Stille Nacht - Happy Christmas (War Is Over - Temporarily - A Century Ago Today...)

Stille Nacht by Franklin Marsh

(Illustration by Rog Pile)


The mournful notes of the harmonica drifted on the air. All of the lads thought of back home. Wives, girlfriends, parents, grandparents. Decorating the tree, putting out the presents, cooking the meal…

Sergeant Croker spat out his roll-up, and looked out across No-Man’s Land. Mist drifted across the small strip of mud , bordered by barbed wire. It was quiet

Croker squinted. He thought he could see movement. What were they up to? Not an attack? Not tonight?

He unshouldered his Lee-Enfield, and aimed it between two sandbags, out across the partially obscured terrain, towards the enemy.

“Trouble, Sarge?” a voice breathed in his ear. Corporal Gibbs.

“Movement, “ whispered Croker.

The mouth organ had fallen silent, and the sergeant was aware of an increasing tension within the trench. He heard small sounds; helmets being placed on heads, rifles cocked, bodies moving forward to look out of their stronghold.

Croker’s finger tightened on the trigger. It took an incredible effort to control it as an item flew out of the mist and landed in the mud in front of them. The sergeant was frozen. He became aware of exhalations of relief around him.

“If it’s a bomb, it’s a dud!”

“I thought is was a ‘ead!”

“Don’t move, lads,” he whispered.

A flare rocketed up from their opposite numbers, exploding an unearthly whiteness across the sky, harshly exposing the wasteland before them.

“It’s a football,” gasped Mathers, the young private with the harmonica. “Sir? Do you think they want ….a game?”

“Keep still,” said Gibbs, quietly, but with an undertone of menace.

Croker increased the pressure on the trigger of his rifle as the figures began to appear from within the mist. He could hear laughter, words drunkenly spoken in a foreign language. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

The flare, fizzing and burning brightly under its little parachute, hit the ground. The light now came from beneath the figures standing in front of the trench, giving them an unnatural appearance.

Croker brushed away the sweat and frowned. He couldn’t quite make out the faces under the helmets. Were these men mad? He should open fire, and order Gibbs and the lads to do the same, but something about these….things made him hold back. They seemed unarmed. They had just upped and walked over from the other trench….or had they? He’d only seen them emerge from the mist.

His hands on the rifle began to tremble.

One of the mysterious figures threw something into their trench. The soldiers drew back.

“What is it?” Croker practically screamed. Mathers gingerly prodded the package with his rifle.

“Well?” grunted Gibbs.

“It’s….it’s….sweets, Sir.”

The young man sounded almost embarrassed.

“What?” ejaculated the sergeant.

“Sweets.”

“What sort?”

“Don’t know, Sir. They’re not marked. Just little things wrapped up like….sweets.”

“Don’t touch ‘em!” barked Gibbs. “Might be poisoned.”

The figures in front of Croker almost seemed to float within the mist. One would eddy toward him. He’d re-aim his rifle, the figure would drift back and another would edge forward. He couldn’t keep tabs on them all simultaneously, and, as a group, they all seemed to be nearer to him.

“Corp,” he said, “ shoot one of ‘em.”

“Sir?”

Gibbs sounded hesitant.

“Shoot one. Now.”

“Sir.”

The corporal hefted his rifle and took aim. The creatures backed away, but not too far. The report from the rifle was curiously muffled. Croker watched one of things jerk back. It screamed. Hideously. In the shadows under the wraith’s helmet, Croker could see a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth. It wasn’t human. And it remained standing.

The other things had circled anxiously after the shot and flinched at the sound of their comrade’s pain. Emboldened by his refusal to fall, they all spread their arms, like Death Angel wings, and advanced upon the trench.

“Rapid fire!” bellowed Croker. “Mark your targets!”

The small band of soldiers didn’t move. The sergeant looked round in despair.

“Come on, lads! I said….”

He felt the cold hand of Death upon him and turned to confront the thing that seized his tunic. The mouth opened obscenely and unnaturally wide, stinking stringy saliva dripped from the fangs.

He forced his head to the side, to see his paralysed troops being overwhelmed by the gliding creatures, sighing more than screaming as the things covered them.

Croker didn’t feel any pain, more a weakening, as if his life essence were being drained. He looked back across the mist-shrouded No-Man’s Land, and saw more of the creatures descending into the enemy’s positions. The enemy? They had a common enemy. He must inform….

Darkness descended.

Bad Film Boogie - what exactly constitutes a "bad" film?

Godzilla Vs The Smog Monster

Black Cobra

The Incredible Melting Man

Ulli Lommel’s Black Dahlia

Plan 9 From Outer Space

I watched all of the above five films recently. All could perhaps be swept into the garbage pail of “bad” films. Indeedy, my interest in Godzilla Vs The Smog Monster was piqued by it’s inclusion within a tome entitled The Fifty Worst Films Of All Time. I didn’t necessarily agree with the authors selection, as at least two of the fifty (Bring Me The Head Of Alfredo Garcia and The Omen (1976)) would have featured high on a list of films that I appreciated. The articles describing GVTSM and a 1930s all-midget western called The Terror Of Tiny Town made me laugh out loud.





Channel 4 showed 10 films that represented “The Worst Of Hollywood” circa 1983 complete with abysmally patronising comments. My brother, my friend and myself would hie us to the pub and roll back smashed to jeer this tosh. I have a low alcohol threshold which was exceeded on the night GVTSM was screened so I completely missed it, although I believe C4 may have had technical problems that night, and only showed about half the film.

I didn’t actually get to see it until hordes of original Godzilla flicks were released on video in the UK, and I picked up this Holy Grail. Much to my surprise I thoroughly enjoyed it. It’s mixture of men in rubber suits slugging it out in dioramas, pseudo-60s psychedelia and heavy-handed anti-pollution messages were right up my street, and I felt proud that World Cinema could be so accessible. I recently revisited it through a Korean DVD. Expecting the film to be in Korean, I activated the English subtitles only to be confronted with an English dub. Much to my delight, the film’s already surreal visuals were accompanied by subtitles that only matched what was being said around 50% of the time. The other half either directly contradicted what was being said, or went their own sweet way, my favourite being a Japanese military commander’s barked “Damn’ fool!” being translated as “Stupid bastard!”

Can’t think why I wanted to see Black Cobra, unless it was a desire to take a look at a recently discovered new subgenre entitled “Poliziotteschi”, or violent Italian police thrillers. I’ve enjoyed a few spaghetti westerns, Italian Zombi films, gialli etc, so a 50 pence DVD with Fred Williamson on the cover seemed to say ‘Give us a go!’
My version was a transfer from NTSC video and apparently censored, so I didn’t get the full benefit. In fact the only saving graces seemed to be Fred Williamson, especially in his Tonik suit at the end, and a nifty reversal of sexism scene. I’ll obviously need to seek out other versions of this particular genre, and I don’t think Black Cobra 2, Black Cobra 3 or Black Cobra 4 will help.

I saw The Incredible Melting Man at the cinema twice in one week back in the day. I watched a knackered Vipco DVD which was better quality than I expected and was transported back to my wide-eyed youth. I can understand why people wouldn’t like something like this, but I found it fascinating. The adventures of the severed head in the stream, and the completely gratuitous exposure of Rainbeaux Smith’s chest make films like this transcend any form of criticism. You honestly don’t need good scripts, Oscar-winning acting, crisp cinematography and all that hogwash, do you?

I also don’t quite know how Ulli Lommel’s serial killer cheapo straight to DVD series garnered my attention, unless it was the hatred, bile and sheer venom they inspire on IMDB, especially from eejits who’ve been suckered into watching them thinking they were a different (more big budget) film, in the Asylum style.

I’d suffered Son Of Sam, rather enjoyed The Raven and was equally entertained by Black Dahlia. I liked Ellroy’s book and Brian De Palma’s film too. Like most of Lommel’s work of this period, it seems to be shot very cheaply on a camcorder, features actors of no discernable skill, and special effects that are less than special. But it holds the interest. I don’t know why. I think any film that provokes a reaction and ‘reviews’ of the calibre of “It’s shit!” or (groan) “I’ll never get that (fill in feature running length or amount of expenditure) back!”

Which brings us to Plan 9 From Outer Space.Held up against Black Dahlia, it honestly is a quality film. Entertaining on any amount of levels, it’s a proper Hollywood production compared to contemporary DTV films, Wood’s dialogue is brilliantly unbelievable, and, like good ol’ Godzilla Vs The Smog Monster, it carries an important message about man’s inherent capability to destroy his planet.

Bad films? They each have something to offer in their own innocent way.

H R Giger - prog rock and b movie inspiration

“Don't be so gloomy. After all it's not that awful. Like the fella says, in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce The cuckoo clock.” said Harry Lime (Orson Welles) in The Third Man.

Well good old Switzerland also produced H R Giger, a-1 nutboy and biomechanical artist whose dark sexual paintings can’t help but affect anyone who sees them.

My father used to play darts at a local pub. Apparently there was some sort of recording studio nearby, and some young lads who worked there would often bring in LPs to use as prizes in competitions. Dad picked up a few of these, so you would have the anomaly of flicking through his record collection of Roy Orbison, Tom Jones, Englebery Humperdinck, Marty Robbins, endless Max Bygraves sing-alongs and suddenly come up short with something like Ahh The Name Is Bootsy Baby (funk?!?!?) or Brain Salad Surgery.

I miss LPs in that they were a lot bigger than CDs so you could get the full effect of magnificent artwork, such as that of Giger for the ELP album. A biomechanical skull embedded in earthy metalwork, topping a circle that revealed what appeared to be a normal woman’s mouth. The cover opened up to reveal an odd cobra woman. This painting was as startling as the music.

Of course, at the time I didn’t know this was by Giger. It wouldn’t be until Alien that his weird world would properly come into focus. I did have The Book Of Alien and the Cinefantastique Alien edition that drew one into his world. Can vaguely remember the controversy surrounding the Dead Kennedys inclusion of a poster of HRG’s Penis Landscape with their album Frankenchrist, and something like Time Out printing the picture, in those halcyon pre-Internet days.

The obvious tribute (Should I be so maudlin and pretentious) would have been to watch Alien, but, me being me, I watched Species, an hilarious B Movie with A Movie ambition, featuring Sir Ben Ghandi, Forest Twitaker, Alfred Molina as a Harvard anthropologist with a marvellous fruity Brit accent and Michael Madsen as the requisite bit of rough to deal with the action sequences. Giger’s alien design is used sparingly and is inevitably derivative, but the film as a whole is ludicrous fun, teetering on the brink of (possibly intentional) comedy.

Scream Of The Wolf

With regard to my earlier comments about David Case's The Hunter, thanks to e-bay and a kindly Australian gentleman, I finally got to see the 1974 ABC Movie Of The Week version, starring Peter Graves as Wetherby and Clint Walker as Byron. You'd think with Richard Matheson writing the screenplay and Dan Curtis directing, we'd really have something here, but it doesn't quite materialise. We start off dodgily in sunny Californ-aye-ay, but with a couple of eerie fog-bound killings. It seems these killings precede the inevitable commercial break, and you can bet your bottom dollar that we'll be back after the fade out with hordes of police cars. This is at first amusing, then annoying. The police are baffled and call in Wetherby. He's baffled as per the original story to the exact nature of the beast. Byron is refusing to get involved. Wetherby's part-time girlfriend (Jo Ann Pflug) doesn't like him anyway. He has a habit of turning up at odd moments, watching the confusion with a detached bemusement. I mistook Clint Walker's hulking size and slow delivery for dimness at first, but as the film proceeds, it really makes a mark. Byron is far more in control than anyone else. Matheson has the good taste to bring in a scene directly from the original story where some know-all challenges Byron's somewhat primitive outlook on life, and the result is amusing and worrying. The second half of the film is much better, embodying some of the claustrophobic nature of Case's writing, and the ending is well-handled and offers more closure than the tale, perhaps in keeping with US TV. Much better than I expected

The Pit....And The Pendulum

Recently watched The Pit (1962) a short ( just less than half an hour) experimental film, funded by the BFI, based on Edgar Allan Poe’s short story. Filmed in black and white with a very discordant score, it’s extremely creepy and a very good take on that particular tale.

As a result I reread EAP’s story and was very disappointed to find that although replete with horror and menace, Edgar’s version had a happy ending! Sellout!

‘Twas but a short step to the Roger Corman outing. Although Richard Matheson more or less jettisoned the story, it’s an amazingly atmospheric piece of work. There’s a castle, full of torture instruments, cobwebs (although this may be the only Corman Poe film that doesn’t feature the obligatory tarantula), secret passages. It’s by the sea (apparently representing the unconscious) so there are lots of wonderful waves-crashing-against-the-rocks shots. And there’s Vincent Price (who, like the tarantula, only missed one of the series). People have criticised his madness as being, well, a bit hammy, but, goodness gracious, we all go a little mad sometimes, and I’m all for my madmen and women being totally MAD.

There’s a storm at the end too.

2000 Maniacs/2001 Maniacs

How far have we come in 40 years? What makes a good remake? Can you call someone being ripped apart by four horses going in four different directions entertainment?
Herschell Gordon Lewis' gore films aren't particularly good, but they're great examples of exactly what it says on the tin. If you know his name, you know what to expect.
Brought to my attention as one of the so-called worst directors of all time by the Medveds in The Golden Turkey Awards, then given tantalising glimpses of his actual films (along with those of Russ Meyer and John Waters) by Jonathan Ross in his Channel 4 series The Incredibly Strange Film Show, I didn't think I'd ever get to see any of his pictures, but the video and then DVD revolution changed things completely.
I sat through dodgy tapes of the pioneering Blood Feast, followed by The Wizard Of Gore and The Gore-Gore Girls. I later obtained official 18 certificate vids of She-Devils On Wheels and 2,000 Maniacs - the latter being completely shorn of what I expected to see - so last night's screening of the DVD was the first time I'd seen the thing in its entirety.
Terrible sound and unconvincing acting couldn't detract from the prurient tension in awaiting the gore scenes. And the whole thing had a kind of terrible inevitability about it, the ending even adding a delightful supernatural touch (and Brigadoon comparisons). The blood letting seems rather odd - tame by today's standards but, taking into account when it was made, at the same time excessive. Made in 1964, reticent about the race angle (apart from possibly the children's little string nooses), the Southern resentment of the North put into perspective by the Civil War backstory. Ill-executed (sorry) but somehow more interesting than you'd think.
In fact, probably a better film to remake than the so-called classics, be they Frankenstein and Dracula, or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Hallowe'en or A Nightmare On Elm Street.
A bad start for 2001 Maniacs, foregrounding the War Between The States during the credits, and then into the inevitable college kids stupidity. Still, it'll be enjoyable watching these dickheads get theirs, more so than the innocuous twenty-somethings of the original.
Once our Spring Breakers head into Pleasant Valley, things begin to pick up - Deliverance has been mentioned, there were a couple of nods to TCM, and then there's Mayor Buckland (played by a hamming Robert Englund) complete with Stars and Bars eyepatch. There's the expected profanity and sex absent from the previous entry, and race issues are brought up, albeit in a kind of deliberately politically incorrect way,
Despite the modernity, even 2001 can't help dragging a bit in places, but it's a lot of fun, acknowledging HGL's work and taking it further. Heck, there's even a Gone With The Wind reference.
The two films compliment one another - one's enjoyment of 2001 enhanced by knowledge of 2000. Some of the later film actually makes the earlier one look better.

Bollock Brothers - Mythology

Another load of old testes from Jock MacDonald. There’s something about them that fascinates. Perhaps it’s because, as the Trouser Press reviewer states, there’s no-one else quite like them, and they’re not easily categorised – apart from those who’d label them ‘crap’ which seems to be all but a few.


To set the scene –

The news that the Bollock Brothers (or is it those two French DJs?) are playing in London this Friday (June 11th 2010) got me to thinking about them and the 4 Be 2s. First heard of Jock MacDonald in connection with trying to organise 1,000 punk a side football matches and tug o’wars as the 1970s faded into the 1980s , and later as a purveyor of dodgy vinyl Pistols bootlegs such as Anarchy In The UK and Never Trust A Hippy.

Someone pointed me in the direction of the 4 Be 2s first single (One Of The Lads) a bizarre dub rock effort which was catchy (though I couldn’t really take to the B side (UmmBaba). The picture cover featured blokes wearing horror masks and military uniforms. My guide pointed out that one was Jimmy Lydon (John’s brother) who had a penchant for German WWII memorabilia and you could see his dodgy eye behind the mask, as someone had whacked him for wearing an Iron Cross (Don’t know if that was true). Their second single Frustration was a brilliant ska style singalong about being gaoled for murdering your girlfriend. The B Side was equally brilliant – a cover of The Who’s I Can’t Explain which sounded like Bowie’s version from Pin-Ups – but speeded up and on steroids. Their final effort was an instrumental reworking of their first single this time called All Of The Lads in aid of youngsters killed in a disco fire in Dublin. The B-side featured a dreadful mysogynist dirge called Bitch, and another cheery ska hopalong called Jimmy Jones about the nutter who got all those folk over to Guyana then had them commit mass suicide by drinking poisoned Kool-Aid.

Saw them at the Lyceum supported by other North London stalwarts Infa-Riot and The Dark. (and Chelsea). Just remember Jock (?) calling for a minutes silence for the perished youth of Dublin, mass audience speculation as to whether one of the many figures in shadow back stage was John Lydon, and hordes of pogoing and congaing Arsenal skins as Jimmy (in a bright green suit) led the festivities. Mind you, being a devout coward I left early as there were loads of less than happy West Ham skins up the back.

I know they played a St Patrick’s Day hooley at the Rainbow, supported by The Bollock Brothers and Pope Paul & The Romans.

The BBs recorded career seems long & dubious. I bought The Bunker and wasn’t surprised that it didn’t feature in the Anthony Hopkins as Adolf Hitler TV movie. I bought The Act Became Real (about Ronnie Reagan) but it didn’t seem to be much of an improvement. They did their version of NMTB with Palace Prowler Michael Fagan – I saw them at The Marquee – masses of tourists going bananas to the Pistols songs. A review in Sounds consisted solely of Jack Barron phoning the Marquee for a free ticket then playing Space Invaders. Journalists, eh? They then seemed to latch onto the Batcave thing and pretend to be Goths – using Horror Film imagery on their 12 inchers. The B Side of The Slow Removal Of Vincent Van Gogh’s Left Ear featured ‘Paul Gadd Jr’ singing Rock ‘N’ Roll. Bizarrely they seemd very popular in Europe. I was surprised to find The Last Supper on CD in Germany.

We’ll Be There (by Rabbie Burns & The Ticket Touts – a refusal to accept the blanket ban on Scotsmen at Wembley after they trashed the place in ‘75) as the cover featured Jock and a bemused Lydon – the latter to the outrage of the English music press. Other one-offs included the now outdated Why Won’t Rangers Sign A Catholic Centre Forward (a collection of pro-Celtic, anti-Rangers chants set to punk thud ‘n’ blunder with a synth burbling over the top) by Pope Paul & The Romans, and a (Chelsea supporting) acquaintance of mine owned Good Old Arsenal by The Sex Bristols. (a retread of Frustration, encompassing pro-Arsenal, anti-Tottenham chants – which I believe led to Messrs Lydon and McDonald being prosecuted for something like incitement to racial hatred, and Jock appearing in the witness box to explain that a certain three letter word beginning with Y wasn’t a racial slur on Jews but an expression for a follower of Tottenham Hotspur.)

Ever read Johnny Rogan’s examination of The Smiths – Morrissey & Marr : The Severed Alliance? It mentions Morrissey fronting the Nosebleeds (bet he was no Ed Banger) and supporting the BBs in Belgium (surely the nadir of his musical career?)

Also check out Prince Charming – one of those cheap paperbacks rushed out the celebrate the fleeting fame of pop stars (the only other people who seem to merit this cut and paste storytelling are serial killers) in this case Adam Ant. It documents the bizarre episode of Top Of The Pops where, the audience contained many sprightly young men in “I’ve Been Hit By A 4” Be 2” “ t-shirts (I had one!) attempting to hog the camera, and the tabloid aftermath on the morrow, where Adam (and at least one Ant) had been assaulted by these yobs.

So. Mythology

GDM – Jock prowls the streets of London and beyond, looking for handsome young men to lure between his sheets. Apparently an answer to the German electro-pop tune No GDM by Gina X, itself a reference to Quentin Crisp and no Great Dark Man (according to what I googled.)

Spooky

Beats Of Love

GDM, Spooky and Beats of Love are all Euro-Disco stuff, and not the BBs I really get on with.

Dinner With Dracula – this is more like it! The familiar sub-Pistols drone, overlapped with thunder, tolling bells, what sounds like voice-over merchant Bill Mitchell impersonating Bela Lugosi (rather badly), Hammer music and then a description of the approach to Castle Dracula – by a distorted voice. If I can find my old Hammer/Christopher Lee Dracula LP I’ll have to check if that’s where the BBs nicked it from. Their single (under the Red Lipstique alias?) Return Of The Vampyre is alleged to feature Sir Chris

My Fair Daughter – Jock’s daughter reciting London Bridge Is Falling Down for 20 seconds. Oh dear. Possibly a parody of The Clash or Psychic TV.

Monster Mash – a rather leaden cover of Bobby ‘Boris’ Pickett’s classic made infinitely worse by seguing into the original at the end.

Wiped Out – More sub-Pistols posturing, through the Surfaris Wipe Out – sadly misses the drumming , but a good grind nonetheless.

For Your Blood – Another crappy pseudo-Goth Disco cover, this time of For Your Love by The Yardbirds. It’s preferable to the first three, but not by much.

Wilde Mythology – now, along with Dinner With Dracula, this is a good one. Jock and a EuroLady sing the praises of Oscar (or possibly Oskar) Wilde and his search for beauty.

Legend Piano Mix – someone playing the piano quite well.

Slim pickings here unfortunately, but three of ‘em are worth what I paid for it.