Following a disturbing vision of a futuristic, thought controlled fighter craft, Marc Lewes undertook research to explain away the imagery. Far from being deluded fantasy, he collated information from a variety of independent sources to conclude that, somewhere in the world, this awesome, horrific craft does in fact exist. He calls it the Raven.

“Raven, Black as pitch
Mystical as the Moon
Speak to me of magic,
I will fly with you soon.”

PART TWO – MAN MACHINE

The new fly-by-wire Eurofighter swoops and performs loops for the eager entourage, the “Fighter of the 21st Century”. It rumbles perfunctorily through the sky, the pilot having such a choice of the latest electronics to choose from. The new Marconi UUHF radio devices. The enhanced radar imaging, with contour mapping and foliage penetration capability for weapons aiming. FLIR, HUD, and enough cunning computerised counter-measures to make Machiavelli turn in his grave. Gradually the Tornado and Harrier will be phased out, leaving this machine supreme in European airspace.

But whilst millions upon millions have been poured into this project, started in the early 90’s, we still see little of interest, nothing to amaze, no revelatory hardware. The jet still screams away, it flies according to Cartesian co-ordinates and Newtonian laws. It sees as far as its sensors allow. For all its fairing and contouring, it’s still a conventional war machine. Dreamland (Area 51) stories aside, there seems to be no public awareness of any thought controlled aircraft. I began wondering just how prophetic my glimpse of the Raven was? How close was present day science to achieving such a fighting machine?

The highly unusual craft I had seen in my vision (perhaps a remote viewing episode?) was a symbiotic device, a melding of mind and machine, using non-linear interfaces. It was not a remote control prototype, a drone plane (as have already been tested by the U.S. military). The pilot was still an integral part of the device. In the coming months after the ‘vision’, I had sporadic flashes, almost a tuning in to the Raven – glimpses of its dark secrets. I remember with clarity the shocking image of the albino-like pilot, almost free-floating in some sort of fluid in the cockpit, embryonic, yet with acute awareness. Yet I saw no headsets, or direct links. Some sensors monitored the pilots bodily functions -endocrine system, adrenaline levels, and heart-function, but no neurological sensors as you might expect. Just a rudimentary bio-feedback coupling. In this article I will outline the science which might explain how the pilot would control the Raven with thought alone.

Time magazine (11/10/99) carried a retrospective piece on research which had taken place at Reading University Cybernetics department by Kevin Warwick in 1998. This man had experimented with the hard wiring of chips into the human CNS (Central Nervous Systems), creating a functioning, if not rudimentary, form of bio-feedback, the ramifications of which are obvious. By some strange quirk of fate, I had briefly met this professor back in 1988, when applying for an AI computer course at Reading. I remember even then the intriguing hardware that littered the lab: robotic arms, quirky machines, the hypnotic hum of the powerful mainframe lurking in another room like a Demon Seed prop. I could not have guessed that just a decade later this fairly ordinary man would be sending emotional signals via in-built chips in his body to his wife back at home, who had a similarly implanted device.

Interestingly, the professor recently gave a lecture at the Imperial College, London (September 2000) – “A revolutionary investigation into the nature of intelligence itself. A system which unites human, animal And machine intelligence for the first time with shocking results.” (my italics). So this type of research is taking place, but to what end? And why is there so little?

As is the unfortunate case with research institutes in Britain, besides being woefully underfunded, there is a distinct lack of forward thinking or bold experimentation. Whilst original thought is there, it is usually rejected or not acted upon, causing the so called ‘Brain Drain’ to America. However, I believe that the Raven is a joint-effort between this country and the US for reasons which will become clear in the coming articles. Surprisingly, one of the companies in the UK to which we might look to in further search of answers to the mind/machine conundrum has recently been bought by the US company, General Electric. This company, CDC, hides in the outskirts of Hastings, and is a military contractor.

For many years they have been working on Tornado weapons systems, having had a prototype touch-screen (Ordinance control) cockpit as far back as 1985, which I was lucky enough to play with, and thinking back, it was a shockingly pre-emptive system which gave rise to the ‘Arcade’ style gunnery of the Gulf War. They are currently working on a ‘Cognitive Cockpit’, and seem to be very reluctant to release any information regarding this R&D special. The testing and experimentation goes on in a high-security room, behind unwelcoming doors. Advanced HUD (Head up Displays) seem to be the crux of the project, and more ‘interactive’ systems operation, but the idea of thought activated systems seems to be a very real consideration.

Stamford Research Institute, who are US military contractors, tested the Israeli ‘mystic’, Uri Geller in the 1970’s (picture above). Once unfairly debunked by critics for his spoon bending antics, this man still certainly has a strange power coursing through him. For what purpose did they wire up and measure the mental activity of a renowned psychic? Part of the Lawrence Pinneo experiments?

I wonder what reasons they gave him as he sat in that chair and let a scientist attach wires to his head? Was he allowed to see the resulting EEG trace, and does he know where the research information went to, and who used it? The institute are still undertaking top-line military projects, and were also involved in Project Stargate, the covert remote viewing project started in the 1980’s. Throughout the institute’s history, high level military officials have been visiting – one of whom was present for the Geller testing.

Another more high profile body who are also working on a ‘Cognitive Cockpit’ system are DERA (Defense Evaluation Research Institute), located near Farnborough. The nexus of these new style cockpits is increasing battle performance by reducing human error. Sensors embedded in helmets monitor pilots’ brain patterns, and with training, devices can be operated by specifically focused thought patterns, allowing near instant response times. On-board computer systems take over in the event of pilot black-out, bringing the plane back into safe flight until the pilot recovers out of a high-0 turn. DERA’s team are using exactly the same methodology and hardware that, if enhanced and evolved, would enable the Raven to exist.

If all this sounds familiar it’s because it is, and it is meant to be. A soft-drip approach to availability of information, particularly ‘occult’ or alternative technology, seemed the modus operandi of the previous decade, where everything was absorbed into the accepted popular media and the average awareness of once radical procedures and scientific theories were discussed openly without alarm. All this immersion seems only to conceal and wrongly demystify such things, a mindless acceptability which sadly detracts people from considering the real, and more often than not, horrendous consequences. Ultimately, it is we that suffer, in direct proportion to these operations.

We suffer through military tax, through mis-information, through media-acceptance, through flash images of net surfing, and channel hopping. All the while, this craft lingers in the otherworld, being imagined, prepared, formulated and constructed. And whom does it serve? Of course, the minority – the decidedly warped minority as it transpires. Millions of pounds and dollars go in, suffering and a dangerous bubble of ego and power comes out. Military contractors profit, scientists proclaim post-experimental alarm and suddenly develop something that approaches a social conscience. It is not all right to defer blame by citing our defence needs’ and the unimpeachable acid flow of ‘scientific progress’. Their modus vivandi appears to be “We create to destroy”.

Suddenly the material world is derided by quantum physicists announcing that sub-atomic matter breaks all known laws – just as Einstein shattered the Newtonian Universe, they subvert his work -taking his unfinished theorems and corrupting and twisting them like the ruination of an innocent child. Morally, this is a criminal network. Think of the cowse of science in the areas I am talking about. The Raven craft would incorporate such despicable facets of ultra-science – microwave weaponry, EM propulsion/shielding, radioactive weaponry, thought control systems – and its creation would be beyond mere Blasphemy, perhaps something approaching the Devil incarnate – the Devil as machine. Just as quickly as they and the media denounce, ridicule and subvert anything paranormal, occult or of-the-other-medium, they invent their own black magic mathematical formulas, their own horrifying witchcraft, nearly always put to destructive use.

A melding of mind and machine – at work in the US – Los Alamos, at Lockheed, at Stamford Research Institute, Reading University, DERA, CDC, Harvard Physics Department and God knows where else. I found nearly every major aircraft company is currently funding and running R & D projects into thought controlled avionics systems. Once dreamt of by dark-Utopian sci-fi writers, and • now the mechanical posturing of deceived, or deluded scientists, under the wing of dangerous, ego-maniacal, politically motivated individuals.

In the next article I will give credit to those incredible scientists whose names have all but been forgotten, those who built the foundations for free energy systems and gravity devices – Nikola Tesla, T. Townsend Brown, John Hutchinson and the great John Searle (who was working on a manned anti-gravity craft in the 1970’s before being imprisoned on trumped up charges – his machine stolen by the Government!), and also delve into the machinations of the cartel who bought about the Dark Craft -The Aviary, Psi-Tech and other nefarious, mutually beneficial groups.

MARC LEWES – SEPTEMBER 2000

APOLOGY: In the last article I referred to the `Blackbird’ stealth plane as the SR-11. It is in fact the SR-71.
20

There are perhaps two rules in life. The first is there are no rules. The second is never to tell your workmates if you happen to be attending anything that might cause slight embarrassment. Sure enough, ridicule ensued after announcing my proposed venture to Torture Garden. However, as Adam and the Ants once warbled, ridicule is nothing to be scared of. Having been assured of my safety within a sado-masochist environment, I only had the odd 100 qualms as opposed to the previous 1000 about going. To be honest, I was far too curious to pass.

‘Torture Garden’ is the rather self-explanatory name given to the occasional meeting of ‘perverted’ minds – held at ‘The Mass’ in Brixton. Generally known as the half-way point between a ‘normal’ club (i.e. one without whips) and a fully fledged S&M haunt, it welcomes persons of any sexual persuasion as long as they look the part. Leather, PVC and rubber are in order to pass the dress code; otherwise it is quite possible to be turned away for not looking suited to the venue.

This is not to say that acting the part will also be required. The atmosphere at TG is relaxed and friendly, and this is possibly because any unwanted harassment of attendees is not tolerated. The ethos is ‘each to their own’, and that is as valid for straight and pain-intolerant as it is for the hardcore S&M practioner. It is perhaps because of this that I felt safer than in some of the conventional clubs I have been to.

Safer, and yet also over dressed. Clothed in a low cut, mini-skirted PVC number. It takes some very artful near-nakedness to bring around that kind of discomfort, I can assure you. No one else appeared to care though, and the confidence with which attendees wear their S&M dress code sanctioned garb is not a threatening sight in the least. Whatever shape, age or daytime occupation, this is a place that people can express their sexuality with anything from skin suffocating ‘gimp’ suits to absolutely nothing at all. From the gorgeous to the ahem, not so gorgeous, the feeling that any costume gives its wearer is perhaps the main reason for appearing in public in their chosen ‘almost second’ skin. Although, fortunately with such interesting views on offer, voyeurism will not earn you an enquiry as to whether you wish to take a picture for longevity purposes. If anything, you can take heart from the fact you will possibly make the recipient feel even better about themselves, which beats helping that granny across the road on the list of earthly good deeds hands down.

Looking shocked is not perhaps a good thing to do at the club. I was given the advice of ‘expect to see anything – and don’t be shocked when you do’ by a well-meaning friend, and although for the most part I was a picture of all that is cool and cucumber like, a few costumes caused my eyebrows to raise above the permitted centimetre. The winner of my personal ‘Best Costume’ award was a youngish man wearing nothing but a plush velvet jacket and a string of shiny silver self-adhesive beads down the shaft of his penis. The rubber-suited man with the UV glowing penis came a close second.

Although the outlandish dress sense of fellow club goers was almost intriguing enough in itself, Torture Garden has more to offer than a mere insight into the way S&M practitioners dress. Down in the crypt (literally, as irony of ironies, TG is housed in an old church), is where all the players go to have their fun. Cheekily named ‘the Dungeon’, this is a room of soft furnishings, mood lighting and instruments of torture. Anybody can go and wander round, even folks like myself, and so I took the opportunity to catch some people doing naughty but nice things to one another in the flesh.

Upon entering ‘the Dungeon’, I headed towards the nearest gathering to see what was going on. On the first inspection, it appeared to be two women; one chained to an upright iron frame (and wearing a cute set of cat ears) and one dancing salaciously with a whip in her hand. On second inspection, the cat eared woman’s make up was not quite covering a slight five o’clock shadow. Not that any make up faux pas would have been bothering him, he was far too busy moaning with pleasure as every whiplash struck him. His girlfriend made quite an art of her sadism, rubbing up against her boyfriend, whilst giving him a rather gentle whipping. Then she wriggled her behind up against his legs whilst undoing her corset….

…And then came that Foster’s beer moment. As the strings of the corset came apart, it revealed a hairy flat chest. Whilst musing yet again how unfair it was that some guys had such nice legs, I failed to notice the hush. To be precise, I was not the only one to think he was a girl. The shock of that moment meant that the rest of the show was somewhat over shadowed, and none of the other exhibitionists present managed to put on such an interesting display. Only the Japanese dominatrix was performing an explicit act on her blond submissive, and even then, a hand job interspersed with a quick lashing is not hardcore. As an onlooker, I found that the scenario was curiously unsexy, and I remained detached whilst being near enough to have snatched the whip out of their hand and have a go myself.

Oerhaps this is because although I’m a curious orange, I’m neither sadist nor masochist, and thus the essence of the club isn’t something that appeals to me. I had seen about as much around the place as I could, and after that there was little to do. The music at TG is techno orientated (although one of the other rooms was playing Britney Spears at one point – somehow ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ was cheesily apt), and while that may be a clubbing dream to most, for me it’s a night-club nightmare.

As if determined to prove me wrong, the TG world followed me, even into the ‘chill-out’ area. A red PVC clad lady with a middle aged man in a posing pouch and leash sat nearby, and proceeded to re-enact a scene from any S&M documentary on Channel Four. It was kind of bizarre to witness, in the flesh, a supposedly independent being licking a woman’s boot, and then being chastised with a riding crop for lifting her leg too high. Though curiosity was the sum total of my reaction – by then, I’d had all the vicarious visuals I needed to get a flavour of what goes on within these walls, and any more was just extra frills. I just kept myself in the ‘chill out’ room for relaxation until the time came to go home.

I can see why people enjoy the place: it’s a very friendly venue and the hedonistic events are pleasant experiences. But by the time I left, my ennui I felt proves that if places like Torture Garden are fine for people who enjoy S&M, for anyone else (save techno fans), they’re probably only of voyeuristic appeal. The rest of the club held little allure, and even getting drunk was tough at £3.50 per bottle. Yet, if I feel I missed out on whatever everyone else seemed to get out of the event, I’m unconcerned: in my book, pain and pleasure are as separate as Ally McBeal’s inner thighs.

Un amour de sorcière(René Manzor) – So that’s what Vanessa Paradis is doing now: Drew Barrymore impressions… At least, it seems that way in this French film which pits her, as Morgane the good witch, against Jean Reno’s magnificently malevolent sorcerer Molok, with Jeanne Moreau helping the forces of light, and Gil Bellows as a Bill Gates-like figure, dragged in as the only person who can prevent evil from triumphing (largely ‘cos Molok has killed all other candidates). The style here is really, really nice: flowers blossom around Paradis and Bellows after they’ve made love, and it creates a world half-a-step outside ours. It would have been interesting if they’d made more of the set-up which seems to pit technology against magic, and Moreau is sadly under-used. However, Reno steals the entire movie: he absolutely looks the part of a dark wizard, and he’s perhaps too good, since you may find yourself quietly rooting for him, especially against the blatantly over-cute toddler who is the focus of things. Still, a sweet modern fairy-tale. B

The Art of War (Christian Duguay) – A step up for a director best known for doing the later entries in the Scanners series, to a “proper” Hollywood action-flick, even if it feels like it should go straight to video. For the film founders on a plot that rarely breaches the achingly obvious: Wesley Snipes is the UN agent framed for assassinating the Chinese ambassador, who must find the killers to ensure a trade deal goes through. Snipes does his best, despite looking like he’s auditioning for a Malcolm X biopic, yet the bad guys are painfully clear to the audience from the outset. Therefore, the longer he takes to see it, the less interested we inevitably get. Although some nicely kinetic chase sequences mean you never totally lose attention, the “one man against the system” thing has been done far too often, and there’s a sad lack of anything new here. C-

The Assault (Jim Wynorski) – As the title would suggest, this is a close relative to Assault on Precinct 13, with Stacey Randall as the cop who takes a murder witness to a women’s refuge, only for the killers to lay siege to the place. There’s the usual pot-pourri of stereotypes inside, from the mentally-ill to an old foe of Randall’s, and the dialogue between them is mostly unconvincing – though at least it avoids the lame attempts at humour which plague the police HQ. When everyone shuts up and lets their guns do the talking, it’s a good bit more pacey, with Wynorski getting in some fine Night of the Living Dead riffs – in particular, because the bad guys attack with the intelligence of brain-dead zombies. Predictable nonsense that takes itself a little too seriously. D+

Bad Girls (Lawrence Kasdan) – It’s hard to see why this is as uninteresting as it is; probably something to do with a sudden change of director in the middle of production. The acting isn’t bad, with Mary Stuart Masterton and Drew Barrymore fine and feisty, though Andie McDowell lives up to her surname once more. However, unanswered questions flail all over the place from the central premise: I can just about credit four prostitutes running off from a Wild West saloon, and rescuing one of their number from a lynching, but their conversion into outlaws is simply implausible. Perhaps having four heroines was a mistake, since it dilutes the focus: it might have worked better as ‘Bitch Cassidy’ or summat. Or maybe I just don’t like westerns very much – and two side-on glimpses of Barrymore’s right breast fall some way short of making up for the deficiencies. D-

Bikini Bandits (Steven Grasse) – Few films get an immediate second viewing in TC Towers, but then, few films are less than five minutes long. The Internet is perfect for such shorts, whose material is better suited to low bandwidth connections, and gems like these two make the download time worthwhile. And what’s not to like about girls in bikinis with guns? The first one (labelled “Episode 7” – a cunning ploy to bypass boring stuff like plot and character development) has the all-girl Bikini Bandits gang robbing a convenience store; the second, Bikini Bandits and the Magic Lamp, has them finding a genie. Both punch well above their weight with the visual style of Natural Born Killers – fortunately without the self-importance – and more sexual energy than a coke-crazed rabbit. Or am I misinterpreting the adverts for ‘Beef Flaps’? As near to perfect as you can get in less time than it takes to cook a Ready Meal. Also available: Bikini Bandits Go Dutch – will someone give Grasse enough money for a feature? Please? Downloadable at http://www.atomfilms.com. A

The California Dolls (Robert Aldrich) – The plot here is formulaic: the Dolls (Laureen Landon and Vicki Frederick) struggle towards a championship match against the rival Toledo Tigers. What makes it work are the characters, most notably their manager – Peter Falk delivers a barnstorming performance as a man who keeps loaded dice in his pocket, a baseball bat in the car boot, and is ready to use either. Even though you know precisely where this is going, it’s a fine look into the sub-culture of women’s wrestling, and despite being twenty-odd years old, you get the feeling things haven’t changed much. Anyone who watches the WWF will know how tough it is for women to get on without demeaning themselves, while life on the lower levels probably does still involve dodgy promoters and flea-bag motel rooms. B

Cyborg 2 (Michael Schroeder) – Parts of this are strikingly effective, and go way beyond what you’d expect. Yet there are just as many clichés, and the overall impact is slight, despite a surprisingly heavyweight cast including Elias Koteas and Jack Palance – or, at least, his lips (you’ll understand if you see it!). No Van Damme, admittedly, nor even any Albert Pyun in this sequel, instead, it’s the rather more shapely Angelina Jolie, daughter of Jon Voight. Did she ever dream she would win an Oscar (for Girl, Interrupted), while she played a ‘borg pumped full of liquid explosives, intended for use as a corporate weapon? She’s forced on the run, accompanied by human guardian Koteas, though going by the skills on view, it’s questionable who’s taking care of who. From here on, it’s the usual post-apocalyptic mix, heavily influenced by Blade Runner, although the production values are not too bad, and Karen Sheperd delivers a ruthlessly effective supporting role as a bounty huntress. Flashes of brilliance, flashes of mediocrity, and the rest is adequate entertainment – it also turns out to be rather good practice for Jolie’s upcoming role as Lara Croft. C-

The Erotic Witch Project (John Bacchus) – “I’m very, very sorry…” Largely for wasting my bucks on this dismal piece of crap, whose sole reason for existence is to prove just how good The Bare Wench Project actually is. Three girls go into the woods and have thoroughly unconvincing sex with each other – so who is operating the camera which zooms, pans and changes angle even when no-one is around? There’s a vague suggestion of an Evil Dead-like presence, and you get the same blow-up dolls and dildos scattered around as in Bare Wench – that’s about as far as the parodic elements go, and what the bloke in a gorilla suit was doing running around, escapes me entirely. Lacking any spark of invention beyond the painfully plain, it fails as a satire, it fails as smut, it fails as a movie. E

Forbidden Zone (Richard Elfman) – While there are a lot of elements borrowed from elsewhere in this, Elfman has taken them from a wide enough range (Pennies From Heaven through Pee-Wee’s Playhouse to the films of Guy Madden), and added enough of his own to come up with something that is genuinely different and very strange. It centers round a house with an entrance to another realm in the basement, into which the hero goes in search of his lost sister. Okay… It’s ruled over by Hervé Villechaize (“Da plane, boss! Da Plane!”) and Susan Tyrell, with Danny Elfman, the director’s more famous brother, turning up as Satan. And everything grinds to a halt for jaw-dropping song-and-dance numbers that truly have to be seen to be believed. It’s cheap, shot in b&w, and although you may find yourself looking at your watch despite the 75-minute running time, when it works, it’s a wonderful slice of mad invention, and just the sort of thing for which cinema was invented! B+

Living in Oblivion (Tom De Cillo) – This starts off looking distressingly like a self-indulgent piece of “cinema about cinema” (anyone seen Irma Vep?), yet after twenty minutes, it does an abrupt flip and heads off in another direction, namely convincing wannabe film-makers to go back to their jobs in McDonald’s. Steve Buscemi is struggling to make his low budget flick, in the face of truculent actors, actresses, cinematographers, mothers and dwar…er, “small people”. Half the fun is trying to work out who the models for the various prima donnas were, and although I’m fairly sure there are a lot of jokes which will only truly be appreciated by industry insiders, there’s plenty going on for the rest of us to enjoy, as Buscemi’s waking nightmare heads towards completion. If the ending is somewhat lame, doing little more than peter out, the characters we meet are great – I get the feeling De Cillo is getting revenge for some very bad experiences… B

Noose (Ted Demme) – TC 23’s Dennis-Leary-on-the-rampage movie has him playing another complex character: a coked-up and racist car-thief, yet fiercely loyal to his friends and family, even when they are unlucky enough to incur the wrath of highly disturbing Irish mob-boss Colm Meaney. It took me about 15 minutes to start catching the dialogue – heavy accents and cocaine do not make an easy listening mix – yet I found it easily worth the effort, as Leary develops unexpected depth and passion. I originally expected both Famke Janssen and Jeanne Tripplehorn to have more to do, but this is a very masculine movie, so they remain background characters. It’s no surprise where this all ends up, and the ending may prove a little too open for some – I’ve no complaints on that score, and few on any others. B+

Titanic 2000 (John P.Fedele) – I was more than a little concerned, given the same company did The Erotic Witch Project – fortunately, this is nowhere near as bad. They’ve bothered with a script for one thing. And some actors, too, although Tammy Parks, as the lesbian vampire shipped out in the hold of new cruise liner TITanic 2000 (their capitalisation, not mine) does little but expose her, ah, fangs. There is so much computer-graphics and blue-screen work it goes beyond cheap and becomes almost a badge of honour, lending the whole thing an odd nobility, and there’s enough humour to tide you over the dull moments (seen one lame striptease, seen ‘em all). Still, how can you not like a film with lines like: “I’ll lick you yet, you two-bit, penny-ante lesbian vampire from purgatory – and I’ll put an end to your evil and erotic and sensual and seductive ways, which are quite fun to watch, but are pure unadulterated evil, nevertheless.” Lovely. C+

Top Fighter 2: Deadly Fighting Dolls (Toby Russell) – This is an immensely irritating documentary. The Eastern Heroes crew have done the hard work, tracking down martial arts actresses both well-known and obscure. They then screw things up with amateurish mistakes, such as truly dreadful audio quality on some of the interviews, and an almost complete failure to tell you from which titles the clips are taken. Indeed, the clips themselves are another shortcoming; they obviously have only a limited selection with which to work. Thus, they talk about Michelle Yeoh, probably the most famous currently DFD after her Bond role, but show nothing from the last five years, when she really broke through. Having said that, there is some fascinating background material here, especially for the older, and less famous actresses. There are anecdotes galore, and you come away realising that there have been Deadly Fighting Dolls (a truly bad title!), for almost as long as there have been Deadly Fighting Dudes. B-

War Cat (Ted V.Mikels) – As soon as the chief villains says to his henchmen, “I hope you gentlemen are going to be safe out there. After all, she is an unarmed woman”, you know that they won’t be. For this is yet another remake of The Most Dangerous Game, though it takes its time getting there. To start with, you see more of a militia group – somewhat prophetically for 1987 – holed up in the hills, fending off Hell’s Angels and the like. When one member kidnaps a writer (Jannina Poynter), she is set loose as a training exercise; a bad move, given she’s an Army brat with a fondness for very sharp sticks. As Angel of Vengeance (not to be confused with the Abel Ferrara film), this ran into trouble at the BBFC and was refused a video certificate. Hard to see precisely why: despite some nastiness against women, aided by a brutish performance from Macka Foley as slow-witted thug Manny, it’s nothing some pruning couldn’t fix. However, its obvious cheapness limits it, and Mikels shows no eye for action, so this never gets much above the pedestrian. D+

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

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

“Gosh, your titties are so sweaty.”

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

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

“C’mon! Give us your top!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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