...and a one-page panel gag, plus a two-page SLUG toon by "Randy"
...and a one-page panel gag, plus a two-page SLUG toon by "Randy"
...and a one-page panel gag, plus a two-page SLUG toon by "Randy"
Some classic strips from that issue of KNAVE
...and a one-page panel gag, plus a two-page SLUG toon by "Randy"
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ZINE REVIEWS: “Who said zines are dead?"
MY MAILBOX doesn’t bulge like it did 20 years ago with zines, but my heart still skips a beat when a small package or envelope arrives filled with Xeroxed (or professionally printed) self-published goodness. Let’s dive in and see what I’ve got lately.
I miss One Thousand Feathers. There was a coherence to that zine that I appreciated (even if certain issues were more miss than hit). Rojonekku Word Fighting Arts 2 is Raven Mack at his most mystical and stream-of-consciousness state of mind. It’s free-form jazz in an essay and there are times when I can go with the flow and appreciate what he’s saying. And there are times when I just go, “Huh?”
Unfortunately, RWFA2had more of the latter and less of the former.Wanting to keep things positive, I’ll focus on the article I enjoyed most, which was a surreal wrestling-themed piece called “New Earth Wrestling”, which reminded me of those old fantasy matches between rasslin’ legends that Gold Belt Wrestling magazine would print in the late 80s, pretending the results were calculated by a super-computer. In this instance, however, EVERYTHING is fictional, including the names of the wrestlers. This is a trippy but accessible piece. It’s sad that I can’t say the same for much of the rest of his zine.
I love Raven’s writing style and much of what he’s trying to convey, but I worry that his writing is heading to a plane that I just don’t understand anymore.
Rojonekku Word Fighting Arts 1: Raven Mack, PO Box 270, Scottsville, VA, 24590, USA. www.rojonekku.com[email for prices, 40S, :70]
Kamuke #8: You love ukes? You’ll fucking love this magazine. Still no feature on my fave uke player Amanda “Fucking” Palmer, but other than that…this is pretty uke-tastic.
Cameron Murray; editor@kamuke.com; www.kamuke.com[email for price, 36 x A5 pages, reading time: 20 minutes]Unbelievably Bad#15: The Melvins…Herschell Gordon Lewis…and the curious case of Kenneth Pinyan, who took horseplay a little too far. If you know any (or all) of these characters, then THIS is the zine for you. Funny, informative, irreverent – UBis so ziney it’ll make your anus bleed tears of joy. Oh and the piece on the Hottentot Venus was great – now THERE was a chick with booty!
Unbelievably Bad, c/- Von Helle, 9 Ross Street, Dulwich Hill, NSW, 2203, AUSTRALIA unbelievablybad@optusnet.com.au[AUD$8 or e-mail for details if from overseas, 68 x A4, 60+ minutes]OF COURSE, not all zines are zines. Some are self-published comics. In the past month I received the following…
Totentanz by Marcel Ruijters; A stunningly drawn, beautiful printed mini-comic about a naughty nun dancing with a skeleton. But things turn disastrous when another skeleton tries to cut in on the happy couple. I kept waiting for something blasphemous to happen, but this wordless strip is joyfully silly and trippy. Page after page is just highly kinetic illustrations of this very odd couple “cutting a rug”. A delightfully endearing tale. Contact Marcel at www.xs4all.nl/~troglo for ordering details.
#takedown by David Blumenstein: A factual account of the huge protest that terminated the short stay in Australia of pick-up “expert” Julien Blanc (watch one of his odious videos at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iULxmr2je8w). David was there the Melbourne seminar – working undercover as one of the seminar attendees. This simply told tale is both amusing and surprisingly fair towards the protesters and the people who attended the event…although not to sleazebag Blanc himself. I liked this comic a lot.
Order it from Pikitia Press (www.pikitiapress.com).My friend Adam gave me Good Dog, Whiskey, an Aussie comic by K. Kobi about a dog who takes loyalty to his master to an extreme level. I found it quite moving, although the art (based heavily on photo references of people) was patchy in parts.
You can order Good Dog, Whiskey from Book Depository (http://www.bookdepository.com/book/9781481076463?redirected=true&selectCurrency=AUD&w=AF45AU96QHCMF0A8ZRS5&gclid=Cj0KEQjwuLKtBRDPicmJyvu_qZMBEiQAzlGN5jpK8_od8PwdiQd4v88vbb3xAeYGjlsQRl2cbM4UbAcaAvNe8P8HAQ).↧
FOOTY AUTOBIOGRAPHY REVIEWS: "KB" and "Richo" - Five years too late, five years too early
WELL, another footy season is over and the mighty Hawthorn Hawks achieved a THREE-PEAT of AFL premierships over the hapless West Coast Eagles.
Leading up to last Saturday's grand final, it seemed the perfect time to reflect on the glorious past of my beloved Richmond Tigers, who got knocked out of the finals race in the first week.
The Tiges were great once - back in the 1960s and 70s - but they haven't been a force in the AFL (or the VFL as it was known in the good ol' days) for 35 years.
What better way to reminisce about Richmond than read autobiographies (well, sorta...both are of the "as told to" variety) about my two favourite Richmond sons, KEVIN BARTLETT and MATTHEW RICHARDSON.
It's ironic how similar both these players were - in talent and on-field demeanour - and yet how different their career trajectories turned out, purely due to circumstance.
Bartlett was a member of five premiership-winning teams (1967, 1969, 1973-74, 1980), played a whopping 403 games from 1965-83 and kicked 778 goals. He also won a ton of club best and fairest awards but never a Brownlow Medal, the ultimate personal achievement for a footballer.
Richardson played in 282 games from 1993-2009 but never played in a grand final, let alone won a premiership. He kicked 800 goals but probably could have kicked a lot more if he'd been accurate. He won a ton of B&Fs for the Tiges and came heartbreakingly close to winning a Brownlow in 2008, but wound up equal third to Adam Cooney of the Western Bulldogs.
Bartlett was ridiculed for his receding hairline and inability to handpass to team mates.
Richardson was ridiculed for his incredibly poor kicking for goal and his constant spitting the dummy on the field: at umpires, opponents and team mates.
Bartlett was nicknamed "Hungry" because of his selfishness on the field. But fans loved him because he was a champion player in a team of champions.
Richardson was plain old "Richo", but he also found it difficult to share the ball around, trying to do everything himself to lift his hapless team to victory week after week. Fans hated him for years, but eventually grew to love him because they could see he was a champion player trapped in a shit side.
Bartlett and Richardson would never have survived playing in the modern game of 2015. Coaches would have quickly banished them to the B grade, then traded or delisted them at the end of the season because they weren't willing to follow set plans and be team players.
KEV (pictured above with champion Richmond coach Tommy Hafey, left) was my idol growing up as a Tigers fan in the 1970s. He was probably the sole reason I stayed a fan after they started sliding down the premiership ladder in the early 80s due to one management cock-up after another.
I picked up KB: A Life In Football (as told to his son Rhett Bartlett) a couple of weeks back for next to nix in a Mildura bookshop. I didn't realise till I started reading it that the low price was because the photo-heavy memoir was four years old.
Still, it was a fun and easy read, full of fantastic action shots and pix of Tiges and KB memorabilia.
It's just a pity it wasn't written five years earlier - by 2011, Kev was reconciled with the Richmond Football Club and a beloved Tiges legend. But it wasn't always that way. He'd turned his back on the club for the previous 20 years after he was sacked as coach in 1991 (after a less than stellar four-year coaching stint, I might add). Bad blood ran deep and I'm sure an autobiography in 2006 would have been darker, more bitter and would have had a few well-aimed barbs at key management figures who paid a part in his coaching demise (and also tried to sabotage him at times during his playing career). But that was all water under the bridge by the time Kev co-wrote KB.
In the end, the impression of Kev I got from this book was that he's a funny, self-deprecating raconteur who adores the Tigers, even if the relationship has been rocky at times.
Some classic KB moments
This is a more traditional autobiography and a pretty mediocre one at that. The problem is that Richardson is a taciturn guy; he let his footy do the talking. Which meant he has little to say.
Questions about his career are met with stonewall replies. You can sense Flanagan tearing his hair out in frustration on every page. Anecdotes are shot down before they can start, facts are confused or dismissed with one-line answers - Richo is actively unhelpful in trying to tell the story of his life.
Flanagan is forced to fill chapter after chapter with stories about Tasmania (Richo's home state) and the even the history of football. And there are numerous comments from Richo's friends, family and former team mates and coaches to give us a picture of the big man. They all say the same thing: he's a loyal, hard-working guy with a good heart, who was completely untrainable and selfish on the oval because of a single-minded desire to try to win games by himself.
It was only late in his career - after he'd been publicly lambasted for a 2002 incident where he abused a first-year footballer, a team mate no less - that Richo made any effort to become more of a team player. Not that he succeeded, but at least he tried.
Eventually, the fans - from Richmond and opposing teams - began to realise what a phenomenal talent Richardson truly was. In another team or era (perhaps playing alongside KB and other greats) he would have been a legend. As it was, punters knew he was in the wrong team at the wrong time.
That fact still didn't stop me - when I received an email invitation to fill in a club survey at the end of every season - to get to the question, "How can we improve the club's on-field performance next year?" and I'd each time I'd write, "Sack the coach. Sack Richo."
Please don't misunderstand me, I loved the guy, but it was obvious to me (and pretty much everyone else) that Richo was a bad fit for the Tigers and vice versa.
But just like his premiership-winning dad Barry, Matthew was a Tiger through and through. Started with the club, ended with the club. More's the pity.
Ironically, this book would have been better if it had been written five years later. Nowadays, Richo has developed into a respected TV commentator who adds great insight to the footy games he covers. He's opened up and is very comfortable chatting to players with a microphone in his hand. One can only wonder how much more insightful and entertaining his autobiography would have been in 2015 now he's had this media training.
Perhaps Richo will think about penning a second autobiography down the track - it couldn't help but be better than this one.
Some classic Richo moments
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DVD REVIEWS "Unfriended" and "Cooties"
I got turned onto these indie horror fillum via the magic of YouTube where following one movie preview link can quickly send you tumbling down a rabbit hole of celluloid "delight".
The problem with trailers is that they can make you think you're watching the greatest film ever...till you watch the ACTUAL film and realise that you've already seen all the best bits in the trailer. Or, worse still, that what you saw in the awesome trailer is NOTHING like the actual movie.
The trailers for Unfriended and Cooties (both USA, 2014) promised good things, so when I scored free preview discs of them at work a few months later, I eagerly popped them in my DVD drive and checked them out.
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And then........
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The problem with trailers is that they can make you think you're watching the greatest film ever...till you watch the ACTUAL film and realise that you've already seen all the best bits in the trailer. Or, worse still, that what you saw in the awesome trailer is NOTHING like the actual movie.
The trailers for Unfriended and Cooties (both USA, 2014) promised good things, so when I scored free preview discs of them at work a few months later, I eagerly popped them in my DVD drive and checked them out.
What’s the guts?Six high school friends are chatting online one evening when their group conversation's gatecrashed by a mysterious person using the online accounts of a dead schoolmate, Laura, who committed suicide one year earlier. Despite their best efforts to get rid of the intruder, they can't shake her and they soon reach the awful realisation that the mysterious person is the vengeful ghost of Laura. Before the night is over, the friends will be forced to reveal their darkest secrets to each other or face horrible deaths.
Anything else? The unknown cast are very good in maintaining the fear and tension in this innovative movie shot essentially in real time. Using just Skype, Facebook and text messages, the movie's cheapness isn't apparent and the brief scenes of violence are shocking and potent. Death by blender, gun, knife, curling iron and bleach - enough is shown to be very nasty. And, to be honest, by the end of the flick you realise that these teens - who all seemed so innocent and nice at the start of the flick - are a bunch of cunts who deserve everything they get from the demonic Laura.
Final word: With friends like these...
And then........
What’s the guts? A lethal virus spread by tainted chicken nuggets turns a bunch of schoolkids into fast-running zombie cannibals who attack their teachers with intestines-flyng results. Adults are immune to the virus, so you wind up with an incredibly un-PC scenario of the teachers having to bash, burn, stab and annihilate a bunch of pre-teens to survive the apocalypse. It's fucking wrong and fucking hilarious.
Anything else? Elijah Wood, Rainn Wilson, Jorge Garcia and Aussie Leigh Whannell have a field day with the ludicrous material. It's dumb, blood-spattered fun.
Final word: These zombie nuggets are pure gold.
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Anyone for soup? The truth about Blank Room Soup
THE video is called Blank Room Soup and recently it’s been an internet sensation of sorts, believed by some to be some kinda perverted home movie.
While it is genuinely unsettling, the video is fake. Disturbing but fake.
Let me backtrack a little. Three months ago I’d never heard of the Deep Web and now it’s ALL I hear about. This is the buzz term to describe the dark underbelly making up 90% of the internet that the vast majority of users never see – a vast labyrinth of encrypted, secret sites featuring everything from drug-dealing hangouts, snuff porn messageboards, conspiracy theory nuts and just plain craziness.
I wouldn’t check out the Deep Web myself, because it’s too scary for my liking. But I’ve watched a few YouTube videos where folk regularly update viewers on what they’ve found there.
One such explorer is SomeOrdinaryGamers (aka Mutahar) and it was on the August 30 episode of his Deep Web Exploration series that I first saw a short film he’d uploaded from the Deep Web.
It was a video that could actually be found quite easily on YouTube, which isn’t particularly deep. There, it’s known as Blank Room Soup.
In the film, which runs for little over a minute, a man (with his identity obscured by a black bar superimposed over his eyes) is dressed in a singlet and sits at a table in front of a video camera. He looks haggard as he gorges himself on a bowl of what appears to be ramen noodles. He eats with a wooden ladle.
Behind the man is an open door. After a few seconds, a person wearing an oversized human head appears and walks towards him. He looks like a mascot.
As the mascot touches him, the man starts to cry. Laughter can be heard in the background.
The man continues to eat and cry while the mascot comforts him, stroking his back. After a few seconds, a second mascot appears from stage right and also comforts the man who now sounds hysterical. Both mascots are nodding as the video ends.
Now, I think Mutahar tends to over-react to a lot of stuff he unearths in his Deep Web series, even when it’s fairly benign shit.
So him dry-retching and acting all freaked out over this film, which he assumed was some weird torture fetish tape, seemed a bit OTT to me.
That said, it IS fucking creepy and I soon became obsessed in learning more about Blank Room Soup and the people who made it.
It didn’t take me long at all – in fact, the links were in the comments below Mutahar’s episode.
Turns out this film could be found on a Daily Motion channel belonging to RayRayTV.
The freaky mascots appear in several videos where they dance in a studio, wander around Hawaii and even go clubbing. They’re odd but mostly harmless – the videos reminded me of a weird cross between the 2014 cult movie Frankand the surreal skits that appeared on 1990s British comedy The Smell Of Reeves And Mortimer. Y’know, the kinda comedy that’s more dada than haha.
The duo even appear in a 2006 music video, Push Button, for a punk cabaret band called Stolen Babies.
Yet the site also contains Blank Room Soup and a follow-up video known as Soup Torture, both uploaded in 2008.
Soup Torture is also a minute long and shows the two mascots standing silently in the background, watching the soup-eating man as he shovels ramen noodles into his mouth till he’s nearly retching. After 30 agonising seconds, one of the mascots runs full speed towards the man before the video cuts out and we hear brief audio of the man screaming.
Both videos have a completely different vibe to the other RayRayTV fare in both content and tone. Maybe RayRayTV was exploring darker comedy material – if so, the comedy is lost on me (and many others).
Curiously, comments had been added by RayRayTV beneath both films. Next to Blank Room Soup is written, “A clip of people who look like us doing something to someone that we would never do. We promise.”
And with Soup Torture: “What’s happening in this clip and why do these people look like us!”
Clearly, something was not right here. But I could glean little more from RayRayTV’s Daily Motion page, which didn’t seem to have been updated for seven years. There was just a name attached to one of the “safe” videos, a director called Raymond Persi.
I did more research...
...AND THE MYSTERY WAS SOLVED.
Persi is a Californian artist, animator and voice actor, who’s directed episodes of The Simpsons and now works for Disney. His storyboard credits include Wreck-It Ralph and Frozen.
He has a Tumblr page (raymondpersi.tumblr.com) featuring animated videos and illos of his mascot character RayRay.
If you check his page on Wikipedia you learn that Persi’s younger sister is Dominique Persi, the lead singer of Stolen Babies. Which explains that connection.
So there you have it – the creator of Blank Room Soup and Soup Torture is NOT a snuff torture film sicko.
It still doesn’t explain his motivations for making these short, disturbing films. But hey! It’s art innit. Probably as good a reason as any.
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MOVIE REVIEW: Samurai Cop 2 (2015)
LAST year, I reviewed a dumb-as-fuck 1991 action fillum titled Samurai Cop. That should have been the end of the story, but no.
While we were taking the piss – and ogling some fine boobage – a group of…well, CRAZY PEOPLE got on Kickstarter and raised $62,000 to make a SEQUEL starring as many of the original cast as they could find.
The end result was Samurai Cop 2: Deadly Vengeance, an insane sequel featuring some of the most ridiculous fight sequences in movie history.
Leathery muscle-head Mathew Karedas returns as samurai cop Joe Marshall, who teams up with his old partner Frank Washington (Mark Frazer) to take down some evil crims.
And that’s about as much sense as we could make out of the flick, which features rival Yakuza gangs warring with each other for no logical reason, porn stars – Kayden Kross (above), Lexi Belle and more – masquerading as assassins, plot holes so huge you could drop Rebel Wilson down them without her hitting the sides, and some truly horrendous scenery-chewing from Bai Ling and the world’s worst actor Tommy Wiseau.
Making matters worse, Bai doesn’t even flash her nips once during the film…although Kayden and friends make up for that terrible oversight.
If you want to simulate the effects of an LSD overdose, then you could do no worse than watch Samurai Cop 2.
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MOVIE REVIEW: Bare Behind Bars (1980)
FANS of “Women In Prison” (WIP) flicks will bloody love Bare Behind Bars, which is regarded by some critics as the granddaddy of this sicko genre.
If you like lesbian sex – inmate-on-inmate, inmate-on-female-guard, inmate-on-nurse-on pineapple (don’t ask) and inmate-on-prison warden – then THIS is the moving picture for you.
Made in Brazil and starring NOBODY you’ve ever heard of , the story focuses on a corrupt prison where the horny inmates face constant beatings from the evil guards led by sadistic warden Sylvia (Maria Stella Splendore).
Desperate to escape this jungle hellhole, a new inmate makes plans with two cellmates to break out. She seduces the insane nurse – an ether-huffin’, Marilyn Monroe look-alike played by Marta Anderson– and convinces her to help them get away.
Soon, the three jailbirds are on the run, but it isn’t long before the cops catch up with them, especially after they start killing innocent folk.
Yep, Bare Behind Bars is kinda nutty – and the poor dubbing doesn’t help make sense of proceedings – but it’s filled with wall-to-wall nudity and hard-core sex scenes.
It makes TV’s Prisoner (even the recent remake) look pretty bloody lame by comparison.
Only in the movies would a women’s prison be entirely populated by hot lesbian prisoners and staff. Seriously, there’s not a single Bea Smith or Joan “The Freak” Ferguson to be found.
Which is a pity…Lizzie Birdsworth always gave me the horn!
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Horror Block for April: The unboxing (or "This was nearly 28 days later than I thought it'd be")
LAST month's Horror Block took its own sweet time getting to my Sydney PO box, but it finally arrived last Friday. Sooooooo.....let's get started.
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Ooooooh......the anticipation.......
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Hmmmmmmm.......looks promising......
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OK. Well, I'm not a fan of the HELLRAISER series, but I *do* love Pop! Vinyls, so I'll hang onto this one. :)
OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!!!
I love love LOVE this 28 Days Later T-shirt. This right here makes this month's box worth getting.
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These are quirky. They're currently on display next to our spice rack above the stove.
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I'm not a big fan of patches, but this is kinda cool as a keepsake.
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Normally, I'd be over the moon about getting a Blu-ray. That's fantastic value in the Horror Block. Sadly, I did a big giveaway for this movie in my magazine a few months back, so I kinda know what it's about and it didn't really grab me at the time. I tossed it into my office "freebie" box, but I've just had a change of heart and will retrieve it, so I can watch The Editor as part of my "Halloween Month of Horror" project in October.
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There's usually at least one good article in this mag, so I'll flick through it, then pass my copy onto AW
OVERALL RATING FOR THE APRIL HORROR BLOCK:
A solid B. The T-shirt definitely elevated it from a B- or C+.
If you want to order your own Horror Block, head to https://www.nerdblock.com/.
Ooooooh......the anticipation.......
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| Yes! |
I love love LOVE this 28 Days Later T-shirt. This right here makes this month's box worth getting.
I'm not a big fan of patches, but this is kinda cool as a keepsake.
Normally, I'd be over the moon about getting a Blu-ray. That's fantastic value in the Horror Block. Sadly, I did a big giveaway for this movie in my magazine a few months back, so I kinda know what it's about and it didn't really grab me at the time. I tossed it into my office "freebie" box, but I've just had a change of heart and will retrieve it, so I can watch The Editor as part of my "Halloween Month of Horror" project in October.
There's usually at least one good article in this mag, so I'll flick through it, then pass my copy onto AW
OVERALL RATING FOR THE APRIL HORROR BLOCK:
A solid B. The T-shirt definitely elevated it from a B- or C+.
If you want to order your own Horror Block, head to https://www.nerdblock.com/.
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Zines ain't dead.....just coughing up blood
Biblio-Curiosa #6: Bad poetry (William Nathan Stedman), sick perversion among the upper classes (Ride The Nightmare byWard Greene), murder and madness in Sydney (Twisted Clay by Frank Walford) and the tragic story of Fergus Hume, who wrote one of the 19th century’s most successful detective novels, The Mystery Of A Hansom Cab. Yes, it’s another instalment in Chris Mikul’s endlessly fascinating series that covers the most obscure, bizarre books ever published. Thanks to Biblio-Curiosa, I now own my very own copy of Hume’s first and greatest book. Chris Mikul, PO Box K546, Haymarket, NSW, 1240, AUSTRALIA, cathob@zip.com.au [AUD$5/email for overseas prices, 48S, :60]
Unbelievably Bad#18: A Ross Radiation cover kicks off another fine effort from the UB crew. I didn’t get much out of most of the band interviews (as I’m just not into metal, hardcore or punk), but there was plenty of other grubby goodness to keep me satisfied. A comprehensive checklist on Chopper Read merch was informative and probably revealed waaaay too much about me. I have collected a disturbing amount of it over the years. His children’s book Hooky The Cripple is actually quite good, I liked The Smell Of Love CD (I wish I hadn’t given away my copy because it’s next to impossible to find nowadays), and Choppper Heavy was a surprisingly tasty dark beer. The Never Plead Guiltyboardgame was physically harmful (courtesy of the electric shocks administered to unlucky players), so I give Chopper credit for that – I sent my copy to a friend in Chicago. I never tried Chopper’s Nuts, which makes me sad. That said, the article forgot the Chopper Read bobble-head, which I bought in a toy shop in Parramatta, so that makes us even.
Unbelievably Bad, c/- Von Helle, 9 Ross Street, Dulwich Hill, NSW, 2203, AUSTRALIA unbelievablybad@optusnet.com.au [AUD$8 or e-mail for details if from overseas 68M :40]
Rojonekku Word Fighting Arts 3&4: #3 offers more thoughtful, poetic, dense thoughts and essays by West Virginian redneck philosophyer Raven. If you get into the rhythm of his beat-poet stylings, it is quite eloquent and beautiful, but it’s also hard work. #4 is more accessible as it’s short essays on his favourite songs playing on a mystical jukebox hooked up to a tree in Raven’s backyard. It’s strange, but it works. Each package I receive (they’re sent to me in lots of two) feature original haikus, which are the highlights for me.
Raven Mack, PO Box 270, Scottsville, VA, 24590, USA. www.rojonekku.com [email for prices, 40S, hours…literally hours]
Long Gone Loser #15: Damo returns with tons of reviews and pix of all the good things in life. Y’know…Debbie Harry, Elvira, Rene Bond, punk rock bowling, France and Kitten Natividad! The zine’s highlight is a very funny piece on Damo’s teenage punk band Spiders In the Biscuit Jar. Part Unbelievably Bad, part Betty Paginated, all good. Welcome back, Damo.
Damien Hughes, PO box 411, Hahndorf, SA, 5245, AUSTRALIA. https://longgoneloser.wordpress.com[email for prices, 24S, :40]
Stratu’s Diary Comix Nov. & Dec. 2015: The mad bastard finally did it! A year of diary comix detailing the day-to-day existence of the talented Sydney artist during 2015. Equal parts compelling and mundane, Stu’s yearlong project inspired me to do the same this year. The fact I could only manage two months before giving up shows how much dedication and commitment it takes to undertake such a huge project, so kudos to Stratu. It’s not for everybody and I agree with the criticism that perhaps it’s a little too superficial at times, but let’s be honest here: it’s Stratu’s diary comix and he can write about whatever the fuck he wants. Which he did. More power to him.
Stratu, PO Box 35, Marrickville, NSW, 2204, AUSTRALIA. blackguard23.livejournal.com [email for prices, 10M, :20]
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Horror Block for August: Psycho!
THRILL me, Nerd Block. Your horror sampler box sucked, but let's see if this box - the first of a new three-box subscription - has anything that grabs my attention.
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Horror Block for September: Shit
Luckily, I found a friend on Facebook who was happy to take it off my hands with a beaut T-shirt swap. Thanks, Vixsin.
FINAL THOUGHTS: By far the worst Horror Block I've received. Very disappointing, especially the filler crap like the pendant and that dumb doll's head. I'm glad I cancelled my subscription with the October box. Hopefully, next month's box - which is a Stephen King special - will redeem this whole deal.
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Memories of Max
I THINK it was THAT bowling action that first caught my attention as a child: the awkward run-in as he approached the bowling crease – limbs seemingly going in four different directions – followed by the strangest bowling delivery I’d ever seen. Not tight and powerful like Dennis Lillee or stretched and silky like Jeff Thomson. Frankly, his bowling action was a mess.
No wonder Max Walker’s nickname was “Tangles”.
But I loved him all the same. He was the clumsy, goofy guy in the all-powerful Australian cricket team of the mid-70s. Not express pace like Lillee or Thomson – he was politely referred to as fast-medium – but he was the workhorse of the side, bowling over after over, giving little opportunity for the opposing batsmen to score and shoring up one end while Lillee and Thommo tore them up in short bursts from the other end. It was the perfect bowling combination.
And sometimes, when they played in friendlier conditions like England, Max was able to shine and show what a true swing bowler could do.
Bloke could bat a bit, too. And before he played Test cricket for Australia, he’d also played VFL (now AFL) footy for Melbourne. A two-sport talent our Maxie.
I adored him. He was my idol – years after he retired I got my uncle in Naracoorte to get his signature at an after-dinner speaking engagement. I treasured that autograph. I think I still have it packed away somewhere with my other childhood memorabilia.
Max Walker was born in Hobart, Tasmania on September 12, 1948. After a successful Aussie Rules career in his home state, he was signed by the Melbourne Demons in 1967 and went on to play 85 senior games before quitting to focus on playing state cricket regularly for Victoria in 1971.
He played his first Test for Australia against Pakistan in 1973. He went on to play 34 Tests for Australia – he scored 586 runs with a batting of 19.53 and a highest score of 78 not out; he took 138 wickets at an average of 27.47 and best figures of 8/143.
After he retired in 1981, Max got into guest speaking and co-hosting Wide World Of Sports with Ken Sutcliffe on the Nine Network. I watched those blokes banter back and forth for years on a Saturday arvo. Max was such an amiable, likeable guy.
He wrote books, too. Lots of them – mainly cricket anecdotes and tall tales. His books had silly titles like How To Kiss A Crocodile and How To Puzzle A Python. They were classic Christmas stocking fillers and you can find a ton of them in second-hand bookshops these days.
He kinda faded from the limelight after the late 90s and I didn’t think much of him. Max was just there. A comforting reminder of more innocent days past.
It was September 28 when I read the news at work that he’d passed away. Cancer. Been ill for some time, apparently. I shed a quiet tear – my childhood heroes are dropping like flies.
The last time I recall Max getting a call-up to the big team was for a 50-over day/night game in 1981. One-day cricket – with its batsmen-friendly wickets – wasn’t kind to bowlers like Maxie and he didn’t last long.
In what I believe was his final appearance with Australia, Max bowled early – in fact, he may have even opened the bowling that night. He trundled in – a mess of arms and legs as usual – and hurled down a short-pitched delivery that bounced safely over the batsman’s head…and kept soaring. And soaring. Over the wicketkeeper’s head and away to the boundary for four wides. It was the most extraordinary delivery I’d ever seen. I don’t think they let Max bowl much after that in the game.
And that’s my lasting memory of the great man. Uncoordinated, unconventional and unpredictable to the end.
RIP Max Walker 1948-2016
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MOVIE REVIEW: Boys In The Trees (Australia, 2016)
Boys In The Trees (Australia, 2016)
Dir. Nicholas Verso
CAST: Toby Wallace, Gulliver McGrath, Mitzi Ruhlmann
I WANTED to like new Australian horror/fantasy film Boys In The Trees, I really did. There's something fascinating to me about a film set in the dark, pre-mobile phone world of 1997. The soundtrack - inspired by Triple J back when it was good - was memorable. The creepy feeling of impending doom. The jump scares with little brats jumping out at inopportune moments to spook other characters. The beautiful cinematography. Hell, I even enjoyed the underlying themes of growing up, mateship, the need to belong, betrayal and the fear of taking the big leap into the genuinely scary world of adulthood.
But the flaws are too many for me to give it a thumbs up. Firstly, the acting is atrocious. Secondly, the "shocking reveal" was telegraphed halfway through the film, rendering the "twist" decidedly unshocking. I also question the heavy reliance on Halloween as a theme. Halloween may be big in a few rich white suburbs nowadays, but it's nowhere near as big as it is in America. And it DEFINITELY wasn't big in Australia in 1997. So I call shenanigans on a whole suburb going apeshit bonkers over Halloween. Maybe in America, but not in Melbourne.
Also, two rich teens bemoaning their boring lives and telling each other, "We have to leave this town" by moving to New York City and Canada, respectively, rings false to me. Maybe if they lived in Melbourne in the 1950s. Or in the country. But Melbourne in 1997? I don't think so.
Or maybe that's just the bad acting that made me feel this way.
Anyway, I can't give Boys In The Trees more than 5/10.
* NB. I just read another online review that states the movie was filmed and set in Adelaide. But I swear I heard one female character refer to Flinders Street railway station, which is in Melbourne. Ultimately, it doesn't matter as Boys In The Trees strives to be international in flavour despite its Aussie setting.
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Horror Block for October: Got Sole!
I wasn't into the book or movie. So I guess I'll sell it on eBay.
An authentic signed pic from my fave Halloween gal? Yes!!!!! That's worth the price of this box alone!
(Actually, PJ's included in this box 'cos she also starred in Carrie, but she'll always be that sexy Halloween chick to me!)
A Dark Tower print. Meh. Onto eBay it goes.
FINAL THOUGHTS: The box kicked off badly with that T-shirt, but I loved the autographed photo, key holder and Pennywise dolly. All in all, a strong way to finish off my subscription.
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Article 1
DEAR AMANDA,
Please forgive me.
I’m afraid I fell a little out of love with you for a while and I want you to understand why.
I first became a fan of your punk-cabaret stylings in 2011 when I saw you perform on Australia Day at the Sydney Opera House.
I was instantly smitten by your talent, charismatic stage presence, beauty, OUTRAGEOUS CONDUCT and your incredible connection with your fans.
Yes, like so many others, I became an instant fan. I attended all your subsequent Sydney gigs over the years and bought the CDs, T-shirt, poster, book, etc,
Two years ago, I signed up to your Patreon because I BELIEVED in you and I believed in your right to be an artist without having a bullshit record company stifling your creativity.
And then you had a baby.
I was happy for you, but it felt like your priorities had changed, which was perfectly natural considering the dramatic change in your life.
I don’t know what I expected from Patreon, but it felt like the $10 I paid every time you created “a thing” seemed to be going towards podcasts (which would subsequently be posted for free on YouTube anyway) and some self-indulgent singles.
The Bowie covers album was fine, but I’d rather hear Bowie sing his own songs than hear someone else’s interpretations.
The record with your father was...nice.
The “thing” that hit me hardest was your latest release, Piano Is Evil, what I regarded as a pointless reworking of your raucous, flawed Theatre Is Evil album.
I’d had enough – I cancelled my Patreon. I felt my money could be better spent on other artists’ Kickstarter projects.
But I still had a ticket to last Saturday’s show, An Evening With Amanda Palmer, at the Sydney Opera House.
I went, but I felt like a fraud when I took my seat among the near-sell-out crowd. I wasn’t an Amanda Palmer fan anymore.
The show began shakily. Support act Brendan Maclean played one song, then introduced Amanda to a delirious audience.
The first few songs were fine, if a little predictable, including an inept rendition of The Killing Song from Piano Is Evil.
Amanda seemed relaxed, though, and was happy to chat at length between each song about the women’s march against Donald Trump in Sydney that day, motherhood, Nick Cave’s gig the previous night and so forth.
“I’m so glad I quit,” I thought to myself as she launched into a preamble about how she now had the freedom through Patreon to record “10-minute” songs with her friends.
“Bloody hell,” I thought.
And then Amanda sang A Mother’s Confession and I laughed. And I was moved.
I’m a dad and I understand the trials and tribulations of bringing up a baby – things go wrong, you constantly second-guess yourself and you’re terrified every other parent is judging you...and finding you wanting. You navigate on a sea of confusion and stress.
A Mother’s Confessiondetails every disaster – big and small – that befalls Amanda as the mum of a young baby.
But every mistake is forgiven because, as the chorus declares, “At least the baby didn’t die…”
Next came Amanda’s explanation why Harry Chapin’s Cat’s In The Cradle is the greatest song about bad parenting ever made, then proved it with her electrifying version.
After that, I was rapt and the show never let go of me.
The show’s joyousness was tempered by an air of melancholy, despair, anger and hope following Trump’s ascent to the POTUS. It added an edge to proceedings that I’d not felt at her previous shows.
Brendan returned to the stage for a humorous interlude that saw local artist Alli Sebastian Wolf invited on stage to show off her bejazzled sculpture of a clitoris, aka “Glitoris.”
I couldn’t help but laugh again.
Brendan was also there for the show’s most powerful moment when he introduced the next song with chilling examples of the homophobia he faces every day before they launched into the beautiful duet Glacier. It earned a standing ovation from the crowd, the first of three for this concert.
After Glacier came Neil Gaiman’s spoken word piece, a reading of Leonard Cohen’s Democracy, which was perfect for this day.
Amanda finished the show with a frenzied version of Coin-Operated Boy, earning her a second ovation. She quickly returned for a more light-hearted encore, with uke versions of Map Of Tasmania (with a guest appearance from Glitoris) and, obviously, Ukulele Anthem. Ovation No. 3.
I left the concert hall a’buzz – this had been an awe-inspiring gig, possibly the best I’ve ever seen from Amanda.
The next day I re-signed to her Patreon and you should, too.
AMANDA FUCKIN’ PALMER, I promise I will never leave you again. Your extraordinary talent is a beacon of light during a dark time in our history.
Continue to shine on.
And please forgive me.
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MARCH ZINES ROUND-UP
HARD-COPY zines - yes, they still exist. Obviously.
I don't receive as many as I used to, but here are a couple that landed in my mailbox in recent months.
SPRAK! Vol. 2 No. 12 (Kami McInnes, PO Box 278, Edwardstown, SA, 5039, AUSTRALIA or cammy@bigbutton.com.au) has been around forever and is still the same delicious mix of bad movies, blood, babes and beer. This time round, Kami focuses on an Ozploitation Special that features reviews of some well-worn faves (Howling III, Patrick, Chain Reaction, Stone) and more obscure titles like Pandemonium, Demons Among Us and Flange Desire. There are also reviews of some classic soft-core pornos such as the underrated Felicity and the crazy Coming Of Age starring ex-AC/DC frontman Dave Evans. Kami writes with enthusiasm and respect for the film-makers. Sure, some of these flicks are low-budget shite, but they all have SOME redeeming features and Kami is more than happy to point them out to the reader. I want to thank him, too, for turning me onto Terry Bourke's 70s horror flicks Inn Of The Damned and Night Of Fear. I recently bought them as a double-DVD in Newtown. Noice!
Stu is back in 2017 with a second volume of STRATU'S DIARY COMIX (Stratu, PO Box 35, Marrickville, NSW, 2204, AUSTRALIA or http://blackguard23.livejournal.com/). The January issue comes with a personalised cover, which is pretty damn cool. "I'm doing these for - at least - January and February," he informs me. If that's not enough to entice you, then Stu's day-by-day comic diary will keep you informed and entertained on the life and times of one of this country's premier underground artists and zinesters. As he puts it on my personalised cover: "Good mail days...Instagram obsession...internet shopping addiction...and much more!"
B&W copies are AUD$4pp ($5 overseas), while colour copies are $9 ($10 overseas).
UNBELIEVABLY BAD #19 and #20 (AUD$9 from Von Helle, 9 Ross Street, Dulwich Hill, NSW, 2203, AUSTRALIA or email unbelievablybad@gmail.com or head to unbelievablybadmag.com).
High-quality, square-bound, full-colour covers and 68 A4 pages of rock'n'roll goodness.
Issue 19 has a lot of articles that will appeal to different people, but my personal highlights were a feature on a guy who hung out in prison for a time with Port Arthur massacre gunman Martin Bryant. Eye-popping stuff...the final instalment of UB's never-ending interview with gore flick pioneer Herschell Gordon Lewis (although nobody, let alone HG, knew this was the case at the time)...the true story behind oddball 60s masked Australian pop band The Mystrys...and a piece on "The Two-headed Nightingale" Millie and Christine McKoy.
Issue 20 has a loving tribute to HG Lewis, the man who gave us Blood Feast, Two Thousand Maniacs and so much more...film reviews from Kami...and the amazing story of outsider muso John Watermann... Plus a ton of interviews with guys revealing a surprising amount of man-flesh in their photos.
Finally, editor Matt Reekie's editorial will break your heart. Anything I could say beyond that is inadequate, so I'll stop there. R.I.P. Angus.
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MOVIE REVIEW: Colossal (2016, USA)
I’M NOT certain what sorta audience Colossalis aiming for. I think audiences COULD get behind a quirky mash-up of Godzilla-style monster flicks and small-town romantic comedies, but what will they make of director Nacho Vigalondo’s main themes of alcoholism and domestic violence? What starts out as a fun, light-hearted fantasy turns into something dark and ugly, with a sad, ambivalent ending that is very un-Hollywood.
Gloria – played by the breathtakingly beautiful Anne Hathaway – is an unemployed writer who wastes away her nights drinking heavily and partying in New York City while being supported by her workaholic boyfriend Tim (Dan Stevens). When she lets him down one too many times, he throws her out of their apartment and she’s forced to return to her childhood home in a rural town.
She renews her friendship with school chum Oscar (Jason Sudeikis), who runs a bar. The easy-going bachelor offers her a waitressing job and they’re soon best buds, spending the wee hours after work boozing with Oscar’s buddies.
At this point, I was thinking Gloria and Oscar were gonna hook up, because he’s a chilled, fun guy unlike her uptight ex Tim. But Oscar has a dark past and it surfaces in an ugly manner soon after they learn the news that a giant monster is smashing up Seoul. It appears briefly every night and causes untold mayhem in the South Korean capital.
Through a few quirky coincidences, Gloria discovers that SHE controls the monster and it only happens when she walks through a playground near where she lives.
When Oscar follows her one morning and walks through the playground, a giant robot appears in Seoul. It seems there’s a strange link between the couple and the playground, but it takes us quite a while to find out what it is.
In the meantime, Oscar – who feels he’s done little with his life – is affected by the new-found power he now possesses as a skyscraper-toppling robot. Gloria is forced to take on the role of Seoul’s protector and fight her former friend.
And that’s where things turn really nasty. A few scenes between Gloria and the mentally disintegrating Oscar are almost unwatchable. Give credit to Sudeikis for taking a likeable character and, mid-way through, turning him into a genuine human monster.
Colossal is unlike any other film I’ve seen and goes in completely unexpected directions. It’s not perfect – and I suspect it won’t find much of a mainstream audience – but it is wholly unforgettable.
Oh, and Anne Hathaway is goddamn GORGEOUS. Sorry, I just had to say that again.
* Colossal– released by Transmission Films – will open in Australian cinemas on Thursday, April 13.
Watch the trailer HERE.
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MOVIE REVIEW: Raw (2016, France)
I WAS reminded me of a 1982 short story by Stephen King called Survivor Type while watching director Julia Ducournau’s shocking 2016 movie Raw. In the story, a crooked surgeon is marooned on an isolated island with only his surgical tools and a large suitcase filled with heroin. With nothing to eat on the island and unable to hunt for food after breaking his ankle, he makes the horrendous decision to amputate his foot and eat it to survive. Snorting vast amounts of heroin as a makeshift anaesthetic, the surgeon continues to amputate his limbs for food. With the lower half of his body gone, he eventually cuts off his left hand and muses, “Lady fingers…they taste just like lady fingers.”
It may class itself as an arty coming-of-age story, but Rawis PURE HORROR and easily one of the most disgusting films I’ve ever seen. It’s not hard when Raw deals graphically with the subject of cannibalism. I’m not surprised people passed out when it was screened at the Cannes Film Festival last year.
Mousy Justine (Garance Marillieri) arrives at veterinary school to join her big sister Alexia (Ella Rumpf), but part of the learning process is dealing with the, at times, extreme hazing from older students.
One bizarre ritual sees the newbies forced to eat raw meat. Alexia orders her younger sibling to do it, even though she’s a vegan. Almost immediately, Justine begins to notice physical changes – she develops a nasty skin rash, sexual feelings towards her gay roommate Adrien (Rabah Naït Oufella) and, more disturbingly, a craving for meat.Wolfing down burgers and consuming raw chicken from the fridge doesn’t seem to satisfy her carnivorous urges.
One night, there’s a freak accident and she accidentally severs Alexia’s finger. While contemplating the digit, Justine is overcome with desire and begins to greedily gnaw at it like a BBQ rib.
“Lady fingers…they taste just like lady fingers.”
Alexia eventually reveals a shocking family secret to Justine, a secret that you just KNOW will end in tears for everyone.
While I enjoyed Raw (despite my disgust) I feel like there were a few plot holes and a somewhat ambiguous ending. But there’s no doubting the movie’s…ahem, RAW power.
This is an extraordinary film, not least of which because both Marillieri and Rumpf are extraordinarily beautiful women and they spend large parts of it wearing very little. They ooze eroticism. And danger.
Raw may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but for those willing to put up with the gore, they will find it a thought-provoking experience that will stay with them long after the final credits roll.
* Raw– released by Monster Pictures – will open in Australian cinemas on Thursday, April 20. Watch the trailer HERE.
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MOVIE MONDAY REVIEW #2: Magical Mystery Tour (1967)
I'VE heard much about this TV special that the Beatles put together themselves soon after manager Brian Epstein's death. I'd read that it wasn't very good, self-indulgent and lacking Epstein's critical eye to pull it into some kinda watchable shape. But all I've seen is a clip from the film of the band singing I Am The Walrus, so I'd never really got a full gauge on its merits, good or bad.
Well, now I've finally seen Magical Mystery Tour and I can wholeheartedly tell you...
It is SHIT.
Imagine the worst home movies your dad ever filmed, add a healthy dose of psychedelic drugs and too-cool-for-school, ego-driven pop star vanity (decades before Kanye West was a sperm in his daddy's ballsack) and you'll get an idea of what this flick is like.
It's not that the film makes no sense - or even that it has no middle or ending - it's just that the whole project is...WORTHLESS.
And the Beatles aren't endearing, likable, reasonably talented actors like they were in A Hard Day's Night, which was heavily scripted, I'm sure. Instead, we get dreary ad-libbing by drug-fucked hairy muppets who can't act and think they're funny (but aren't).
Even the soundtrack can't save this mess.
Of the six Beatles songs,the title track and I Am The Walrus are fantastic. Your Mother Should Know is kinda music hall, but fine. The Fool On The Hill is pretentious twaddle. Flying is an instrumental consisting of forgettable psychedelic noodling, while Blue Jay Way is quite possibly the worst George Harrison sitar-saturated tune ever committed to record.
The "storyline" sees Ringo and his rotund Aunt Jessie get on a bus filled with eccentric passengers, including the other three Beatles.
The film's supposedly a comedy but the bus is run by vaguely sinister people and their adventures - as confusing as they are - get increasingly unpleasant.
In one scene, Aunt Jessie dreams she's in a restaurant where John Lennon plays a waiter who's repeatedly shovelling huge amounts of spaghetti onto her plate. As she throws it onto the ground and weeps uncontrollably, he keeps a shit-eating grin on his face, shovels the muck off the floor and throws it back on the plate. Apparently, this scene was included because it was a dream Lennon had had and when he told Paul McCartney about it, Paul suggested they put it in the film.
I wouldn't be surprised if this gross scene inspired Mr Creosote in Monty Python's The Meaning Of Life in 1983.
Elsewhere, Aunt Jessie falls in love with a nutty passenger called Buster Bloodvessel and they have a long dream sequence where they frolic on a beach. It goes on for way too long and is ultimately pointless.
Much of the film is filled with similarly unrelated, dull scenes. At one point, everyone enjoys a huge pub-style sing-along on the bus, accompanied by an accordion player. This would be okay except it goes on for ages and they're singing shit like Roll Out The Barrel.
The final scene takes place in a strip club and sees The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band accompany noted English stripper Jan Carson on stage while singing Death Cab For Cutie. It's perversely surreal but goes on for ages. Punters watching it on TV would have been wondering why they were being forced to watch a semi-pornographic striptease accompanied by a band doing deliberately bad cabaret.
Afterwards, the Beatles don swanky suits, hop on stage and sing Your Mother Should Know. Roll end credits.
Honestly, if my description has made this special all sound half-interesting, then I apologise. It's actually very boring, confusing and downright awful.
Even if you're a Beatles fan like myself, avoid Magical Mystery Tour and catch the next bus instead.
FINAL COMMENTS: I want a refund on my bus ticket. (2/10 - for two good songs)
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I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!
AFTER three years......the new issue of BP is out now. Email me (or comment below) if you're interested in buying a copy. It's 24 A4 pages of adults only ziney goodness. :)
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ZINE/COMIX REVIEW: Stratu’s Diary Comix
Stratu’s Diary Comix #1, #2: I’ve known Stratu for nearly 20 years, but I didn’t KNOW him till I read the first two issues of this fascinating comic/zine. Through words and pictures, Stratu gives readers a daily look at his life: the frustrations, fears, wonders and simple pleasures. It’s a great concept – the first two issues cover January and February of this year and I can’t wait to read March (partly ’cos I should be in it!).
Oh wait…I already CAN, because Stratu also posts full-colour diary strips every day at http://atomiser.blogspot.com.au/.
Stratu, PO Box 35, Marrickville, NSW, 2204, AUSTRALIA; sstratu@gmail.com; blackguard23.livejournal.com [email for price, 8 x A4 pages, reading time: 15 minutes]
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Four-book review #1
LAST Christmas, me and the family made our semi-annual pilgrimage to the dry, dusty mid-north of South Australia to visit Peterborough – a once-majestic railway town, now slowly dying in this post-railways era. Frankly, if my elderly parents didn’t live there we would have had no reason to come.
There’s not much in Peterborough. Hasn’t been for decades, since the days I first lived in the town in the late 70s and early 80s.
But we made a welcome discovery during our visit when we stumbled across a hidden gem: 229 On Main Cafe (housed in the old Capitol Theatre).
The kids loved exploring the spacious, renovated movie theatre: looking at the quirky bric-a-brac, old movie posters and rows of lollies in glass jars. Or playing on the vintage jeep and 1940s taxi while staring at the life-sized fibreglass statues of Marilyn Monroe and the Blues Brothers.
I contented myself to drink good coffee, wondering how I’d missed this place on previous visits (it had been open for several years) and trying to not think about my parents and their increasingly frail state.
The cinema was once a junk shop/second-hand store owned by Mrs White (as I knew her) – I remember as a 10-year-old buying “old” Marvel comics (c. late 60s) from there.
Now, it was cleaned up and converted into a hip cafe by her son and his wife. Despite Peterborough’s economic woes and the general oddness of such a cool joint existing in the town, it survives and seemingly thrives from the passing tourist trade going to and coming from the Flinders Ranges.
As for the junk once housed in the theatre, it had moved into a vacant shop next door. Me and the family took the opportunity to peruse it after a long, relaxed stay in the cafe.
The kids found a few games and toys and I was happy to find four interesting-looking books, which the owner wanted to sell to me for the grand total of two bux. I managed to beat him up to $5, but it was still a sweet deal...and an interesting experiment. Would they all be duds or would there be a few gems among the lot?
Skinhead Escapesby Richard Allen (New English Library, 1972)
I’VE heard much about this notorious series chronicling the misadventures of sociopathic East End criminal Joe Hawkins, but this – the third entry in the series – is the first one I’ve actually read. I certainly won’t be seeking out any more of them.
When the book opens, Joe is doing hard time in jail, but within the first four pages he’s made his escape and hatches a plan to make some quick cash. Along the way, he rapes a girl, steals a gun to aid him in a big robbery, shoots two cops, betrays numerous accomplices, avoids the incompetent police and a vengeful underworld who are chasing him, before finally being captured with pathetic ease. Which is a helluva lot of plot to pack into 125 pages.
In the foreword, Allen – in reality, a Canadian-born hack writer called James Moffat, who churned out a ton of pulp novels in the 70s – admits he only brought back Hawkins for a third instalment due to public demand. Which probably explains the rushed, perfunctory, “let’s get this shit on the bookshelves ASAP” writing style. It probably took Moffat a weekend to knock it together on his typewriter.
I read elsewhere that Moffat was a right-wing cunt and it’s obvious in Skinhead Escapes. He buries unions, working-class people, the Irish, Catholics, young people and youth culture in general. He has particular disdain for women, who are either whores or sluts who deserve to be raped. The most jaw-dropping moment comes when Joe’s victim finds out she’s pregnant and Moffat offers this little-known scientific “fact”:
“She thought hard about her torment. Pregnancy resulted not from the man’s ejaculation but a mutually responsive female orgasm. Had she actually spasmed when he reached his climax? She didn’t think so but...”
WHAT THE FUCK???
Throughout the book, Moffat has Joe espouse various fascist views and I think the reader is supposed to laugh at the scumbag’s ignorance. But as they’re actually Moffat’s views, then I’m not sure what we’re supposed to think.
For an idiot, Joe has almost mythical qualities that make him virtually untouchable while on the lam – until his final arrest during an anti-climactic ending, which seems to come from left field for no other reason than Moffat didn’t want to miss Monday’s last mail to post his manuscript to the NEL editors.
No character comes out of this book looking good. The author clearly despises Joe, but he has no respect for anyone else...except a couple of senior cop figures who are painted in a reasonable light.
Moffat’s writing style also leaves a lot to be desired. Everything is rushed, particularly the ending. Worse still, there are several supporting characters who are featured –seemingly to play a bigger part later in the book – only to vanish, never to be heard from again.
The most notable is fellow prison escapee and hardened gangster McVey, who seeks revenge on Joe. Several chapters are devoted to McVey chatting to his wife about his plans, yet nothing eventuates. Why did Moffat even bother writing about the guy if he wasn’t going to figure in the climax? To up the word count, I suspect.
Or maybe he popped up in a later book in this odious series.
I can see why people read Moffat’s books nowadays – hey, we all like a post-ironic guffaw, I suppose. But it’s hard to know who was the original audience for this nasty tripe. Joe repeatedly assaults, rapes or insults innocents – rarely confronting villains worse than him – making him a coward and utterly repugnant. The political views are abhorrent and the “social commentary” is appallingly inaccurate.
I assume it was marketed towards semi-literate skinheads who just liked reading about skinheads thumping people.
FUCKWITS, in other words.
Halloween III: Season Of The Witch by Jack Martin (Star, 1983)
THE book adaptation of the disastrous movie is kinda naff, but still a fun read with a delightfully nihilistic ending.
Dr Dan Challis is an overworked LA hospital medico with a vindictive ex-wife, two spoilt kids and a drinking problem. Around him, people gear up for Halloween, with the hottest item around being the garish masks made by the Silver Shamrock company.
Life changes for Challis when an hysterical old man clutching one of the masks is brought to the hospital. He keeps proclaiming that “They’re...going to...kill us! All of us!”
After he’s given a sedative to help him sleep, Challis staggers off to get some sleep himself but is awakened by screaming. He runs out to find the old man has been murdered – his face pulled from his skull – and the killer making a quick exit to the car park. Chasing after him, Challis sees the killer drench himself and the car with petrol, then set both alight.
Soon afterwards, Challis meets the old man’s daughter Ellie and learns he was a toy shop owner, who’d last been seen driving to Silver Shamrock’s factory in nearby Santa Mira.
The two join forces to investigate the factory and, suffice to say, things go from bad to worse. They’re soon knee-deep in a monstrous mystery involving a demented novelty toy maker, an ancient large gemstone imbued with demonic power, dozens of super-strong plastic robots and a monstrous plan to get 50 million unsuspecting children to don killer masks and plunge America into a nightmarish new world.
Challis and Ellie seemingly stop the mask-making madman and his minions, but there’s one final twist that undoes all of Challis’s heroic efforts.
As a tip of the hat to the first two Halloweenmovies, Martin throws in some red herrings early in the novel to give readers the impression that Michael Myers is lurking near the action. But he later makes it clear that they’re fictional in his world, with the first Halloween even being advertised as a part of a TV movie marathon.
Overall, I enjoyed this adaptation – I don’t know whether it makes me want to watch this much-maligned flick, but at least I now know it isn’t utter shit.
Disco by Chelsea Farrady (Horwitz, 1977)
CASHING in on the music fad at the peak of its popularity is this sexy potboiler published by my wife’s former employer, Horwitz, which went on to be fine porno publishers of AustralianPenthouse and Australian Women’s Forum.
Michelle is the queen of the New York disco scene, a middled-aged man-eater who runs the hottest club in town. But her past is humble – born and raised in poverty in New Orleans – and her love-life is scandalous, mainly involving her mother’s boyfriend, gangsters and deranged southern playboys. When an investigative journalist comes to interview her, will Michelle’s carefully created kingdom come crashing down around her ears.
Disco is topical, never dull and Michelle is a surprisingly sympathetic heroine (at least her younger incarnation is – she turns into quite the shallow bitch by book’s end). Still, a fun train read.
Creatures Of The Mistby Vern Hansen (Digit, 1963)
I PICKED up this oddball sci-fi book for the cover (a fanged chimpanzee leering ominously over a rocket leaving a planet’s orbit). I thought it was just artistic licence from a drunk cover artist, but it’s actually surprisingly accurate: the main villains in the book are a bunch of savage ape-like creatures.
This book is odd as the “hero”, Bruin, is actually an escaped convict, who’s kidnapped by a dying alien race (along with a stripper and a vacuous politician) to help repopulate the planet Sooloolia.
The three victims’ brains are placed in new alien bodies, but they quickly assume positions of power on Sooloolia due to their superior Earth cunning and strength.
But Bruin – now an emperor – soon his newfound power challenged by disaffected Sooloolians and the more savage Doonamian apes from the planet’s badlands.
There’s a climactic battle, which ends with Bruin taking on the Doonamian overlord one-on-one to decide the victors. There’s a surprisingly downbeat ending to Creatures Of The Mist, which shows that there was a time when sci-fi – no matter how lowbrow and hackneyed its origins – could afford to be weird and break stereotypes.
It was certainly a worthy novel to end this four-book experiment.
- Dann Lennard
COMING SOON: The Four-Book Sequel
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Farewell to a briefcase
THE briefcase is battered and beaten. It has been smashed over large men's heads at wrestling events, splashed with beer and spirits during drunken benders in seedy pubs, and been carted over much of Sydney when I've attended functions, screenings and parties straight after work.
The briefcase witnessed bar fights, naked ladies and more stupid horseplay than I ever thought possible. Yet, somehow, it remained sturdy and reliable for 18 years as I carried it to and from work.
The briefcase was presented to me as a farewell gift when I left my old newspaper in 1997. It's been an extension of me ever since. I've carried everything in that briefcase, sometimes till it was bulging at the seam: numerous books and magazines I read on the bus or train commute to work...bulky headphones...junk food...sex toys (don't ask)...groceries...changes of clothing...contraband (again, don't ask)...
But it's finally time to put the old girl down.
The hinges are busted, the woodwork is split in several places (being used as a weapon on a sweaty wrestler's noggin in 1999 didn't help the cause), the latches have started springing open at awkward times and, the final straw, a hole has appeared in the bottom of the briefcase rendering it non-waterproof. And in Sydney, you need your briefcase to be waterproof.Yes, it's going into the rubbish bin tonight. By tomorrow, it'll be buried under a ton of garbage at some local tip.
I may sound a bit melodramatic, but I'm gonna miss the damn thing. It's been a huge part of my Sydney life for nearly two decades.
I bought a new satchel at lunch. The salesman at Myers was very friendly and got me a great deal on it. In passing, I asked if he had any briefcases for sale.
"What? You mean the old square ones? There's hardly any of those made anymore. They haven't been popular for 20 years."
*Sigh*
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Book reviews: Four-play revisited
THE last time we went to Peterborough was this past April to visit my dad in a nursing home in a nearby town and visit my mum as she prepared to leave the house they’d lived in for 25 years and move into a nursing home, too.
Everything was pretty hectic during the few days we stayed at the old house, and it was probably for the best as I didn’t have a chance to get too sentimental and maudlin.
I didn’t even have the opportunity to visit all my old haunts one last time...but I did find time to make one last trip to 229 On Main Cafe.
Once more, I browsed the dusty bookshelves next door to it and retrieved another four cheap books from oblivion for nix ($2 the lot). Here’s what I found.
The Evil Firmby Brian McConnell (Mayflower, 1969)
500
THIS is an extraordinary true crime book, considering it was seemingly written (and probably released) mere weeks after the sensational trial that put London master criminals Reggie and Ronnie Kray behind bars for murder and other gangland-related crimes.
The facts of the crimes and case have been meticulously gathered by journalists from The Daily Mirror, before being knocked together by the author.
McConnell’s writing style is straightforward and brutal. He’s a man who calls a spade a Cockney cunt. Yes, Brian makes it pretty clear from the outset that he hates pretty much anyone who lives in the East End of London. If you replace the word “Cockney” with “Pakistani” and you could have the author up on charges of inciting racism. The disdain he has for these people is palpable.
The crimes committed by the Kray twins during the 1950s and 60s were many and varied, yet deep down they come across as insecure working class yobbos, desperate to better themselves by owning West End nightclubs and hobnobbing with celebrities and the upper class. It’s endearingly pathetic...almost.
Apart from detailing the Krays’ horrific rise to power, McConnell describes the modern history of London’s gangland going back to the 1920s and goes into great detail about not just the Krays’ activities, but also their rival gangs.
To be honest, the twins were by no means the most vicious mob plying their trade back in those days. Brutal beatings and torture – even of their own gang members –was par for the course for these guys. You seemed to be worse off if you WERE a criminal than if you weren’t.
The one thing I found most curious was how McConnell steers clear of mentioning Ronnie Kray’s homosexuality. There’s just one glaring line about Ronnie being arrested by police who found him “sharing his bed with a young boy”. Nothing is said again about it.
The Krays spent pretty much the rest of their lives in prison. Ronnie died in 1995, while Reggie was released a few weeks before his death in 2000.
The book is a fascinating read, despite McConnell’s curious prejudices. I like to think he was an ex-Cockney himself, filled with self-loathing.
NOTE: I was inspired to buy this book after again seeing Monty Python’s classic skit, The Piranha Brothers, which also came out soon after the trial concluded. While spoofing the Kray twins, the long sketch – arguably the finest work the Python boys did in their TV series – is remarkably accurate in describing the sadism, violence and perversion that surrounded the Krays and their rivals.
The Boysby John Burke (Pan Books, 1962)
THIS is an adaptation of a British telemovie that purports to expose the dark underbelly of teen rebellion and the Teddy-boy lifestyle. It’s actually an intriguing courtroom drama with a fun mid-book twist, but suffers a flat ending due to a curious case of middle-class morality.
Four male teens go on a rampage through London one evening, ending with an attempted break-and-enter that goes wrong and leads to the death of a nightwatchman.
Everyone – including the prosecutor (who’s suffering marital issues in an unnecessary sub-plot) – thinks the case is cut and dried, especially as one witness after another is trotted out to relate the boys’ antisocial behaviour that evening.
However, at this point, Burke turns things on its head. The defence attorney Montgomery (played in the movie by Robert Morley) begins to chip away at the testimony of the various witnesses, giving a plausible explanation for every action of the Teds that evening and how much of their behaviour can be explained away by youthful high spirits, misunderstandings and resentment towards people who judge books by their covers. These aren’t violent criminals, says their lawyer, they’re just lads having a night out, but being picked on for their raucous behaviour, long hair and loud clothes.
At this point, I thought The Boys was a bloody good read.
Sadly, there’s one final twist in the tale that undoes everything that’s come beforehand, making Montgomery look like a fool and reaffirming the readers’ prejudice about those “bloody Teds”. Disappointing really.
The Ms. Squad #1: Lucky Pierre by Mercedes Endfield (Bantam Books, 1975)
FEMINISM clearly terrified this author (not actually a woman or his real name, I suspect) when he wrote this sexy-but-misogynistic novel, which appears to have been some inspiration for Charlie’s Angels (which hit TV screens a year later). If it didn’t, then I find the coincidences astounding.
Even the cover blurb states, “These three angels rush in where male fools have tried – and failed!”
Three beautiful women – who consider themselves smarter and more talented than the men who surround, employ and exploit them – meet by chance and realise they have a lot in common. They join forces and decide to recreate famous botched robberies, only this time they’ll succeed, thereby proving women’s superiority over men.
Sounds a lot like Charlie’s Angels to me...except these gals are crims, not cops.
Along the way, they fall foul of a male suave super-spy and some nasty Mafia types before triumphing and setting things up for the next novel. Who knows if that ever came out?
It’s a dumb, trashy read that relies on too much male stupidity and the main characters’ dumb luck to push the story along.
The Invaders: Dam Of Death by Jack Pearl (Whitman, 1967)
COMPANIES like QM put out a ton of these licensed novels for children based on various popular 60s TV series (I have similar hardbacks for Combat and Lassie). I grabbed this one because I’ve never seen The Invaders, but I’ve heard good things about this sci-fi TV series.
David Vincent is fighting a one-man war against alien invaders, but no-one believes him when he says Earth is threatened, so he must fight on alone, unable to trust anyone, against a hidden foe who can assume the shape of any human, including David’s closest friends and family. The series sounds like a mix of The Prisoner, The Fugitive and Invasion Of The Body Snatchers.
In this book, the invaders take over a small Caribbean island containing a large dam that can create enough hydro-electricity to transport thousands of aliens to Earth. It’s up to David and some new-found allies to stop them. Unfortunately for them, one of his friends is a traitor, and David finds himself a prisoner of the evil aliens.
These books are a breeze to read with obvious plot twists and endings that are never in doubt, but I still kinda enjoyed the paranoid element to Dam Of Death, not to mention the seedy violence, which was probably a big attraction to kids who read it.
- Dann Lennard
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The greatest issue of the greatest porn magazine ever!
BACK when I was a teenager - in the mid-80s - Knave was the bee's knees when it came to grumble mags. The English publication had hot pictorials, a sharp sense of humour, literate reviews of interesting books and movies and....although I didn't appreciate it at the time...fantastic interviews and fiction by staffer Neil Gaiman. Yes, THAT Neil Gaiman.
Many years later, I read a biography on Gaiman and he explained that the editor at the time, Ian Pemble, was trying to do something different with Knave, producing a smarter-than-average wank mag. Obviously, that changed when he left the helm, because Knave eventually degenerated into the bog-standard type of periodical that most porn critics would expect: all cunt and no cleverness.
But Knave really was a cut above back the pack in 1984.
I found this particular issue cheap at a second-hand bookshop in the seaside village of Victor Harbor, South Australia, while on holidays in April.
Everything else in the shop was woefully overpriced, but this gem was being sold cheap for some reason. A wave of nostalgia splashed over me, so I bought it.
Little did I know itwas a classic issue in a classic run of issues.
It's cool enough that the Christmas 1984 edition features a Neil Gaiman interview with Bill Oddie (back when he was still fresh in the British public's minds after a long stint on TV's The Goodies. Who knew he'd swiftly become all-but-forgotten in his homeland, loosely remembered for being an eccentric birdwatcher and the oddball friend of fictional clown Alan Partridge, yet revered in Australia as a comedy genius for the next 30+ years?).
However, making things even sweeter is the inclusion of an original short story by Alan Moore (yes, THE Alan Moore).
It's not a particularly good story. But it IS Alan Moore, and that's something to celebrate.
Throw in a review of Vanessa Del Rio's new stick-flick Viva Vanessa! - including two pics of the X-rated legend that I've never seen before (and I'm a Vanessa aficionado) - and you have what I consider to be the PERFECT top-shelf mag.
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More Pages to Explore .....
