“In October of 1998, four sorority sisters disappeared in the woods near Bareasseville, Delaware while shooting a documentary. A week later, their footage was found.”

The Blair Witch Project was a gift to low-budget film-makers, not just as inspiration, but a target for parody by anyone with a camcorder and a convenient forest. The closest and probably best is The Bare Wench Project, from B-movie luminary, Jim Wynorski. Long a TC fave for delightful trash like Not of This Earth and Deathstalker II, he cast some babe friends in the students-making-a-film roles, chucked in Julie Strain as the Bare Wench, added an immensely annoying guy for no apparent reason and, I strongly suspect, knocked this off over a weekend.

“Gosh, your titties are so sweaty.”

You must have seen (and ideally, disliked) the original in order to appreciate this on any level beyond the mammorial. The set-up is the same, many plot elements and scenes are direct references and the dialogue is skewed appropriately. There’s even a Bare Wench mythology: a miners’ prostitute hounded out of town now haunts the woods, driving all those who encounter her into a sexual frenzy which, from the film’s point of view, is very convenient. Our heroines start by talking to local residents, such as Dick Bigdickian who runs the local magic shop (an uncredited cameo by another exploito-guru, Andy Sidaris), before heading into the forest, meeting the Bare Wench, and taking their tops off. A lot.

The parodic elements include blow-up dolls hanging in the trees, dildos arranged into mysterious shapes on the ground, a crucial sheet of paper labelled “BAD MAP”, mysterious noises (even if they sound like a donkey in heat) and, last but not least, the bitchy squabbling between the participants. Lorissa McComas and Nikki Fritz are every bit as good actors as their Blair counterparts, although Antonia Dorian and Julie Smith are bland blondes with no obvious acting ability – in particular, the out-takes show Dorian struggling desperately with the simplest line. Nice tits though.

“C’mon! Give us your top!”

And after all, those, rather than frights, are the purpose of the film. So there’s much jiggling, in particular from McComas who shows great potential. Her and Fritz’ character appear to be “close personal friends” (a situation not too far from real – or at least Internet – life, where they do naughty webcam shows together), plus topless dancing round a camp-fire, skinny dipping, erotic ghost stories and Julie Strain in a blond wig and furry boots doing a dance number to a truly dreadful song in what looks like someone’s garden. This last-mentioned is problematic: by adding things like background music, the film becomes Z-grade dreck with no production values, rather than a parody of Z-grade dreck with no production values. Luckily, it doesn’t last long, and Wynorski drives on to a deliberately ludicrous climax involving hopscotch in a motel room.

“I insisted that we go without bras…
That we French kiss…
That we shave down south…And now this is where we’ve ended up.
It’s because of me that we’re here now.
I’m scared.
I’m scared to close my legs.
And I’m scared to open them…”

Wynorski, along with Fred Olen Ray, is a past master of low-budget nonsense, more entertaining and fun than many Hollywood productions. At his best when not taking things seriously, for the most part, The Bare Wench Project makes no such slip. With the aid of lingerie, silicone and torches, he’s made something of a minor gem in 81 minutes, which is likely to be far more enjoyable than Blair Witch 2.

As is normal with such things, The Blair Witch Project is much less original than its fans would like to believe. For example, The Last Broadcast predated it and bears more than a slight resemblance – but even before that, back on Halloween Night 1992, the BBC came up with its own pseudo-documentary ancestor: Ghostwatch. This drama was only screened once, and is most unlikely to be repeated: it caused near-panic at the time, and a lot of people believed it to be entirely real, for several reasons. Although the announcement beforehand clearly said it was a drama, if you tuned in later, there was no obvious sign. Many of the cast were people better known for factual TV than plays or movies. [The main exception was Red Dwarf’s Craig Charles] And Steven Volk’s screenplay was more restrained and plausible than you might expect from the man who did Gothic: noted paranormal author and researcher Guy Lyon Playfair was a consultant, and his input lent it much authenticity.

Its plot is devastatingly simple. The BBC, at the time, had a fondness for live outside broadcasts looking at a location over a day or weekend. For example, Badgerwatch involved a sett of badgers, with regular reports on the action therein. Ghostwatch purported to be that sort of thing, from a site of alleged poltergeist activity. Michael Parkinson was the studio host, with Mike Smith manning the phones, and studio “experts” to provide colour commentary. Out on location, Sarah Greene was inside the house with the residents (a mother and her two daughters), while Craig Charles loitered outside.

Eight years on and fully aware of its dramatic status, it’s still impressive and scary. Initially, all is calm – ­even dull – and when something finally does happen, it has perfectly mundane origins. But in the background is a bunch of unsettling stuff, slowly developing. The studio gets a load of phone calls about a cloaked figure seen lurking in the background of some video footage; residents tell of recent disturbing events, such as the ritualised killing of a black Labrador; and the history of the area is slowly revealed. In true Blair Witch style, it dates back generations, with the most recent incarnation of evil a serial child-killer. This sets the scene for the last thirty minutes, which escalate from noises off to…well, let’s just say if it goes over the top at the end, it has already landed the audience by then. En route are genuinely hair-raising moments, such as near-subliminal glimpses of figures lurking in shadows or behind doors – after all the phone-calls on exactly this topic, it’s amazingly effective. You can imagine BBC phones melting as thousands called in to say, “I saw it!”

Parkinson and Greene are excellent. They’re largely just playing themselves but, crucially, come over as wholly credible. Craig Charles – the presenter with most acting experience – is satisfactorily idiotic, while Mike Smith is weaker, especially when trying to show “concern” for real-life other half Greene. The genuine actors, however, seem stilted; obvious thespians rather than the real people they are portraying. Once things start to happen, all such problems evaporate, perhaps because “running around and screaming” are easier than pretending not to be acting. This is pretty basic material, the stuff of camp-fire tales, yet its primordial power is apparent in the quavering voice of a genuinely disturbed continuity announcer, after the play finishes with Parkinson all alone in a dark studio.

This was television drama at its finest and most disconcerting, and perhaps also the nearest Britain has come to a War of the Worlds style panic, surpassing even the conspiratorial SF of Alternative 3. It’s a stark reminder that, even in these supposedly sophisticated days, you can still fool a lot of the people, for ninety minutes of time. Indeed, it’s probably good to do things like this every once in a while, if only to remind the population that you really shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV…

“This is cinema…If you invent it, think it, then find a way to show it… otherwise do something else.”
                – Andrzej Zulawski

I don’t know about you, but things that go bump in the night stopped scaring me when I was about eleven. This thought comes to mind as a result of the plaudits that rained down on The Blair Witch Project: perhaps the most frequently heard compliment was for its non-explicit horror, relying instead on “subtlety” and “atmosphere”. Underlying this praise was often an innate assumption that gory horror is somehow inferior, a quick and dirty fix for less talented film-makers. This elitism is also reflected in yearnings for some mythical golden age of horror, before in-yer-face splatter replaced artistic integrity. But do either of these claims bear close examination?

They do ignore the impact of outside forces: BWP’s decision to go the low-tech, “noises off” route was motivated less by artistic considerations than a budget which couldn’t afford even the most primitive of effects. This also informed the rest of their choices. Too cheap to hire real actors? Make it a pseudo-documentary! Locations too expensive? Film it all in some woods! The movie’s only real asset was an ability to take the limitations of no-resource film-making, and bypass them. Believe me, the directors will not be relying on bunches of tied-together twigs for the rest of their careers.

The same is true for many of the often-touted “classics”, such as the original Cat People. Any attempt to depict the sexual undertones or body horror which are inherent in the storyline would have been forbidden, courtesy of the Hays code. This is therefore not “subtlety”, but censorship. In addition, with the effects available at the time, the transformation would have been derisory (you’re referred to werewolf/Jekyll & Hyde movies from the same era as evidence), and the same applies to The Fly or The Thing – both of which were also remade in the 1980’s to much greater effect, because the modern versions were freed from such technical limitations. Remember: a choice forced upon the artist is no artistic choice at all, and they should not be praised for it.

Old vs. New Cat People
We’ve all made more difficult decisions. Really.

You could have argued a case for understatement, back when the audience’s imagination was indeed far superior to what was on the screen. [This is why Them! works superbly in the first half, but falls apart as soon as you see the “giant ants” with their pipe-cleaner antennae] However, even possessors of the most fertile mind’s eye have to admit that Rob Bottin’s creations in The Thing trump anything they could envisage. And this is part of my case: I don’t go to the cinema to “use my imagination” – if I want that, I can stay home and listen to the radio or read a book rather than pay ten quid up the West End.

Cinema is primarily a visual medium, and if it isn’t used to the maximum extent, you are crippling yourself needlessly. Not that this means you must show everything, just that there needs to be some meat in the sandwich. For example, where would Alien be without the payoff? Ninety minutes of Something Lurking in the Shadows, sure, but the true horror only hits the buffers when you see H.R.Giger’s famous creation, and realise it’s ten times worse than you conceived possible. I admit there are directors who handle special effects better than their actors (James Cameron leads the way there) but this is scarcely new: D.W.Griffiths was a great technician, yet many of his films could fairly be described as empty spectacles on a par with the likes of Armageddon. Give me the works of Cronenberg or Jackson any day.

The problem with current horror films is less gore than innate predictability (although in point of fact this applies to all genres). Even the post-modern Scream and its clones are playing with the same deck, they just turn the cards face up, in a way intended to be ironic but which is, if anything, simply more banal. True horror is fear of the unknown: this “unknown” can be in-your-face, raw and bloody, or preparing to pounce from the shadows – that doesn’t really matter, as long as it plugs into the right mental slot of the viewer. But above all, unknown it must be, rather than the turgidly obvious.

And now, the end is near…or is it? By the time you get this, I will probably have gone to a better place. To be specific: Phoenix, Arizona. Yes, after several years of pontification and gradual progress, I am finally joining the Brain Drain and departing Perran Road (eight years in residence), HSBC (11.5 years), London (ten years) and Britain (34 years). Getting this issue out will be virtually the last thing I do before departing – I won’t quite be posting them at Gatwick, but to all intents and purposes I might as well be. Interested parties are referred to the inside front page for contact info. You are welcome to come visit!

While this is something to which I’m hugely looking forward, what it means for the future of TC is uncertain, because it’s probably the biggest change in my lifestyle since it was born. I started TC, largely because I was bored, and I doubt that will be the case for the foreseeable future. Printing and distribution will also, of necessity, radically alter since I’m going to be based in America.

The increasing importance of the Internet also comes into play. Hits on the TC site have tripled in the past two years, and sales of the printed version are in decline – there’s a point beyond which the latter just isn’t worth the time. However, we’re not quite there yet, and while the Internet is ideal for some things (cross-referenced Film Blitz reviews, and stuff that can’t wait 15 months for the next edition!), no-one really wants to read on-line, so I like to think longer articles will still find a home on paper.

All of which translates into a very big question-mark; this might be a good point at which to draw a line under the printed version, but getting this one out before I leave will let me move out without having to worry about it. The few months’ slack which usually follows an issue will let me settle in: if interest, time and opportunity permit, I’ll start on TC 24 in due course. If not, TC will continue solely on-line, though one of my current tasks is converting all the out-of-print issues and putting them up on the site. Suffice it to say, the world will hear from me again, one way or another.

Indeed, readers should keep an eye out on Channel 4 in spring 2001 for a documentary series about London strip-clubs, on which I’ve been helping out a bit. This may knock another couple of minutes off my fifteen of fame, although whether this will involve my mug appearing on screen is as yet uncertain. If I do, expect Jimmy Saville to publish an unedited transcript on his web site… The relevance of this will become clear shortly.

Top 10 Films of 2000 (so far…)

1. Run Lola Run
2. Gladiator
3. Dancer in the Dark
4. Beyond the Mat
5. O Brother, Where Art Thou
6. American Psycho
7. Boiler Room
8. Final Destination
9. American Beauty
10. Toy Story 2

With two months still to go, it may seem a bit early to be picking films of the year, but looking ahead, there’s not much upcoming – save Girlfight, which threw this issue into confusion (I was banking on it as “G” in the A-Z!) when they delayed its release, supposedly to improve its Oscar chances. Er, excuse me! If people can’t remember your film three months down the line, it doesn’t deserve an Oscar. I digress. Run Lola Run and Gladiator were head-and-shoulders above the rest, both managing to be excellent entertainment that engaged the mind as well as the heart.

Lars von Trier’s Dancer in the Dark was purely a film of the heart but packed an amazing wallop if you could suspend your disbelief, while Beyond the Mat left me shaking my head in wonder and wishing it was fiction. The Coen Brothers truly returned to form with O Brother, Where Art Thou, based on the works of Homer – and I don’t mean Simpson – while American Psycho lost the viciousness of the book, but became a far better brain-twister as a result, and would have been a fine double bill with Boiler Room. Final Destination had the moment of the year (the advert showing a cinema audience leaping vertically, is entirely accurate!), while American Beauty makes it in for sheer viciousness. Toy Story 2 was just fun.

As for the worst of the year, if I had paid to see either Bats or Stuart Little, I’d be demanding a refund.

It is ironic that I abandon Britain as the BBFC finally legalise hard-core pornography, and go to the US, where both presidential candidates blame Hollywood for all society’s ills. Still, what’s life without something to rebel against? As I write this, what I’m rebelling against is Demon, my Internet service provider, who  claim that part of the TC site, an amusing but probably entirely fake Have I Got News For You transcript, is defamatory. They refuse to say what specifically is wrong with it (which makes it a bit hard to fix), or who complained, but I suspect the answer is…Jimmy Saville. How’s about that then, boys and girls? Even though there are a host of other places where the same material can be found, we’re not even allowed to mention them, courtesy of 19th century precedent. It’s all ludicrously amusing, though I am also acquiring an intimate knowledge of the 1996 Defamation Act.

Anyone keen to try out Customs new lax policy, in line with BBFC regulations, could do rather worse than order a copy of  Sick Puppy Comix from Rabid Publishing, PO Box 93, Paddington, NSW 2021, Australia (www.sickpuppycomix.com). This slipped in just too late for Lino, but the phrase “does exactly what it says on the tin” comes to mind; I think the Spice Sluts one-pager amused me most of all.. What else has amused TC Towers over the past year? The Playstation 2 doubles as a multi-zone DVD player, so provides two excuses not to watch TV, as if the lack of quality programmes wasn’t enough. Exempted from this are Louis Theroux’s Weird Weekends, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Ads Infinitum, Jam and The Powerpuff Girls. And Delerium in the top five. Whatever next, VNV Nation on Top of the Pops? We can but hope, since their Burning Empires CD is the best thing since sliced bread (though less good for toasting), and they are the most consistent live act I’ve seen.

Otherwise, I find myself powerfully drawn to “tribute albums”, which see people attacking – in some cases, “mauling” might be closer to the truth – other people’s songs. Until you’ve heard Rebecca Romijn-Stamos – yes, Mystique from X-Men – doing Prince’s Darling Nicki, you haven’t lived.

Fancy a bit of TC? Rik has kindly given us the original artwork for this issue's cover, and we're offering the one-of-a-kind item as a prize for the most amusing and witty (or simply most defamatory to Jimmy Saville) piece of feedback on this issue, be it by letter or email. Usual rules apply - whatever they might be. We’ll make them up as necessary!

Help with this issue falls into two categories: input & output. Premier spot in the former group goes to Chris Fata, who has been a fount of the tapes, magazines, CDs, kitsch and other essential fuels which keep TC running. Bikini Bandits, Brawlin’ Broads, The Big Bust Out, Buffy, barbed-wire bouts. And that’s just the B’s. Without her, there would quite simply be no TC. Go visit her website – www.trashcity.com – and buy beads. On the output side, Vanessa Wells converted raw texts into things of beauty using nothing more than Microsoft Word and artistic talent. Without her, TC would be a telephone directory with a cool front cover. Visit her website too – www.snarx.clara.net – and marvel at Her Royal Surrealness. [Vanessa: you can now get out of Fareham!]

We also thank: Rik Rawling for another fabulous piece of art, John Spencer for his valuable layout assistance, Phil for proof-reading, David (Kaiju), Tim (Escape), and all the contributors, both those we can name and those who prefer anonymity. Plus, in the “drinking beer, watching videos and chat” category: Andys Collins/Waller/Walmsley, Nicolas Barbano, Simon Moore, Jonathan Clements, Brian Bower, Ian + Kini, Pam, Steve + Mike, Vanessa, Steve + Abigail (whose patience with me over the past decade has been awesome!), Lino, Rob Dyer and HSBC for “sponsoring” TC since its inception all those years ago. Plus, last but not least, everyone who has bought an issue off me, whether from a shop, at a convention, by mail order, or merely to stop me hassling you in the queue at Shock Around the Clock. If it wasn’t for each one of you, I wouldn’t have bothered.

And with that, I put on my coat, open the door and go into a blinding white light that conceals, well, who knows what. If this were a film, the music would swell and the credits would roll. Will there be a sequel? Do I live happily ever after? Who can say…

“All these things are lost, like tears in rain…”
            – Roy Batty, Blade Runner.

TC 23 – November 2000

This is TC 23, a pop culture time-capsule whose future is cloudy – see the editorial for details – and so, subscriptions to future issues are not currently being accepted. Feel free to keep sending me money though. Some old TCs (16/17, 20/21, 22) are available; buying now is wise, in case I can’t be arsed to ship them to America with me. For British readers, they’re £2.50 each including p&p; everyone else should get in touch for the correct rate, which depends as much on where I am, as where you are…

For similar reasons, getting in touch with me might be tricky, but email to jmclennan@trashcity.org should work, regardless of my location. For old-fashioned post, Trash City, PO Box 8353, Scottsdale, AZ 85252, USA becomes effective at the end of November. Updates will be posted on the web site, http://www.trshcity.demon.co.uk, as and when appropriate. The site is also a haven for more of this kind of thing: reviews, articles, rants, strip-club info and more. With colour pictures…

Credits/Blame

• Editor: Jim McLennan – and all texts not otherwise labelled.
• Queen of Trash: Chris Fata.
• High-Priestess of Layout: Vanessa Wells.
• Pope of Covers: Rik Rawling.
• Consumer of Twinkies (and additional layout): John Spencer.
• Toreadors of Text: Andy Collins, Chris Fata (+ Leo & Amy), Marc Lewes, DF Lewis, Lino Raffa
• Printers: Juma, 44 Wellington Street, Sheffield, S1 4HD.