‘Brand New Cherry Flavour’ Todd Grimson, Quartet, £9.00
“Dear Jim, On a number of levels, I would think the success of Brand New Cherry Flavour might be of some interest to you. Therefore I was disappointed it wasn’t mentioned in the latest TC.
Wake up. Smell the…uh, let’s not dwell on that one, all right? Walk to your local fucking bookshop & pay the fucking 9 pounds, & PROSELYTISE, encourage your friends to BUY a copy, contribute to the sales, & so on.
YOUR NAME’S on the fucking dedication page — for Kinski material, etc. This is a fucking BESTSELLER, more or less, & as well as being a free advertisment for TC, it’s a wanker’s DREAM, being an incredibly sexy sleazy teasy Alice in BloodyFuckingWonderland trip STARRING none other than NASTASSJA KINSKI, or as good as, or actually quite a bit better when you stop to consider would NK wear a thong-bikini or submit to the included tattoos, piercing, etc.
In other words, bro, check it out, and put down some of your HARD-EARNED ______ [illegible…] on the way in or out, too. Every bit helps!
All the best Todd.”
[TC: the magazine that lets authors review their own books. At least no-one can accuse us of hidden prejudice; our biases are right out there in the open. But it is great. Go buy: I did, though one could think I might have been sent a copy… To forestall another savaging from Todd, I’d better also say that his vampire novel Stainless is now also available from the same publisher.]
2021 update: In November 2019, Netflix commissioned an eight-part series based on the book, starring Rosa Salazar (Battle Angel). Things seem quiet since – I would imagine things probably got delayed due to the whole “global pandemic” thing. But there is a page for it on the Netflix site, so it presumably is still in the “coming soon” category,..
‘Slaughtermatic’ Steve Aylett, Four Walls Eight Windows, $13.95
It’s always a pleasure to see a new Steve Aylett book, even if he produces them with a regularity that TC can only wildly envy. He would appear to have cracked the American market, though his latest won’t be out here in Britain until the autumn. The good news is that he’s returned to Beerlight, scene of The Crime Studio, for more adventures in excessive violence.
The main difference is that, rather than a collection, Slaughtermatic is a single story – plots, subplots and gratuitous diversions notwithstanding – detailing the commission, execution and aftermath of a daring crime. Hero Dante Cubit robs a bank, then goes back in time and shoots himself: what better alibi than being dead? Of course, this does cause certain problems, not least that his ‘suicide’ bid fails, leaving two Dantes running from cops, enthusiastic hitman Brute Parker (a survivor from ‘The Crime Studio’) and, to be on the safe side, anyone else who knows him.
The results are occasionally tough going. Here’s a sample paragraph:
“Corey breathed deep a while. A commotion of slaying echoed from outside. That Danny guy looked a hypnotised as a Sega brat. They were surrounded by inflatable bastards. She wasn’t any virtual puppet, but this wasn’t any virtual heist, so the peril level was even stevens. She’d have to take charge. “Kid. You and me get outta here we’re happy as pups in a sidecar. Tell ya a secret.” And she drew up a pantleg on an ankle-holstered Hitachi 20-gauge, one of the countless untraceable one-off guns designed on desktop since the Crime Bill. “Life’s a geology of precaution. You pal’s knee-deep in himself. You hold up a a place without thinking? What if everyone acted that way?”
This is page 30, and the novel does drop you in at the deep end. Some sections need to be read several times to squeeze out their meaning, perhaps partly because you’ve got to squint past the high-velocity English, whose beauty threatens to cremate the unwary. The body count is huge, even if most are cybercorpses, and the plot flips through realities with facile sureness. Aylett is clearly at home in the world of future carnage, and by the end of the book, so was I. If they ever want anyone to script a Dirty Pair movie, Aylett could be the man.
I suppose it’s traditional for me to start the fanzine reviews by rambling on about what time of year it is… so without further ado… [but not without further editorial comment…]
Dateline August 1997…
Has it really been that long since the last batch of reviews? (Well judging by the age of some of the ‘zines in the bag by my feet I guess it must be…..) Bearing that in mind, you’ll have to take into account that some of the reviews below will (by the time you read this) be so out of date the ‘zines will be out of print (But being the generous soul I am, I am willing to sell the copies I have at a highly inflated price…hmmm now that’s an excellent way of making money… just say that all the fanzines reviewed are “Superb, must buys” and watch the cash come rolling in). So, don’t look at the following as a guide to what you should buy (The very thought of someone reading this and saying “Hey, that Lino really knows his stuff — I’m going to buy that fanzine” is enough to send me screaming into the night [and me into fits of laughter]), but more as a That Was The Year That Was of fanzines; a sepia tinged look back. Think of me as a Werthers Original sucking, white haired old Grandfather, pulling you up onto my lap and regaling you with stories of “How things were much harder in the old days, none of this computer doings to help me with my 4 page photocopied hand written Ingrid Pitt tribute fanzine”. In fact, to use a phrase I haven’t used since the old Creeping Unknown days: Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of Fanzines. (And if I have used that phrase since the old Creeping Unknown days, please let me know, you sad anal freak…..)
Of course, you didn’t think it’d be that easy did you? You didn’t think I’d just witter on for one paragraph (Or whatever is left after Jim, Warrior Editor has finished tinkering [getting less by the second…])… no, this is the part where I start asking for free stuff… Yes, while I know that it is futile to do so, here I go…. I want a DVD player. Me, me, me, now, now, now. I don’t expect to pay for it, and I expect it to play Region 1 & 2 discs, hell, I expect a combo DVD/Laserdisc player. If anyone can supply me with one of those (Did I mention the word FREE) I will mention them in every paragraph of the next issue’s reviews. (So, ideally, they should have a stupid name too). Of course, I shall expect other people to supply me with FREE DVD’s too: I don’t care what it is, as long as I don’t have to pay for it, and I can keep it. Pornography is very high on the list of priorities but, I can’t be too choosy, so anything. Thanks then! While I’m at it, a widescreen TV would be nice too…and erm….someone to paint my house and erm…ohhh, one of those Churchill Stair Climbers that Thora Hurd advertises too…and a Craftmatic(c) adjustable bed… If, for some insane reason, I don’t get at least one of the things mentioned above, I will have no alternative other than whining on and on and on until it happens; you have been warned. All offers of free stuff can be mailed either to the editorial e-mail address marked for my attention or direct to lino@lino.demon.co.uk. [I await the rush]
Where were we? [Editor restrains himself. Ducks in a barrel…] Aaahhhhhhhh yes, the reviews. Some of you might know that I’ve now started writing fanzine reviews for Harvey Fentons Flesh & Blood, but please, don’t worry, because as TC now only appears as often as a Spice Girl sings live on television I shall continue to do both (That said, Harvey hasn’t sent me any more fanzines, and when I spoke to him last he affected a German accent and went on to claim “Nein, Mister Fenton, nicht here… ist good ya?”) Also, please don’t think that I will be unbiased in any way, shape or form. I’m still very open to offers of bribery.
The problem I have is when I get the same fanzine to review for both: do I use the same review, or confuse people by slagging it off in one, and really liking it in another? Hmm, we shall see… (After all, I’m only here to fill space, I don’t for one second think that people actually pay attention to what I’m saying!). [Sorry, what was that?]
You know, mentioning Creeping Unknown” has made me come [gratuitous editorial intervention for the sake of a cheap double entendre] over all nostalgic. If anyone remembers those heady patched together and photocopied days, you’ll remember one issue that contained an article called “Lino on the buses” and in that article I spent what seemed like hours bitching about buses (like, duh!)… well since then, I’ve gone up in the world and now travel everywhere by minicab….. and you know, those minicab drivers are scary people. This is where Jim gets VERY paranoid and starts snipping company names. I always use a Wembley minicab company called “Global Cars” (Phone them for a quotation on +44 (0)181 903 4444). Bit of an odd name for a minicab company that takes a good two hours to arrive in Forest Hill from Wembley. God only knows how long it’d take a cab to turn up in Atlanta.
Anyway, one particular driver there, whom we’ll call Danny, is quite insane.. and without doubt the biggest and best bullshit artist I’ve ever come across. [From Lino, high praise indeed…] The first time he picked me up, things were progressing quite nicely, then about 5 minutes into the trip, I made the mistake in indulging in some small talk (always a bad move) and asked him how business was doing. “Oh, not bad” he replied. “But, I only do this part time, the rest of the time I’m a British Airways engineer”. At that point, I should have said “Great” and stared out of the window ignoring him. But I didn’t. I said, “Really? Wow, that sounds like an interesting job.” It was at that point that his eyes lit up and he began to explain what it was he did. “Yes, I design and test engines for British Airways. Do you know that I can strip and rebuild a Concorde engine in 25 minutes?” Alarm bells started ringing in my head. “Ignore him, light a cigarette and stare out of the window” was the mantra I was chanting to myself, but by then it was too late, he was in full swing, regaling me with tales of daring engine adventures, punctuated with the occasional cry of “Did you know that the average Concorde engine contains over 300 screws” (Please note that I’m *not* making any of this up!). I don’t think I was ever happier leaving a cab as I was that night. He’s picked me up since then, and has told me that he was a professional gambler (“Two thousand pounds last night mate”), raced cars for MG, and was seriously considering “jacking in cabbing to become a priest”. What’s my point? [Good question!] Well, I’ll be damned if I know, but it filled some space on the page, and it means that I’ll have to spend less time actually reviewing the fanzines. [No bad thing] So, that’s one job done.
Right, now, what else can I talk about, let me see, let me see… Err, nope, you know I don’t think I can think of anything else. So, without any more beating around the bush I’m proud to present: the ‘Zine Reviews. (Please note that normal review coverage might be halted at any time for me to tell you something I might have remembered) And one more thing, if the tragic death of Princess Diana has taught us anything, it is that the woman had bloody bad timing, I mean, I ask you… getting buried on a Saturday? I’m missing Gladiators and Blind Date. Chances are if they’d held off till the Monday I would have had the day off! BAH!
OK, OK, don’t panic, it’s now 6th October, and as of yet, I’ve not actually written anything constructive [A rare moment of lucidity]. Jim has been on holiday and come back (please read boring holiday article somewhere else in this issue), and I’ve done nothing, nothing do you hear me! NOTHING!! Ok, good, I need an excuse, let me see, writers block…hmm it’s crazy, but it might just… A combination of writer’s block and pressure of work (This is starting to sound more and more incredible as it goes…).
You’ll be pleased to know that my writer’s block has lifted and my work pressures have eased too, so it’s back to the bubbly, wacky, funny yet loveable Lino you all know and love….. Or is it!?!
[While you are eagerly anticipating the answer to that question, I’d like to take the opportunity to rail, in a particularly pointless fashion, against the obscurity of printers. Like every other article in TC, this was laid-out using a font known as ‘Souvenir Lt BT’, which worked perfectly, right up to the point where it came to print the masters out. Then, inexplicably, the bold bits came out as normal. Everything else worked fine. Every other font worked fine; just not the one I needed. Hence the need to re-lay this piece out, using Times New Roman, which has in turn led to me having to space-fill rampantly at the bottom… Thank you. We now return to your (ab)normal programme.]
Dear diary, Friday 14th November: still nothing written [you expected perhaps…?], and I’m sure people are talking about me at bus-stops. I will get around to writing the reviews today, I will. (The fact that Jim is now forever telling me that the new issue is ready to go, all he needs are the finished reviews, is probably the best reason I know to get them done [The only way to get work out of Lino is to lie. Repeatedly]). OK! That’s it, READ THEM NOW!
REVOLUTIONS Issue 1 (Summer ’97) — A new UK fanzine looking at both PAL and NTSC video disc releases. The first issue has an interview with Alex Cox, well-written reviews of disc releases and more…. I was taken with the “DVD Nightmare” article, where a typical laserdisc owner rambles on at length about the “Horrors of DVD”, oh, no, a new format, whatever are we going to do… Admittedly the feature was probably written before we all found out exactly how easy it is to get a DVD machine that has been “tweaked” to allow play of discs from any region, but the feeling of paranoia is still cranked a little too high… Other than that, Revolutions is well written and highly recommended.
BOMBA MOVIES (erm, no issue number). Now you see, these days everyone and their mother has got themselves a computer and are putting together easy to read fanzines…well, everyone, it seems, apart from the lunatics at Bomba Movies. But that’s no bad thing, in fact Bomba Movies does stand head and shoulders over most of the other things I’ve looked at for this issue…totally review based, cut and pasted (literally) together before being photocopied. Mix in a bucketload of comic strip panels and pictures of “ladies” licking giant phallus’s, and Bob’s your uncle. The issue reviews films ranging from Traci Lords is Aroused down to everyone’s favourite tubby, wig wearing Spanish uncle Paul Naschy…Excellent! (It scared me a little how I scattered the last review with phrases like “well written and highly recommended”, so I’ll add this, “Shitting great mate…”)
KILL EVERYONE NOW! Fine, ok, give me a music ‘zine to review…. because as anyone who knows me will tell you, my knowledge of the music scene is dictated purely on the basis of whom I’d sleep with. Consequently Kylie, Dannii and Alanis Morrisette (spaccy [spacey? spicy? speccy? You decide…] hand waving not withstanding) are always at the top of my personal hit parade… Anyway…oh, and Sheryl Crow, although that bird wants to eat some food and put some more meat on her bones… So…oh, and Simone Angel from MTV, yeah, I know she’s a VJ but she did have a couple of terrible records out a couple of years ago so that counts in my book. Right, back to Kill Everyone Now! Erm, well I did spend a good 30 minutes leafing through it, but I was still none the wiser at the end of it, so I’ll tell you that it features interviews with guitarist Mitch Mitchell of Guided By Voices fame (ok?), pages of reviews and bizarrely not one instruction to kill anyone. So, while it made the spot between my eyes go numb, you wacky student types will probably love it, and it’s got nothing by Jimbo so it earns extra points there.
BOMBA MOVIES Ohhhh, bugger, look, I’ve just pulled another issue of Bomba Movies out of the bag, and you know what I was saying earlier about being all nice and stuck together and not generated by computer? (Pay attention it was only a few lines ago…) Well they’ve rasing [rising? rasping? racing? You (sigh) decide…] well gone out and bought a computer haven’t they… hmmm will this change my opinion… I’ll read it and be right back….. OK, don’t anyone panic, while it’s now totally legible, it’s still as sleazy as you like, so that’s one panic over… and anybody that devotes half the issue to WIP movies is alright with me… all that and the sordid little pictures are easier on the eye too! Excellent…. More please!
TOO CLOSE Chapter Two. Ohhh LOOK! I was promised I wouldn’t have any more of these arsing home made drawn in the back bedroom anime “epics”… this is obviously some sort of joke… [no, just an administrative error. Giving Lino anime comics to read is like getting David Alton to review splatter movies. I thus handed most of these over to a slightly less prejudiced contributor – see later – but this one escaped the net. Sorry…]
HEADPRESS 13. Too Close = bad. Headpress = good. Now I don’t know if this has got anything to do with the fact that I’m looking at Headpress 13 directly after leafing through the anime antics of Too Close, but if it is, then well done animeboy… Issue 13 comes in the form of a book, ohhh, nice, and it’s priced at a mere £4.95, ohhh, nice… (Some people would have taken the new look as an excuse to push the cover price way up). Inside you’ll find an 8 page article on Gregory Dark’s Snake Pit, filthy pornography that it is, alongside the usual reviews (Hey, look, they like Bomba Movies too! See, I do know what I’m talking about). Look out for Phil Tonge’s Cak-watch, a genuinely laugh out loud review of Traces of Death 3. Go buy a copy.
Since when, I’ve also got Headpress 15, and tend to agree with Lino…which may be something of a first. Everything from gang-bang queen Annabel Chong to Jerry Springer, through animal sex films and Gerry Anderson. Sublime.
VEX 3. Marvel at the all animal (Well virtually) issue…. Chuckle as you read the interview with Kaylan “Suburbanite Zoophile/bisexual”, GIFgle as you read the first part of Vex’s history of gorilla movies, guffaw as you read a novice’s guide to Zoophile porn movies (Page 36…). All that and a profile of G. Gordon Liddy (Sort of like Rush Limbaugh, without the weight), a man so right wing, his face is squashed up against the wall (Please fill in your own jokes here….). I also make no apologies for quoting several lines from the HILARIOUS “Gorehound Gone Good” article…. Wherein a former New York gorehound extols the virtues of God… in a pamphlet entitled “I Was a Gorehound” our lapsed gorehound goes into some of the reasons why “Gore is bad!”… “During the middle of this 12 year period in my life, a cab driver told me about Jesus Christ on the way home from a screening of Rocky Horror (which I saw 60 times!)”, “We are only alive (compared to eternity) for a few seconds. Is living your life for sleaze and gore worth risking a Godless eternity” and so on and so forth (In answer to Nicks last question… Erm, YES!!)…. As usual, Vex is top notch entertainment, even taking in the fact it’s American! Please buy it, you’ll make yourself happy without the messy task of touching yourself.
FLESH & BLOOD 9. Marvellous, excellent, a smashing read from cover to cover, unputdownable, it changed my life, enjoyed everything from the Eurofest report to the incredibly in-depth fanzine reviews by Lino… No, it’s no good, I can’t review myself reviewing other people, it’s too weird. It’s like going to the doctors, being asked to cough, then being asked to bounce up and down for a while…. Unnatural… so with this in mind, I’ll turn the issue of FAB over to Mr James McLennan for review!
[Thank you, Lino. I’d just like to start by saying that I hate Flesh & Blood. To start with, it’s irritatingly well-produced. Not just disturbingly glossy, colourful and shiny enough to slip off your coffee table, but annoyingly thick too. This’d be unacceptable on its own, but Harvey also insists on content that rarely falls into the “anal obsessive” school of writing. #10 definitely heads out towards more general cult movie coverage, bad news for all other editors. This man must be stopped. Now. But what has happened to Lino’s reviews? Enquiring minds want to know…]
MACHO PARANOIA You won’t find this anymore… how do I know? Well, the phone number on the editorial page starts 071, there’s an advertisement for Psychotronic Video when they were still in Hanway Street, and I don’t believe the editor has any issues left… What did you miss out on? Excellent cut and paste antics, pictures of testicles, and a brown paper cover are the first three things that spring to mind…. I could of course be wrong, and there could be a huge stockpile of these things hidden away somewhere… if there is, and you find it, buy a copy…. And sell the rest for a tidy profit!
MINDS EYE PRESENTS #7 “Vincent”. Just to prove that I don’t have an axe to grind about comics (See above for my gentle taking apart of Too Close), comes yet another excellent Minds Eye comic from Canada. Everything I’ve seen from Robin Bougie and Rebecca Dart I have loved, and this is no exception. Telling the story of happy couple Vincent D Panda (a panda), his girlfriend Ashley Sorayama (not a panda), and their trip to the cinema to see Vincent’s latest starring role (Did I mention he was an actor?) in hit movie “Bring Me The Ass of Alfredo Garcia”. Brilliantly drawn, hilariously funny to read, and just, well, let’s not beat about the bush here, fucking blinding mate… Send off some money to Canada, buy everything they’ve got and enjoy… you will not be disappointed… (Just the thing to brighten up a thoroughly depressing Wednesday at work waiting for an arsing client to turn up after 5pm… Why after 5pm? Well because he’s a arsing piss head, obviously too busy getting even more drunk in the pub to consider the feelings of people waiting around for him… Ohhh, it’s good to get that out of my system).
LITTLE SHOPPE OF HORRORS 13. Always entertaining, always informative, always packed full of interviews with actors who appeared in Hammer movies… LSOH really is jam packed with information and interesting background on films which, by now, you would have thought everybody knew inside out. Issue 13 is a whopping 130 pages and yes, I read every one, and was spellbound throughout… More than half the issue looks at Hammers “Gothic Trilogy” Dracula Has Risen From The Grave, Taste The Blood Of Dracula and Scars of Dracula. Elsewhere you’ll find articles on James Carreras (Including his part in the “Palladium Cellars”.. Wow, I’d almost forgotten about those… I remember vividly going there as a bratty little 14yr old with some friends and finding the whole thing incredible at the time…) and lots more, so much more in fact that I could quite easily take up another 10 pages gushing on about how incredible the whole undertaking is (Including a mention of Ingrid Pitt…yuck…) Not much more to add. Very, very highly recommended, if you can still find a copy, snap it up…. Excellent.
MANSPLAT Issues 6, 7 & 8. Three issues, one review, no waiting. It’s quite apt that I’m finishing with Mansplat, as it’s an amalgam of most of the ‘zine’s I’ve already looked at (With the exception of Too Much).. it’s got the cut and paste (in places) look of Bomba Movies, the laugh out loud funny pieces of Headpress and Minds Eye Comics, and it’s got regular articles and reviews by Joe Bob Briggs (who in my opinion is very underrated… and yes, I know he isn’t a real person, thank you very much!).
Scanning quickly through the issues, #6 contains a do it yourself guide to getting women the James Bond way, an anagram article (funnier when you’re reading it, honest!), and more (Including a healthy mention of beer on almost every page!). #7 headlines with the stripping down and dissecting of Bewitched husbands Dick York & Dick Sargent (who swapped mysteriously between seasons…). I actually hated Bewitched, a one joke show that for some bizarre reason managed to run for years… Oh well, God Bless America. Also in issue 7 an article praising 7-11 food (eww), a useful insight on how to send a fax to Batman (Like, really dude!), the official “Mansplat Guide to Toilet Paper” (a little blinkered as it only covers US brands of toilet paper) and a HUGE article on American ghost movies (and I thought Ghosts of the Civil Dead was Australian? Oh, well…).
#8 headlines with the second Annual Barbarella Awards (Or translated, Tits out for the lads, rewarded), a cover story about UFO sightings that at times seems so rabid, you can almost see the writer’s veins stick out as he typed it, a totally gratuitous picture of Ron Jeremy (OK, not really, there is an article too), a slagging off of American “Lite Beer” (and not before time!) and a useful list of “Super Heroes Whose Asses You Could Easily Kick!” mentioning Flash Gordon, Green Arrow and Wonderwoman (Hmmmm, great thighs that Wonderwoman.. Ohhh, imagine those wrapped around your neck.. am I getting off the point?). All that and lots more. If I was going to say anything negative about Mansplat, it’d be that there was a little too much in the way of wrestling talk, and a few too many advertisements, mainly there to fund the ‘zine as it costs nothing to buy!! So, my last review and look, another thumbs up, you can’t really ask for any more now can you?
And that’s about it, not bad going what with one thing and another. It’s now 10pm on Friday 28th November, it’s only taken me three months to finish, not bad going for me… How long before the next issue? Who can say… All I know is that I’m going to Atlanta for a well deserved holiday in January (Watch out Jaime, if you’re going to move, do it now!!), and that nasty Christmas thing is on it’s way too, the only thing there to look forward to is Jim coming back from a holiday with his family in Scotland laden down with his Mother’s home made cakes.. hmmm, them’s good eating.
So, before I depart, as usual, I’d like to thank nobody for their help in this issue. No that’s not strictly true, I’d like to thank Shane at work, for doing all my work for me while I toiled away getting these things finished, and also I’d like to give no thanks at all to Jim for putting two issues of Too Much into the batch of fanzines to be reviewed… I’ve not been quite this angry in a long time!!! Any comments, praise, love, hatemail or even dirty jpegs can be sent to lino@lino.demon.co.uk Also, while you’re online, do go visit www.bondage.org a fine example of the Net smashing UK censorship. Ok, it’s a pay site, and ok, it’s in the States, but they do offer some excellent Realvideo footage… in a couple of years time, the quality will be broadcast, what on earth are the wonderful HM Customs and Excise going to do then? Think about it…I know I will…
Repeatedly, no doubt. While the above was “in preparation” — roughly translated, “lying in a bag at Lino’s work” — a bunch of other stuff turned up. And there were also the ‘zines which arrived with “please do not give to Lino” written on them… So let’s have a trawl through the other things that have popped through the letterbox.
Starting with www.fetish-fantasy.com, who sent me a press release and photo of the most incredibly shiny pair of boots I think I have ever seen. $9.95 will get you in for a month; they describe it as being “for the intensely curious, to the curiously intense”, and the site looks to have all the things you imagine it would…and a few others besides.
Mansplat 9 has…but we’ve given them enough publicity already. Oh, alright — their second anniversary issue (yep, nine issues in two years — rather than two in nine years…) has Xena drinking games, Edward Swiss-Army-Knife and La Femme Nikita (a series better in concept than execution, I reckon). Warning: few things suck more than spraying beer down your nose ‘cos you tried to laugh and swallow simultaneously. In Cinema Sewer, Robin Bougie of Mind’s Eye Comics (see above) turns his hand to movie stuff, with the same insane freshness that pervades his graphic works. Kekko Kamen, the GoGos video, Deranged, eye violence and the lamest 50’s monsters. Let’s face it, since you are going to send him money for his comics, you’d do well to get this too! And, hey, if it ain’t Cashiers du Cinemart, in which Mike White eases back on his anti-Tarantino jihad (QT is self-destructing nicely on his own, it seems), and yaks about life working in a cinema, Jackie Chan, Andre the Giant and his posse, plus Abba. Scooby Doo, and so on. Random plug time: Otaku Publishing, an excellent source for all your Japanese animation needs: videos, CDs, strange plastic laminated things, morally suspect PC games with titles like Time Stripper, and layout cards, such as the one shown below. Midian Books are similarly comprehensive with regard to what you might call “weird shit” – surrealism, sex and violence – and Dark Carnival will satisfy all your needs on the film ‘zine front. Those three should be enough to keep any well-adjusted TC reader happy for hours…
Caress 18 continues to document the sound of things falling apart as our new government heads down the road to further oppression, but has its optimistic moments as well, and reviews books, videos, CD ROMs and other pieces of “adult erotica” (as opposed to juvenile erotica, I suppose!). Looking round the somewhat untidy room (there’s a floor here somewhere, beneath all the discarded ‘zines), I think we have finally reached the last item: Scattered Remains, a collection of short stories from the realm of the disordered mind, by Paul Pinn. Think Hieronymus Bosch meets William Burroughs for a pint or six; any book “in celebration of 750 years of Bedlam” is alright by me!
Bomba Movies – (an SAE) Damned if I can find an address… Try Dark Carnival, I think!
Caress – (£2.50) Polly Publications, PO Box 2225, Hove, East Sussex, BN3 1QW
Cashiers du Cinemart – ($2) PO Box 2401, Riverview, MI 48192, USA
“Aw, c’mon, how can anyone not love Wallace and Gromit?”, I hear you cry. But here’s a simple test to show the iniquitous effect they and their creator have had on British animation: how many other animators can you name? Very few, I imagine — because Aardman’s (carefully hyped) success means that the media now won’t look beyond cuddly animals, lovable old men, and roguish penguins as far as animation goes. British animation is rapidly being driven into a PG-rated ghetto, just as our cinema was in the late 80’s. Only this time, the ghetto is made of Play-do.
There’s no question Park is hugely talented, and the work-ethic in Aardman’s output is easily apparent; but this just makes his apparent subservience to the god of light entertainment all the more aggravating. It’s the repetition that gets to me. Animation is a limitless medium, where imagination is your only restraint; looking at Park’s work, though, you wouldn’t think so. The first piece of his I saw was jaw-dropping stuff. When the second one turned up and was the same again, I was less impressed. Then number three, pitched at exactly the same “gently amusing” level. And the fourth. Zzzzzzz…
It’s like Tarantino’s relentless usage of gangster motifs (is this the first time these two have been compared?). I find Park’s work quickly goes stale, and rate more highly animators like Jan Svankmaer who’ve shown their talents in a wide range of genres. And how many Oscars has Svankmajer won? None. Note, however, that Park has some way to go to match the success of Tom and Jerry: 13 nominations, resulting in seven Academy Awards. And despite the inherent limitations of the “cat chases mouse” scenario, you’ll find far more breadth in half a dozen random selected cartoons of theirs than all of Wallace and Gromit’s adventures put together.
Both Tarantino and Park (is this the second time these two have been compared?) have also spawned legions of wannabees, devoid of whatever technical skill their role-models possess. Post-Park, it seems every animator in Britain rushed down to their local Toys R Us and stocked up on half a dozen packs of plasticine.
Here is a textbook example of marketing hype and crass, cynical commercialization. And the one wearing the cute rucksack is Baby Spice.
In the dash for commissions, more traditional skills seem to have been thrown to one side, whether or not they’d be more appropriate for the story in hand. The results so far have been at best mediocre, and at worst pathetic — witness the dire Gogs which BBC2 inflicted upon the public last Christmas.
All populist animation must inevitably also invoke comparison with Disney. While Park’s films are at least free of piss-poor songs and overt moral preaching, he and they have the same problem with characterisation — as mentioned in a previous TC, Disney villains are a hell of a lot more memorable than the heroes. It says something about A Grand Day Out that a vending machine comes across as having more personality than Wallace.
Disney and Aardman share another major activity in common: merchandising. T-shirts, books, videos, CD-Roms, cuddly toys, mugs, the range is apparently endless; behind the meek, rather nerdish persona of Nick Park is clearly a razor-sharp business mind. Flogging twenty-five minutes of animation in HMV for £12.99 isn’t bad going, especially given the vast quantities being shifted. Who needs value for money? And why bother rocking the (very comfortable) boat by making challenging animation? With Park now making a feature, Chicken Run, for Steven Spielberg’s Dreamworks, the opportunity for tie-ins increase exponentially (Gromit Happy Meal, anyone?). But from the artistic point of view, development is required; surely no 90’s audience will sit through ninety minutes of animated Ealing comedy?
I don’t blame Park for any of this. He’s acquired popular, international renown denied all save a very few animators in the West – Disney, Chuck Jones, Hanna & Barbera – and is entitled to enjoy his fifteen minutes of fame, probably as measured on the Wallace and Gromit (TM) watch pictured. I can’t help feeling, however, that in the broader scheme of things, his stretching of said fifteen minutes to five years is not a unanimously good thing. Next, please…?
The parlour was crammed with party-frocked children, all eager to be let loose upon the games they thought in store for them. One boy (I think it must have been me) wondered if games could exist without children to play them. He imagined hide-and-seek with mere wisps of shadow darting in and out of the corners; musical chairs with a feast of empty seats; hunt the invisible thimble; sardines with only loneliness to come between; Nobody’s Knock…
Forgetting his thoughts, he surveyed the remains of food upon the excited faces, almost more to eat than they had in the first place. The dining-room had been a wondrous place that afternoon. With an early dusk outside, the candles had shone out a treat, casting golden tea-leaves of dream upon all the faces. The red jelly had wobbled deliciously. The cakes had dribbled fresh clotted cream even before they saw the tiny white teeth. Steaming samovars of infusions. Neatly manicured cucumber sandwiches. Drinks with more bubbles than liquid. The birthday cake decorated with a mysterious number none of the children could possibly count towards.
He had seen the girl for the first time around that table. Initially attracted by the pinafore frock, the face was very much second best. But the more he became accustomed to its frequently dimplish smile over the trifle, the more he fell in love with the rest of the girl he couldn’t see.
The parlour was lit by a log fire. The faces were keen to get the planning phase over and the campaign of games under way. He spotted the girl again — she was towards the back, the furthest from the fire that one could possibly be. She was no longer smiling but, even at his tender age, he knew that angels did not smile all of the time. There was at least one grown-up ranging about between the tangled limbs, so tall it was difficult to see the lines of the face. It was issuing instructions, however, which, for the boy’s part, were pretty pointless. He thought the best present he’d receive today was being the seeker and the pinafored girl the hider whom he’d find in some solitary part of the house. Apparently, though, he was not chosen to be seeker, despite the party being in his honour. Indeed, the sole grown-up was intent on the role of seeker.
Suddenly the children rose in uproar, the girl included, and scuttled off in all possible directions. Only the boy and the grown-up were left staring at each other across the shadows of the flames.
The deep mumbling had no meaning. But the boy understood only too well. He followed the tail-end of the children into the dark hallway outside the parlour. The landing at the top of the steep stairs looked forbidding — although, of course, he realised that nowhere was out of bounds today of all days. Even the servants’ quarters were eligible hiding-space, the occupants having been given the night off with a few halfpennies to spend at the Christmas fair. The night off? He wished he could have had the night off. He tore at his face as if trying to scrape the shadows of night from it.
The girl in the pinafore frock was disappearing up the very stairs he found so forbidding. Distantly, he followed the heels of her sandals — catching glimpses of thin calves in light seeped from some undarkened rooms elsewhere in the house.
New York, Sept 2 (Reuter) – Slimming company Weight Watchers International has postponed the formal launch of an advertising campaign in which the Duchess of York says losing weight is “harder than outrunning the paparazzi.”
Admirable words of surprising sense from the Duchess of Pork — what a shame that her sister-in-law instead tried to escape them by driving through the streets of Paris at 200 km/h, in a heavily armoured limousine. If you’re going to do this, it’s probably worth remembering to:
a) Fasten your seat-belts
b) Try and have a sober driver.
So young; so well-loved; such fabulous baps.
I used to be a fervent monarchist. This was back in the golden days, roughly between the Silver Jubilee and Charles and Diana’s wedding. But since then, the continuing saga of the Royal soap opera, not least the Chuck ‘n’ Di show, has destroyed my respect for this institution. And, frankly, Diana’s death, despite the subsequent media canonisation, makes no difference.
Sudden death is always sad, but in many ways, she’s just another in a long line: Dean, Monroe, Kennedy, Lennon, Phoenix, and now Diana, all greeted with howls about “unfulfilled potential”. However, even allowing for the high-pressure world of the Royals, her life wasn’t exactly a massive success, despite a sudden late burst of charity work. One failed marriage, several affairs, a nervous breakdown and some botched suicide attempts isn’t a good record.
Watching TV the day she died, and seeing her mythic status grow by the hour, I felt like I was taking part in Heathers. The establishment fell over to embrace her in death, as they had excluded her in life, but I am forced to wonder just how deep and widespread the claimed grief over Diana actually was. Certainly, there was little sign of it in my office, going by the number of jokes doing the rounds: Why did Diana die in hospital? They hadn’t any parts for an ’81 Princess… Yes, it’s crap (and believe me, I’ve got lots more of them), but it serves to indicate that the entire country was not quite as grief-stricken as the press would have us believe.
For Diana was a media creation, who used them just as they used her. She sold papers, while their perpetual pushing of her as the “Queen of Hearts” must have been one hell of a confidence boost for someone chucked out of the world’s most dysfunctional family.
The most fitting and appropriate comment on all this came from Private Eye, who said, “In recent weeks (not to mention the last ten years) we at the Daily Gnome, in common with all other newspapers, may have inadvertently conveyed the impression the Princess of Wales was in some way a neurotic, irresponsible and manipulative troublemaker…the Princess of Hearts was in fact the most saintly woman who has ever lived… We would like to express our sincere and deepest hypocrisy to all our readers on this tragic day and hope and pray that they will carry on buying our paper notwithstanding.”
Private Eye was about the only publication to come out of the whole fiasco with its integrity intact [Time Out also did not badly, though the timing of the accident meant they missed the initial furore]. Witness the cover cartoon on PE’s post-death issue: Man 1: The papers are a disgrace Man 2: Yes, I couldn’t get one anywhere Man 3: Borrow mine, it’s got a picture of the car. They suffered as a result, said edition being blackballed by a sizeable number of newsagents, yet continued to do a fine job of exposing the double-think of the mass media:
Lynda Lee-Potter, Daily Mail, 27th August — “The sight of a paunchy playboy groping a scantily-clad Diana must appal and humiliate Prince William…As the mother of two young sons she ought to have more decorum and sense. She has for many years criticised Prince Charles for being a distant, undemonstrative father. In the long run he’s been the more responsible parent and certainly inflicted less damage, anguish and hurt”
Lynda Lee-Potter, Daily Mail, 1st September — “Throughout their childhood, she gave her sons endless loving cuddles…She adored her children”
What a difference a car-crash makes. Despite this, and those who said “Yep, it’s sad — now get on with life”, the country basically ground to a halt for a week, most notably on the Saturday morning. The pressure exerted on anyone who failed to toe the line was incredible; those who wanted to mourn insisted everyone else did so too. Our local supermarket intended to stay open, and donate its profits to charity, but was forced to shut instead — you do have to wonder which would have been preferred by the ‘Queen of Hearts’. Little wonder her funeral drew the biggest TV audience ever, because there was sod-all else you could do, though I was amused by C4’s scheduling of a cartoon called Princess Cinders opposite the funeral…
After that passed, things calmed down, with a blip when Andrew Morton re-released his book on Diana, with extra added salacious bits. Needless to say, this treacherous little volume sold like hot-cakes — one wonders how many copies went to the same people seen weeping uncontrollably outside Kensington Palace? I await with interest the (surely inevitable) Hollywood movie, and would suggest Madonna for the role — for who better to play the world’s biggest media whore than the world’s second biggest media whore? Sign up Antonio Banderas to play Dodi, and let’s have Jeremy Irons as Charles. Get Oliver Stone to direct it, and we can play up the conspiracy angles. Speaking of which…
None Dare Call It alt.conspiracy.princess-diana
The above picture is allegedly Di trapped in the wreckage, though I’ve my doubts; apologies for the quality of the reproduction.
Was there more to Diana’s death than meets the eye? Immediately after the event, rumours and theories began circulating. A conduit for many was the Internet: a group set up to discuss the possibilities had 400 new messages a day, clearly striking a chord. However, the unanswered questions began before the accident. Given events since, the ‘surprise’ she threatened to reveal a couple of months back acquires ominous overtones. Engagement to Dodi, perhaps, or worse still, a pregnancy?
But it’s in Paris that paranoia runs out of control, like a Mercedes-Benz with its brake-cables cut. Diana apparently had no British security cover, nor had the UK papers anyone on her tail: were they warned off? It seems strange that Diana allowed herself to be taken at speed by a drunken, non-professional driver, while her trained chauffeur went on a trivial diversionary mission, and near incredible that neither Dodi, a Muslim, nor the surviving security man, realised the driver’s state and drew attention to it. It is easy to tamper with a blood sample [it’s also easy, incidentally, to give someone a ‘heart attack’ in an operating room…], and rather than a single figure, we’ve seen a surprisingly wide range of values quoted for the amount of alcohol in the driver’s blood.
The only public evidence of what happened came from eye-witnesses discovered by the media – although you might think traffic cameras would have provided impartial data – as the survivor hasn’t given many interviews to the press: perhaps he was given the choice of that or a mysterious relapse. Oddly, everyone else seemed to be American, as if there were there no French around Paris at the time. One also wonders what happened to the paparazzi film and cameras; I suspect they’ll be quietly destroyed out of “respect for the Princess”. The Al-fayeds said “motorcycles were seen swerving in front of the vehicle”, though the source of this information is unclear.
Eye-witnesses describe hearing a loud bang or explosion before the crash; no-one has followed this up, and while the car blew all the way across the tunnel, metal and glass flying, with enough force to kill three out of four occupants, there was so much as a reported scratch on any of the unprotected motorcyclists supposedly closely flanking it. The other story that the French police released and then later withdrew was the speedometer “sticking” at 196 kph. Someone must have pointed out that this type of Mercedes does not have a mechanical speedo… Witnesses driving by saw the passenger side door open and the survivor’s legs on the ground as if trying to get out. One described an argument as like that between people involved in an accident – was the security guard walking about? Indeed, the media first reported that Diana too was walking and talking after the accident. The first people at the scene of the accident, heard the bang and run into the tunnel, but were chased away by an unidentified individual.
This photo comes with a choice of two alternative captions: “Well, there goes your no-claims bonus for this year, Henri”, or “That’s what you get for trying to overtake Michael Schumacher”.
If the limo could travel at high speed, the roads must have been quiet, yet it took 15 minutes to get an ambulance to the scene. French emergency services often operate on accident victims on the side of the road using especially designed portable operating theatres. On this occasion, they didn’t: instead, it was two hours before she went to hospital — though there were two closer than the one to which the Princess was taken. There, they tried to revive her through heart massage, which seems rather primitive. By now, the BBC and CNN were already blaming the paparazzi who were allegedly chasing the car, strongly promoting this as the true cause of Diana’s death, and leaving virtually no room for other theories.
So many questions, so few answers. You don’t expect such a public death to be completely without inconsistencies – even the best Hollywood movies have continuity errors – but in this case there appear to be more than I’d expect. If “they” wanted rid of her, it was a terribly public way to do it, but public spasms of grief allow a great deal to be concealed, and it sent out strong signals to any other enemies of “them” out there. Conveniently, it happened abroad, out of British jurisdiction, but close enough to get her body back, and out of sight, within hours.
Given that someone killed her (and I appreciate this is a pretty big given), who was it? The favourite targets are the British ‘establishment’, an umbrella term which includes the Royal family. The benefits for them are immediate and obvious. Diana was more than an embarrassment; according to James Whittaker of the Daily Mirror, they regarded her as “poison”. Diana cut herself free, did not work for the Government, and was politically unaligned. She was a loose cannon; dangerous, out of control and her access to the future heirs posed serious problems. In death, she can be re-absorbed into the fold, boosting Royal popularity while simultaneously ridding themselves of the most public sign of their failures.
That alone might be enough, even discounting her relationship with Dodi, whose father feuded with the establishment, over both the control of Harrods and his application for British citizenship. He paid Tory MPs to raise the question in the House of Commons, then revealed he had done so, fuelling the “sleaze” crisis which helped bring down the government. But as a relation of the future King of England, it’d be hard to deny him a British passport. Any marriage would probably have meant Diana converting to the Islamic faith, like Jemima Khan. You can imagine concern in certain circles: “My God, what if the Queen Mother were a Moslem?”. Unsurprisingly, this has provoked a number of anti-Semitic angles, and to balance these, a few anti-Arab ones as well, with rumours suggesting Al-Fayed was thinking about disinvesting in the British economy.
Meanwhile, Charles, now a widower rather than a divorcee in the eyes of the church, can remarry without causing problems to the “Defender of the Faith” bit. [If I were Camilla Parker-Bowles’ ex-husband, I’d be more than a little nervous…] Don’t be surprised if it’s used as an excuse to bring in draconian privacy laws, limiting the ability of individuals to gather information on and document the activities of the establishment. This theory would presumably be popular with extremist American politician Lyndon LaRouche (and I mean ‘extremist’ even by their wild and wacky standards), who believes the Queen is the head of an international drugs cartel.
However, it seems pointless for Charles to have divorced her just a few months before the “accident”. Another strike against this theory is that Colonel Gaddafi believes it — though in the same speech, he warned his people that the West might invade Libya because of its sun, sand, seashore, dates, watermelons and, er, camel milk. “The camel is also a reason for them to invade Libya. The camel is unique because he can go for months without drinking. He also has good milk. In fact, why do you import milk from Europe when you have the camel’s milk?” [Ok, I take back what I said about American politicians in the previous paragraph…]
While this is the main scenario propounded, it’s far from the only one. Second up is that ol’ favourite, the industro-military cartel. As is well known, Diana was a outspoken campaigner against landmines. The manufacturers, not just in America but the rest of the world too, cannot have been too thrilled by her activities. Against this, her death will almost certainly result in a total ban, as any other result would seem churlish in the extreme. Maybe the anti-landmine lobby ruthlessly sacrificed their own spokeswoman. This reversal also applies to theories involving the Royal family, as Diana’s death could benefit, or be a mortal blow to them. Did a secret faction hope to discredit the Queen and turn Britain into a republic? With Diana at her peak of popularity, but about to remarry and fade from the limelight, they arranged the death of the Queen of Hearts — “our Queen, their pawn” as one proponent suggests! In so doing they create a martyr, a heroine to remain forever young, wronged by Charles, Camilla, and the nasty Royals.
Bizarre as that sounds, it’s by no means the most extreme idea: Interflora were behind it all, Eddie Large did it to divert attention from his road rage conviction, Elton John was to blame (Gianni Versace was just a dry run), or Di is still alive, and the whole thing was a scam to allow her and Dodi to vanish into hiding, with the connivance of the Royal family. Hard to tell who is joking, though the last does explain why there was no ‘lying in state’: someone would have realised it wasn’t her in the coffin — expect Diana sightings to follow. And Tom Cruise took a strong role in using the affair to support restrictions on news reporters. Cruise is a Scientologist; they have a long history of attempts to silence its critics. Mere bandwagon-jumping, or something more sinister?
But perhaps my favourite surrounds Princes Harry and William. A main tenet of conspiracy theory is “Follow the money”: in this case, the money goes straight to the heir-but-one and his brother. As a result of their mother’s death, they’re now looking at the rough equivalent of a lottery jackpot each, and under normal circumstances, would be prime suspects. I will admit, however, that doubts must be cast, however, over their ability to organise such a hit while on their summer hols, even if their pocket money could probably stretch to it.
We can be almost certain about one thing: the truth will never be known with any certainty. Now that these conspiracies have had mainstream coverage, the entire affair possesses all the trappings of a modern myth: history inevitably shows that such things become more, rather than less obscure, with the passage of time.
[Indeed, this already seems to be happening. Witness the following: is it cunningly constructed Government disinformation, designed to conceal the truth by making it ludicrous, or just a jape? Perhaps it’s even the truth — for who’d believe it…?]
Diana: the Vatican connection
“Ever since the botched Calvi job under Blackfriars Bridge, the Pope has sought revenge on British Royalty. An uncomfortable truce held between the Windsors and the Vatican during the 80’s, but the pontiff recently said on VNN (Vatican News Network) that Diana was no longer “the next Mother Teresa”, a position promised in 1984 when she followed papal decree and refused to open a new Wyeth factory in the Welsh Catholic stronghold of Abergavenny. The Vatican/Windsor truce was negotiated in early 1985, following four years of intense, secret fighting whose commencement can be traced directly to the ‘81 botched assassination attempt on Pope John Paul II. Carried out by muslim Mehmed Ali Agca, it was arranged by Mohammed Al-fayed, father of the ill-fated Dodi. He longed desperately for British citizenship and was put up to the job by the current Capo of the Windsor mob, Price Philip, still stinging from the 1979 death of his uncle, Lord Mountbatten, at the hands of the Vatican’s special Irish service.
The ‘85 truce was negotiated by Senator Edward Kennedy, representing Vatican secret interests in the US, and vice-president Bush, former CIA Chief and Anglican lay minister, pressed to the temporary service of the Windsors by then governor of West Virginia Jay Rockefeller, a fellow Trilateral Commission member. In 1990, Bush would help arrange the embarrassment of the Vatican’s highly placed agent, Chaldean Catholic and Iraqi Foreign Minister Tariq Aziz, by instructing American ambassador April Martin to lure him into encouraging Saddam Hussein to invade Kuwait. The Windsors controlled the puppet government of Saudi Arabia, but had been shut out of the lucrative Kuwaiti market, and responded with a mass rejection of the Catholic institution of marriage. This resulted in all the Queen’s progeny – save closet homosexual Edward – being divorced in the same year. An angry pontiff almost gave the conspiracy away when, in a fit of rage, he ordered a special Vatican controlled IRA active service unit to firebomb Windsor Castle. The Vatican also instructed their puppet government in Westminster to tax all royal personages.
The burning of Windsor Castle, in which sixteen junior, and luckily nonphotogenic, Royal Family members lost their lives, forced the Queen to sign a treaty with the Vatican agreeing to abide by and promote the one true faith in the UK. At the end of that year in her Xmas Speech, Queen Elizabeth II clearly blamed the murder of Christ on the Jewish race. The last straw for the Vatican happened when Diana allowed herself to be photographed having unprotected sex with a Muslim, then drunkenly announced she was leaving Britain for good “because the last Tory government were such assholes”. John Paul II took this as a personal insult and ordered Masonic lodge P2 to eliminate her forthwith, financed by Du Pont, manufacturers of the world’s finest subterranean anti-personnel devices.
The car’s brakes were interfered with and her regular driver (trained in anti-terrorist driving techniques) was fed a dodgy meat madras by Catholic waiting staff at the Ritz. It is thought the Mercedes cruise control was hacked into over a land line from the Vatican and reprogrammed to accelerate to maximum revs when going around tight bends.”
