Pre-face… It suddenly occurred to me, as many things spuriously do, that I have a reputation to live up to. At least, a meagre one within the bounds of Trash City – let’s say the McLennan crowned King of High Weirdness.

Nominally, I don’t consider my exploits or persona weird in any way. True, at times, I remark on “how strange” recent events have been (1992-1997), or how “that person in the shop gave me a disturbed look as I walked past”. All things being relative, I think just about every other living being I chance upon is distinctly weird, a minor tremor of disconcerting reaction quivering through my mental ionosphere. I rarely analyse the circumstances I exist in, or the body blows and seductive caresses destiny deals me. I live pretty much from day to day, pausing only to discern some discernible linear structure in my world. This may be, of course, by examining a map, or taking a rough guess at which phase of the moon I’m in. Obviously, then I have to wait for nightfall to challenge my earlier celestial presumption. Usually, I am completely wrong, and if you were to see my glimmering face in the solar-neon-wash bouncing off a lurid full moon, you might think “Now there’s a man who looks confused”, expecting, as I was, to be staring heavenward at a pretty innocuous ‘first quarter’.

On to the chosen title of my latest piece. Luckily, for you, and for my organic psychosis, the previously mooted verbiage on Vomiting was never, well, spewed up. It could have been good, but we’ll never get to digest it.

‘Stitched Up’ is a passionate account of a sometime deranged flatmate, hospital insanity, film making, red-red kroovy and pigs trotters.

IN A CRAMPED STUDIO ROOM

Barnes north, suggesting itself to be a film crew, were four horrendously tired people. A camera lent crazily on insecure legs, teetering as we did, pointing in all directions, trying to follow just one. Midnight had slunk past like a junkie cat at the end of a fishing line, and everyone felt envious of the imagined sleeping masses around. The final shot in the short film – admittedly at my behest – was an explosion. I admit under questioning that I have a penchant for things that destruct amid brimstone and fire. For your benefit, I have included a copy of the storyboard in question [see fig. EXPLO #1. Minds are turning now, I feel your outcast mental processes shuddering – drug damaged neurons plaintively trying to connect with others – but there are no others! But one, lone neuron! Sorry, reading the psychiatrists report. You sick little monkeys – yes! Yes, I was injured! Wait, you gore fiends!]

That sketchy hand – my hand! It was my hand! That speaker? Fabricated, as was my future ‘reason for injury’ tale to interested parties. Even though it’s 2:29am, I am in a generous mood. I will provide a diagrammatic representation of the explosive used. I like to taste fear in my mouth, but not to have it piss down my throat. Therefore, I took safety precautions…….

1. Crash Helmet! Good for deflecting flaming pieces of debris!
2. Cardboard taped around waist. You never know!
3. Bollock guard. Stuff me full of grapes, I forgot to bring one.

Spend two hours carefully placing the charge on a carefully angled metal plate, and very carefully placing both into a carefully constructed cavity. Carefully drill out sections of the wood sides of the speaker which aren’t in camera view, so as to hopefully manipulate the explosive force. Which will blow out the carefully positioned speaker cone, of course being held back at a distance of 0.14 inches by a carefully secured tension wire. The carefully weighted structure will ensure the desired energy transference, and a spectacular visual effect! Lovely!

Hmmmm! I smile when I think back. How cunning my plan was. How exacting my devious construction. How fucking perfectly it would all go. With the camera assistant crouched fearfully behind a bunch of boxes (“Don’t like loud bangs”), and the camera operator crouched fearfully behind that teetering camera, me stood bravely and without an ounce of pussy-whipped fear in his body before the awesome danger (alright, I was a little anxious) – Sarah, my sometime wild flatmate and director of said film, pushed the button.

At this juncture, it might be useful to tell you what that button was. Operating instructions on the explosive charge mention something about a pissing NINE VOLTS. I laughed with righteous scorn. Toys take 9 volts. Safety devices take nine volts. A glorious moment was not going to be born to a stubby-chunk of over-priced electro chemicals. No. I jacked the whole contraption straight into the mains. “There we go”, I grinned. “That will light a fire under it’s arse”.

Later, in hospital, I learned of regret. Two hours into NHS purgatory and mental insanity, I learned of hell. Charing Cross Hospital is a Mecca to the deranged. A terminally drunken, stinking woman in a wheelchair constantly shouting “Excuse me! excuse me!” to anyone that came near her, then “Where am I? What time is it?” OK, you take pity, you tell her what’s what. Not after two hours of the same monologue. You want to introduce her to a Remington 10 Gauge. Men walking into walls. Combat trained ants. Nodding cameras when you proffer your wound to its roving lens. Psychos. Crazies. The wounded, the dying. Sure, just like any New Cross pub – but when you’re in pain, sadistically denied any painkillers, blatant NHS travesties. One of many. At 2:30am, 2 hours after I had first limped thorough the foreboding doors, a meek and apologetic nurse emerged from the bowels of the protoplasmic hospital. “I’m very sorry, but we only have one doctor on at the moment. You’ll probably have to wait another two hours.” Spittle flecked my lips, but I was too tired for remonstration.

I went home. To nurse my sorrows and blast damaged arm. Familiar surroundings brought me to my senses. The next day, I found myself in St. Thomas’. Ah, yes. The sanctuary of a world famous hospital. As I checked in, at the incongruous reception for A&E, the outside doors nearby burst open and a stretcher was thrust in, hurried along by ambulance personnel and a few policemen, carrion like. The man on it didn’t look so good. In fact, somebody was heaving up and down frantically on his chest. For a fleeting second, I thought I was watching a staged theatrical version of Casualty. He disappeared with attendants through to the emergency ward. Minutes later, I laid eyes upon several despondent solemn faces as they emerged; another tragic loss. I had witnessed my first clinical death. The reality of the scene I had experienced hit home. With a lurching stomach, clutching at re-awakened mortality, I headed into the casualty to have my hand stitched up.

In a small cubicle. A small trolley laden with a practitioner’s tools was wheeled in by a disarmingly charming female doctor. I felt better already. “So, ” I started, “is it true you practice stitching on pigs skin?” She faltered for a moment, needle and local anaesthetic in hand, then replied “Yes. Well, on pig’s trotters actually.” She leant forward. “Sorry, but I have to inject this into the actual wound.” The length of steel ebbed into raw, open flesh. Hmmm. Fluid and blood leaked out like forced tears. Pain flooded into my cerebellum. Think of the pig, Andy, I reminded myself: Bacon, pork and post-mortem stitching practice. Some afterlife. Later, I carried myself home on the No. 88 to Clapham, nursing small plastic strands poking out from my hand. A small sacrifice for one’s art I believed, as I keyed my front door, and headed for the bed once more.

Wounds happen like chance meetings with disastrous consequences. Foolishly, I ratified the fact in my brain that this was the year’s quota of knotting together accidentally separated flesh. I can laugh now. How I can laugh. Not for the first time in my life, I was gravely mistaken. Playing with fire has always been my downfall – a spiritual hazard – my mind wanders back in time……..

A NIGHTCLUB! FREE VODKA! FREE BEER!

Am I dreaming some imagined paradise? No! It was real! A record label party. New toons, new faces. Acclimatise, listen without prejudice, fight the seething mass for another double Vodka. The top level of the Subterranea warms my soul, engages my emotive spirit. To drink, to forget, to enjoy, to have a bloody good time at someone else’s expense.

A certain tome by Milton ebbs into my consciousness. Sarah, sometime wild flatmate, something to do with that fire hazard I was talking about, was conspicuously drunk. Leaning strangely against the balcony railing, having left my misappropriated chatting up of a Chinese girl (boyfriend was there too – but, honestly, I didn’t mean anything – blah, blah, blah).

Suddenly, afore-mentioned flatmate cries my name; it registers in the dim void that is my consciousness Aaaa….. nnnnn…. dddd….. eeeee! The noise is lost in the inner tumult that is vodka drenched brain cells. She leaps on me. From behind. Charmed, I’m sure. My legs buckle, you can guess the rest. The scene, the moment of utter embarrassment, pain and loss of dignity – oh, how cruelly it is etched on my mind. The first points of contact with the floor, in order of descent: (a) chin (b) elbow (c) knee. None survived. My chin split open like (I want to say “ripe melon”, but besides being cliched, I have never imagined my chin as a large fruit) – like a rabbit’s side being hit by a Ford Granada doing 40 mph (how’s that?). I lay, dazed and confused, blood leaking around. Pain. Lots of pain. Staring at me was, amongst other people the manager of the record label who I had been talking to not 30 minutes earlier. I struggled to my feet, heavily concussed. I can’t remember the exact phrase hurled at Sarah, but she hurried off. I couldn’t see the wound, obviously. Hey, I’m a big man. Didn’t feel that bad.

The stares of horror I was getting seemed to contradict my diagnosis. I wobbled to the bar. The manager was concerned. The barman was concerned. “Christ, that’s really bad.” Shit. “Do you want a drink?” Yeah. Yeah, there’s a good idea. Goo dripped from my head. I knew what it must feel like to be hit by Tyson. Commiserations to the loser. “Vodka. Big vodka”. More vodka. The club manager had now appeared on the scene. Oh-my-God. The evening had turned well and truly sour. A medi-kit appeared, and I was ushered – supported – into the toilets. There, through an endorphin haze, I saw what had once been my chin. A fleshy, split beaver of a chin (well, it had to come, didn’t it?). I felt sick. A huge dressing was taped over. Thanking everyone, as you do, I had to make my way through the entire crowd, to the awaiting taxi.

Sarah came with me. Guess where we were going? Paddington Hospital. Enter. Triage nurse. Classification of injury. Sit down. Wait your turn. I knew the procedure. Meek, drunken apologies from my flatmate. Hmmm. Now, as you might be thinking, the madness must be coming to an end. Ha. Ha. Ha. Sitting to my left was Methadone Man. Junkie Man. Crazy fucking man.

“Alright mate. How did you get that?” I duly explained. “What are you in for, man?” I quizzed. He grinned and peeled back a suspicious dressing on his lower leg. I saw a festering hole in the muscle. “Heroin, man. Inject it, but can’t use any of the veins in my arms, or neck, ‘cos they’ve all collapsed….” – my stomach flipped – “so began injecting my cock.” What do you say? I merely nodded. “But that’s all fucked up, so I started on my leg. But as you can see……”. Jesus Christ. This is what they didn’t show you in ‘Trainspotting’. We chatted. Compared veins. That sort of thing. Still drunk, I found solace in personal amusement – as you have to. Even when he plopped a copy of The Guardian on my lap. A bleeding heart Liberal, eh? Underneath he told me, was a present. I looked. “100mg. of Methadone. Pharmaceutical. Don’t give it to your friend, because she’s drunk.” I didn’t understand. “Man, if she takes this when she’s drunk, she’ll die.” I clearly relived that scene from Pulp Fiction, and made a note absolutely not to give her any. Ever. “Ur, thanks.” I replied. “Something for a rainy day”, he grinned. “Great!”, I concluded.

Finally, I was in the work room. That room – with the stretcher, the overhead light rig, the surgeons tools. And with the gorgeous doctor. It works. It really works; the pain vanished before feminine radiance. I lay down. Putty. She placed one of those green surgical numbers on me. But over my head, with my mashed chin poking through a small rectangle! This is fucking ridiculous, I thought. “How did you get that?” she chirped. “Ah, urm, well, I was at this nightclub, and, well, free Vodka, and the girl I was with, well, she leapt on me, and, well, yeah, this is what happened.” We laughed together, until she jammed a thin bit of steel into my flesh. The smile vanished. 7 stitches later, I was uncovered like a medical display, fiddled with my new plastic stubble, and headed out into the night. I can shave properly now, just a small lump to remind me of that grim evening. But further bad karma-sutres lie ahead, I’m sure…

[Please, do not try and re-create any of these stunts at home, dear readers.
Remember, Andy Collins is a trained professional…]

Tim Greaves, Eastleigh — “One major league disappointment, however. Where was the “frankie” of Gillian Anderson? I mean, the Phoebe Cates one was very nice, and quite by chance I’d seen the one of Meg Ryan that you referred to (some guy at work was showing a colour print-out of it round a couple of weeks ago, convinced it was real…yeah, like she’d pose for something like that). But I wanted Gillian Anderson!…To ask me in the text if I “fancy Gillian Anderson sucking a rather large dick” (eliciting a scream from yours truly) and then not deliver the payload is just too damn cruel.”

TC’s printers are a tolerant lot, but I suspect even they might draw the line at graphic oral sex. I merely plead cowardice, having no desire to pen this edition from Wormwood Scrubs. However, I noted with some amusement that a few months after we brought the topic to your attention last issue, the Sunday Sport had a series of articles on the same topic – naturally saying how terrible it all was while providing lots of examples! But for the sake of Tim’s health, I should mention that they didn’t print the Gillian Anderson one either…

Claire Blamey, Great Yarmouth — “I am now working at the Citizens’ Advice Bureau, and at last have found somewhere that I can use the mine of useless information that is sloshing around in my grey matter. We have such intelligent queries to sort out e.g. “Where is the sea?” (this is mostly in the summer) — I say “Go to the window. See that wet patch with boats on it? There you go” — and the occasional “I want to sell my kidneys, do you know where I can go?”

I have also been trying to pass my motorcycle test – trying being the operative word:
    1) so nervous I couldn’t use the clutch properly
    2) the intercom they use didn’t work
    3) a car ran into me and I went bouncing down Norwich ring road at 40 mph
    4) the speedo cable came unstuck, so I had to guess how fast I was going. If I had stopped, I’d have failed for not having a roadworthy machine. I was failed for speeding
    5) the instructor’s bike broke down
    6) the instructor was taken ill and died of a heart attack later on
    7) I had flu and had to cancel

Then my licence ran out and I’ve got to wait a year before trying again. What annoys me is that I’m a really good biker and I see some appalling and dangerous people out on the roads who have got their licences.”

Claire, your problem is not that you’re too dangerous to be let loose; you’re just too unlucky. After the litany of woes above, who’d ever sell you any insurance?

Paul Burney, Prestwich — “Good to see Showgirls given a mention…any film which features Siouxsie and the Banshees, good choreography, Triumph bikes and produces a classy picture book can’t be all bad… Disappointed you didn’t mention its stars — or more importantly, feature any pics. Elizabeth Berkely (Nomi) appeared to take much of the flak – even her agent ditched her – but has managed to rebuild her career in The First Wives’ Club [Er, clearly a different definition of “rebuild” to mine!] Her new agent is the same one as Sandra Bullock; I think any chance of her co-starring in Speed 2 is just wishful thinking.”

Probably lucky for her given the box-office receipts. Bullock’s career is apparently riding the Winona-spiral down; maybe she could swap with Berkeley, and do Showgirls 2 instead?

Robin Bougie, Saskatchewan — “Normally, I hardly ever find anything you write that I disagree with, but this time I actually did…The third season of The X Files is the lamest one, not the best…in most episodes [it] works as the opposite of propaganda for the CIA + FBI. If anything, it shows how they’ll fuck you over and leave you dead in a ditch. That said, I don’t really like the show.

However, with one or two exceptions, little of the “fucking over” is done by the FBI, who seem to be presented mostly as guardians of truth, justice and the American way

Robin continues: ‘In defence of Showgirls‘ and the Barb Wire review reeked of “Look! I’m Jim McLennan! Look how different I am! I think the opposite of what everyone else thinks!” Both movies sucked shit. It’s okay to think Verhoeven is a maverick genius and still think ‘Showgirls’ blew, y’know. We don’t have to gobble up our idols’ faeces… Tell Rik his art is swell, but that girl’s hand on the cover is fucked…unless that’s supposed to be a grotesque mutated meat-hook on the end of her arm, and I’m missing the point.”

I had it down as a tribute to the “handgun” in Videodrome myself… As for Barb Wire and Showgirls, I genuinely enjoyed both. Deal with it. Robin does however win the award for ‘Best Decorated Envelope’, with the splendid illo reproduced on the previous page. Our postman hopes to come off Prozac soon.

Steve Midwinter, Scunthorpe — “…yep, I certainly did have some difficulty with the local police. In late October, the plain clothes police knocked on the door at this address, which is where I rent a room in a terraced house as my office. They had a warrant to search the premises and I was told to open the back door where there were more coppers waiting in case I did a runner! I was immediately arrested for ‘Obscene publications for publicational or financial gain’ and told to sit down while the 8 officers took my place apart. They basically cleared me out totally of stock, as well as my own mags, paperwork, computer, files, the lot. They wanted to search two locked rooms upstairs (my landlord’s bedroom and junkroom) but he was at work so they kicked the doors in (and found nothing, of course). I was then taken to my girlfriend’s flat which was also searched, and all my videos were taken from there… I was taken to the station, booked in, searched, and chucked in a cell, thankfully only for an hour before being interviewed (the usual stupid questions about snuff movies, stills from Cannibal Holocaust being real, selling video nasties, etc, etc). I was then released on bail until January 15th.

The good news is that when I answered bail, they said that they were not going to charge me, but that they wanted to keep some of the videos (titles from the banned list and hardcore porn) which I signed away. They also wanted some of the stuff they’d sent to London to be checked out by the Obscene Publications Squad which included: Darkside, Headpress, Divinity, Penthouse Comix, In the Flesh, Mondo Argento, Necronomicon Book, Killing for Culture, Uncut, Fatal Visions, Lord Horror and a load more [I’m disappointed not to make the list. Where did I put that pic of Gillian Anderson…?] I wouldn’t agree to that so they said that, if we couldn’t come to some agreement, it would have to go before a magistrate to decide, which I was quite happy to do. Finally, they let me have everything back except one copy of The Blackest Heart which had some stills from porn movies in showing erections, so I let them keep that. Apparently I was raided because some guy in Hampshire got the same treatment (he was selling banned videos) and they found a flyer at his home for Dark Carnival. They said it was a letter talking about videos, but I know that was a lie, [Lie? The police? No!!!] because I don’t know the guy and have never dealt with him before… And that’s the end of it apart from the fact that I’m seeing my solicitor about some sort of compensation, at least for the smashed door”. [Update: “needless to say, they won’t pay anything”…]

Nice to know crime is so rare that the cops can waste time fabricating charges against magazine distributors. I need hardly add that you should send off two quid for Steve’s (very impressive) catalogue; the man clearly deserves your support. The full story of how he “helped the police with their enquiries” may be found in #3 of ‘It’s Only a Movie’, also available from Steve. Details of both in the ‘zine section.

Mal Aitchison, Liverpool — “In ‘Against The X Files’, there was mention of the episode featuring a malevolent computer resembling a bad 60’s thriller. This is an outrageous, indefensible accusation. It’s quite blatantly a rip-off of a 1970’s episode of The New Avengers“.

I stand corrected – though at least it was deliberately stoopid. Oh, and if you wondered where Andy Collins had got to, after hijacking the letters column last time… See the next article.

“Psst, kid”: Don’t fall for cheap cig scam – UI student latest victim of con artist

A 20-year old University of Illinois student was the latest victim of what police believe to be a series of scams involving an attempt to buy cheap cigarettes.

The student told police Monday that he was approached three weeks ago by a man who offered to get cigarettes at $8 a carton and the student gave him $24 for three, according to a Champaign police report. They went to an apartment at Sixth and Healey, but the man never returned, the student said.

The student encountered the same man in a campus restaurant again on Wednesday, and the man claimed he returned but the student was gone, the report said. The man told the student he could get the money back from another person, and took him to an apartment in the 500 block of East Clark Street. The man came back from the apartment and said he needed $17, because all the other person had was a $50 bill. The student gave the man $18.

The man told the student he needed $20 more to make the correct change, so the student withdrew $20 from his bank account and gave it to the man. The man then said the person who had the student’s money was in jail and they could bail him out for $100. The student wrote a cheque for $40 and gave it to the man, according to the report.

The man again returned from the apartment, saying the bond had been raised to $200 and he needed $70 more. The student wrote another cheque for $70, cashed it and gave it to the man. The man said the other person had $300 in cash but needed $105 more, so the student wrote another cheque, cashed it and gave him $105, the report said.

The man asked if the student would like to make some money and the student agreed. The man and the student went to various stores, buying a radio and videocassette recorder and some groceries with cheques written by the student.

They then went to an apartment in north Champaign. The man told the student he would be right back with money for selling the radio and videocassette recorder, for more than the student had paid, but again he never returned.

The student waited a few hours and called police.

[News-Gazette, Champaign, Illinois]

The idiocy of certain members of the human race never fails to amaze. I know a guy, Kev, who staggered out of a casino in London, and was accosted by a stranger who offered to take him to a gambling joint, in exchange for a three-figure “deposit”. [You can see where this is leading, can’t you?] He took Kev through a maze of side-streets, and left him standing before a door, saying he’d go get the security key. Guess whether stranger, or deposit, were ever seen again…

1997 was a dreadful year for Japanese animation in Britain, the majority of titles released were hard to imagine anyone over 12 (age or IQ) buying. Going by the reviews on the previous pages, you’d be forgiven for thinking all the ‘good stuff’ has come out. But the problem is less the lack of decent anime, more the narrow market to which it is targetted here. Back in TC14/15, there was a list of seven excellent, unreleased titles: with the sole exception of Sol Bianca, they all remain that way four years later. So let’s take a look at a selection, available on import or through other fan sources, which all ram a tentacle up the orifice of the prevailing, erroneous opinion which says that anime is just for a 16-25, male audience. Ladies and gentlement, please welcome our first contender! At 99 lbs. dripping wet — and she usually is…

Miyuki-Chan in Wonderland – Er, perhaps prevailing opinion might have a bit of a point here, despite the lack of any male characters. Cross Alice in Wonderland with Barbarella (to which the comic explicitly pays homage) and you’ll be in the right area…sort of. For this little gem crams Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass into thirty minutes, while loading them both with a heady air of sexuality.

In terms of pheromones per minute, it’s world-class stuff; the minimal nudity and lack of any actual sex is simply evidence of the creators’ skills. The main twist is making every character female and more or less sex-crazed i.e. the White Rabbit is now a bunny-girl on a skateboard. Familiarity with the books is thus useful, though at only 15 mins each, plot development is, shall we say, somewhat limited; Wonderland comes off better.

In terms of frilly undergarments per minute, this is also world-class stuff; there’s copious lingerie. However, it’s done with such charm and humour that you can’t possibly be offended, except perhaps by the relentless techno-reggae soundtrack, that will liquefy your brain and keep you humming for weeks. Deal with the inevitable accusations of sexism by revealing that it’s based on a strip by the female artists group known as ‘Clamp’. [God knows what they were on. It probably used lots of batteries…] and it was even a woman who first dragged me to see it (Hi, Christine!). Maybe the creators should label their product “politically-correct smut”, and get Channel 4 to buy it.

Child’s Toy – While most kids’ TV is dreck, every so often, you get a show aimed at a younger audience, that also makes fine entertainment for adults: Tiswas, The Press Gang, Tiny Toon Adventures, and now Child’s Toy, a Japanese show whose target audience would seem to be pre-teen, but whose central characters include an eleven-year old schoolgirl and her pimp.

Yes, pimp. This appears to be how heroine Sana, refers to her manager — she also has a part-time job as a TV actress. And she needs looking after, since her mouth gets her into trouble constantly, notably with the class delinquent, whom we first encounter blackmailing the teachers into permitting his anarchy. Being made for television, the animation isn’t the greatest, but this is made up for by a razor-sharp script that can swing from comedy to pathos in a second without seeming strained or forced. And Sana, too, is both wise beyond her years and terminally dumb; Clueless, starring a hyperactive version of Wednesday Addams. It also benefits from truly great supporting characters: the mother, as unflappable as Sana is manic, with a squirrel living in her hair; the delinquent, not quite what he seems; and a bizarre bat/rabbit narrator that crops up sporadically.

This amphetamine-crazed remake – the original video told the story rather less energetically – resembles Dragon Half, with a willingness to throw the rule-book away and fly blind. Putting it in conventional terms, Heathers meets Saviour of the Soul is as close as I can get, for it blends the mundane and the fantastic with a pithy wit which blows away anything on British TV.

Here is Greenwood – A traditional staple of Japanese animation is the high-school comedy, in which a spectrum of kooky characters interact with humourous results. This is seen frequently, even in shows aimed at adults: it may be that in a strictly ordered and disciplined society like Japan, school is one of the few places where a (very) little individuality is tolerated. Hence shows like Urusei Yatsura have an appeal far beyond the contemporaries of the teenage characters.

Thus we have Greenwood, whose title springs from Robin Hood – a place where outlaws hang out. In the show, it’s the name of a school dorm which acts as a dumping ground for religious nuts, guys who act like girls, and hero Kazuya Hasukawa, in love with his brother’s wife. The whole show is low-key, lacking the manic chases, fight scenes or slapstick humour seen in other series, relying instead on a berserk solar system of plots and subplots (imagine Jerry Springer shows entitled My Sister is a Psychopath, or A Ghost’s got a Crush on Me), though a lot of its charm is the phlegmatic way in which the characters react even to these bizarre events.

In terms of progression, there doesn’t seem to be a lot, story- or persona-wise, probably an inevitable result of condensing a long running story into a few animated half-hours. Yet this lends it an audacious air: one episode depicts the making of an amateur movie, and the opening credits of the film become the closing credits of the show. The end result is a show that’s charming and lightweight, without ever evaporating completely.

Sailor Stars – Finally, a brief nod of unexpected appreciation to this version of infamous teen-girl merchandising machine, Sailor Moon. While still engaging in a relentless recycling of animation, it has…well, a Gothic horror feel which certainly came as a shock. In the first six episodes, the multiple heroines (tall! short! blonde! brunette! one for every taste! collect the whole set!) have to face villainess Neherenia, whom they previously sealed into another dimension. She’s great – think Cruella DeVille with a hangover – and for two hours, kicks Sailor arse. Sadly, part VI lets the side down with an (admittedly, entirely expected) “love conquers all” ending, but until then, it’s far better than I’d have predicted, assisted by a good score. Chances of this grimly fiendish series ever appearing on British television? Well, do you see this snowball, and this inferno-like region..?

So, despite the gloom and doom of the opening paragraph of this article, there are also signs of hope – maybe not quite a field of daffodils yet, but the odd green shoot. One such title achieved fame after a single late-night screening at a convention, and has since led to it becoming perhaps the most eagerly anticipated title of 1998.

It’s always a delight when something manages to surprise you, or bypass your expectations. Anyone looking at a piece of Japanese animation entitled Perfect Blue might be forgiven for thinking they were going to see something involving barely pubescent girls, demons, and places daylight doesn’t reach. You would, however, be utterly wrong. The first anime giallo owes a lot to the works of Dario Argento, with perhaps a nod to David Cronenberg, as the heroine moves through a lurid world of hallucinations and stylish murders. You wouldn’t guess it from the start, as a trio of idol singers squeak away for all their worth, though one, Mima Kirigoe, has decided to leave the group and try to make a career as an actress. Things soon start to sink into the Twilight Zone, with Mima finding herself the target of obsessive fan, ‘Mimaniac’, who documents her every move on the Internet in disturbing detail, and is clearly not chuffed by her decision to quit singing, as the parcel bomb she gets proves.

Despite this, her first acting job is a stripper in detective series ‘Double Bind’, and she finds herself exposing rather more than she’d like. Neither this nor the nude publicity pics go down well with her stalker, and the writer has his eyes gouged out for his temerity. Mima is by now seriously losing it under the strain: her old self keeps appearing to her in visions, and the reality/fantasy/ dream/nightmare lines become perilously thin. I’ll say no more — not purely out of a desire to avoid spoiling it, but also because I’m still not confident enough to state precisely what the hell is going on; as well as Argento’s visual style, they borrow his plot coherence! [And I think Masahiro Ikumi must have listened to Goblin while writing the score…]

Regardless of this, it’s one hell of a ride. At first glance, there’s no point to Perfect Blue being animated; the style also bears more comparison to a Hitchcock movie than any anime, and the characters lack the excessively over-sized eyes often seen in the medium. It could certainly be said that the film contains little that couldn’t be done in live-action — while technically true, it is hard to envisage how they could have made the hallucinatory sequences which litter the movie, so utterly convincing in any other way. Instead, from half way through (which is only about 40 minutes — this is no bring-yer-own-sandwiches epic), it becomes incredibly easy to lose track of whether anything is going on purely in Mina’s head or in ‘reality’. [If ever those quote marks were justified, it’s here] The movie is based on a novel by Yoshikazu Takeuchi, and even before it opened in Japan, a semi-sequel was already in the pipeline — it will apparently be ‘Double Bind’, the TV show featured in the film.

Like Miyuki-Chan in Wonderland, Perfect Blue’ is animated by Madhouse, and so is typically slick. Director Satoshi Kon wrote part of Katsuhiro Otomo’s latest, Memories (see the Film Festival Blitz) and Otomo himself was an advisor here, which perhaps helps to explain the painstaking effort that has clearly gone into the project. All of these names are a fine pedigree for any piece of anime, and while Perfect Blue is not a ground-breaking pioneer like Akira, it’s adult entertainment in the best sense of the word.

[Perfect Blue is out theatrically in late ’98, with a video release to follow]

Blue Sonnet – Took significant effort to see this, first phoning up Manga to get a copy, then returning it after the Post Office trashed it. And it wasn’t worth the effort, for a tired cross between The Guyver and Project A-ko. The latter is especially drawn on: artificially enhanced, blue-haired schoolgirl, takes on red-haired schoolgirl with more natural superpowers (well, her hair turns red when she uses her abilities). Pity that this clone lacks any of the original’s wit, style or quality of animation. B-ko, sorry, Blue Sonnet, is a cyborg secret-weapon of some multinational or other, suffering the usual guilt pangs, notably about offing the school nurse who discovered her secret, in the only effective sequence. Lettuce-like limpness. E+

Detonator Orgun – Certainly impressive, in terms of volume – 150 mins for £13.99 – and actually not bad, given my dislike of the giant robot field. Self-aware enough to defuse the portentousness with humour, it skates close to moralising cant, yet never quite goes over the top. The “alien invasion” plot, #3 in the anime canon, is twisted in novel ways (are the invaders actually our future selves?) and the animation is full-scale. The origin as 50-minute episodes is too clear (half an hour of plot, then 20 minutes of action, with the predictability of the tides), yet it’s nicely self-contained in a sweeping, epic kind of way. C+

Elicia – Forgettable piracy romp with fantasy elements. Reminded me of Sol Bianca, except that one managed to have memorable characters and a plot that stuck in your head for longer than thirty minutes. This one is bright, shiny, nicely animated and possesses very little to recommend it above and beyond the hundred other titles on the shelf. The sort of thing for which the phrase ‘Mostly Harmless’ was coined, do yourself a favour and go watch Cut-throat Island instead. D-

Grappler Baki – Martial arts mayhem, albeit with a smidgeon more flair than, say, Shadow Skill. At moments, so excessive it may be a parody; though the fact that it’s not funny suggests otherwise. The storyline is irrelevant, so let’s move on to the lengthy, graphic battles: the final one alone lasts 15 minutes and features a guy who tears out his opponent’s nerves. If that’s the coolest thing you’ve ever heard, this is right up your street; otherwise, it could be of limited interest. I dozed off a bit in the middle, between fights, but suspect this did not impact my enjoyment of the show in the slightest. D+

Gunsmith Cats 3 – The final part of Kenichi Sonoda’s paean to fast cars, babes and guns ties up loose ends left after previous episodes, when the heroines took out a gun-running operation. Said ends are very loose indeed, including a Russian hit-woman and a lot of political sleaze. This is 30 minutes of cheerful shallowness, with hardly a thought in its pretty little head. Like all bimbos, it’s expensive for what you get; value for money isn’t the strong point of this series, so wait for the compilation edition instead. However, bonus points to AD Vision for putting both dubbed and subbed versions on the same tape, giving the viewer maximum flexibility. C+

The Hakkenden – An animated version of The Water Margin is a good way to sum up this sprawling series. It details the adventures of eight characters whose fates are bound together by a series of pearls, engraved with the necessary attributes of a samurai, and tied to a princess who married her dog(!). Throw in the usual venomous power struggles, and you have something where you have to admire the width at the very least. However, this isn’t enough to make it actually interesting, it was too hard to empathise with characters who never quite lift themselves out of the box marked ‘cyphers’. It also seems often to forget that it’s animation, and could easily be live-action for long periods. If you like samurai stuff, fine, otherwise this won’t convert you. D

Hanappe Bazooka – Go Nagai is famous for mixing sex, violence and humour (Kekko Kamen is also his), and this bats down a similar line. It’s like a parody of Overfiend – guy summons demons, mayhem follows – with the creatures in question more naughty than unpleasant, though just as sex-crazed. However, it’s not actually very amusing, despite obviously trying very hard. Some decent in-jokes, and a healthy sense of political incorrectness, which the BBFC will no doubt trim, can’t salvage it. In the end (and every other orifice, too), what you get is less parody than tame imitation. D

Macross Plus – Reviewing part four of this was a bit tricky, since they never sent parts 1-3. Thank heavens for the Macross Plus movie, which combines them all (with an extra twenty minutes of footage), and alleviated the vague sense of loss, since Part 4 wasn’t totally without merit, despite being full of giant robots. It’s epic, trans-galactic stuff, though the ending has dialogue so cheesy you could put it on toast and call it Welsh Rarebit. Just the sort of po-faced nonsense one expects from mecha-anime. Up until then though, it’s very impressive: the animation is top of the range, fluid and fast, and music is used to great effect too. Overall, a very pleasant surprise. B+

Makyu Senjou – My, just what the world has been crying out for: a Guyver wannabe. Bloke turns into secret weapon of mega-corporation, and has to fight all the other secret weapons in bloody battles. Yawn. A marginally better storyline than The Guyver (not hard — the appearance of a telepathic kid tips the balance there) and with a decent minimalist soundtrack, yet it has even worse animation, and dialogue that might be funny if it wasn’t serious. Deeply tedious. E

Neon Genesis Evangelion – I’m going to go against the grain here; despite uniformly good reviews elsewhere, this again is little more than The Guyver, albeit with extra teen-angst. Every twenty minutes or so, a new alien threat attacks and has its arse kicked by Earth’s giant robot corps, between which the young pilots agonise about…stuff. Not so much a story arc as a story flat-line, despite the high-quality animation you’d expect from Gainax (responsible for Wings of Honneamise). There’s no sense of forward momentum, and having sat through twenty episodes without anything significant happening, it’s not a series I ever want to see again. D-

Phantom Quest Corp – That’s “Corp” as in “Corporation”, for this refreshing take on Ghostbusters, in which an army of freelance exorcists, led by our spendthrift heroine, take on the usual supernatural suspects. It’s frothy, feisty fun, with a dub that’s a pretty good attempt at capturing the spirit of the Japanese original. With hardly any plot or character development (admittedly, the characters don’t need much development being quite fully formed as is, and they are all the more entertaining for it), this is shallow entertainment, no more and no less. Perky and frolicsome candy-floss. B

Power Dolls – ‘The Knight Sabres Go to War’ might be an appropriate title for this one. An all-girl brigade in power suits (“dolls” is actually a heavily contrived acronym for something), fighting against the invaders from Earth. Yes, “from” rather than “of”, an interesting twist, albeit one previously used in KO Century Beast Warriors. This is more tech-inclined, and needs better characterisation on the voice front, where they all sound too alike. The action is dully predictable, and by now the words “AD Vision” should also automatically trigger “value for money” warning bells; in this case, however, the brevity is almost welcome. D-

Shadow Skill – Don’t bother. This one has all the charm of a video game turned into a cartoon, even though it isn’t, being based on a comic (however, I suspect it probably has become a video game since). A thin excuse for a plot is clearly designed to do no more than link fight scenes. After 20 minutes, I had a strong urge to play Tekken 2 — I didn’t resist, and not only is the animation there superior, it’s far more entertaining. I may have blisters on my thumb as a result, but would probably have got one watching this anyway, through savage usage of the fast-forward. Also available in a “movie” which is three episodes on one tape, and is thus marginally better. E-

Tokyo Revelation – For the first ten minutes, this looks like it might do interesting things with the traditional demonic high-school setting: we get two investigators going undercover at said educational establishment, in a cross between The X-Files and cult Japanese horror film Wizard of Darkness. However, neither of these angles are explored significantly, and it descends, perhaps inevitably, into another ‘put-upon bloke summoning icky things’ show. You’ve seen it all before, and it’s neither extreme enough nor well-animated enough to be other than instantly forgettable. E

Zeoraima – While some anime has certainly been BAD, this may be the first to reach “so bad it’s good” status. It’s dreadful, kid-piloting-mecha nonsense, with a portentous, monotone voiceover and every cliché of the genre you could wish. The dubbing is so dreadful, the characters rarely pronounce the title the same way twice in a row (Zeo-RYE-mah? Zeo-RAY-mah? Zeo-RAH-mah?), and the plot is a tedious succession of battles between ever more giant robots. Even if the second episode adds nothing save another pronunciation (Zeo-REE-mah), this is certainly entertaining, albeit for all the wrong reasons — I haven’t laughed so much in ages. On that basis, and for that alone, C+.

Stop Press…

[Those titles which didn’t quite turn up in time for the above section]

Hyper Dolls – It’s nice, once in a while, to see something that doesn’t take itself in the slightest bit seriously. And these two tapes certainly fall into this category. Heroines Mica and Mew are the protectors of Earth — it’s kinda like Men in Black with skimpier costumes. They get their orders through the medium of pizza (look, I call ’em as I see ’em) and fortunately, their opponents are just as dumb as they are: for example, a yokel giant worm with a penchant for imitating a tube train… Though hardly taxing the attention span over its thirty-minute duration, bonus points are due to Pioneer for the live-action shorts which follow each episode: part 1 is especially silly, with a ‘giant’ rubber-suited monster, straight out of some early Godzilla flick — part 2’s is disturbingly…well, competent, and thus much less fun. It’s all unremittingly silly, and deliciously frothy. B

Landlock – I tried. Not once, but twice. And singularly failed to get through more than 20 minutes of this dreck. It’s supposed to have something to do with Shirow, who did Ghost in the Shell, and it does have the same twisted technology, mystical babble, and unfeasibly large-breasted women, though I suspect that his contribution was a few drawings scrawled on a fag packet one Friday lunchtime down the pub. The translation provokes more unintended sniggers than anything else (po-faced pronouncements about being “master of the wind”, for example), and the voice acting is dreadful. Totally irredeemable, this is Manga’s worst since Odin — it may be slightly worse, but I’m damned if I’m going to make a third attempt at it to find out. E-

Psychic Wars – “Mum, my head hurts”, begins the press release, and yes, a migraine would be preferable. The odd thing is, it feels like a part 3, the first chunk smells suspiciously of story-so-far. At least that bit kept me awake: even though it was just 7pm, sleep overcame me after 26 minutes – between this and Landlock, maybe I could start rating tapes by how long I stay conscious. A swift rewind revealed I’d missed nothing; bloke with special powers/save Earth/demonic forces. Fill in the blanks yourself, you’ve seen it all a million times before, and done a thousand times better. Two words to Manga: quality control. Keep this up, and even the undemanding teenage boys market will desert you. E+

Sword for Truth – “NINJAS FACE SAMURAIS IN BLOODY SEVERED LIMB DECAPITATION SHOCKER…” shrieks the promotional blurb, in typically understated Manga Video style – there are times when reading them is more entertaining than watching the tapes. Though for once, this is only mild hyperbole — the gore, while copious, is drawn in a style bordering on the Impressionistic and, most unlike Manga, they even forgot to mention the sex, both straight and lesbian. It plays like a video game, with strong, silent hero Shuranosuke slashing his way past henchmen, then taking on their boss, before moving on to the next level, er, adventure. Despite a familiar plot and some clumsy anachronisms (why is the River Styx mentioned in a supposedly medieval Japanese setting?), Shuranosuke is an interesting, well-rounded character, and the film benefits from its solid visual sense. C+

Once again, that handy cut-out-and-keep TC anime guide!

Title	Label	Grade
Macross Plus	Manga	B+
Hyper Dolls	Pioneer	B
Phantom Quest Corp	Pioneer	B
Gunsmith Cats 3	AD Vision	C+
Sword For Truth	Manga	C+
Detanator Orgun	Manga	C+
Zeoraima	Manga	C+
Grappler Baki	Manga	D+
The Hakkenden	Pioneer	D
Neon Genesis Evangelion	AD Vision	D-
Elicia	AD Vision	D-
Power Dolls	AD Vision	D-
Blue Sonnet	Manga	E+
Shuten Doji	AD Vision	E+
Psychic Wars	Manga	E+
Tokyo Revelation	Manga	E
Makyu Senjou	Manga	E
Shadow Skill	Manga	E-
Landlock	Manga	E-