Every month there was a day when Bob and I met to talk of life, the universe, everything. My dear old mother would have had kittens had she known the places we ended up. Yet there was one occasion where I had my own doubts. In fact, wild horses could not drag me to the venue Bob had suggested.
“If not wild horses, how about some loose-limbed lovelies, eh?” said Bob, as if he had read my mind.
I looked at him askance, or at least I think I did. As usual, what had started off as a serious dialogue between deep-thinking individuals about the State of the Nation had quickly degenerated into ludicrous pub-talk and tasteless smut. However I still retained scruples enough to respond: “Bob, I wouldn’t be seen dead in such a place, even if one of your so-called loose-limbed lovelies tugged me there by the short and curlies!” I could not believe my own ears. Had I really said that? Or was it purely the shallow imagination of a hard-pressed narrator?
Bob laughed in an uncivilised manner, with spittle-bullets rattling out like a Lewis Gun. During the rump end of our conversation, there had arrived a third party: a wide-skirted female by the look of it. She sat amongst the other shadows at the back of the otherwise deserted coffee bar. I could sense her eyes boring into my neck. I saw Bob once or twice glancing over in her general direction. We gave each other knowing looks, in some pretence of macho coolness, each hinting to the other that the situation, albeit mysterious and pregnant with unpredictable possibilities, was one that we surely could keep within the tolerances of control. He took to whispering, so that the shadow could not hear, whilst the sounds of her fidgeting on her chair indicated to me at least that she believed that even the slightest change in her stance would bring improved acoustics into play, thus enabling her to gain purchase on our words and, by so doing, to affect their meaning by the simple method of misinterpretation. But the Wurlitzer Juke-Box in the corner seemed to have other ideas, taking on a life of its own, since it abruptly rotated through a number of clicks with, finally, the grating noise of the sapphire stylus dropping neatly into the dusty leader-groove of what transpired to be an ancient Buddy Holly disc.
Then, even Bob and I could hardly hear each other speak. And, with the music, the western-style saloon doors of the coffee bar swung wide, to reveal a giggle of what I could only describe loosely in Bob’s terms as – what was it? – lick-limbed lovelies, dressed in an attractive Fifties mode, who forthwith commenced dancing a rather suggestive form of Rock and Roll. I glanced at Bob to see if this was what he had meant. As he stared glassily straight ahead in front of his face, I saw the jitterbuggers reflected in his engorged eyes. I mouthed a remonstration to indicate that this was not my scene at all. My mother would not only have kittens, but tigers, too. But Bob’s mind had decided to go walkies. Nervously, I clutched my coffee cup and hunched my shoulders as a carapace of protection.
One ‘lovely’ approached our table and, beneath the music, muttered a few words to me, trying at the same time to drape her length over my lap. I was paralysed, but the shadow in the corner bellowed some innard-clogged gutterals which, despite their bestial incomprehensibility, the ‘lovely’ seemed to understand and she withdrew from my vicinity. I returned my attention to Bob, relieved to see that he was back from his skull-out. He leaned across and tweaked my shoulders, as if he wanted my ear nearer. The Juke-Box stopped suddenly (as they sometimes did if a coin of too low a denomination was used) and his whisper becmae louder than intended: “I’ve got a hard-on!”
The dancers freeze-framed. I grimaced, as embarrassment seeped up from the pit of my stomach – bringing with it a prurient froth to the roof of my mouth and rancid bile to my nose and nostrils. “Bob, for God’s sake!” He blushed, as I must have done, too, and tried to stand up. However, the ‘lovely’ lurking at our periphery loomed to the very edge of our table territory. I could hardly bring myself to look up, whilst Bob, now forced back into the bottom of his coffee cup, desperately scried the pattern of its dregs.
The shadow’s voice was simply a series of tongue clicks, throat grunts and belly laughs. The lights were doused, as if the meter yearned another shilling. I heard a sound that was too obvious to be implied: a crunching-off, like celery, a splitting asunder, a tearing-out of a fibrous root from the body-grabbing earth. And the she-shadow was now touchable terror: harnessed to such a root, as she jigged and jived, in the flickering of her own luminescence – like a jester on heat. The dream-eyed ‘lovelies’ gave grudging welcome to the jump-lead she now wielded, as they were in turn short-circuited to the very bottom bone and hell of the she-shadow’s searing soul.
The lights flashed once and then came on permanently. The Juke-Box completed the Buddy Holly disc – but it now seemed to be a different song altogether, reminding us that love is getting closer, going faster than a rollercoaster…
Bob was slumped across the table, his head lolling, thick coffee drooling from his lips upon the formica. And there was a slurping noise upon the floor from somewhere below the table, a spilling that became a splattering. I shrugged. I could’ve wept blood. I’d taken Bob out on the wrong day of the month – yet again.
There was no sign of the ‘lovelies’ anywhere. Loose bits, all of them! I cursed my mother, for not warning me about life and its pitfalls. All she ever did was irritatingly twiddle her whiskers as she nagged me to keep clean by licking my underparts and always to help the earth to gobble up my doings.
Jim Swallow, London – “Another cool TC – and another cover that gifted me with plenty of dirty looks as I read it on the train… As usual, I found many things in #22 that had me highly amused or nodding in rueful agreement; the latter mostly when I read about your exposure to the “It’s A Small World” ride at Disneyworld (be thankful you never entered “The Carousel of Progress”) and your new taste for cordite. Thanks as well for the edifying wrestling feature; never have I seen so many scary Oriental girls in one place…outside of your video collection, anyway.
I was interested by your take on jai-alai – I had an experience of the same sort (that of being a foreigner exposed to an arcane, alien sporting event up close and personal) last year at an LA Dodgers game. I know baseball sounds less interesting – methinks that’s why they have so many beer vendors – but I was still gobsmacked when I witnessed one batter deflect a supersonic fast ball and have his bat severed by its’ impact. Watching a broken chunk of wood as big as my arm arc through the air and impale itself in the dirt at my feet almost made me drop my wax cup of Budweiser and hot dog. In addition, my weird shit-o-meter pinged loudly with Marc Lewes’ “Raven” article…where did this guy come from?
I’ll end with a tip of the hat to you, regarding your item on the Nick Carter books; my interest duly piqued by your descriptions of this pulp spy saga while visiting my folks on the East Coast, I found myself wandering through one of the myriad second-hand book shops that dot the region – and I left with copies of Temple of Fear, Time Clock of Death and Trouble in Paradise weighing me down. Great stuff…How could I not like a character with pet names for his Luger and stiletto knife? I for one wouldn’t have minded seeing a longer article on the ‘Killmaster’.”
Ah, yes, Wilhelmina was the gun…or was it the knife? And wasn’t Pierre the gas-bomb he kept in his underpants? Fabulous stuff. I actually have grown to like baseball, as you’ll see from elsewhere in this issue. It has a fine rhythm, and can be appreciated on a whole range of levels, from Mark McGwire taking a ball coming towards him at 95 mph, and hitting it 150 yards, to the subtleties of pitch selection on an 0-2 count. And the fielding is amazing, even allowing for the help given by having a glove. It’s one of the things I’m looking forward to seeing much more of in Arizona.
Tim Greaves, Eastleigh – “Have to say this wasn’t one of my most favourite issues to date, mainly because the Japanese wrestling stuff wasn’t of much interest. Mind you, it’s your bag, it’s your mag, so who the hell am I to complain? I liked the Bond movie overview (though didn’t agree with all your ratings – AVTAK better than FRWL and TB? Come on now!), and was amused to see you posed with the inimitable Douglas James. When and where did that happen? I met him at a press screening/luncheon for Tomorrow Never Dies in November 1997 and found him to be extremely pleasant but extremely full of himself also. Other than this. I think the Floozies with Uzis article was probably the highlight, although the Film Blitz section is always a fave (but how anyone can’t love Dark City is beyond me). Overall, however, another fine issue. How long till the next one then? Hehehehehehe.”
Oh, about fifteen months or so – though there are some questions you just don’t ask! I can see your point with regard to From Russia With Love; it has its moments, even if the novel isn’t one of Fleming’s best. But I found Thunderball simply dull: way too much of it took place wearing scuba-gear. Met Mr. James (Pierce Brosnan’s stand in for the 007 films) at my birthday party, which Chris had arranged with a Bond theme; she hired him as a guest. It was a surprise anyway, but suffice it to say that my jaw dropped when I saw him…
Steve Pay, Brentwood – “Thought I’d drop you a quick line to enclose a cheque for some beans for some issues. (Well, alright, a tenner, which ought to see me through until I get my bus-pass.) I also thought I’d pass a few random thoughts about what was actually in the damn thing.
The Phantom Menace. I went to see it because The Guardian gave it a review that made it sound like a Plan 9 for our generation, but it turned out to be a load of old tosh, albeit very pretty. The only thing that makes me angrier than its runaway success is the number of people, who should know better, who actually think it’s a worthwhile way to spend two and a half hours. I’ve not seen Titanic (think I’m probably unique in the population of Great Britain, if not the world, that I can honestly claim not to have seen Titanic, The Full Monty, Four Weddings, Notting Hill or Pretty Woman.) but I do know that nobody could enhance their reputation for anything with the steaming pile of cack that was T2. A salutory lesson as to why stars should never, ever, ever be given script control of any kind. (See also True Lies and Total Recall.)
Got something against Arnie, have we? The only one of your list which I’ve seen all of, is Four Weddings (dragged by a then-girlfriend), and I can add Phantom Menace to the list. Did catch the last ten minutes of Titanic once…most amusing.
Women’s wrestling. It might interest you to know that Terri Power (under the name Tori) is presently kicking her heels in the WWF, though frankly she might as well be farting in a wind tunnel for all the effect it’s having on their moribund attempts to revive the women’s title. Miss Texas is also knocking around, though I’m assuming her role- as “valet” means that she’s decided the athletic stuff is too much these days.
Madusa Miceli is about as Italian as a Pizza Hut pizza. She’s as American as apple pie, but she has had a longer career than most women wrestlers in the States. Certainly, when WWF was available in this country on ITV, she was kicking around trying to fuel a fire with (I think) Reggie Bennett. Under the name Alundra Blaze, she had some success in Japan, and indeed, the WWF brought her back as well as Bull Nakano, and they had some half dozen fights for the women’s title in the mid-1980’s. She ‘retired’ after losing a retirement match some 3-4 years ago, but has recently returned to WCW under the name Madusa, as part of that ageing, creaking pantomime..
Get a grip, man. The days of said intelligent SF cinema never did exist. Ever since its creation, it’s been an ill-favoured bastard son of the cinema and is doomed to always remain so whilst the likes of Lucas are about. Whilst small, smart guys might get away with making something half-way interesting, anybody wanting money from the studios will automatically have to lower their sights to the likes of ID4, Wild Wild West, Phantom Menace, Godzilla, T2 and Total Recall, none of which have anything resembling a thought in their pretty but very expensive heads. And there is every sign that the horror movie, left alone by Hollywood for decades, is about to suffer a similar fate with shit like I Know… and Scream flooding your local picture pit.
A good example of the Hollywood “dumb-down” factor is given in The Hamster Factor. You watch and weep as Terry Gilliam is made to jump through every hoop imaginable in order to get 12 Monkeys made. Remember, the studio wanted to make Brazil a “revenge thing”, centred around De Niro’s character. Ridley Scott only got Blade Runner made after the studio tinkered with it to an horrendous degree. Frankly, intelligent movies of any kind have always been the exception rather than the rule. Have you ever read any of Harlan Ellison’s pieces about his experiences in Hollywood? I think you’d like them – he makes you look mild-mannered…”
Certainly true that as budget goes up, control goes down. However, with respect to Gilliam, his rep in Hollywood has been troublesome since he went wildly over on Munchausen, so it’s no surprise he has been subject to close control ever since. Would you give him $28 million of your money to make a movie based on a French short film consisting entirely of still pictures? Still, it is possible to make cinema that is intelligent without going up its own backside: the fabulous Run Lola Run comes to mind. And finally, the following, which I thought was worth repeating in full, and as received. I hope I can find a suitable font in which to present it…
Florence Nabakooza, Box 12504, Kampala, Uganda, East Africa “Dear friend in Christ. It is a blessing from God that I have come across your lovely name and address and that I have been able to introduce and share my problems with you in the name of Jesus Christ Son of the Living God. I am a Christian girl 17 years old the eldest of the five and a student of St.Joseph Academy and midwifery Training school. A tragic misfortune struck our family on the fateful day of 2-4-99 when both our parents perished in a boat disaster which sunk into Lake Victoria. All twenty three people who were on board of the boat perished.
May God rest their souls in eternity. We are now staying with our grandmother a widow who is blind and who do not have any income generating activity as a result we are now living in a very poor and bad conditions. Daily after attending school I become engaged with all sorts of petty jobs like cleaning toilets, collecting and dispersing dirty garbages, but the money which I receive is very little and sometimes not enough to buy sufficient daily food for the family. Although I am the one who is fully responsible.
Incidentally sir, I have been expecting to sit for the finals towards the end of the year, but now I am worried of failing to do so because I do not have any way of raising the money to clear payments of the school dues. I am humbly appealing to you in the name of Jesus the Lord for sponsorship of £200 to clear payment for examination, registration and all the school dues for a complete year and then sit for the final exams. Thereafter I would be assured of getting an Established job for the welfare of our family and our grandmother. I shall be very gratefull to receive a considerate reply.
Your prayerfully in Christ, Florence Nabakooza”
Dear friend in Florence, I think you really blew it with “Dear friend in Christ”, I’m afraid. It would probably help your finances if you didn’t waste your money on a PO Box, but I’m sure that’s not because this is any sort of scam. Have you considered prostitution, or perhaps selling some unwanted minor body parts? Please find enclosed a sample copy of Trash City; we would love to expand our subscription base into Africa. Do write back soon. Yours prayerfully in Britney, Jim. She never did reply…
Following a disturbing vision of a futuristic, thought controlled fighter craft, Marc Lewes undertook research to explain away the imagery. Far from being deluded fantasy, he collated information from a variety of independent sources to conclude that, somewhere in the world, this awesome, horrific craft does in fact exist. He calls it the Raven.
“Raven, Black as pitch Mystical as the Moon Speak to me of magic, I will fly with you soon.”
PART TWO – MAN MACHINE
The new fly-by-wire Eurofighter swoops and performs loops for the eager entourage, the “Fighter of the 21st Century”. It rumbles perfunctorily through the sky, the pilot having such a choice of the latest electronics to choose from. The new Marconi UUHF radio devices. The enhanced radar imaging, with contour mapping and foliage penetration capability for weapons aiming. FLIR, HUD, and enough cunning computerised counter-measures to make Machiavelli turn in his grave. Gradually the Tornado and Harrier will be phased out, leaving this machine supreme in European airspace.
But whilst millions upon millions have been poured into this project, started in the early 90’s, we still see little of interest, nothing to amaze, no revelatory hardware. The jet still screams away, it flies according to Cartesian co-ordinates and Newtonian laws. It sees as far as its sensors allow. For all its fairing and contouring, it’s still a conventional war machine. Dreamland (Area 51) stories aside, there seems to be no public awareness of any thought controlled aircraft. I began wondering just how prophetic my glimpse of the Raven was? How close was present day science to achieving such a fighting machine?
The highly unusual craft I had seen in my vision (perhaps a remote viewing episode?) was a symbiotic device, a melding of mind and machine, using non-linear interfaces. It was not a remote control prototype, a drone plane (as have already been tested by the U.S. military). The pilot was still an integral part of the device. In the coming months after the ‘vision’, I had sporadic flashes, almost a tuning in to the Raven – glimpses of its dark secrets. I remember with clarity the shocking image of the albino-like pilot, almost free-floating in some sort of fluid in the cockpit, embryonic, yet with acute awareness. Yet I saw no headsets, or direct links. Some sensors monitored the pilots bodily functions -endocrine system, adrenaline levels, and heart-function, but no neurological sensors as you might expect. Just a rudimentary bio-feedback coupling. In this article I will outline the science which might explain how the pilot would control the Raven with thought alone.
Time magazine (11/10/99) carried a retrospective piece on research which had taken place at Reading University Cybernetics department by Kevin Warwick in 1998. This man had experimented with the hard wiring of chips into the human CNS (Central Nervous Systems), creating a functioning, if not rudimentary, form of bio-feedback, the ramifications of which are obvious. By some strange quirk of fate, I had briefly met this professor back in 1988, when applying for an AI computer course at Reading. I remember even then the intriguing hardware that littered the lab: robotic arms, quirky machines, the hypnotic hum of the powerful mainframe lurking in another room like a Demon Seed prop. I could not have guessed that just a decade later this fairly ordinary man would be sending emotional signals via in-built chips in his body to his wife back at home, who had a similarly implanted device.
Interestingly, the professor recently gave a lecture at the Imperial College, London (September 2000) – “A revolutionary investigation into the nature of intelligence itself. A system which unites human, animal And machine intelligence for the first time with shocking results.” (my italics). So this type of research is taking place, but to what end? And why is there so little?
As is the unfortunate case with research institutes in Britain, besides being woefully underfunded, there is a distinct lack of forward thinking or bold experimentation. Whilst original thought is there, it is usually rejected or not acted upon, causing the so called ‘Brain Drain’ to America. However, I believe that the Raven is a joint-effort between this country and the US for reasons which will become clear in the coming articles. Surprisingly, one of the companies in the UK to which we might look to in further search of answers to the mind/machine conundrum has recently been bought by the US company, General Electric. This company, CDC, hides in the outskirts of Hastings, and is a military contractor.
For many years they have been working on Tornado weapons systems, having had a prototype touch-screen (Ordinance control) cockpit as far back as 1985, which I was lucky enough to play with, and thinking back, it was a shockingly pre-emptive system which gave rise to the ‘Arcade’ style gunnery of the Gulf War. They are currently working on a ‘Cognitive Cockpit’, and seem to be very reluctant to release any information regarding this R&D special. The testing and experimentation goes on in a high-security room, behind unwelcoming doors. Advanced HUD (Head up Displays) seem to be the crux of the project, and more ‘interactive’ systems operation, but the idea of thought activated systems seems to be a very real consideration.
Stamford Research Institute, who are US military contractors, tested the Israeli ‘mystic’, Uri Geller in the 1970’s (picture above). Once unfairly debunked by critics for his spoon bending antics, this man still certainly has a strange power coursing through him. For what purpose did they wire up and measure the mental activity of a renowned psychic? Part of the Lawrence Pinneo experiments?
I wonder what reasons they gave him as he sat in that chair and let a scientist attach wires to his head? Was he allowed to see the resulting EEG trace, and does he know where the research information went to, and who used it? The institute are still undertaking top-line military projects, and were also involved in Project Stargate, the covert remote viewing project started in the 1980’s. Throughout the institute’s history, high level military officials have been visiting – one of whom was present for the Geller testing.
Another more high profile body who are also working on a ‘Cognitive Cockpit’ system are DERA (Defense Evaluation Research Institute), located near Farnborough. The nexus of these new style cockpits is increasing battle performance by reducing human error. Sensors embedded in helmets monitor pilots’ brain patterns, and with training, devices can be operated by specifically focused thought patterns, allowing near instant response times. On-board computer systems take over in the event of pilot black-out, bringing the plane back into safe flight until the pilot recovers out of a high-0 turn. DERA’s team are using exactly the same methodology and hardware that, if enhanced and evolved, would enable the Raven to exist.
If all this sounds familiar it’s because it is, and it is meant to be. A soft-drip approach to availability of information, particularly ‘occult’ or alternative technology, seemed the modus operandi of the previous decade, where everything was absorbed into the accepted popular media and the average awareness of once radical procedures and scientific theories were discussed openly without alarm. All this immersion seems only to conceal and wrongly demystify such things, a mindless acceptability which sadly detracts people from considering the real, and more often than not, horrendous consequences. Ultimately, it is we that suffer, in direct proportion to these operations.
We suffer through military tax, through mis-information, through media-acceptance, through flash images of net surfing, and channel hopping. All the while, this craft lingers in the otherworld, being imagined, prepared, formulated and constructed. And whom does it serve? Of course, the minority – the decidedly warped minority as it transpires. Millions of pounds and dollars go in, suffering and a dangerous bubble of ego and power comes out. Military contractors profit, scientists proclaim post-experimental alarm and suddenly develop something that approaches a social conscience. It is not all right to defer blame by citing our defence needs’ and the unimpeachable acid flow of ‘scientific progress’. Their modus vivandi appears to be “We create to destroy”.
Suddenly the material world is derided by quantum physicists announcing that sub-atomic matter breaks all known laws – just as Einstein shattered the Newtonian Universe, they subvert his work -taking his unfinished theorems and corrupting and twisting them like the ruination of an innocent child. Morally, this is a criminal network. Think of the cowse of science in the areas I am talking about. The Raven craft would incorporate such despicable facets of ultra-science – microwave weaponry, EM propulsion/shielding, radioactive weaponry, thought control systems – and its creation would be beyond mere Blasphemy, perhaps something approaching the Devil incarnate – the Devil as machine. Just as quickly as they and the media denounce, ridicule and subvert anything paranormal, occult or of-the-other-medium, they invent their own black magic mathematical formulas, their own horrifying witchcraft, nearly always put to destructive use.
A melding of mind and machine – at work in the US – Los Alamos, at Lockheed, at Stamford Research Institute, Reading University, DERA, CDC, Harvard Physics Department and God knows where else. I found nearly every major aircraft company is currently funding and running R & D projects into thought controlled avionics systems. Once dreamt of by dark-Utopian sci-fi writers, and • now the mechanical posturing of deceived, or deluded scientists, under the wing of dangerous, ego-maniacal, politically motivated individuals.
In the next article I will give credit to those incredible scientists whose names have all but been forgotten, those who built the foundations for free energy systems and gravity devices – Nikola Tesla, T. Townsend Brown, John Hutchinson and the great John Searle (who was working on a manned anti-gravity craft in the 1970’s before being imprisoned on trumped up charges – his machine stolen by the Government!), and also delve into the machinations of the cartel who bought about the Dark Craft -The Aviary, Psi-Tech and other nefarious, mutually beneficial groups.
MARC LEWES – SEPTEMBER 2000
APOLOGY: In the last article I referred to the `Blackbird’ stealth plane as the SR-11. It is in fact the SR-71. 20
There are perhaps two rules in life. The first is there are no rules. The second is never to tell your workmates if you happen to be attending anything that might cause slight embarrassment. Sure enough, ridicule ensued after announcing my proposed venture to Torture Garden. However, as Adam and the Ants once warbled, ridicule is nothing to be scared of. Having been assured of my safety within a sado-masochist environment, I only had the odd 100 qualms as opposed to the previous 1000 about going. To be honest, I was far too curious to pass.
‘Torture Garden’ is the rather self-explanatory name given to the occasional meeting of ‘perverted’ minds – held at ‘The Mass’ in Brixton. Generally known as the half-way point between a ‘normal’ club (i.e. one without whips) and a fully fledged S&M haunt, it welcomes persons of any sexual persuasion as long as they look the part. Leather, PVC and rubber are in order to pass the dress code; otherwise it is quite possible to be turned away for not looking suited to the venue.
This is not to say that acting the part will also be required. The atmosphere at TG is relaxed and friendly, and this is possibly because any unwanted harassment of attendees is not tolerated. The ethos is ‘each to their own’, and that is as valid for straight and pain-intolerant as it is for the hardcore S&M practioner. It is perhaps because of this that I felt safer than in some of the conventional clubs I have been to.
Safer, and yet also over dressed. Clothed in a low cut, mini-skirted PVC number. It takes some very artful near-nakedness to bring around that kind of discomfort, I can assure you. No one else appeared to care though, and the confidence with which attendees wear their S&M dress code sanctioned garb is not a threatening sight in the least. Whatever shape, age or daytime occupation, this is a place that people can express their sexuality with anything from skin suffocating ‘gimp’ suits to absolutely nothing at all. From the gorgeous to the ahem, not so gorgeous, the feeling that any costume gives its wearer is perhaps the main reason for appearing in public in their chosen ‘almost second’ skin. Although, fortunately with such interesting views on offer, voyeurism will not earn you an enquiry as to whether you wish to take a picture for longevity purposes. If anything, you can take heart from the fact you will possibly make the recipient feel even better about themselves, which beats helping that granny across the road on the list of earthly good deeds hands down.
Looking shocked is not perhaps a good thing to do at the club. I was given the advice of ‘expect to see anything – and don’t be shocked when you do’ by a well-meaning friend, and although for the most part I was a picture of all that is cool and cucumber like, a few costumes caused my eyebrows to raise above the permitted centimetre. The winner of my personal ‘Best Costume’ award was a youngish man wearing nothing but a plush velvet jacket and a string of shiny silver self-adhesive beads down the shaft of his penis. The rubber-suited man with the UV glowing penis came a close second.
Although the outlandish dress sense of fellow club goers was almost intriguing enough in itself, Torture Garden has more to offer than a mere insight into the way S&M practitioners dress. Down in the crypt (literally, as irony of ironies, TG is housed in an old church), is where all the players go to have their fun. Cheekily named ‘the Dungeon’, this is a room of soft furnishings, mood lighting and instruments of torture. Anybody can go and wander round, even folks like myself, and so I took the opportunity to catch some people doing naughty but nice things to one another in the flesh.
Upon entering ‘the Dungeon’, I headed towards the nearest gathering to see what was going on. On the first inspection, it appeared to be two women; one chained to an upright iron frame (and wearing a cute set of cat ears) and one dancing salaciously with a whip in her hand. On second inspection, the cat eared woman’s make up was not quite covering a slight five o’clock shadow. Not that any make up faux pas would have been bothering him, he was far too busy moaning with pleasure as every whiplash struck him. His girlfriend made quite an art of her sadism, rubbing up against her boyfriend, whilst giving him a rather gentle whipping. Then she wriggled her behind up against his legs whilst undoing her corset….
…And then came that Foster’s beer moment. As the strings of the corset came apart, it revealed a hairy flat chest. Whilst musing yet again how unfair it was that some guys had such nice legs, I failed to notice the hush. To be precise, I was not the only one to think he was a girl. The shock of that moment meant that the rest of the show was somewhat over shadowed, and none of the other exhibitionists present managed to put on such an interesting display. Only the Japanese dominatrix was performing an explicit act on her blond submissive, and even then, a hand job interspersed with a quick lashing is not hardcore. As an onlooker, I found that the scenario was curiously unsexy, and I remained detached whilst being near enough to have snatched the whip out of their hand and have a go myself.
Oerhaps this is because although I’m a curious orange, I’m neither sadist nor masochist, and thus the essence of the club isn’t something that appeals to me. I had seen about as much around the place as I could, and after that there was little to do. The music at TG is techno orientated (although one of the other rooms was playing Britney Spears at one point – somehow ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ was cheesily apt), and while that may be a clubbing dream to most, for me it’s a night-club nightmare.
As if determined to prove me wrong, the TG world followed me, even into the ‘chill-out’ area. A red PVC clad lady with a middle aged man in a posing pouch and leash sat nearby, and proceeded to re-enact a scene from any S&M documentary on Channel Four. It was kind of bizarre to witness, in the flesh, a supposedly independent being licking a woman’s boot, and then being chastised with a riding crop for lifting her leg too high. Though curiosity was the sum total of my reaction – by then, I’d had all the vicarious visuals I needed to get a flavour of what goes on within these walls, and any more was just extra frills. I just kept myself in the ‘chill out’ room for relaxation until the time came to go home.
I can see why people enjoy the place: it’s a very friendly venue and the hedonistic events are pleasant experiences. But by the time I left, my ennui I felt proves that if places like Torture Garden are fine for people who enjoy S&M, for anyone else (save techno fans), they’re probably only of voyeuristic appeal. The rest of the club held little allure, and even getting drunk was tough at £3.50 per bottle. Yet, if I feel I missed out on whatever everyone else seemed to get out of the event, I’m unconcerned: in my book, pain and pleasure are as separate as Ally McBeal’s inner thighs.
Un amour de sorcière(René Manzor) – So that’s what Vanessa Paradis is doing now: Drew Barrymore impressions… At least, it seems that way in this French film which pits her, as Morgane the good witch, against Jean Reno’s magnificently malevolent sorcerer Molok, with Jeanne Moreau helping the forces of light, and Gil Bellows as a Bill Gates-like figure, dragged in as the only person who can prevent evil from triumphing (largely ‘cos Molok has killed all other candidates). The style here is really, really nice: flowers blossom around Paradis and Bellows after they’ve made love, and it creates a world half-a-step outside ours. It would have been interesting if they’d made more of the set-up which seems to pit technology against magic, and Moreau is sadly under-used. However, Reno steals the entire movie: he absolutely looks the part of a dark wizard, and he’s perhaps too good, since you may find yourself quietly rooting for him, especially against the blatantly over-cute toddler who is the focus of things. Still, a sweet modern fairy-tale. B
The Art of War (Christian Duguay) – A step up for a director best known for doing the later entries in the Scanners series, to a “proper” Hollywood action-flick, even if it feels like it should go straight to video. For the film founders on a plot that rarely breaches the achingly obvious: Wesley Snipes is the UN agent framed for assassinating the Chinese ambassador, who must find the killers to ensure a trade deal goes through. Snipes does his best, despite looking like he’s auditioning for a Malcolm X biopic, yet the bad guys are painfully clear to the audience from the outset. Therefore, the longer he takes to see it, the less interested we inevitably get. Although some nicely kinetic chase sequences mean you never totally lose attention, the “one man against the system” thing has been done far too often, and there’s a sad lack of anything new here. C-
The Assault (Jim Wynorski) – As the title would suggest, this is a close relative to Assault on Precinct 13, with Stacey Randall as the cop who takes a murder witness to a women’s refuge, only for the killers to lay siege to the place. There’s the usual pot-pourri of stereotypes inside, from the mentally-ill to an old foe of Randall’s, and the dialogue between them is mostly unconvincing – though at least it avoids the lame attempts at humour which plague the police HQ. When everyone shuts up and lets their guns do the talking, it’s a good bit more pacey, with Wynorski getting in some fine Night of the Living Dead riffs – in particular, because the bad guys attack with the intelligence of brain-dead zombies. Predictable nonsense that takes itself a little too seriously. D+
Bad Girls (Lawrence Kasdan) – It’s hard to see why this is as uninteresting as it is; probably something to do with a sudden change of director in the middle of production. The acting isn’t bad, with Mary Stuart Masterton and Drew Barrymore fine and feisty, though Andie McDowell lives up to her surname once more. However, unanswered questions flail all over the place from the central premise: I can just about credit four prostitutes running off from a Wild West saloon, and rescuing one of their number from a lynching, but their conversion into outlaws is simply implausible. Perhaps having four heroines was a mistake, since it dilutes the focus: it might have worked better as ‘Bitch Cassidy’ or summat. Or maybe I just don’t like westerns very much – and two side-on glimpses of Barrymore’s right breast fall some way short of making up for the deficiencies. D-
Bikini Bandits (Steven Grasse) – Few films get an immediate second viewing in TC Towers, but then, few films are less than five minutes long. The Internet is perfect for such shorts, whose material is better suited to low bandwidth connections, and gems like these two make the download time worthwhile. And what’s not to like about girls in bikinis with guns? The first one (labelled “Episode 7” – a cunning ploy to bypass boring stuff like plot and character development) has the all-girl Bikini Bandits gang robbing a convenience store; the second, Bikini Bandits and the Magic Lamp, has them finding a genie. Both punch well above their weight with the visual style of Natural Born Killers – fortunately without the self-importance – and more sexual energy than a coke-crazed rabbit. Or am I misinterpreting the adverts for ‘Beef Flaps’? As near to perfect as you can get in less time than it takes to cook a Ready Meal. Also available: Bikini Bandits Go Dutch – will someone give Grasse enough money for a feature? Please? Downloadable at http://www.atomfilms.com.A
The California Dolls (Robert Aldrich) – The plot here is formulaic: the Dolls (Laureen Landon and Vicki Frederick) struggle towards a championship match against the rival Toledo Tigers. What makes it work are the characters, most notably their manager – Peter Falk delivers a barnstorming performance as a man who keeps loaded dice in his pocket, a baseball bat in the car boot, and is ready to use either. Even though you know precisely where this is going, it’s a fine look into the sub-culture of women’s wrestling, and despite being twenty-odd years old, you get the feeling things haven’t changed much. Anyone who watches the WWF will know how tough it is for women to get on without demeaning themselves, while life on the lower levels probably does still involve dodgy promoters and flea-bag motel rooms. B
Cyborg 2 (Michael Schroeder) – Parts of this are strikingly effective, and go way beyond what you’d expect. Yet there are just as many clichés, and the overall impact is slight, despite a surprisingly heavyweight cast including Elias Koteas and Jack Palance – or, at least, his lips (you’ll understand if you see it!). No Van Damme, admittedly, nor even any Albert Pyun in this sequel, instead, it’s the rather more shapely Angelina Jolie, daughter of Jon Voight. Did she ever dream she would win an Oscar (for Girl, Interrupted), while she played a ‘borg pumped full of liquid explosives, intended for use as a corporate weapon? She’s forced on the run, accompanied by human guardian Koteas, though going by the skills on view, it’s questionable who’s taking care of who. From here on, it’s the usual post-apocalyptic mix, heavily influenced by Blade Runner, although the production values are not too bad, and Karen Sheperd delivers a ruthlessly effective supporting role as a bounty huntress. Flashes of brilliance, flashes of mediocrity, and the rest is adequate entertainment – it also turns out to be rather good practice for Jolie’s upcoming role as Lara Croft. C-
The Erotic Witch Project (John Bacchus) – “I’m very, very sorry…” Largely for wasting my bucks on this dismal piece of crap, whose sole reason for existence is to prove just how good The Bare Wench Project actually is. Three girls go into the woods and have thoroughly unconvincing sex with each other – so who is operating the camera which zooms, pans and changes angle even when no-one is around? There’s a vague suggestion of an Evil Dead-like presence, and you get the same blow-up dolls and dildos scattered around as in Bare Wench – that’s about as far as the parodic elements go, and what the bloke in a gorilla suit was doing running around, escapes me entirely. Lacking any spark of invention beyond the painfully plain, it fails as a satire, it fails as smut, it fails as a movie. E
Forbidden Zone (Richard Elfman) – While there are a lot of elements borrowed from elsewhere in this, Elfman has taken them from a wide enough range (Pennies From Heaven through Pee-Wee’s Playhouse to the films of Guy Madden), and added enough of his own to come up with something that is genuinely different and very strange. It centers round a house with an entrance to another realm in the basement, into which the hero goes in search of his lost sister. Okay… It’s ruled over by Hervé Villechaize (“Da plane, boss! Da Plane!”) and Susan Tyrell, with Danny Elfman, the director’s more famous brother, turning up as Satan. And everything grinds to a halt for jaw-dropping song-and-dance numbers that truly have to be seen to be believed. It’s cheap, shot in b&w, and although you may find yourself looking at your watch despite the 75-minute running time, when it works, it’s a wonderful slice of mad invention, and just the sort of thing for which cinema was invented! B+
Living in Oblivion (Tom De Cillo) – This starts off looking distressingly like a self-indulgent piece of “cinema about cinema” (anyone seen Irma Vep?), yet after twenty minutes, it does an abrupt flip and heads off in another direction, namely convincing wannabe film-makers to go back to their jobs in McDonald’s. Steve Buscemi is struggling to make his low budget flick, in the face of truculent actors, actresses, cinematographers, mothers and dwar…er, “small people”. Half the fun is trying to work out who the models for the various prima donnas were, and although I’m fairly sure there are a lot of jokes which will only truly be appreciated by industry insiders, there’s plenty going on for the rest of us to enjoy, as Buscemi’s waking nightmare heads towards completion. If the ending is somewhat lame, doing little more than peter out, the characters we meet are great – I get the feeling De Cillo is getting revenge for some very bad experiences… B
Noose (Ted Demme) – TC 23’s Dennis-Leary-on-the-rampage movie has him playing another complex character: a coked-up and racist car-thief, yet fiercely loyal to his friends and family, even when they are unlucky enough to incur the wrath of highly disturbing Irish mob-boss Colm Meaney. It took me about 15 minutes to start catching the dialogue – heavy accents and cocaine do not make an easy listening mix – yet I found it easily worth the effort, as Leary develops unexpected depth and passion. I originally expected both Famke Janssen and Jeanne Tripplehorn to have more to do, but this is a very masculine movie, so they remain background characters. It’s no surprise where this all ends up, and the ending may prove a little too open for some – I’ve no complaints on that score, and few on any others. B+
Titanic 2000 (John P.Fedele) – I was more than a little concerned, given the same company did The Erotic Witch Project – fortunately, this is nowhere near as bad. They’ve bothered with a script for one thing. And some actors, too, although Tammy Parks, as the lesbian vampire shipped out in the hold of new cruise liner TITanic 2000 (their capitalisation, not mine) does little but expose her, ah, fangs. There is so much computer-graphics and blue-screen work it goes beyond cheap and becomes almost a badge of honour, lending the whole thing an odd nobility, and there’s enough humour to tide you over the dull moments (seen one lame striptease, seen ‘em all). Still, how can you not like a film with lines like: “I’ll lick you yet, you two-bit, penny-ante lesbian vampire from purgatory – and I’ll put an end to your evil and erotic and sensual and seductive ways, which are quite fun to watch, but are pure unadulterated evil, nevertheless.” Lovely. C+
Top Fighter 2: Deadly Fighting Dolls (Toby Russell) – This is an immensely irritating documentary. The Eastern Heroes crew have done the hard work, tracking down martial arts actresses both well-known and obscure. They then screw things up with amateurish mistakes, such as truly dreadful audio quality on some of the interviews, and an almost complete failure to tell you from which titles the clips are taken. Indeed, the clips themselves are another shortcoming; they obviously have only a limited selection with which to work. Thus, they talk about Michelle Yeoh, probably the most famous currently DFD after her Bond role, but show nothing from the last five years, when she really broke through. Having said that, there is some fascinating background material here, especially for the older, and less famous actresses. There are anecdotes galore, and you come away realising that there have been Deadly Fighting Dolls (a truly bad title!), for almost as long as there have been Deadly Fighting Dudes. B-
War Cat (Ted V.Mikels) – As soon as the chief villains says to his henchmen, “I hope you gentlemen are going to be safe out there. After all, she is an unarmed woman”, you know that they won’t be. For this is yet another remake of The Most Dangerous Game, though it takes its time getting there. To start with, you see more of a militia group – somewhat prophetically for 1987 – holed up in the hills, fending off Hell’s Angels and the like. When one member kidnaps a writer (Jannina Poynter), she is set loose as a training exercise; a bad move, given she’s an Army brat with a fondness for very sharp sticks. As Angel of Vengeance (not to be confused with the Abel Ferrara film), this ran into trouble at the BBFC and was refused a video certificate. Hard to see precisely why: despite some nastiness against women, aided by a brutish performance from Macka Foley as slow-witted thug Manny, it’s nothing some pruning couldn’t fix. However, its obvious cheapness limits it, and Mikels shows no eye for action, so this never gets much above the pedestrian. D+
