.

Suffice to say it's well worth finding a copy of.

Unfortunately Balch only ever completed two full length features in his career.

But luckily for us film aficionados the other one was the frankly bonkers Secrets of Sex (AKA Bizarre, 1970).

But it's Horror Hospital, unloved for years by all but the chosen few that shows what a loss not just to the horror genre but to cinema in general that Anthony Balch's death (and laziness when it came to making films) was.

Secrets of Sex: She's got something to put in you.

The movie has everything, from dwarves to death dealing melted cheese men via the casting of soft core comedy king Askwith in the role of a hero, coming across for all the world like a proto-Bruce Campbell from The Evil Dead saga.

More famous for his comedy turns that his horror heroics Askwith is a revelation as the put upon Jason and it's a pity he only made three excursions into horror.

Tho' the fact that the other two were the brilliant Tower of Evil and Pete Walker's classic Flesh And Blood Show (both alongside the sublime Candace Glendenning) should be enough for anyones CV.

I mean it's three more than I've starred in. 

I like to think that in some bizarro other dimension the movie was such a huge hit that an entire series sprung up around the character of Jason as he travels the country (and Europe - stock footage permitting) uncovering various vile plots and mad doctors as he attempts to enjoy a well deserved holiday, each time his vacation is interrupted by more outlandish monsters and dishy dolly birds.

As horror fans we were robbed.

But at least we have Horror Hospital to allow us to imagine what could have been.

Running the gamut from bloody body horror to out and out comedy caper without even stopping for breath whilst wearing it's ever more surreal plot and smartly self aware performances like a bold and shiny badge of honour this is everything Nicolas Winding Refn has ever wanted to achieve.

And so much more beside.

Burroughs: more cock than your sister.

One of the greatest British horror movies ever made?

Definitely.

One of the greatest films ever made?

Most certainly.

And if you don’t believe me, try it for yourself.

You'll soon come round to Doctor Storm's way of thinking.

              


  

lionel.

It's finally here.

The sequel we never thought we'd see.

After the sequel we hoped we'd never see again obviously.

So throwing my cool cinematic persona to the wind and embracing my inner fanboy I decided to go to the first showing on the opening day.

I mean at 11.00 AM on a Thursday morning what could possibly go wrong?


Blair Witch (2016).
Dir: Adam Wingard.
Cast: James Allen McCune, Callie Hernandez, Brandon Scott, Corbin Reid, Wes Robinson and Valorie Curry.

Pity poor James (The Walking Dead and Shameless star McCune) Donahue, a kinda thinner, council estate Chris Pratt whose entire - young - life (and taste in lumberjack shirts) so far has been defined by the fact that his big sister Heather disappeared back in 1994 whilst making a documentary about the legend of the Blair Witch.

 But all that is about to change.

It seems that a couple of Interweb types - Louis  Lane (Robinson, who scarily is an almost exact genetic splice of Tom Savini and Alex Winter) and Talia Shire (cutesy, button nosed star of The Following and daughter of former UK politician Edwina, Curry) have found a video tape in the woods near to where Heather disappeared that appears to show someone being chased around the spooky house in which she was last seen.

Even tho' the mysterious figure isn't wearing a bobble hat or covered in snot James is convinced that it's his sister.

Could she still be alive?

And what about Josh and Mike?

Look let's be honest who really cares about them.

Not James that's for sure.

Maybe next time.

As luck would have it his 'friend' Lisa (Hernandez, soon to be seen in Alien: Covenant) is about to start work on a documentary for college and decides that her pals grief is as good a subject as any so agrees to accompany him to Burkittsville to find the truth.

So along with James' best friend Peter (Scott, the voice of Kohut in Wreck It Ralph) plus his girlfriend Ashley (How to Get Away with Murder's Reid) and armed with a frankly magnificent selection of ear mounted cameras, I-Pads, drones and the like head up country to meet up Lane and Talia to discover more about the footage and maybe even pick up some useful tips for surviving a night in the woods.

Tho' Bruce Campbell would probably be a better bet when it comes to scary cabins and terrifying trees.

Maybe they'll meet up halfway thru?

James farted....and it smelled of pine cones.

Arriving at the home of the trailer trash twosome, Peter is a wee bit unnerved to see a Confederate flag flying above the fireplace and immediately begins to suspect that something isn't quite right about the pair but chooses to remain quiet for the sake of his pal.

The others are too busy giggling at Talia's greasy violet barnet to notice.

Offering everyone a nice cup of tea and a biscuit to ease the tension (and promising that no lynchings will occur) Lane settles down to tell our cute quartet the story of how he came across the tape in question.

Tho' he refrains from telling us how often he comes across Talia's boyish yet still incredibly attractive arse.

Which is a pity.

But our creepy couple have their own agenda and refuse to give out any information unless they too can accompany the group into the woods.

James, much to Peter's chagrin reluctantly agrees.

"I wouldn't want one of them swimming up my arse!" Said the stickman, obviously.

Any thought that the group has about the trip being a walk in the park - or at least a hike in the woods - abruptly changes when Ashley falls whilst crossing a river and cuts her foot causing much swearing and concerned looks as she bravely limps along, stopping occasionally to let out a little "ouch" whilst wrinkling her nose in an incredibly cute manner.

Yup she is so marked for death.

Setting up camp our merry band prepare for an evening under the stars, swapping stories of Coffin Rock and Rustin Parr before tucking themselves up in their sleeping bags ready for a busy days walking and witch hunting.

But as night falls all hell breaks loose in the woods as, from nowhere a looming shadow lumbers out of the dark before revealing itself - in hideous technicolour close-up - to be a baw-faced man-breasted Star Trek fan (in a scarily stained and pulled necked Starfleet t-shirt and smelling of warm milk) resplendent with a greying ponytail that hadn't seen a bottle of shampoo for at least 30 years waving the brightest phone you have ever fucking seen around his head as if warding off demons whilst mumbling away to himself in a voice only his mother (WHO WILL NEVER DIE!) would love.

Unfortunately this was happening right in front of me in the cinema.

Then to top it all the fucker noisily threw himself down 2 seats away before  proceeding to scoff the contents of his Sainsbury's carrier bag whilst giggling like a fucking school girl.

Marvelous.  

"I love my mum....SHE WILL NEVER DIE!"

Obviously something like that can be oh so slightly annoying at the best of times but especially if it's a movie you've literally been waiting 16 years to see.

Luckily he was too interested in his Haribo/Dorito/lard stash to prove too much of a distraction - tho' I've still no fucking clue what happened to Peter, chances are the fat fucker probably ate him - so I bravely attempted to get back into the film.

I mean it couldn't get any worse could it?

Calming myself down I suddenly noticed the stench of stale booze wafting up the stairs as a teetering toward me was a tanked up tosspot in a suit, 35 minutes late in and waving his ticket around as he stood directly in front of the screen shouting "Is this Blair Witch? So where's my seat? Am I here? Is this right?" before stumbling back down towards the exit. 

Obviously enjoying the effect he was having on my cinema viewing he proceeded to do this 3 FUCKING TIMES before the small girl (she was about 7) that worked at the cinema nervously followed him toward us before asked if we knew where he was/what film he was seeing.

Cue "Fucking kick him out!" from the couple a few seats along followed by a shaky seat Aspie meltdown from me.

Oh joy.

"OK....who invited the fat sweaty fucker with the portable sweet shop?"

By this point I had no idea what was happening on screen due to the drama unfolding around us so resigned myself to spend the rest of the movie shaking, swearing under my breath and staring intently at the drunken guy who was by now snoozing merrily in the aisle, any build up of suspense or terror totally destroyed by a couple of thick wankers who obviously decided that today was they day that they'd take a break from sitting in their rooms masturbating over Japanese anime porn (or by the look of the drunk guy his daughters school friends) and entertain the outside world instead.

And breathe.

So I can't really say if Blair Witch lived up to its promise, or if Wingard succeeded in fashioning a virtual roller-coaster ride of terror that starts the occult assaults with the dial at 11 then progressively pumps it up from there and I don't even know if the cast conveyed the sheer horror and hopelessness of the situation they found themselves in.

I know I did.

I don't know if the situation was made better or worse by the fact that I was absolutely loving what I was watching up till these little inconveniences.

"Let's go to the pictures!"

The end credits hadn't even started to roll when Dorito-dust fuck wheezily raised his massive girth from his seat, turned to us and whispered (in a voice he usually saves for trying to get pre-teen girls to undress online) "Well that was a waste of time." before waddling slug-like to an early grave.


Yes it was mate, ours.

If you can't arrive in time or not last 90 minutes without having to fucking stuff your massive ugly face or feel that the only way you can watch a film in the cinema is to get off your tits on drink then I beg you, go see a doctor or at least stay in your fucking house so I don't have to interact with you.

As an aside if anyone on here has a fat, shit-haired Trekkie pal who went to see Blair Witch on Thursday morning at Cineworld Glasgow tell them from me....If I ever encounter him again he's a fucking dead man.

Same goes for you in the suit you shit-heeled sozzled sod. 

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.



*As a (non-amusing) aside, kudos to the cinema manager for listening to my calmly explained Autism-fueled rant afterwards and refunding my money....tho' he was probably trying to get rid of me.

**Oh and if anyone from Lionsgate is reading this (yeah right), of course a screener when the film is released on home video would be great so I can review it properly.

And a T-shirt and/or some stickers/posters/badges too would aid my recovery.































I can but try.

clothes whores.

Yup I know you've all seen it by now but what the hell, I couldn't let this go by without at least attempting to add some patented mooth-shite-in/laugh now nonsense to the mix, in part to counteract all those wank-fest musings and mild anger posts that accompanied its cinema release.

More importantly tho' someone might read it and send me a Blu Ray copy as a thank you.

Or at the very least a pair of Jena Malone's undies.

Or even a pair of Karl Glusman's I'm not proud.

Tho' seeing as my rather marvelous write-up of Burial Ground got me fuck all (except the threat of violence) I can't really see that happening can you?

The Neon Demon (2016).

Dir: Nicolas Winding Refn.
Cast: Elle Fanning, Karl Glusman, Jena Malone, Alessandro Nivola, Bella Heathcote, Abbey Lee, a mountain lion, Christina Hendricks and Keanu Reeves.

Who wants sour milk when you can get fresh meat?

Meet the frighteningly ball-headed and big eyed beauty Jesse (Fanning), a waif like (and wafer thin) 16 year old wannabe model whom we first encounter helping out amateur photographer cum nice guy Dean Gaffney (cock wobbling star of Gaspar Noe's "Love, Glusman) as a model for the 'I've seen Suspiria' fashion shoot he's preparing as part of his 'I'm interesting and like the foreign films' portfolio.

Draped on a chaise lounge and with red emulsion dripping from her neck our vacant eyed heroine oozes an other worldly innocence coupled with a look of utter boredom as she gazes into the middle distance.

And by default into our very souls.

Probably.

With it's Argento cum Kubrick cum all things shiny (and all over the sofa if this movie gets any more gorgeous to look at) agenda firmly in place for all to see Jesse busies herself carefully wiping the muck off her smooth, milky white skin as the red-headed, trash epic temptress that is Jena Malone gazes lustfully at her from behind a mirror whilst smoking a cigarette in the way that only bad girls - and your mum - can.

Headspider.

Taking pity on our friendless waif Malone (playing a character called Ruby) invites Jesse to a Hunger themed tribute party where she introduces her to a couple of vacuous fellow models Sarah Leegateau (Australian fashion model, actress and musician Lee from Fury Road) and Gigi Wattoscillator (ex- Neighbours star Heathcote). 

Much bitchiness and bad words follow as the women attempt to get the measure of  Jesse - which is about 1.75 m if I'm not mistaken - whilst channeling Andrea Bianchi's dialogue coach.

Yes the scene IS that good.

Quickly exhausting every topic that women ever chat about (sexual preference, make-up tips and swooning over pictures of Hollyoaks hunk Nick Pickard) the foursome make their way into the main hall to watch a wee bit of strobe-lit Shibari bondage set to a pulse pounding sub-Simonetti score.

Which is nice.

It's not all colours and sound tho' as there is, in fact a kinda plot to be getting on with too so the next day Jesse vists an important modeling agency run by the frankly magnificent Christina Hendricks, who after seeing her test shots signs Jesse on the spot before giving her the top fashionata advice to pretend she's 19 and not eat too many pies.

Seems legit.

As it happens nasty necklaced photographer Jack Flatley (Harrington, father of Kit and star of The Hole, Ghost Ship, and Wrong Turn but hell who am I to judge?) has an open slot (which he could probably get sorted with antibiotics) in his schedule just the right size for Jesse to squeeze into so off she goes to pose for his Polaroids and see what develops.

By that I meant as far as her career goes, it wasn't a euphemism for him getting an erection or anything which he may of seeing as the shoot consists of Jesse stripping naked whilst he covers her in gold paint as he gazes manfully into space.

Leaving the shoot Jesse comes across (not in that way but only cos I doubt Elle Fanning is a squirter if I'm honest) Ruby skulking about outside practicing her smoking skills and the pair swap numbers before Ruby heads off for a lunch date with Gigi and Sarah which quickly descends into a wee bit of a bitchfest regarding 'the fresh meat' that is our bubbly blonde babe.

This may be important later.

And she's watching him with those eyes
And she's lovin' him with that body, I just know it!
And he's holding her in his arms late, late at night whilst wondering why everyone is wandering around the set of
Sei donne per l'assassino.

Not wanting to get too carried away with all this gold fleck fashion stuff  Jesse spends the evening on a date with Dean that consists of her walking along a wall whilst waxing lyrically about the moon being a massive eye.

Which is nice.

With the surrealism exhausted Jesse returns to her run down motel room only to find it's been ransacked by a mountain lion leaving her no alternative but to call on sleazy motel manager, Theodore "Hank" Logan (Reeves) for help.

Being a sleazy, beardy bastard he blames Jesse for the situation and demands that she pay for the damages.

By pay for the damages I have a feeling he's hinting at her having sex with him.

Possibly.

But who cares about such minor issues when there's more (much more) fashion-type stuff to fit in so with that in mind Jesse heads off to a casting call for the world famous fashion designer Robert Sandwich (Nivola from Face/Off, Ryan Gosling was obviously busy sorting his Lego that day) where she ends up head to head with Sarah.

Who will get the coveted catwalk call?

Go on, guess.

Finger in mah mooth ya skinny bastard!

With Jesse crowned catwalk queen, Sarah distraught at being ignored (must have been the off-white boil washed granny pants) runs away and hides in the toilet, tearing up her portfolio and smashing the mirror with her massive chin.

Needing a poo after a hard day being measured Jesse finds Sarah sobbing in a cubicle and attempts to cheer her up with a variety of animal impressions.

This random act of kindness causes Sarah to lunge at Jesse in order to give her a big hug but Jesse (being very ickle) gets a fright and cuts her tiny doll-like hand on a shard of glass.

Sarah, as anyone would in this situation impulsively starts sucking the blood from the wound and with this Jesse makes her excuses and leaves.

Managing to dodge Hank's angry advances she makes it to her room before collapsing on the bed in a sea of neon triangles, high maintenance haircuts and improbably angled evening wear only to be raised from her hallucinogenic haze by Dean arriving at her door with a bunch of garage forecourt flowers.

Bless.

Being a sucker for a sob story (or just a fan of milky white thighs you could ski down) Dean offers to pay Hank for the damages before tending to Jesse's wound, leaving her free to prepare for her catwalk debut.

"Are you looking at my bra?"

Would you believe it.... gurning Gigi just happens to be performing (um, walking?) at Lord Sandwich's fashion show too which gives Gigi ample time to tell Jesse about all the cosmetic surgery she's had in order to look more 'beautiful'  and in turn express shock and disbelief at the fact that Jesse is not only all natural but that she hasn't offered to have 'the sex' with anyone to get the job.

Just like me.

This intellectual discourse on the meaning of beauty is cut short when Sandwich enters from stage left (as opposed to a wee boy) to announce that he wants Jesse to close the show, presenting her with a dress so sparkly that Dame Edna would think twice about wearing it.

Cue legions of zombie-like catwalkers and strobe lights ahoy as Jesse drifts into a fashion induced, triangle obsessed dreamscape of reflection snogging narcissism.

Ding dong.

Heading along to a local bar with Dean to celebrate, the couple happen across Sandwich and Gigi who is still talking about surgery.

Being a bombastic (yet strangely camp  at the same time) type the moustachioed master of making things makes an impassioned plea to women everywhere to desist in their vain search for artificial beauty whilst praising Jesse's natural look and talent declaring that "beauty isn't everything; it's the only thing." 

Dean, being nice but dim challenges this view only to be put in his place when Sandwich quite rightly tells him he wouldn't have any interest in Jesse if she wasn't so beautiful.

Confused by all the big words being banded about Dean leaves in a huff.

"Oh Vic I've fallen!"

Returning to her rundown motel room Jesse's dreams of pretty frocks and unlimited blusher are interrupted by visions of horrible Hank violating her pretty mouth with a flick knife but she's rudely awakened before things get really interesting by the sound of someone trying to force her window open.

As scared as she is she should be grateful that it wasn't someone trying to smash her back door in really.

Making sure everything is locked Jesse can only listen as a mysterious intruder breaks into the room next door and forces the occupant to do much heaving lifting.

Well that's what it sounds like.

Terrified at the thought of being next on the list - and having fairly weak arms -  Jesse rings Ruby who invites her to the mansion that she's house-sitting.

America's Next Top Model was never like this.

Frankly Tyra would never allow it plus I  can't imagine Nigel Barker forcibly sticking his unsheathed blade into a contestants mouth.

Whether they deserved it or not.

Tho' I have thought about it.

Nigel: He's got something to put in you.

Ruby is the perfect host making cups of tea and supplying biscuits for poor Jesse, even offering to comb her hair for her like "her dear old mum used to" only to spoil the whole evening by trying to fiddle with Jesse's wumpf whilst forcing her tongue into her gob.

What's the obsession with Elle Fanning's mouth anyway?

I mean it's not bad but I wouldn't climb over Allison Harvard to shite in it.

 Jesse being a good girl rejects Ruby's advances with a mumbled cry of  "I'm a virgin!"  causing poor dejected Ruby to strop off in a huff and draw scary faces on a mirror in lipstick before leaving for her second job as mortician where she molests a female corpse to take her mind of things.

Don't judge we've all done it.

Returning home after a long evenings corpse cuddling Ruby is surprised to find Jesse, standing on the swimming pool diving board ranting about being the most beautiful - and dangerous - girl in the world.

Which is nice work if you can get it.

Drunk on narcissism (is that possible?) and high on fashion Jesse stands proudly, nay arrogantly above her host like some self important designer clad messiah.

Think Naomi Campbell but with better teeth.

And a less limited vocabulary.

Oh yes and without the blood diamond obsession.

But Ruby has plans for Jesse.

Plans that involved the by now fairly teed off Gigi and Sarah.

And a collection of shiny steel steak knifes......

From the undisputed master of Spectrum cinema comes probably THE greatest ASD fueled fantasy ever made that doesn't feature Replicants, Red Dragons or Ryan Gosling.

Luckily it does feature an abundance of pretty frocks and copious amounts of the colour blue in all it's cool wonder.

There's also a fair bit of (deep) red too.

And the greatest film soundtrack this side of Suspiria.

As wonderfully comfy as it is jarring, Nicolas Winding Refn's ode to clothes is one of the most immersive and satisfying films to come out of a lifelong developmental disability since Drive.

Hang on....is there a pattern there?

Tyra: Tearful Banks and a low fat Pot Noodle.

Perkily cast and pitched to perfection, The Neon Demon is a cinematic vision of what the whole damn world would be like if Leo Kanner's kids ruled it.

Think The X-Men but with tidier hair (and rooms) and you're halfway there.

Buy it now or be terminally neurotypical for ever.

Nuff said.

people you fancy but shouldn't (readers revenge).

Well Arena reader Kitty Trundle seems to have started a brand new level of online interaction here that for once doesn't involve threatening to kill me.

Which is nice.

It appears that thanks to the Agatha Raisin post literally hundreds (well three) of you have been using your free hand to nominate your clandestine crushes.

So especially for Gareth, Stuart and Ian we present cake creating Candice from The  Great British Bake Off.

Tho' to be honest I'm more of a Sue Perkins man myself.

Normal film type stuff will return shortly.

romay holiday.

Just picked this up (the way one would a particularly vile STD) from behind Cassidy's bed whilst tidying and felt I had to share (ditto).


Les Amazones du Temple D'or (AKA Golden Temple Amazons, Amazons in the Temple of Gold, 1986).
Dir: Alain Payet (AKA James Gartner - yet credited to good old Jess Franco overseas).
Cast: J. R. Gossart, Analía Ivars, William Berger, Antonio Mayans, Stanley Kapoul, Olivier Mathot, Eva León and Lina Romay.

“ I'm Rena and I will enjoy playing with you!”

Somewhere in the steaming hot jungles of the Amazon (or more likely the park behind the directors house) Tom Godly (Bra maker Gossart), your average sweaty (but not in a Pedo way obviously) missionary is surprised one morning whilst on his way to convert the natives to find a secret cave hidden in the mysterious Blue Mountains (no, not the ones from that Laurel and Hardy film) that is filled to bursting with large quantities of gold.

Returning to his jungle pad as fast as his skinny Christian legs can carry him and with his pockets bulging with a dozen or so Ferrero Rocher sized nuggets he excitedly tells his fright haired, tombstone toothed wife Greta (Franco's missis Romay in a scarily non-naked film role) that because they are now rich that they can give up this Holy lark and retire to Ibiza.

Cagney And Lacey: The Pikey Years.

What he hasn't realized, however is that the cave is in fact a holy golden temple belonging to the local tribe of topless, gold pants wearing Amazon warriors, feared amongst the locals and ruled with a rod of iron by their scary leader Stan Uruk (Berger from The Winds of War).

Well, it's an easy mistake to make.

These bewigged and busty warrior women, discovering that they've been robbed, follow Tom back home, demanding that he give them back the booty or else.

Tom chooses 'or else' much to the chagrin of their evil leader who being one of those guys that justifies every single one of his frankly bonkers - and often violent -  actions with some kinda religion reason (as is the way of these types), not too surprising kills poor old Tom and Greta are killed in a hail of poison arrows and slow motion yelling, leaving their young daughter Liana (fish lipped and mole-faced Franco regular Ivars) to fend for herself in this hostile tropical hell.

Or Govan as we call it up here.

Luckily a friendly monkey and a local tribe take pity on her and help her out which is sweet in a kinda Disney way.

"Fiona! where's mah lunch?"

Jump forward a few years and the church have finally decided to send a new missionary (who scarily is the spitting image of Father Ted, not now obviously seeing as he's been dead about 10 years but you know what I mean) to discover what happened to Tom and Linda.

Better late than never I suppose.

Arriving at their dilapidated cabin he's surprised (there's a lot of it in this movie) to find Liana still living there, all grown up albeit now with a faintly embarrassing bubble perm and dressed in skimpy animal skins but luckily still resembling a startled haddock.

Despite being nubile and (half) naked, the missionary has no interest in Liana (well, she's not a wee boy) so he decides instead to read her fathers diary aloud, which as luck (or really atrocious plotting) would have it, conveniently explains all about the gold and her parents subsequent murder.

Which really begs the question as to why, after being run thru' with loads of arrows, he decided to write about it rather than raid the medicine drawer for aspirin or at very least a plaster.

"My dad told me about those cults.
People dressing up in black
and saying Our Lord's going to
come back and save us all".
"No, Liana, that's us. That's Catholicism".
"Oh right".

Upon hearing of her parents fate - she must have been busy when it happened, either that or she has the memory, as well as the looks, of a fish - Liana vows to have her revenge upon the evil Amazon women (and scary Stan) and immediately sets off towards the Blue Mountains, accompanied by her faithful pet chimp Rocky (himself) and a funny tribesman named Koukou
(Kapoul from the Andrea - Nights of Terror - Bianchi classic Maniac Killer).

It's going to be a long film.

Cue an endless nightmare of stock footage animals, Liana's breasts bouncing in slow motion and random shots of a monkey grinning like a loon for what seems like days.

Which is all well and good if you like that sort of thing but not too exciting if you enjoy interesting characters exchanging meaningful dialogue.

All that may be about to change tho' as our terrific trio come across (not literally, tho' in this case it might have been fun to see) a group of explorers out searching for the Golden Temple.

And one of them is played by Emilio Linder!

Now that makes all the difference.

"Laugh Now!"

Anyway back to the plot where I can safely say without fear of spoiling it for those who've yet to see it but they all get to the cave unharmed (and with nay hair out of place or slips of nipple) and with no sense of jepordy or danger whatsoever.

Tho' this may be to lull us into a false sense of security (or a coma) seeing as soon as they set foot in the cave our motley band are almost instantly rendered unconscious by Stan's eggy fart gas and imprisoned by the Amazon women ready to be used as slave labour in Uruk's secret gold mines.

Or was that The Chuckle Brothers secret lemonade factory?

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

None of these questions will be answered however because there are  more important things afoot, like overly long and totally random scenes of topless ladies in tiny gold pants sword fighting to get thru' and all under the watchful (and lustful) gaze of the bequiffed and eyepatched Rina (the frankly magnificent León).

Whose performance alone raises this film to genius level if I'm honest.

It seems that Rina is a tad upset at wants Liana turning up and wants her out of the way just in case there's any chance of Uruk choosing our haddock-faced chum as his successor instead.

Luckily Rina has a cunning plan to rid herself of Liana that involves smearing blood on her (stunning) breasts in extreme close up whilst licking soot off various stoned wannabe starlets.
Which is nice work if you can get it.

Or just deeply tragic when you realise that this is the high point of the film.

Anyway, will our heroes escape?

And does anyone (except the investors) really care?

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

Aaah, you can't beat a wee bit of Jess Franco, the late great pensioner perv of quality Eurotrash, unfortunately tho' in this case he only seemed to be on hand to film the fleeting nude scenes (oh and his missis) which means that the usual Franco trademarks - sexy European girls with massive bushes writhing around on sofa beds whilst his other half licks tomato sauce of their thighs, golden showers, slightly scummy ladies running around beaches naked whilst camp as pants, long haired Frenchmen giggle and wave handkerchiefs around to an awful jazz fusion score etc - are all missing, replaced with director Payet's trademark 'point the camera randomly and hope something interesting happens' technique that he honed on such classics as Hitler's Last Train, Captive Women 5: Mistresses of the 3rd Reich, Confessions très intimes d'une petite fille and French Erection.

Eva León: Ask your granddad.

Luckily for us tho' he left his infamous Nazi porn chic obsessions at home this time, which would be OK if he'd at least attempted to add something (anything) else to the film other than a deep depressing hole that radiates out from the screen and into the pit of your stomach.

But why was Franco involved I hear you cry.

Rumor has it that he was just passing by the studio with his shopping one day and popped his head around the door to say hi.

But I like to think that maybe he was on holiday near the location and just stumbled across them filming.

Which would explain a lot.
Except that is why the whole thing look like a nursery school version of Raiders of The Lost Ark, albeit one with loads of wobbly breasts and some sporadic scenes of mindless violence.
Mumbled dubbing, a tinny synth score, a human/cod hybrid in a fur bikini and overlong slo-mo shots of topless women on horseback all add up to the celluloid equivalent of anal warts, just slightly more embarrassing to admit to having let alone enjoying.

I should start a support group.

wild in the country.

T'other day a good friend of mine rang me up and, in a state of breathless excitement shouted that Dyanne Thorne (star of Ilsa) had once made a country and western video for kids and that he was sending a copy thru' the post as soon as.

It arrived yesterday morning.

And it's not Dyanne Thorne.

It's Diane Horner.

The world famous (yeah, right), blonde, bowl headed line dance champion.

But what the Hell, it was free and I had an hour to kill and I've always been a sucker for boys in cowboy boots....

Diane Horner: Country Dancing for Kids (1992).
Dir: Unknown but judging by the camera work I reckon it's Umberto Lenzi.
Cast: Diane Horner, Adrien Brody (possibly) and a gaggle of dead eyed, pre-teens.


Our video opens in a makeshift barn constructed in the bowels of a disused asylum, the darkness violently cut thru' by flaming oil drenched corpses atop ugly gnarled wooden poles whilst the creepy sound of an old west banjo band playing Dixie can be heard from somewhere in the fog enshrouded distance.

As if by magic the mysterious mistress of moves, the slender and snake-hipped Diane Horner (creator of the fantastic Country Hip Hop exercise programme) appears.

Clad head to toe in denim of varying shade and a pair of diarrhea beige, eye gougingly sharp cowboy boots topped off with a haircut that would make a monk blush she angrily barks clipped orders at her unseen assistants.

"Bring on the children!"

And so they come, an undersized army of hyperactive teeny tiny rednecks ready to do the dance of death on the bones of their fallen brethren.

Or is it to just learn the joys of dancing?

I had to keep watching.

"OK kids! who's ready for a mooth shite-in?"

And boy am I glad I did.

This Horner woman may lack Dyanne Thorne's dirty pillow like breasts, fine line in too tight SS uniforms and Sapphic tendencies but more than makes up for it with her frankly superb dancing skills, covering everything from the basic steps in country dance (including those all important bows and curtsies) via the frankly erotically charged do-si-do and culminating in the allemande left, and right and left grand.

And what the fuck is the allemande left I hear you cry?

Insert good ol' boy cock here.

Well dear readers, in its most basic form, an allemande left is simply put an arm turn by the left (plus a foxy step thru' as the dancer in question heads seductively toward their partner).

See? This blog is educational.

Like a sexier, slicker Dirty Dancing by way of Mississippi Burning, Diane Horner: Country Dancing for Kids is the perfect antidote to those long, lonely winter nights and perfect for anyone who hopes to improve their pulling power via the medium of dance.

Tho' judging by the video the moves may only impress pre-teens and Lego-haired pikey types.

No change there then.