Archive for the literature Category

Double D

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , on November 13, 2014 by dcairns

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Rosanna Schiaffino and Sarah Ferrati.

Damiano Damiani has an inspiring, musical name — beaten only by Aldo Lado, whose name does a backflip and anagrams itself even as it trips off your tongue. But I hadn’t given much thought to DD — his array of spaghetti westerns, poliziotteschi plus AMITYVILLE II suggested an aimless journeyman — only now that I’ve seen LA STREGA IN AMORE (1966) have I become really curious, because if nothing else Damiano/i was clearly a considerable visual stylist. Adapting a story by Carlos Fuentes he plants loverboy librarian Richard Johnson (extremely good, even dubbed) in the palazzio of a mysterious older woman and her sexy young “daughter” where he endeavours to get his oats but gets more than he bargained for.

The story doesn’t add up to much — although it’s refreshing to see supernatural elements handled in a low-key manner, far less shrill than Argento, God love him. Only gradually does it emerge that the relationship between the two women is not what it seems — for some time, the previous librarian, Gian Maria Volonte (NEVER hire than man to file your books, he is a stranger to Dewy-Decimal but a close friend to MADNESS) seems the main source of tension, since he is rather fervent in his opposition to being replaced by the suave Johnson.

I didn’t really like where this ended up — it seemed to amount to little, apart from a brimstone whiff of witch-burning misogyny. But as an exercise du style it’s compelling, full of outrageously long, teasing scenes, simmering sexual tension, elegant blocking and sinuous camera movement, the stripped-down mansion serving as an atmospheric, unnerving psychosexual battleground.

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Also: Rosanna Schiaffino and Johnson trying to undress each other with their teeth. To music.

Fiona: “This is actually quite sexy. But if we tried it, it would just be hilarious.”

Bone and Sinew

Posted in literature, Television with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 5, 2014 by dcairns

Boneless

The best episode of Dr. Who this season was called “Flatline”, written by Jamie Mathieson and featuring aliens from a two-dimensional universe, known as “the boneless.” This season has featured an influx of big screen talent — Frank Cottrell Boyce (writer of 24HR PARTY PEOPLE); Ben Wheatley (director of A FIELD IN ENGLAND) and Rachel Talalay (TANK GIRL), but ironically these have all been trumped by Mathieson, who has only one cinema credit, and director Douglas MacKinnon, whose several other Who episodes have not reached such heights of atmosphere and excitement. The combination of a lively story full of ideas, both amusing and creepy, and a well-conceived look for the baddies (inspired by 3D printer glitches — this gives them a Francis Bacon quality) brought out the best in everyone.

***

This will all link up in the end. For my birthday, my parents gave me some goodies including Best Movie Stories, a review copy of a 1969 anthology of cinema-themed short fiction. While it was delightful to read Noel Coward referring to “the Beverley Hills” (that definite article still cracks me up, obscurely), the big hits for me were the tales by William Saroyan, O.K., Baby, This is the World, and Gerald Kersh, The Dogs Bark, but the Caravan Passes, which is actually the last part of a novel, An Ape, a Dog and a Serpent.

I resolved to seek out more Saroyan and Kersh.

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***

More or less at once, a copy of The Fifth Pan Book of Horror Stories fell off my shelf. Like Best Movie Stories, this was a second-hand bookshop purchase, and it turns out to contain a story by Kersh, Men Without Bones. It’s quite Lovecraftian, with maybe some Quatermass thrown in. It doesn’t make all that much sense but stirs up some creepiness and revulsion, with its armies of small, fat, jelly-like boneless men.

Anyhow, that connects up with Dr. Who, doesn’t it?

***

So now I’ve bought Fowler’s End, supposed by many to be Kersh’s best novel, a black comedy of London life in the early thirties, set around a decrepit cinema showing silent films. Here’s how Kersh describes the central light fixture in the auditorium ~

“From a peeling brass-plated rod fixed in the centre of the roof hung a kind of orange-and-green dustbin made of glass lozenges. If there is such a thing as brown light, brown light leaked out of the top of this contraption, making a shapeless pattern which, when you looked at it, took away your will to live. Looking up as a quicksand closes over your head, you see such a light and such a pattern as the last bubble bursts.”

Like Edinburgh Filmhouse, the Fowler’s End Pantheon is housed in a former church, in this case one created by a sect called the Nakedborners. It’s owned by a grotesque caricature of the Jewish entrepreneur, a vulgar, crooked lunatic called Sam Yudenow, whom the Jewish Kersh has great fun making as flamboyantly repulsive as possible. Kersh is also the originator of Night and the City and London low-life was his metier, though he also wrote sci-fi and horror and journalism and whatever paid the bills.

***

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Addendum: in an old volume entitled St Michaels’ 65 Tales of Horror — published by the shop chain Marks & Spencer in the 70s, and containing a story, The Spider by Hanns Heinz Ewers, which I filmed in 1993 (the text still has orange highlighter where I underlined the useful bits), I find another Kersh, Comrade Death. It is astonishing, horrific.

“And then again, gas; I can show you some quite amazing things the Necrogene has done to men. They have twisted themselves into positions — well, I tell you, if they had studied acrobatics all their lives they could never have achieved such contortions! Amazing! One poor fellow bit himself in the small of the back. But you’d never believe. Come, let me show you —”

Brrr.

Clues/Things I Read Off the Screen in The Last of Sheila

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , on November 4, 2014 by dcairns

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Whodunnits tend to be more like parlour games than dramas — the intellectual exercise MUST triumph over the demands of character insight, emotional investment, moral message or thematic exploration. The best mysteries often embrace this and make a virtue of it, as in Mankiewicz’s THE HONEY POT and THE LAST OF SHEILA, brilliantly scripted by Anthony Perkins & Stephen Sondheim (!) and very decently directed by Harold Ross (I mainly dislike his Neil Simon things but admired PENNIES FROM HEAVEN — would sooner watch the movie than the respected TV series original because, well, I’m shallow and I like glitz).

Lots of funny lines — a trenchant Hollywood satire is the nominal underlying purpose but the writers love bitchery too much to truly condemn the coldbloodedness they portray. The biggest laugh for Fiona was a shot of James Coburn, being winched from his yacht to his launch, grinning madly as he descends out of frame, like a radiant ivory sunset.

The cast is incredible, but if I was drawn in by the prospect of Mason and Coburn, paired in a more gentile setting than the later CROSS OF IRON, I stayed for Dyan Cannon, who gets most of the best lines but imbues even the nastiest of them with a knowing/innocent naughtiness that animates the character in a whole new way, impossible to imagine from the lines on the page (impossible for me: not for Dyan, apparently). So what if her backstory as a McCarthy-era snitch implies that she must have been working as a Hollywood secretary aged three? She gets a brilliant hysteria scene too — Cannon has a gift for that — she used to do it on chat shows too.

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There’s a central conceit that I guessed at once, because I do tend to take note of the things a whodunnit DOESN’T show — if there’s no corpse, the victim is still alive, for instance. Arguably Ross played a little too fair in his staging rather than covering things up perfectly. But I didn’t guess the killer OR half of the twists, so I was still satisfactorily bamboozled, which is what I pays my money for with this kind of thing. If I guess it — as I do when Peter Ackroyd or Michael Dibdin attempt big twists — I feel smug but basically disappointed.

A vicious yet deeply civilised entertainment. There: my first blurb!

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