The political killer shrubbery splatter movie genre isn’t exactly over-subscribed. In fact, as far as I’m aware, ‘Special Silencers’ is the only entry in it, and it’s uniqueness is compounded since it adds mysticism and kung fu to the mix. if Jackie Chan was to direct a remake of ‘Little Shop of Horrors’ written by John le Carre, the end result might just look like this. Though on the other hand, it might not.
The final nail in this particular cinematic coffin is the presence of a bad guy who laughs manically. “Pah!”, I hear you say, “Every bad guy worth his salt laughs manically”, and you’re right. However, ‘Special Silencers’ now holds the marathon duration manic laugh record: 23.04 seconds, with barely a pause for breath. Try it yourself and you’ll begin to appreciate the recognition this feat deserves.
Although the film is definitely from the east, it’s exact home is obscure: sometimes it looks Indian, other times it could be from Hong Kong – I’ve even heard rumours it was directed by John Woo under a pseudonym! About the only clue is a reference to Djakarta, which strongly suggests it’s Indonesian. If this is the case, chalk up yet another unusual feature.
It all starts with a plot to kill Hamud, the mayor of a village, by chief baddie Gandar (who bears some resemblance to Saddam Hussein). In a swift flashback we see Gundar beating up his own grandfather after the latter has refused to hand over the Special Silencers, pills which should be used for meditation but which, when taken with food, also cause plants to grow in your stomach, rapidly leading to death by rhododendron.
Gandar pops one in Hamud’s tea because the mayor is trying to clean up the village, which would interfere with Gandar’s activities and plans to take over the place. The Mayor duly becomes his own floral tribute – judging by the phlegmatic reaction of his nephew Dayat, such an ecologically conscious death is an everyday occurrence in wherever-this-story-is set.
Hamud’s policeman brother, and daughter Julia are on the way to help their relative and when the car breaks down, Hendra, a passing hero, offers to help. The bridge to town is also broken and so Hendra rides off for assistance leaving the other two to a picnic, also containing some Special Silencers. Scratch one cop, unless plain clothes includes disguising your intestines as a herbaceous border. Julia, who’d been off to the river, washing, getting attacked by bandits, you know the sort of thing, comes back and faints.
Hendra returns, only to be attacked by Tonto, a henchman of Gundar’s. After some simple but effective kung fu, Tonto lands against a dead but pointy branch and proves that even non-living vegetation can cause serious arterial spurting. This leads to the following exchange between Gundar and Gumillar, his head henchman:
“Why did you leave Tonto’s body out there?”
“Well, I didn’t have a saw.”
We leave Gundar complaining, “It’s a crying shame, Tonto was the last in a line of great killers”.
Hendra carries Julia back to the village – it turns out he and Dayat (the ex-mayor’s nephew, to save you the bother) went to school together. There have been a lot of unnatural deaths in the village lately. Then we get a maudlin bit where Hendra puts his arm around Julia and says things like “Regret will only make his soul restless”.
At this point, we can briefly discuss a sub-plot that wanders through the middle third of the film. Gumillar runs a protection racket, taking a percentage of the catch from the local fisherman (what he does with all these fish is not covered), or alternatively, their virgin daughters. We see one such girl sacrificing herself to save her family, getting pawed by Gumillar and committing suicide (spurt, gush, spray) in a series of scenes that manage to be simultaneously melodramatic, sordid and quite sad.
Hendra, on his motor-bike, is chased by a lorryful of thugs, and after they fail to respond to his challenge to “get down here and fight me”, he climbs up and drags them down. We get the line “Ayu! Sic him!”, which I only mention because the Dutch sub-titles at the time also read “Ayu! Sic him!”. After some more sub-plot (see above), Hendra and Julia are attacked by people leaping out of holes in the ground. The infinite supply of trained killers to be found in one small village suggest that in Indonesia the three R’s are reading, writing and Rkung-fu.
At this point, the phone rang and I got distracted. I don’t think I missed much, save a minor character being killed by having snakes dropped on him. I returned just in time to see Dayat walk on top of a man-trap that could hardly have been more obvious if there’d been a neon sign saying “Here is a vicious, poisoned, man-trap” above it. He struggles back to the village, and Hendra & Julia take him (all three on the same bike) to a nearby holy-man who cures him and says “You’re out of danger”, adding as an afterthought, “And alive”. Well, I suppose death DOES count as being “out of danger”…
Hendra heads off on his motorbike to tell the police all that’s been going on, leaving Dayat and Julia vulnerable to capture by the bad guys. And this is exactly what happens, despite some nifty fire-extinguisher-fu by Julia. Dayat gets a Special Silencer, Julia is tortured by being made to smell Dayat’s old shoes and getting white mice thrown at her, and Hendra is captured and whipped to the great amusement (23.04 seconds) of Gundar.
His use of the Special Silencers for meditation has made him invulnerable to normal weapons. Hendra finds this out when he escapes and attacks the bad guy with a sickle prompting the immortal line:
“You bastard! You took my leg! Give it back now!”
Perhaps not quite “invulnerable”, but certainly a lot less bothered by it than the other people who lose appendages to the sickle… Then, a sudden voice-over tells us that evil invulnerable people can be wounded with bamboo and before you can say “chrysanthemum”, Hendra does the deed and all the Special Silencers Gundar’s taken simultaneously sprout, producing enough flora to stock a medium-sized National Trust property.
Poking fun at foreign ways isn’t something I like to do. But if Indonesia, or wherever ‘Special Silencers’ was located, is really like the movie, then it’s one place I’m crossing off the list for my next holiday!
Produced, directed, re-animated, written and imported from Japan by Arthur Baker.
This languished under the TV for ages, under the mistaken assumption that it was a barbarian women film. However, that was eventually dispelled one Sunday evening, when I found out it was actually Japanime. This was a pleasant surprise, at least until the titles – seeing ‘Pandora – An Erotic Trilogy’, I got the feeling this was going to be dodgy anime.
And I was 110% right. Why it’s called ‘Pandora’, and what happened to the other two parts, I haven’t a clue. However, the first section is a cross between ‘The Exorcist’, ‘Dolls’ and, oh, any randomly selected Traci Lords movie. Those easily offended (or even those that are difficult to offend) might care to skip the rest of this, as should those with religious convictions [insert own joke here].
It starts innocently enough with a man, Paul, driving through a forest. Or at least, repeatedly through the same bit of forest – the animation is on the budget side. He comes across a trainee TV evangelist, Brother Robards, who was delivering a videocassette of Christian special-effects when his bike broke down. Paul, being a friendly sort, gives him a lift and tells him tales of the haunted forest they’re in, saying that it’s outside the realm of God. The van then hits a tree but fortunately, a passing coach, driven by someone who looks like The Master from Doctor Who, takes them to a castle. On arrival, the place is full of china dolls plus Maria, the mistress of the house and Beth, her maid-servant. Paul and the priest are shown to their separate rooms. Then things start to get decidedly dodgy.
Necessary digression. The Japanese have a severe taboo against depicting pubic hair – naughty bits are fine, just not hairy ones. Other anime tastefully blur the offending region (though on a 9th generation NTSC conversely, everything looks a bit fuzzy). ‘Pandora’ simply doesn’t let its characters have any pubic hair, as we discover when we see Maria playing with herself in front of a mirror. The lack of hair and the usual anime tricks of huge eyes, etc, make her look about ten: even though it’s relatively tastefully done – we see something that looks more like a crushed rose dripping nectar than anything gynaecologically accurate – it still makes uncomfortable viewing.
She then moves in to seduce Brother Robards (with no problem at all – he is a trainee TV evangelist!), starting by having him tongue her pussy and proceeding apace to the point where Maria is energetically astride the reverend, all shown in great detail. The truth is then revealed – she’s actually a demon (something of a relief compared to the alternative that this is just animated kiddie porn) who wants Brother Robards to father Satan’s child. Her demonic powers include the handy ability to change shape so that she can lick his dick while still sitting on top of him (leaning backwards through her own legs in a loop, should you be wondering). Brother Robards’ sperm proves too weak to make it up into Maria’s womb (?) so he gets his head torn off.
Paul, meanwhile, is canoodling in the kitchen with Beth. Maria surprises them and drags Beth away for punishment, shapechanging to become a well-endowed man. Not so much in quality as quantity, she’s in a 100% penis over-supply situation. We’ll draw a veil over the rest of this painful scene, pausing only to note that Beth doesn’t have any pubic hair either.
After a tasty meal of what’s left of Brother Robards, Maria tries Paul for size, despite his efforts to prevent her (the dialogue reaches new heights – lines like “Stop trying to force me to have an erection! I refuse to let it stand up, you whore of Satan!” would be bad as subtitles, as spoken dialogue, they’re hysterical). Their humping and licking is abruptly terminated by Beth delivering an axe between the shoulder-blades to Maria. She’s barely fazed by this and is soon chasing the couple through the castle, aided by her animated dolls. They end up in Brother Robards room and his Christian special effects video-tape suddenly attacks Maria and winds itself round her. Then the castle goes on fire. Why all this happens, I’ve no idea but Beth and Paul escape, pausing only to make passionate love in gratuitous close-up as the castle burns in the distance. Of course, there’s the obligatory surprise ending, which will not be a surprise to anyone who’s seen ‘Dance of the Vampires’.
The feeling this was a one-man operation is increased by the dubbing – whoever Mr.Baker got to do Beth’s voice delivers every line in the same monotone, whether it’s “Oh, I’m getting so excited” or “Please don’t hurt me any more. No, not your chamber”. Even “Please don’t double-dong me” is said in a voice reminiscent of a speaking clock. The translation has other interesting moments:
The problem with something like ‘Pandora’ is that it poses more questions than it can answer. Taken in isolation, it’s perverse and shocking but several things distinguish it from pornography. There can be no denying the effort, relatively speaking, that went into it – simple though the animation may be, it’s still more expensive and time-consuming than your average porn movie, shot over a weekend in a motel room.
It also has a story which shows significant amounts of imagination, even if this is mostly in the how-tasteless-can-we-get area: blasphemy and cannibalism are not features in hard-core sex films as far as I’m aware! It’s closer to ‘Hellraiser’ than ‘Deep Throat’, really, with it’s distaste for religion, demons from hell and hints of variant sexuality.
Though using terms like ‘variant’ may be wrong. We see ‘Pandora’ through a filter – someone not knowing about the pubic hair taboo might well be outraged by some of the images. It’s really an alien artefact – imagine the difficulty a Japanese person would have interpreting a video of a Test Match – and enforcing our own morals on it to condemn it will not work.
I don’t claim artistic merit for ‘Pandora’, but I do claim cultural merit; a society is defined by its extremes and this undoubtedly gives a better insight into Japanese culture than “Tora! Tora! Tora!”. Anyway, this agnostic finds it difficult to truly dislike any movie that has a TV evangelist 69-ing what looks like a prepubescent schoolgirl. I’ve always been keen on subtle religious satire…
Regular readers of this ‘zine will be aware of my predilection for one of the above exports and so will not be surprised to learn that the latest piece of investigative journalism for TC is on the topic of ‘mail-order brides’, a subject which has the added attraction that it can be investigated quite adequately from the comfort of your own home.
Of course, the term ‘mail-order bride’ isn’t entirely accurate. While an interesting concept, it’s not technically feasible, if for no other reason than your average letterbox is not big enough to accommodate even a small Thai without some chainsaw modification to either the letter-box or the girl. And imagine the unpleasantness if you went away on holiday for a couple of weeks just before the latest package from your Bride of the Month club arrived. You’d return to find a very hungry, highly irate, brown-paper parcel – not exactly the best way to start a relationship.
Sorry, I’m fantasizing again (not unusual when the subject of cute Orientals arises). The business in exporting women from S.E. Asia to Europe originally started in West Germany, when male tourists started to discover the fleshpots of places like Bangkok and decided they’d appreciate a home delivery service. At one point, it was estimated that over 2% of all W. German marriages were arranged by such marriage brokers, though the recent opening up of Eastern Europe has probably led to a decrease, due to the ready availability of impecunious women closer to home.
Similar bureaux have sprung up in Britain, of varying reliability and responsibility. The opportunities for con-merchants are obvious and don’t need to be spelled out – no regulatory body exists for these companies, many of which inhabit a twilight world, advertising in the back of the Sunday Sport. I went slightly up-market, to “Loot”, London’s leading small-ads paper, got distracted by the adverts for pinball machines, detoured into the car section (“That’s cheap for a Pontiac Firebird…”) and finally reached the appropriate section, selected a company and sent off for details.
To give Siam Introductions their credit, they replied in swift order and seemed to be totally above-board. A dozen A4 pages of newspaper articles (giving both praise and criticism), unsolicited testimonials and a piece by director Charles Black. Operating on the principle that the best way to find out about the problems involved was to go through it himself, he was his own first customer, and went over to Thailand to find himself a bride. This he did – he and Deer have now been happily married for six years and have a four year old son.
The crucial question is, to quote a certain film, “How much for your daughter?”. Well, Siam Introductions do a package deal:
Not bad (and slightly less than the Pontiac Firebird!). However, there is the trifling matter of Siam Introductions’ fee. What would seem reasonable to you? £200? £500? £1,000? Nope. Try eighteen hundred pounds, although you do get your money back if no marriage results. Even if the fee on the other side is significantly lower, you don’t have to arrange many matches in a year to take in a tidy sum.
Examining the piggy-bank, I found it to be just a little short of the three grand required to pursue this investigation to it’s full extent (but as of next issue, TC will cost ninety-five pounds a copy!). Still, there was the slightly cheaper alternative of a video – 250 girls and a travelogue for a tenner – which I could just about afford, so I sent off my money. I must say I did consider the possibility of a rip-off, but such things do not scare a brave investigative journalist (though they do make a more cowardly one think about the benefits of operating from a PO Box) and in any case, the tape soon arrived…
Click. Whirr.
t’s definitely an uncomfortable experience, seeing what really amounts to adverts for human beings. Most of the girls unsurprisingly seem nervous, which is ok – who wouldn’t be? – but occasionally there’s one frozen with fear like a rabbit caught in headlights, and THAT makes the flesh crawl. You feel sure there’s a story there, and it’s not pleasant, whatever it is. With a compere who sounds like Joel Gray from ‘Cabaret’, and some of the worst music heard outside an elevator, it was simultaneously utterly cringe-making and horribly, unstoppably addictive. The tape might well be the ultimate in short attention-span TV. Don’t like this girl? Hang on, there’ll be another one along in fifteen seconds. Nice travelogue though.
The women were a fairly broad cross-section. Most seemed to be in their middle 20’s, with the minimum and maximum 18 and 47 and education ranging from elementary to university graduate. Despite this, it was possible to come up with three blatant generalisations:
Morally, I have definite qualms about it, although the basic idea seems reasonable, with both parties getting what they want. A survey of Filipino women who’d signed up with marriage agencies showed that their main reason was to send money back to their families and there can be little doubt that the standard of living here is higher. In return, the man gets… well, to quote Charles Black: “She is happy to attend to my every need, she cooks, cleans and washes for me and does everything with such obvious care and attention and really does please me”. It would appear that the notion of sex equality still hasn’t reached the distant corners of the world, like Chislehurst, Kent.
On the other hand, it’s perhaps a little like commercial surrogacy – my distaste may have less to do with the theory than the practice of someone making money out of it. It seems exploitative of both sides, and the way that many of the women put down ‘housework’ as one of their hobbies suggests a certain element of desperation. Do they go into it with their eyes open? According to a caseworker in London who’s worked with them, “I think many of the men want a Filipino or Thai wife because of the stereotype of what these women are supposed to be like – gentle, sweet, loving and submissive and full of traditional values. And so they’re expected to serve the man in every way – domestically, emotionally and sexually”.
Yet, apparently, most of the marriages do succeed, with a divorce rate that’s much lower than our national average of 1 in 4. Charles and his wife provide an “after-care” service to help couples through any rocky patches, which obviously must be of some help, but cynics may suggest the prospect of having to return to Thailand (where divorce is still a stigma) and admit failure is sufficient incentive to make the wife put up with almost anything. The brief courtship (if there’s one at all – at some agencies, the first time the husband sees his wife is when she gets off the plane) certainly can’t provide much idea about lifelong compatibility.
It’s not for me, but then I’m not in my mid-40’s, as the average customer apparently is. Maybe in another twenty years I’d consider it! The evidence suggests that, just like most relationships, whether it works or not depends almost entirely on the people involved. I have to confess approaching the subject with a ghoulish sense of fascination – mondo marriage? – which probably meant I wasn’t going about things in the right spirit. But, hell, if all I wanted was slavish devotion, undying obedience and a limited grasp of English, I’d buy a cocker spaniel.
