Archive for Some Girls Do

Culp De-Programmer

Posted in FILM, Television with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 2, 2012 by dcairns

SPECTRE — a failed TV pilot devised by Gene Roddenberry. Download it! Slap it in the Panasonic! Watch it!

Stars Robert Culp — my new hero! as Gene Roddenberry William Sebastian, a stylishly dressed criminologist and expert in paranormal abnormality, who, assisted by Dr Ham Hamilton — who I kept thinking was played by Bradford Dillman, but is actually the murderer Gig Young — “He looks nothing like Bradford Dillman. Why did I think it was Bradford Dillman?” “You just wanted it to be,” claims Fiona. “I deny the accusation!” — this sentence has really lost its way. Back up. Start again.

Our two decrepit intrepid heroes journey to London, England, to investigate a case of possible satanic possession at a stately home newly outfitted as mod shagging palace by incumbent Sir Geoffrey Cyon (James Villiers). Just as in SOME GIRLS DO, Villiers is surrounded by dolly birds, although whether in this film they have had their heads hollowed out and filled with radio-controlled microchips is never stated — but going by their behaviour, I’d say the answer is YES, and Roddenberry has the remote.

Gig’s bedchamber — and waterbed — is invaded at night by Allo Allo‘s Vicki Michelle, plus a dominatrix and a schoolgirl, but that’s just the beginning of the diabolism in store! The problem is figuring out which of the Cyon scions is possessed of the Devil — Villiers (who definitely is), Ann Bell, who might be, and John Hurt, who probably definitely is. “I remember being very disappointed in him for doing this,” says Fiona. Whereas I don’t remember it at all. If I did, I’d like to think I wouldn’t be watching it now. Fiona has no such excuse, other than wanting something cheery after running PUZZLE OF A DOWNFALL CHILD.

John Hurt tries out for the role of a Klingon.

James Villiers turns into a cat.

Tits! Obvious cutaways of tits to try and sell this as an X-rated horror movie abroad. Clive Donner directed this — I’m starting to think he was never very good, you know. His camera swoops in, leering, in like a dirty eagle, every nipple a merit badge.

Jenny Runacre smiles slyly in the background, which you’d think would be enough, and Culp is pretty delightful, channeling Shatner’s heavy pauses. Gordon Jackson is on hand, as ever.

“You hear a lot about Bradford Dillman,” I observe, “but you never hear about his brother, Rochdale.”

Culp is such a Roddenberry substitute, he even has Majel Barrett (Mrs R) as housekeeper. And the voodoo curse on him, manifesting as chest pains and a blob of mortician’s wax on his manly abdomen, is presumably a thinly-veiled fictionalisation of the heart condition that slew the Star Trek creator.

Why Gene Roddenberry wrote science fiction: his first wife was named Eileen Rexroat. It was inevitable.

More Wiki –

“Star Trek theme music composer Alexander Courage long harbored resentment of Roddenberry’s attachment of lyrics to his composition. By union rules, this resulted in the two men splitting the music royalties payable whenever an episode of Star Trek aired, which otherwise would have gone to Courage in full. (The lyrics were never used on the show, but were performed by Nichelle Nichols on her 1991 album, “Out of this World.”)”

The only Star Trek lyrics I ever heard require to be sung with a Scottish accent –

Star Trek! It’s a funny tune!

It goes UP and then it goes doon!

AND! just when you think you’ve got it mastered,

It flies off like a crazy bastard!

I think perhaps those are not canonical.

As someone who grew up with a lot of terrible, boring, generic American TV (Petrocelli, The Fall Guy, Fantasy Island, Kojak, Dallas) I kind of wish Spectre had been commissioned. It’s not boring. It’s terrible and ridiculous, but not boring. If it had run, there might have been some good episodes, but even if they were all dreadful, they would have been more diverting than all the lawyer and cop and doctor shows, and with Culp and his polo neck, they’d have been more fun than Kolchak, too.

In some dreamy alternate reality, this series ran for decades. David Duchovny eventually took over from Culp.

Bullshot

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , on March 15, 2011 by dcairns

The 1969 follow-up to DEADLIER THAN THE MALE is called SOME GIRLS DO, and it’s both better and worse. Better, because it’s more consistently silly, rather than nasty, and the annoying American sidekick has been replaced by an annoying British sidekick called Reggie, as should be. Worse, as the script by David Osborn and Liz Charles-Williams lacks the occasional plot felicities of Jimmy Sangster’s original — indeed, it sometimes seems a straight rip-off. Both films begin with a glamor girl disguised as an air stewardess assassinating a passenger, unmask their villain as a would-be Mabuse called Petersen, and spend a lot of time with “Bulldog” imprisoned by Petersen as the madman monologues away about his plans for world domination or whatevs.

Petersen, who died in the previous film, has mysteriously returned, and is played by a different actor, the droll James Villiers, which suggests a fast-and-loose approach to continuity. Virginia North (Vulnavia in DR PHIBES), who played the useless nephew’s girlfriend in the first film, here plays a murderous fembot with an “off” switch on her neck. Also appearing as background crumpet are Joanna Lumley and Yutte Stensgard, with Daliah Lavi as lead femme fatale. Goo-goo-eyed babe Sydne Rome is a sort of femme foetal, with a berserk comedy performance that finally convinced me that she’s not a dumb blonde, just very good at playing one. I should know better than to be taken in by the bimbo act. Her work in Polanski’s WHAT? is so artfully artless as to suggest an entirely empty head atop a curvaceous body, being skillfully moved about by unseen off-camera-hands. But she’s a proper actress, or at least a real performer. What she does may not be subtle, but it shows the only real enthusiasm in the picture.

The idea of a maladroit female sidekick was trotted out again in THE WRECKING CREW with Sharon Tate providing the sexy bumbling, and THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN gave the blonde business to Britt Ekland. On the one hand, at least it gives the actresses something to play. On the other, it’s not exactly empowering. Sydne Rome’s ditzy ebullience does take some of the curse off it.

Villiers, sad to relate, is hampered by a series of ridiculous disguises, and proves to be no master of accents. Only when he’s unmasked and can swan around, exulting in his own nastiness, do we get the full, unfettered J.V.

Richard Johnson raises an eyebrow here and there and is mercifully unsupplied with quips. A plot point involving the “robotizing” of girls — fitting them with artificial brains — seems tacky and unpleasant, unmasking the dehumanization fantasy of so much swinging sixties sex stuff: the idea of the perfect woman being brain-dead and compliant. Objectification is a tricky point — human bodies ARE objects and it seems fair enough for artists to explore their physical properties, but when the storyline drools over the idea of reducing a person to an animate automaton, something more sinister is going on. The fact that the mastermind of all this is played by the strikingly camp Villiers is just another note of nonsense.

This movie seems to have killed off “Bulldog” for good — not even TV has tried to resuscitate the old bigot. A 1983 spoof, BULLSHOT, from Handmade Films, was really quite bad: it took George Harrison quite a while to realize he couldn’t replace the Monty Python team.

A reader sends me this image of her striking James Villiers tattoo — “Jimbo” shares arm-space with Jonathan Frid from DARK SHADOWS.

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