Psycho Females of the Screen

Those who believe in the concept of ‘the gentle sex’ should bear in mind that there are far more successful serial killers in history than Henry Lee Lucas, Ted Bundy or any similarly boring wimps. According to the Guinness Book of Records, among the all-time champions is Countess Erszbet Bathory, who offed about 650 peasant girls in medieval Romania. Now, obviously she had an advantage living in an era when the ruling class could do whatever they wanted to the rabble – nowadays, they have to hold an election first (hah! Political satire!) – but it’s still impressive evidence that psychosis is not purely masculine.

And murderous or otherwise insane women have been a common feature of entertainment since very early days. Greek theatre had it’s Clytemnestra, wandering the streets, shrieking prophecies and maledictions. Shakespeare has Lady Macbeth and Ophelia, to name but two (I’m using “psycho” here as a generic catch-all, rather than a psychological specific!). But this year, they would seem to be “in”. Imminently, we’ll get Drew Barrymore psycho-teening as ‘Poison Ivy’ and we’ve already had ‘The Hand That Rocks The Cradle’ (see below) and ‘Single White Female’, which stars Jennifer Jason Leigh, who’s made a career out of playing variously unstable characters.
Most fall into one of four broad groups:

• a) Revengeful
• b) Femme Fatale
• c) Euro-psycho
• d) Supernatural.

though naturally there is an element of overlap. Let’s take each of these in turn, and examine a specific example.

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle (Curtis Hanson)

Rebecca de Mornay, Annabella Sciorra.

To some extent, the success of this film could have been predicted. The biggest trend in horror films of recent years has been “body horror”: the threat is internal, the threat is YOU. Combine this with the breakdown of moral values (for which Hollywood, according to Dan Quayle, is to blame) and it’s a logical step to have the threat coming from within the family, trying to destroy it. That the protagonists are woman should be no surprise either: “female” = “family” as far as Hollywood is concerned. On one level, ‘The Hand…’ is a predictable affirmation of these traditional values, and fits in entirely with expected patterns. But it escapes from the limitations placed on it, thanks to polished execution all-round.

After ten minutes, the viewer could be forgiven for checking his ticket to make sure they’re in the right cinema as it starts off as some sort of medical rape film, as Annabella Sciorra is assaulted by her doctor during a gynaecological examination. Following this disconcerting start, all becomes clear after she goes public with the case: the doctor commits suicide and his wife (Rebecca de Mornay) has a miscarriage. Several months later, said wife turns up on Sciorra and hubby’s doorstep, surely the perfect nanny for the new-born child…

De Mornay wants the child very badly, to replace the one she lost, and sets about systematically wrecking the family, turning husband and daughter against mother, and getting rid of anyone she perceives as a threat, in a spectacular display of perverse cunning that had me grinning at every turn of the screw. It’s neatly constructed, and suitably twisty, though you can spot the plot devices as they appear – a set of wind-chimes here, an asthma inhaler there – for ticking off as they’re used later, and at the end it does degenerate into something a little too familiar to ‘Friday the 13th’ fans. Still, it’s substantially better than any of that series – can’t help thinking how Rebecca de Mornay and Anthony Hopkins would make a fine couple! B.

The Fourth Man (Paul Verhoeven)

Jeroen Krabbe, Renee Soutendijk.

In the wake of all the fuss surrounding ‘Basic Instinct’, now seems a good time to mention Paul Verhoeven’s earlier shocker, about a writer (Krabbe) who has an affair with a thrice-widowed lady (Soutendijk), only to discover she might have killed all of her previous husbands. Those protesting about the portrayal of homosexuals in ‘Basic Instinct’ should maybe have seen this film before whining, as it does show Verhoeven is no homophobe.

The film has a lot of parallels with his latest work: both films have blond, literary females, who may or may not be psychopaths – in neither film is it ever made 100% clear whether it’s just masculine paranoia. A non-heterosexual love triangle is a significant element of both and neither movie has a truly heroic figure, with both Douglas and Krabbe, scheming creatures not all that far away from psychosis either. Both films also have significantly pleasant helpings of sex and violence.

Where ‘The Fourth Man’ scores over ‘Basic Instinct’ is it’s cross-genre delivery. It’s not only a thriller, but a love story, a religious parable, a dissertation on the nature of reality, and has the one of the all-time best dream sequences I’ve ever seen in the cinema. Aided by a pair of performances that are virtually perfect (tho’ less so in the dubbed video version than at the cinema), while this may or may not be more enjoyable than Verhoeven’s work since coming to Hollywood, it’s undoubtedly more interesting.

Renee Soutendijk was most recently seen in ‘Eve of Destruction’, as a psychopathic robot (if a robot can be thus described, having no psyche to go pathic about). Some things never change. A+.

Dial: Help (Ruggero Deodato)

Charlotte Lewis, Marcello Modugno

A general rule of thumb in continental movies is that the prettier the actress, the looser her grip on sanity – if this has any basis in reality, it’s worth remembering the next time you contemplate a holiday romance. In any case, Euro-psychos form a distinct sub-class: the classic example is Beatrice Dalle in ‘Betty Blue’, a nose ahead of Isabelle Adjani, whose career almost seems to be based on psychopathy, and there’s barely an actress in France who hasn’t been warped at some point.

While the French generally concentrate on femme fatales, with a healthy dose of revenge, the Italians, probably thanks to the influence of Dario Argento and his crew, seem to prefer the supernatural aspects as this sub-genre allows the director to almost completely dispense with the plot, in favour of scriptual hand-waving about “the occult”. Only the Italians could possibly make a film about killer phones, such as “Dial: Help”.
Jenny (Charlotte Lewis) is a model, who dials a wrong number and somehow – handwave, handwave – taps into a source of energy, which (understandably) decides to fancy her. It starts offing anyone it perceives as a threat or who is nasty to Jenny (I’m not sure which category her goldfish, who also get it, fall into) in a variety of interesting ways, most notably the mugger shot by high-velocity coins fired from the reject slot of a coin box.

Very little of this film makes any sense at all, yet the whole thing is really quite enjoyable. The improvement over the annoying plotlessness of Argento is that once you accept the premise – admittedly silly – of an intelligent, insane telephone number, the rest of the film is plausible, at least by comparison. Argento piles idiocy upon idiocy until even my disbelief can no longer be suspended.

As for the female psycho, Charlotte Lewis starts off okay, but by the end is seriously cracking up. The final proof of this is her decision to dress up in stockings, suspenders and a black basque, purely to roll around in the bath for five minutes. While this casts doubts on her character’s sanity, it proves that director Deodato knows how many beans make five. The entire scene is completely gratuitous, adds nothing to the story, and is quite, quite wonderful. B+.

Dracula’s Widow (Christopher Coppola)

Sylvia Kristel, Lennie van Dohlen

Equal opportunities in the occult are a variable kinda thing. In certain fields, such as werewolves, men have the field almost to themselves – the most notable exception being Sybil Danning in ‘The Howling 2′ – maybe because hairy palms are not considered aesthetically appealing. On the other hand, the “possessed teen” genre has been mostly a girls’ domain; Regan, Carrie, Mary Lou and their kin. Somewhere in the middle stands the vampire, currently undergoing something of a renaissance thanks to Gary Oldman’s appearance as Dracula. But it was not the first Coppola version of the story, although “Dracula’s Widow” is certainly not Francis Ford in action.

Not all female vampires can be classed as obviously insane – Delphine Seyrig, in ‘Daughters of Darkness’ is as cool and collected an individual as you could see – but drinking human blood is not normal behaviour by most standards (except in certain parts of the West of Scotland…). And when combined with scenery-chewing, such as we see Sylvia Kristel doing here, we’re definitely deep into the zone of the ‘differently sane’.

She arrives in America enclosed in a crate sent to the Hollywood House of Wax, A run-down establishment operated by Lennie van Dohlen and his girlfriend. Kristel chomps her way through various members of the community and turns Van Dohlen into her accomplice as she seeks a somewhat belated revenge on Van Helsing. He’d offed her husband back in Transylvania a century ago, so isn’t about but any descendant of his will do. He, meanwhile, starts to view his girl-friend, less as a sex object, and more as lunch.

The film seems uncertain whether it’s tongue-in-cheek or not; some elements are definitely parody-ish, while others seem intended to be taken seriously, and the whole thing looks seriously patchwork as a result. This uncertainty extends to the era – could be anytime from the 40’s on. Try turning the colour off and viewing it in b&w, as this enhances the faux-noir feel, though you do lose the icky bits.

Still, van Dohlen’s performance is engagingly loopy, reminiscent of a young Anthony Perkins and Sylvia Kristel – remarkably, keeping her clothes on with unusual decorum – manages to be convincingly European, though I imagine actually being European is something of an advantage. Overall, as TVM’s go, it’s an amiable way to pass ninety minutes and it’s several steps above Stuart Gordon’s very disappointing ‘Daughter of Darkness’. C-.

‘Men!”, my travelling companion snorted.

It was her first remark since I had joined her in the train’s Ladies Only compartment, boarding, as I had, at a rural halt with a single island platform. I had thought such stations and compartments to have long since vanished from British Rail. There was a sense of travelling in time, as well as in space. Glancing down at my hem, I was almost surprised to see the short skirt in which I’d set out that morning, rather than the floor-sweeping fashion of Edwardian times.

“Men!”, she repeated loudly, seeming to demand a response.
“Men?”, I asked diffidently.
“Yes – great ugly brutes. Their skin grows a horrible hairy rind. Every day they peel it off with sharp blades, only to have it regrow by night.”
I smiled. Her reply, seemed to suppose that I, of all people, didn’t know what men were.
“Not all of them”, I ventured placidly.
“Not all of what, what?”
“Not all men peel off their hairy rind. Some have beards.”
“Tush, child! Do not speak of them! They’re the worst… All are rapists… And some are…”
“Are what?”
“It is best that one of your tender years does not know. Indeed, I’ve already said too much. I should not have mentioned men at all… Not in your hearing, anyway”

“Why not in MY hearing in particular?” I suddenly must have looked more my age with a hint of a frown, since she evidently now intended to take me into her full confidence. She leant forward, as if there were someone else ear-wigging. The mouth hypnotised me with the way it spoke.
“Men, my dear, are foul-mouthed creatures who do not rightfully belong on Mother Earth.” She sat back with a flourish.

I nodded, despite thinking her proposition ludicrous. Being alone together with someone in a corridorless train does carry with it the responsibility of tact and diplomacy.

“Well,” she resumed, leaning forward again, “even as recent as Edwardian days, there had only been ladies in the world. Till these aliens came from outer space with their coiled arrangements below their bellies. They brainwashed most of us to believe that they had always been here and that we actually needed them. They called themselves ‘men’ for short”.

The train was drawing into Norwood Junction alongside two platforms which enabled egress from either side of the carriages. A close shave, I thought, as I stumbled from the Ladies Only compartment…into a lady in high fashion gloves who was simultaneously embarking. She was no doubt en route for Victoria Station (my own original destination). I gave her a warning look, my eyes swivelling to that lady in the corner with the strange ideas. The warning went unnoticed, perhaps consciously unheeded, even relished.

As I scoured the timetable for the next train to Victoria (changing my mind half way by looking for the arrival of the next train bound for Brighton), I tugged down my skirt which was trying to ride even higher up my thighs. I was afraid of what it would otherwise reveal.

Peter F.Jeffrey and D.F.Lewis

THE STORY OF LINDA aka LINDA (Jack Griffin)

Katja Bienert, Ursula Fellner, Raquel Evans, Antonio Mayans.

While most films on Sky Movies have been out on video for ages and are Hollywood dross in varying flavours, the odd one does get through – and ‘The Story of Linda’ can certainly be described as ‘odd’. Though shown in “slashed by the BBFC” format, it’s not the sort of film you’ll find 50 copies of in Blockbuster Video and it is at least European dross (which we’d better get used to, as come next year, we can expect lots of it!) and, what’s more, dross of a surreally tacky nature.

The film starts with a girl being chased along a beach by two men in a land-rover. They catch her and drag her off into the Rio Amore, a high-class sex club (decor heavily influenced by ‘Emmanuelle’, all wicker chairs and hammocks). There, for the amusement of the patrons, she is whipped – or at least, I assume so, there’s barely an edit in the first 10 minutes where the hand of the ever-vigilant Jim Furman can’t be detected. We are introduced to the madame, Sheila, and her lover, whom she found playing piano in a gay bar and who rejoices in the decidely un-Hispanic name of Ron Medford, despite looking the epitome of a Mediterranean type, right down to the Zapata moustache.

He’s currently having a fling with Betsy, the receptionist at the nearby hotel, who is awaiting the arrival of Linda, her convent educated sister. But when Sheila finds out about the Betsy and Ray, she arranges for hotel manager Zorro(!) and his 6 ft plus, bald, psychopathic side-kick to charge Betsy with stealing $10,000 from the hotel safe. We also learn that Sheila keeps pet scorpions (hint, hint).

Ron gives Betsy money for a plane ticket, but her escape attempt is foiled when she gets into a taxi driven by the same 6 ft plus, bald, psychopathic side-kick who was intimidating her in the previous scene. In mitigation, it has to be said he is now cunningly disguised – or at least, is wearing a hat. Betsy is taken to the brothel to work off her ‘debt’, and Sheila greets her with “We have a special treatment for calming rebellious girls. It’s one that all my customers appreciate as well!”

The next thing we see is a nun, and I briefly wondered whether Shiela’s “special treatment” would be a medley of songs from ‘The Sound of Music’. However, I’d forgotten convent educated Linda, and in a flash of religiously inspired insight, it becomes crystal clear how the rest of the film is going to turn out. Linda will find her sister missing, try to locate her, end up in the Rio Amore as well, be forced into depravity and corruption, and eventually the pair will escape and live happily ever after.

And initially the film runs straight down the expected line. Like all convent schoolgirls in movies, Linda:
a) is cute (though she could shave her armpits better),
b) posseses an interesting selection of lingerie,
c) demonstrates a fondness for lesbian love scenes,
and d) has the ability to go from nought-to-moaning-orgasm in about thirty seconds, though this may be due to Mr. Furman again, more than any inherent skills.

Back in the Rio Amore, we discover that the special treatment is Betsy writhing about inside a plexiglass cube filled to a depth of about three inches with dry ice fumes. Meanwhile, Ron and Sheila make love and there’s a close-up of the scorpions (hint, hint). Arriving at Funchal airport, Linda is waiting for her sister when her bag is stolen. Fortunately, the thief is tripped up by Juan, a passing student, who cheerfully returns the bag, but makes no effort to detain the thief, despite said criminal hanging around for a fair while before mumbling “bastard” and wandering off.

Quicker than you can say “gratuitous travelogue”, Juan is giving Linda a tour of Tenerife (“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful! It looks like paradise!”), which suggests the local tourist board put up half the budget. Juan lives with his sister, or maybe it’s sisterS, the script (or at least the dubbing) tends to confusion on this point. And indeed several others – Linda’s holiday varies between one and three weeks long as the mood takes her.

Sheila and Ron have sex again – “It’s like making love to a scorpion”, he says (HINT, HINT!), and in the light of this remark takes things appropriately gingerly, attempting to mount the outside of Sheila’s thigh. In the club, one of the punters is talked by Betsy into delivering a note to Ron, but they’re overheard by Annie, another of the girls. When the client leaves, Annie follows him and, we can only assume, mugs him, because she eventually delivers the note to Ron. They are spotted by the hat-wearing psychopathic thug and a fight ensues. Annie runs off, Ray steals the thug’s car – call it a no-score draw.

Linda and Juan find a nudist beach, where to no-one’s surprise (except possibly Linda’s), they engage in the sort of writhing in the breakers last seen in David Bowie’s “China Girl” video (or more accurately, last seen in ‘Return to the Blue Lagoon’ – er, not, of course, that I actually saw that!), even though the beach looks painfully rocky. Betsy is chained up by two other hookers who say “We’re going to teach you not to scream, once and for all” before reaching for a plank of wood and…well, we never discover what they do – while it may or may not have been a fate worse than death, it certainly was worse than the BBFC would allow.

Ron storms in to Sheila’s room, slaps her round a bit, but ends up, yes, making love to her. After blow-jobbing him into unconsciousness, she takes her pet scorpions and drops them onto the floor, before returning to the sex, as the creatures scuttle menacingly across the carpet.

However, Annie bursts in, shoots Sheila, and squashes the scorpions before vanishing from the film without saying a word. The viewer can, I think, be pardoned for going “Eh?” at this point, but no explanation at all is offered. It does let Ron free Betsy, and the film ends with them accidentally bumping into Linda, on her way home. Betsy doesn’t mention that she’s been kidnapped, tortured, forced into prostitution and rescued (she does Hint Darkly, in the 90 seconds they’re together before parting again), and Linda doesn’t ask the obvious question, “Hey sis, why are you wandering round Tenerife in bloodstained lingerie?”. This scene is crucial as it foils the otherwise convincing theory that Linda and Betsy were originally characters in two totally different films, joined in the editing suite to form an incoherent whole.

I’ve seen better soft-porn. I’ve seen funnier soft-porn. I’ve seen sexier soft-porn. But for weirdness, incoherency and jaw-dropping relentlessness – the longest period without some form of sex or nudity is roughly 3 minutes 50 seconds – ‘The Story of Linda’ is definitely hard to beat.

I’ve carefully withheld one piece of information, of which I was ignorant when most of the above was written, and which means the whole film suddenly makes sense – or at least helps explain it’s nature:

‘The Story of Linda’ was directed by Jess Franco.

Ta-raaa. Now, the person who recommended ‘Linda’ to me was unaware, not only of the ‘real’ director, but also of Franco’s reputation as a maker of deeply bizarre crap. But my friend knew ‘The Story of Linda’ was classic badfilm and having watched it, I heartily concur.

When you know that Jack Griffin is a Franco pseudonym, a lot of things about the film click into place: the nudity, the plot consisting of a series of tenuously linked holes, and the dialogue – I didn’t think people said things like “I want to feel you deep inside me”, even in badly dubbed foreign schlock movies. All that’s missing is a few of his trademark fades-to-black-by-zooming-in-on-the-leading-lady’s-pussy.

By anyone else’s standards it’d be awful, but for a Franco movie it’s ok; at least it doesn’t sink beyond “so bad it’s good” to “so bad it’s unwatchable”. While the main emotions provoked in the viewer may be bafflement and annoyance, this is two more than most Jess Franco films generate. I look forward to Sky’s Franco season, with showings of ‘Ilsa, the Wicked Warden’ and ‘Faceless’. But I’m NOT holding my breath…

[Ed – We would like to apologise for the shocking, amateurish and totally unjustifiable lack of price/order info on some of the following reviews. Lino didn’t give me the damn ‘zines back!]

Jim sits waiting to unleash a new issue of Trash City; did he really give me a bag full of fanzines to review five months ago? Oh blimey, he did! And have I left it so long that I’ve only got three pages to review them in? Ok, let’s not waste any more time, on with the reviews.

Invasion of the Sad Man-Eating Mushrooms. Issue 5 contains a Lloyd Kaufman interview (this is just the beginning), an overview of Italian zombie movies and, quite surprisingly, an article about John Waters. Also, there’s a feature on anime (by Jim “Omnipresent” McLennan). “Mushrooms” is always entertaining (it can ramble, but then don’t we all!!) and is definitely worth shelling out your hard-earned money on. So there! PO Box 7, Upminster, Essex, RM14 2RH.

Nightfall. Not much to say, really: comic-strip based, issue 4 contains artwork that ranges from very good (‘Sirens’) to terrible – umm, actually none of the artwork was terrible, but some of the stories did leave something to be desired.

Ooh My Brain Hurts. Daniel Auty & Co return with issue 7 of their photocopied and stapled ‘zine. Struggling to escape from their 33-page paper prison are such delights as interviews with Alex Chandon and Jorg Buttgereit, a George Romero retrospective and reviews ranging from ‘Cape Fear’ to ‘El Topo’. All that and it only costs 100p. Blimey, what a bargain. Daniel Auty, 9 Andrew Close, Wokingham, Berks RG11 2HY.

Detroit Graves. Five issues old, but this is the first one I’ve had thrust at me (missus!). It’s the usual mish-mash of reviews, show reports (the tired old Black Sunday) and it’s only saving grace, an article on the superb “Married With Children” which my local TV region LWT has see fit to drop (even when it was on, it was very late and only occasionally). I have to get my fix by watching RTL TV to see Al, Peg, Kelly and Bud babble on in Das German [Ed – Here’s a good place to mention ‘Children of a Far Greater God‘ the MWC fanzine covering all things Bundyish. Two issues, er, about 1.50 each from Miles Wood, 2nd floor, 221 Ashmore Road, Queens Park, London, W9 3DB] Anyway, I digress. [Me, too!] Detroit Graves is nothing special, and very overpriced at £1.50, but who cares what I say!

Mentally Penetrated by an Acid Enema. Issue two, and PMBAAE is cheap in comparison (only £1!), it features an interview with Alex Chandon (hmmm…), comic reviews, a Kiss retro (ahh, those were the days) and a piece on serial killers. There is lots more inside, but I really can’t bring myself to write words like coprophilia! Leighton Phillips, 4 James St, Abertillery Gwent NP3 1AA.

Mkultra. Issue 8 is good, even better than the previous seven, if that’s possible. It contains article on William Burroughs and Cronenberg, intelligent reviews, but…no articles written by or about me. Apart from the last omission, I can’t recommend Mkultra highly enough (if Andrej Karczewski wants to give me any cash, he can reach me through Jim).

Dark Star. Issue 9 features a Lloyd Kaufman interview (gag!), an informative news page, a feature on the Twin Peaks of ’93 “Eerie, Indiana” (watch out for it on C4 in March). Nice movie/video review section and an article on anime NOT written by Jim “I’m the everywhere man” McLennan. Lots more besides but slightly overpriced at 1.75 Rob Dyer, 64 Arthur St, Gravesend, Kent, DA11 0PR.

Strange Adventures, Holy Moley, the big Four Oh for SA, this issue features (aargh!) a Lloyd Kaufman interview (I really do wish that fanzines sat on these things instead of printing them all at once thereby making you sick of both Lloyd Kaufman and the fanzine). At least SA tries to be different by including a Troma filmography. Also included are pictures of Kathleen Turner, bundles of reviews (including porn films!!) and a nice comic strip (Captain Cliche…this one will run and run…sic). One of the better ‘zines available, but it could benefit from a colour cover [Ed – ah, wouldn’t we all!] Tony Lee, 13 Hazely Combe, Arreton, Isle of Wight, PO30 3AJ.

Shock Cinema. From the land of the rising exchange rate, SC reaches issue 4. Includes reviews of fave films from various fanzine bods and…in fact, nothing else BUT reviews, which I must admit I think I liked. Well, who wants yet another feature on Dario Argento [Ed – or Lloyd Kaufman?]

Midnight in Hell. Not really my cup of old rosey lee, MiH is fiction based; now while I like reading the occasional short story in a fanzine, I couldn’t get to grips with an entire fanzine filled with fearful fiction (blimey, that’s good). Having said that, it all comes down to horses for courses, and MiH contains some cracking stories, my favourite being “Backseat Dreamer”. If you’re looking for a change from all the Lloyd Kaufman interviews, grab yourself a copy of MiH. George Houston, The Cottage, Smithy Brae, Kilmalcolm, Renfrewshire, PA13 4BN.

Can I just say at this point that I only took on the job of fanzine reviews so I could vent my anger and really slag off some dire pieces of toilet paper. But so far, it’s all been reasonably good. Oh, well, such is life.

The Wild Places. AWOOGA, AWOOGA, LOONEY ALERT!!! Well, that’s what I thought when I started reading TWP. Well, a fanzine dedicated to UFO’s, human possession and the occult, but much as I hate to admit it, the people behind the ‘zine take a rational look at the things from which the Sunday Sport has made it’s millions, Very intelligently written, but not aimed at your average gorehound [Ed – or even “so not aimed at your average gorehound…”] Kevin McClure, 2O Trembear Road, St Austell, Cornwall PL25 5NY.

Tales From the Cajun Sushi Bar. “Great, super, smashing”, to quote Gentleman Jim Bowen. CSB contains enough anime fiction to keep even Jim “I Wish I’d thought of that” McLennan happy for hours. Jim Swallow has taken his love for anime and produced a ‘zine even I would read from cover to cover (hang on, I did). Timed perfectly to (hopefully) cash in on the current anime explosion, I really hope that the ‘zine sells well and keeps on selling. Jim Swallow, 21 Wadham House, 12 College Close, Edmonton, London N18 2XT.

In the Flesh. Steve C is just like the Duracell Bunny (with less hair). I mean that he just keeps on going, and like a fine wine, gets better and better with each issue [Ed – eh?]. ITF 11 is no exception: apart from the fact that it has a great picture of me on page 2, Steve’s ‘zine now benefits from a colour cover and is a serious contender to the grand-daddy of all ‘zines, ‘Samhain’, which in my opinion is looking a bit tired (John, go into hiding, and come back with a new look). There’s a full colour “Beyond” poster in the middle of the mag (the poster has always been a bit of a lame idea, but who am I to say!). A Pete Jackson interview (one of the first) and the usual mix of reviews, news and comps. Sorry, but I can’t fault it!

Headcheese and Chainsaws/Sludgefeast. Two ‘zines for the price of one. Yes, why bother buying two average mags when you can buy this good one. Well, it does suffer slightly from trying to cram too much information into too little space. The issue I read had articles ranging from “Dodgy” dodgy video dealers to comic and book reviews. It’s chewy, but crunchy – sorry, that’s a Double Decker. I mean, it’s two mags, but it’s one, check it out, boys, girls and Mr.Uncut. Paul Mallinson, 63 Doncaster Lane, Woodlands, Doncaster, DN6 7QN.

Dementia 13. As with MiH, D13 is a fiction only ‘zine, and the stories are neither good nor bad. The only thing that did annoy me were the really awful illustrations that accompany some of the stories. Other than that, if you like MiH, you’ll enjoy this one [Ed – the new issue has gone mostly-fiction-with-other-bits, and I’d class it as a successful leap]. Pam Creais, 17 Pinewood Avenus, Sidcup, Kent, DA15 8BB.

Hullaballoo. I’m sorry, but any fanzine with a picture of Yoko Ono on the bloody cover isn’t worth the paper it’s bloody well photocopied onto. I’m not even going to lower myself by reviewing it. “A load of old toss”…’Lino’, 1993.

Film Extremes. Ken (Mr.Ken Pack) Miller and Rick (I’ve been to New Zealand) Baker team up to bring you the best of Hong Kong horror, action, romance and Western monster movies. FE 1 contains interviews with (my close personal friend) Jorg Buttgereit, reviews and a natty free flexidisc. Recommended. FE 2 contains more of the same with some great colour stills. My only gripe is that it’s slightly overpriced.

Right, that’s it. I’ll see you all at Film Extremes III, or in Psychotronik Video in Camden.

I LOVE YOU ALL! XXX

Thank you, Lino, Mr. Slightly Overpriced. I detected a certain mercenary feel to this issue’s column, maybe he’s spent all his money on other things. I mean, this is the guy who gets his smut personally delivered. Serious Plutonium Account holder!

Must mention the latest glossies from Tim Greaves, he follows his impressive Yutte ‘Lust for a Vampire’ Stensgaard mag with another on the same lady, and one on Madeline Smith. Both are full of great pictures and anecdotes. œ1.95 each from Tim, 118 High Street, Eastleigh, Hants, SO5 5LR. He’s now working on a ‘Vampyres’ issue, and is looking for any info or material. Finally, a plug for Anime Day 3, a weekend devoted to Japanese animation which is taking place at the Rutland Hotel in Sheffield over the 16th-18th April. £20 for a weekend ticker, £12/day, for the chance to immerse yourself in cuteness/violence/icky things, and spend a lot of money on Dirty Pair dolls. Send an SAE to Anime Day, 14 Cavendish Place, Maltby, Rotherham, S66 7DW.

“A person who supplies, or offers to supply, a video recording containing a video work in respect of which no certificate has been issued, is guilty of an offence unless
a) the supply is, or would if it took place be, an exempted supply, or
b) the video work is an exempted work”

It’s just over eight years since Graham Bright’s Private Members Bill was swept into law on a wave of tabloid hysteria and public ‘concern’. Video cassettes are now the most rigorously controlled medium in this country, with a legal requirement to be vetted and censored before being seen by the public, and the law which made it so is the subject of much wailing and gnashing of teeth by genre fans.

But how many people actually know what it says? Few have ever read it, despite it being quite easy to get hold of a copy. A polite letter to your local Trading Standards Office may well be enough, though fans may be a little worried about sending their name and address to the body responsible for enforcing the law!

When you have your copy, you then have to translate the Act into English. While the booklet Trading Standards sent had explanatory notes at the start, it’s still difficult, especially for a non-lawyer like me, to wade through sentences like:

“The supply of a video recording otherwise than for reward, being a supply made for the purpose only of supplying it to a person who previously made an exempted supply of the recording, is also an exempted supply”.

So let the reader beware and I accept no responsibility for anything!

Exemptions

As the quote at the head of this article hints, certain exceptions to the law are given in the Act. The legalspeak paragraph quoted above comes from Section 3, ‘Exempted Supply’, probably the most useful bit as it also lists a number of circumstances where “the supply of a video recording is an exempted supply for the purposes of this Act”. Or put another way, how you can circulate uncertificated videos and get away with it.

Briefly summarised, the important ones are as follows:

• i) Providing a record of an occasion to those who took part in it weddings, school concerts, etc).
• ii) Giving it to someone in the business (time-coded tapes, or for conversion/duplication purposes).
• iii) Supply for use by the BBC, IBA, a cable or satellite company.
• iv) Sending it off for classification.
• v) Training for, or carrying on, any medical or related profession.
• vi) Giving it back after any of the above (the legal speak paragraph!).
  and most importantly of all, worth quoting in full
• vii) “The supply of a video recording by any person is an exempted supply if it is neither
  (a) a supply for reward, nor
  (b) a supply in the course or furtherance of a business”.

As the accompanying notes say, “A gift of a cassette from one private individual to another is an exempt supply”. This would appear to mean that non-profit copying is not an offence, but be slightly wary – if you swap a copy of ‘The Exorcist’ for one of ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’, I suspect you’d still be breaking the law, as you’re getting a “reward”, albeit in the shape of a TCM tape. If the tape is blank, you’re probably ok.

I don’t think there’s a similar “not for reward” get-out in the Obscene Publications Act, so even non-profit copying of the 39 nasties that have been declared obscene will still be illegal.

Some videos are also exempt from certification. Those designed to “inform, educate or instuct”, video games, and tapes concerned with sport, religion or music, are all exempt. However, depicting sex, violence or nudity is still out – as the notes put it, in a droll way:

“The Act does not cover such videograms as those which deal innocuously with cookery, golf tuition, orchestral music and the like, but programmes…which might dwell upon the hunting and killing of animals before cookery, nudists playing golf, or an opera involving a prolonged scene of someone’s eyes being gouged out would probably not be exempt.”

I should mention that as the booklet was written in August 1985, the eye-gouging opera is unlikely to be a veiled reference to Dario Argento’s splat-art flick.

Another loophole struck me while playing ‘Turtles in Time’ on the Super NES, in which you get the nunchaku-wielding Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle in all his un-BBFCed glory. This led me to wonder what the status of computer software is, as with the rapid advancement in storage, it will soon be possible to store an entire movie, sound and pictures, on a floppy disc. Checking in the Video Recordings Act, it defines “video work” as “any series of visual images (with or without sound) produced electronically by the use of information contained on any disc or magnetic tape and shown as a moving picture”. This would not appear to cover cartridges, such as are used by the consoles; maybe some enterprising company should bring out ‘The New York Ripper’ for the Game Boy.

Video games are generally exempted in the same way as sport, music, etc, but the same restrictions apply – they may not depict “acts of gross violence”. Now, your average computer game – or at least any decent one, I exclude those featuring a wimpoid midget mustachioed plumber – leaves more corpses littering the screen than a Schwarzenegger movie. Even in something like ‘Prince of Persia’, the hero can get sliced in two (with a beautifully sickening crunch) or impaled on spikes – so one wonders when the Trading Standards people are going to start raiding Woolworth’s and picking up those copies of ‘Tetris’. It might get them off horror fans’ backs for a while, but could you handle news reports with screen shots from ‘Lemmings’, accompanied by a solemn voiceover saying how these are real rodents plunging to their doom?

Offences

The most obvious offence under the Act is supplying uncertificated tapes. However, it is equally much an offence to offer to supply them, and even the possession of uncertificated tapes is an offence, if it’s with intent to supply them, both subject to the exemptions discussed above. Any of these offences are punishable by a fine, not greater than twenty thousand pounds – ouch – but, unlike the Obscene Publications Act, there is no provision for a jail sentence.

The other offences, each of which might land you with a fine of up to 2,000 pounds, are as follows:

• a) Supplying or offering to supply a certified video recording in breach of its classification (for example, renting an ’18’ video to someone younger). Again, the ‘not for reward’ exception applies, so you can lend that copy of ‘Bad Taste’ to your little nephew!
• b) Supplying or offering to supply restricted videos (cert. 18R) on premises either than a licenced sex-shop. I’d not expect many genre fans to fall foul of this one!
• c) Supplying or (altogether!) offering to supply (thank you!) a tape without the required labelling as to classification. This is detailed in the Video Recordings (Labelling) Regulations 1985 and is very dull, unless you’re keen to know things like the minimum height of the letters (5 mm!).
• d) Supplying or etc, etc, a tape which lies about its certificate, or claims to have one when it doesn’t.

It might seem appealing to stick ’18’ certificates on all your videos, so that you’ll be done for offence d) rather than a 20-grand one, but unless you can prove “reasonable grounds” for believing ‘The New York Ripper’ does have an ’18’ certificate, you’ll just get charged with both!

Overall, the Act seems to be fairer and better worded than I expected. It appears to be targeted, not at the average fan but at professional dealers, and given the number of rip-off merchants in that field, it may not be quite as appalling a piece of legislation as is usually thought…