Saturday, 25 April 2015

What the Southport Butler Saw



As anyone who has visited a seaside town in Britain will know, a love affair with the past is strong in these places. Southport is no exception, and echoes of entertainment from yesteryear haunt its very, very long pier, from the Hall of Mirrors at the Pier’s outset to the red jacket attired cabaret artist belting out oldies all day under the pier like ‘Peggie Sue’, ‘The Green, Green, Grass of Home’ and ‘Jailhouse Rock’, jokingly acknowledging his core audience by doing a rewrite of one of the latter’s lyrics “if you can't find a partner, use a mobilized chair. Let's rock; everybody, let's rock”.

 

The arcade at the end of the pier isn’t about to buck a trend and has dusted off some ye olde arcade machines from the 1950s and 1960s for a nostalgia hungry audience. In truth these poor old machines probably deserve to be retired off to a museum someplace, rather than be at the mercy of the afternoon sun and a manhandling by a greedy, 21st century public. They are simply not up to the task anymore; several appeared to have already stopped working or died right in front of my very eyes.





If further proof were needed that there is no greater carrot that can be dangled in front of the British public than sex, the biggest crowd puller here appears to be ‘Peeping Butler’ a 1990s built homage to the ‘What the Butler Saw’ peep show machines of the late Victorian era. Despite being discreetly hidden away towards the back of the arcade and bearing an ‘adults only’ warning, Peeping Butler had already won the very vocal praise of a bunch of students by the time I entered the place. Their post-peeping discussion acted as an irresistible come-on for anyone within earshot. “Do you see anything, mate” asked one inquisitive soul, to which his friend –blessed with one of the strongest liverpudlian accents imaginable- replied “yeah, deffo, you see everything, even her fanny”. Who could resist being the next in line after overhearing a recommendation like that, which of course doubled as reassurance that this machine actually works.

 

For just 20p then, this machine serves up a mutoscope style series of quickly projected slides featuring a Victorian maid in various stages of undress, before spotting the butler peeping through the keyhole (who’s voyeuristic POV you assume) and subsequently attempting to protect her modesty whilst striking up a series of shocked and/or pouting facial expressions. It all added up to a delightful recreation of the kind of pre-moving pictures form of titillation that must have gotten some of our Victorian forefathers hot under the collar, and others up in arms. Should you require evidence that nothing ever really changes much, especially where moralisers are concerned, consider this letter written about such machines to the Times in 1899, and how these century old words could easily have come from the mouths of any of today’s anti-sexualition campaigners “It is hardly possible to exaggerate the corruption of the young that comes from exhibiting under a strong light, nude female figures represented as living and moving, going into and out of baths, sitting as artists' models etc.”.





The fact that Peeping Butler is a 1990s imitation rather than the real deal- the peepshow equivalent of a tribute band if you will- may offend some purists. Still the fact that Peeping Butler’s glamour snaps were taken in the 1990s does spare you the guilt trip that a genuine ‘What the Butler Saw’ machine would give you of having to later contemplate the fact that those machines’ glamour models are likely in an old people’s home, or worse still, dust these days.

 

Of lesser entertainment value is ‘The Harlot’ aka ‘Sexy Slots’ an X-rated model of a threesome hidden behind glass. Insert 2p into this machine and you can see what ‘the model does in her spare time’, well that is the idea anyway. Presumably in days gone by two pence would have caused this machine to rambunctiously spring to life and cause something torrid to occur between the model and the two men in bed with her, in the process offending the Cissy and Ada types whose portrait hangs in the background. Sad to report that by the time I dropped my 2p into the machine, nothing whatsoever proceeded to happen, so chalk up The Harlot as yet another machine that has been exhausted by the public and has quietly died a death on Southport Pier without anyone realising it.



 


In fairness, I’m not sure I could work up much enthusiasm for performing sex acts at the end of a pier for only 2p a go either. So I leave the pier to the sound of a determined yet very hoarse sounding man launching into ‘’The Green, Green Grass of Home’ for what must be the 10, 0000 time in his life, safe in the newly acquired knowledge that 2p might not get you far with a harlot here, but 20p can buy you a flash of fanny at the end of Southport Pier.



Monday, 13 April 2015

RIP Michael J Murphy


I was saddened to learn over the weekend about the death of filmmaker Michael J Murphy. Although I doubt they were ever aware of each other Murphy is forever twinned in my mind with Cliff Twemlow, both being D.I.Y filmmakers who against considerable odds managed to form their own mini-film industries around themselves, at a time in 1980s Britain when the traditional film industry was all but on its knees. For a long time Twemlow and Murphy were each known only for one film venture that had come to prominence during the early days of VHS rentals. In Twemlow’s case GBH, and in Murphy’s the video double-bill of his two shorts Invitation to Hell and The Last Night, before a more complete picture of their careers emerged, in the process revealing them to be far more prolific than anyone could imagine.

 

Whereas GBH set the standard for all that what was to follow from Twemlow, Invitation to Hell would prove to be largely unrepresentative of Murphy’s career as a whole, later films like Torment (1989) and Second Sight (1992) deriving their power from complex plot twists rather than shock value, and in truth seem to have more in common with Hammer’s ‘Psychological Thriller’ period (Taste of Fear, Crescendo, Hysteria ) than the Video Nasty era that Invitation to Hell and The Last Night came out of. As it turned out Invitation to Hell was an overly commercial move for Murphy, designed to try and ride the wave of the ultra-gory horror video rentals of the time, and with its pitchfork impaling, head crushing and climatic heart pulling Invitation to Hell must have surely ticked all the boxes of those Video Nasty renting, underage drinking, juvenile delinquents whose viewings habits the tabloid press were getting their knickers in a twist over at the time.




Like most people, Invitation to Hell was my first exposure to Murphy’s films, I encountered it after it was re-released on video in the late 1980s by a fly-by-night company calling itself Senator Releasing, a release that as tends to be the case with that film was issued without its director’s permission. Many of the exploitation films put out by bargain basement video labels like Senator tended to be of the American or European variety, so in that company Invitation to Hell was something of an abnormality, it being British made. For that reason Invitation to Hell tended to double as a compelling mystery for British horror fans at the time, firing their imaginations over whether Murphy was simply a one shot filmmaker or whether he was some undiscovered horror auteur with more films out there someplace.


Eventually other Murphy films would be traced and prove the latter assumption to be the correct one, even if it took allot of detective work to track those other films down. Torment and Second Sight would be the next Murphy films to resurface thanks to TV screenings on the HVC channel, airings that would lead Darrell Buxton to write about Murphy in the 2003 book ‘Creeping Flesh’ an early attempt to get to grips with the larger extent of Murphy’s career. In 2005, Torment and Second Sight would turn up on TV again, this time in the early days of The Horror Channel, whose short lived sister channel Zone Thriller unearthed two further Murphy films, Roxi and Road to Nowhere. Over time other Murphy productions would make their presences known, revealing Murphy to be a director whose work wasn’t exclusively tied to the horror genre. Atlantis and Avalon were his stabs at the peplum genre, whilst Death Run proved to be an energetic attempt at the post-apocalyptic action genre that held its own against the best Italian made films of that genre and ran rings around the other notable British example that is Lindsay Shonteff’s comparatively dull and lifeless The Killing Edge. With these films Murphy displayed an admirable refusal to let his filmmaking ambitions be muzzled by the films’ low budgets or in the case of Death Run the lack of a tradition for making post-apocalyptic films here in the UK.



 

ad caps for the horror channel's screenings of two of Murphy's films


1985’s Bloodstream is another Murphy film that has only surfaced on the collectors circuit in the last few years, and lifts the lid on the unscrupulous side of the 1980s video industry, painting a vivid picture of the shark infested waters that Murphy must have had to swim in to make films back then. Born out of Murphy’s bad time film industry experiences, and being screwed over by video distributors, Bloodstream tells the tale of a na├»ve filmmaker who is commissioned to make a gory, supernatural horror film only to then be conned out of royalties by crooked pre-cert video distributor William King, who calls the resultant film ‘rubbish’ and has the director thrown out of his office. Naturally King is actually laughing behind the filmmaker’s back and making a fortune by distributing the film on video, with much of this highly claustrophobic film documenting King’s con games and scheming and playing out in his scummy office which is full of trash film posters a la John M East in Emmanuelle in Soho.


The experience of being fucked over by King leaves the filmmaker unbalanced, resulting in him donning a skeleton mask and stalking, then murdering King’s associates and family members. In true slasher film style each character is allocated a couple of scenes in order to reveal their foul and unlikable nature, successfully convincing the audience that they are fully deserving of the violent fate that befalls them. Ever the dedicated filmmaker, the auteur turned serial killer documents all of their deaths on film, constructing the ultimate horror film to screen to the thoroughly hateful King, a character rumoured to be based on Des Dolan, the general manager of GO video and an associate of Dick Randall during the making of Don’t Open Till Christmas. Intercut with this tale of revenge are film within a film sequences meant to illustrate the type of horror film product that King is making money out of by distributing on video. Anyone who grew up during the video era will immediately recognise the kind of pre-cert video material that Murphy recreates in these ‘film within a film’ vignettes, from a slasher in the woods affair featuring a masked murderer killing teenagers with an axe, to a gut munching zombie film, an Exorcist rip-off and even a Paul Naschy type werewolf movie. Gamely refusing to exclude his own filmography from this type of treatment, the “rubbish” film that causes all the trouble between the filmmaker and King is clearly based on Murphy’s own Invitation to Hell, adding a further autobiographical element to Bloodstream.




Bloodstream screenshots


In light of the enormous hold that the Video Nasty and pre-cert video era still has over people’s imaginations these days, it remains unfortunate that Bloodstream isn’t that widely known. For its stands unique as a response to that turbulent time in British home viewing made whilst it was still being played out, an insider’s expose of the exploitative, shit-heeled side of the video industry, and an outrageous revenge fantasy made by someone who had obviously been burnt by it. For gore mavens Bloodstream is also a field day for gross-out delights, melting flesh, death by chainsaw, and scenes of zombies cannibalising the living, make Bloodstream the bloodiest British horror film of the 1980s, a take on the Video Nasties phenomenon that would have almost certainly had been branded one itself had it ever seen the light of day back when it was made in 1985.


Given the thriving horror fanzine scene of the 1980s and 1990s it is regrettable that Murphy’s career fell under the radar of even the most dedicated cineastes and fanzine editor during those decades. If there is some tiny solace to be had over Murphy’s passing it is that recent years have finally seen him become the source of critical attention, and championed by the likes of writer Paul Higson, filmmakers John Ninnis and David Beynon (who interviewed Murphy for their upcoming ‘Industry My Arse’ documentary) and Wayne Maginn whose Sarcophilous Films company brought Invitation to Hell and The Last Night back into DVD circulation in time for their 25th anniversary, complete with interviews and audio commentaries by their director. While I can make no claim to having known the man himself, Micahel J Murphy films were always welcome in the Gavcrimson household and a few years ago I was surprised –in a pleasant way- to receive an unsolicited signed still from ‘The Last Night’ from Murphy himself, thanking me for my interest in his films. Murphy’s death –reportedly unexpected and as a result of compilations from thrombosis – is all the more sad given that his career was far from inactive, with several projects still in the pipeline. Of late Murphy also penned the introduction to ‘Dead or Alive’, an upcoming book about British horror films of the 1980s, a genre and period that Murphy played an important role in (as the book’s editor Darrell Buxton has remarked “our book seemingly features his films on every other page”). Hopefully Dead or Alive will also add to the long overdue reputation Michael J Murphy deserves as a true maverick of British horror cinema.


Friday, 13 March 2015

Gavcrimson looks at Blackpool

A cold wind against my face, blood and vomit on the streets, the strangely reassuring smell of fish and chips in the air, Blackpool is my kind of town.





No place in the UK embodies the British sex comedy aesthetic quite like Blackpool. Come to this place and it is not long before the line between a sex shop and a joke shop begins to blur. Gavcrimson didn’t have to walk but a few blocks from his first port of call before he encountered one such adult novelty shop, where in the window such old favourites as fake dog shit, his and her eatable underwear and chattering teeth complete with the newest adult novelty to hit Blackpool “Duck with a Dick”, a mixture of bath toy and sex aid. Mainly aimed at the stag and hen market, shops like this ensure that many a groom will wake-up on his wedding day, hung over and wondering why a well-endowed rubber duck is stuck up his ass.



 



Venturing inside this place reveals that if it can be eaten and made into the shape of a prick or a pair of breasts it will be sold in Blackpool. It was only after the fact, looking over these photographs on the way home, that I realised the shop had a ‘no photos’ policy, so Blackpool etiquette was inadvertently broken in order to bring you these undercover snaps.






Journey deeper into the heart of Blackpool and you frequently encounter one of the most popular adult novelties of recent years, the corruption of that family favourite Blackpool rock, that is Cock Rock.





Blackpool is wall to wall Fish and Chip shops, highly recommended and inexpensive is the Palma Cafe, where Gavcrimson was cured of a long-time aversion to Haddock, caused by a bad experience with one in the neighbouring town of Cleveleys. Thanks Palma.







A gathering of flying rodents, who can always be relied upon to leave their own distinct mark on the Blackpool landscape.






The Conspiracy exhibition, now closed- a conspiracy? Or maybe not, an online write-up of the place whilst it was active gives an idea of what I missed “I paid £3.50 to sit in a large room watching a "Confronting the Evidence" DVD about 9/11 which was later available in for sale for £3. Not only that, it was run on a loop and visitors weren't given the privilege of necessarily watching it from the beginning, they were just ushered in at any point”.






The DVD stalls at Blackpool’s various markets could never be accused of not having eclectic tastes, John Wayne, Tram Journeys, Hitler and Cannon and Ball are all represented here, two unlikely popular titles are Abel Ferrara’s The Driller Killer and Zombie Holocaust, seemingly every DVD stall I encountered had at least one copy of both.






You’ll note that a row of cock rock made a return appearance in that last photo, in libellously close proximity to a DVD with Cliff Richard’s face on it. Alas I failed to satisfactorily snap this stall’s comedy section, which mainly comprised of DVDs of live Bernard Manning shows and episodes of Love Thy Neighbour, a selection that no doubt has the same effect on the sensitive and politically correct at heart that crucifixes and mirrors have on vampires.

 

Blackpool has never been ashamed about having one foot in the past, and this stretches to its taste in pornography. Right up until the very dying days of VHS in the early 2000s, you could still walk into many a shop in Blackpool and be greeted by the face of Pauline Hickey/Zoe Lee staring at you from sun bleached VHS copies of ‘Sexy Secrets of the Kissogram Girls’, the first of many big bust fetish videos made in the 1980s by Hove based Peter Kay for his Strand International video label. Kays’s videos like The Naughty Dreams of Miss Owen, Stag Show Girls and the horror themed The Initiants - often featured their large bosomed stars arranged in rows on their covers in the manner of end of year school photos- and really found their niche in Blackpool where they were warmly taken to Blackpool’s own heavy bosom.







Peter Kay videos – a Blackpool ubiquity till the dying days of VHS.


Now that DVD rules the roost the Kay tapes have disappeared, replaced by 1990s and early 2000s looking British porno on DVD. A limp reminder of what passed for porno in the UK prior to the legalisation of hardcore and the internet, the hard sell of ‘real sex’ on these DVD covers predictably mutates into striptease and dispassionately mimed sex acts in these softcore productions themselves. Long out of the public eye porn stars like Teresa May and Linsey Dawn Mckenzie still retain the popularity they once held in the 1990s and 2000s here in Blackpool, thanks to the DVD stalls still stocking their old productions like Teresa Takes Ten Inches, Nude and Naughty and In Bed With Linsey. Blackpool acts as a museum to their careers, the DVD graveyard for the hard working shaggers of yesteryear.






A couple of (non-porn) familiar faces from the past are also still doing the rounds here as well.






Others have found themselves immortalised outside the booths of gypsy fortune tellers. Maria seems quite happy to handle Bob Monkhouse’s balls, however Mary Millington allegedly turned down repeated offers to do the same during the 1970s.



  


A reflective moment on the North Pier was broken by the sight of this old timer, who for some inexplicable reason decided to roll up his trouser leg and show us some leg, put it away man, you’re no Mary Millington.





Of course no visit to Blackpool would be complete without feeding those hungry slot machines your hard earned shrapnel.





 

Are you are a Stud or a Dud?, feed this machine your shrapnel and find out.






Go beyond the exterior of the Golden mile though, and into the backstreets of Blackpool and there is the realisation that Blackpool hasn’t escaped a beating from the economic meltdown of the past few years, evidenced by a ghost town parade of closed down or shuttered up shops, cafes and lap dancing clubs. The backstreets of Blackpool appear to have achieved the same state of decay as the London of 1967 documented by Norman Cohen’s The London Nobody Knows. Spurred on by an urgent sense of preservation, gavcrimson similarly documents these sights with the resigned knowledge that the wrecking ball can’t be too far away.



 


A call of nature is what initially brought me to the second floor of Funland Amusements. A 1970s working men’s club feel to this place is rather inevitable, given the brown and dark orange colour scheme. This is a place so eerily empty that the first time I ventured here it crossed my worried mind that I might have trespassed into a long-closed off section of this place. On the rare occasion that people run into other human beings here they tend to react with surprise, if not fear, that anyone else should be there and become immediately suspicious of each other’s motives for being there. Although the snack bar appears fully functional it never appears to be open. That ‘Carnival of Souls’ vibe one tends to get from off-season Blackpool, that of a place that by rights should be full of laughter and excitement but instead is deserted, frozen in time and in cold silence, is strong in here. Needless to say I’m rather smitten by this place and always make a point of trying to soak up its atmosphere when I’m in town, as well as stare at those big orange domes. Call it the Gavcrimson version of what he’d like the afterlife to look like.






Two sights to end our little journey then, both from the outskirts of town, and each in their own different way trying to capture the attention of Blackpoolian sinners as they leave the place. Anyone for cock rock?