A Homage to the “tit and fang” film

Christopher Lee as Dracula

Philip Larkin (the dead poet of “They fuck you up, your mum and dad” fame that is, not the Philip Larkin who occasionally contributes to this blog) during his time as librarian at Hull University in the 1970s was said to have  complained to a friend about the lack of late night horror films on regional TV at the time, claiming ‘We’re absolutely starved of tit and fang up here.”  It is of course conceivable that the other Philip Larkin holds similar views.  But I couldn’t possibly comment on that.

Larkin was referring to that unique, but long gone staple of the British B-movie industry, the Hammer horror.  A classic combination of gothic horror - plundered from the literary works of Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley, Dennis Wheatley and Sheridan le Fanu among others and endlessly recycled – and soft porn.  Cheaply made and featuring a regular cast of actors, such as Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee and Barbara Shelley, the Hammer films would be considered quite tame by modern standards, not to mention tacky with their extensive use of unrealistic rubber bats and plastic fangs from Woolworths, but nevertheless are still highly entertaining to watch today.

Phil Barker in his review of Sinclair McKay’s history of the Hammer films, A Thing of Unspeakable Horror, published in the Observer sums up the genre perfectly:

“Hammer gave us a world all their own, a place with Home Counties woodland masquerading as Transylvania (it was Black Park near Slough), heavily cleavaged vampire women, lashings of fake blood with a strange milkshake texture, and the occasional bad sets, particularly in the later films, as if Dracula lived in a branch of the Angus Steak House. It’s immediately recognisable, this land where ‘the inns are full and boisterous only until someone mentions a certain word’, and McKay does a tasty job of evoking it. We all remember the red lining of Dracula’s cape, but what a pleasure to be reminded of Peter Cushing’s eyeball, suddenly seen huge through a magnifying glass as he examines the brain.

I realise The Dreaming Arm is in serious danger of becoming a branch of the Kate Bush fan club at this stage, but to celebrate Hallowe’en, here’s her very own tribute to the Hammer films – Hammer Horror .  In contrast to the very heavygoing “This Woman’s Work” of the last post, “Hammer Horror” is a light-hearted and tongue-in-cheek number, in which Kate takes a leaf out of Alice Cooper’s book.  Dracula will be turning in his grave.  And then he’ll get out of it and find some healthy young virgins to suck the blood of. 

Kate Bush: Hammer Horror

Premium Bond: What next for 007?

I saw the latest James Bond flick Quantum of Solace recently, not really knowing what to expect.  I was pleasantly surprised.

It’s remarkable that the Bond saga is still going after all this time.  The series has proved its resilience and enduring timeless appeal by overcoming two of the greatest obstacles to its survival – the ending of the Cold War and the advent of political correctness.  Bond changes his appearance (and sometimes his accent) every few years and never seems to age, yet no-one bats an eyelid. 

Unlike that other great icon of popular culture Doctor Who, who is a Time Lord and thus has the power to regenerate when about to die, Bond is a mere human who has no such faculties.  Instead 007 simply reinvents himself as and when required – with no plausible explanation of course, but then no-one really cares – the Bond films are essentially pure escapism at its best.  They complement each other perfectly with Bond as the man of action and Who as the thinking man.

And as if part of a bad joke told by a fat comedian at a working mens club Bond so far has been played by a couple of Englishmen, a Scotsman, a Welshman, an Irishman and even an Australian.  Who the best 007 was is open to much debate.  But it’s more or less universally acknowledged that it’s not George Lazenby.
Traditionlists will insist that that Connery is and always will be the definitive Bond, if not the only “true” Bond.
Frustratingly, Dalton could have been an excellent Bond, but his career was cut short by a protracted legal wrangle, resulting in a long gap of 6 years between films.  Two films just weren’t enough for him to fully establish his credentials or make his mark on the character.  If only he’d accepted the role earlier rather than turning the first couple of offers down.  We could have been spared the (almost) 60-year old Moore doing battle on the Eiffel Tower.  Moore, although not a bad Bond overall, was just a little too over-the-top with his excessive campness and outstayed his welcome in the role.  Brosnan, on the other hand was an excellent Bond, but his films weren’t that great.

The two greatest attractions of any Bond film are the exotic locations and (from a male point of view at least!) the glamorous women – two key elements of the successful formula which will remain no matter how many reincarnations Bond goes through.

Bond’s latest escapade is something of a departure from the norm.  No corny jokes or inappropriate terrible puns following the demise of a villain, no Q and his hi-tec gadgets, no outrageous flirting with Moneypenny.
The comic relief following a high drama car chase or fight resulting in the death of his assailant  – eg “positively shocking” on electrocuting a would-be assassin or “I think he got the point” on dispatching another with a harpoon – has been an essential characteristic of 007, yet glaringly absent from the Craig era so far.  We are also spared the blatant sexual innuendo and Bond’s abuse of the elaborate gadgets he receives like a child with a new toy much to the irritation of Q with his schoolmasterish “pay attention 007!” lines.
The literary purists would argue that such tongue-in-cheekery was in any case a grotesque send-up of the original novels and thus at odds with Ian Fleming’s authentic Bond, a dark and complex character bearing only a superficial resemblance to the wise-cracking hero of the early films.  However Craig’s portrayal of Bond in his two outings to date seems to have gone a long way towards rectifying this.  This isn’t a bad thing in itself, but I sincerely hope it’s a temporary blip, so that 007 can go back to his old ways without taking himself too seriously soon!

However one welcome change to the new Bond is the lack of clearcut distinction between the good guys and bad guys.  In the post Cold War era we have terrorists, deranged businessmen, deranged businessmen, corrupt politicians and rogue agents all pursuing their own twisted agenda and loyal to no-one but themselves.

Craig’s Bond isn’t a terribly likeable character (compared with the more easygoing charms of Connery, Moore and Brosnan), but then 007 is essentially a bit of a bastard.  He’s more concerned about getting the job done rather than being a nice person.  So treating women as disposable objects, sleeping with married women, driving recklessly at high speed through a crowded city centre in hot pursuit of a villain with no regard for the safety of others or the cold-blooded killing of anyone who gets in your way are all par for the course if you want to be a successful secret agent.

The fact that a film only comes out every few years keeps the series fresh.  There’s something particularly appealing about seeing a Bond movie on the big screen which you just can’t capture on TV.
Casino Royale went back to basics with Bond embarking on his secret service career and being assigned “double 0″ status at the beginning.  The series has thus been rebooted with a new timeline, effectively cancelling out the events of all the previous films as if they had never happened.  It was necessary to do this to breathe new life into the franchise and get away from the tired old formulas of the previous films.  However one major casualty has been the songs.  There hasn’t been a decent Bond film song for a long time.  The recent efforts are distinctly lacking in character are all a far cry from the classic tunes like Shirley Bassey’s Goldfinger, Louis Armstrong’s We have all the time in the World from On Her Majesty’s Secret Service and Rita Coolidge’s All Time High from Octopussy.

The new style may be less tongue-in-cheek, grittier and more sinister.  But as with every Bond film the plots and situations are totally implausible.  Our hero manages to emerge from violent confrontations and exploding buildings with little more than a few cuts and scratches.  And despite how dire his predicament may seem, we the audience know he can never die.  We are even mercifully reminded of this at the end credits with the famous “James Bond will return” line.  How very reassuring.

The Dreaming Arm will return

Separating the wheat from the chav

After Irish President Mary McAleese made a somewhat undiplomatic remark about comparing Protestants to Nazis a few years ago, the protests which accompanied her visit to a school in a loyalist area of Coleraine were not totally unexpected.

There was the inevitable lively debate on Slugger O’Toole which inevitably turned into another “them ‘uns is worse than us ‘uns” style sectarian bun fight, but what struck me were the semi-humorous comments directed at the socio-economic background of the protesting parents – a selection of which I’ve reproduced below:

“I can picture the scene, buggies with weans in them (for the cameras) waving flags. Assorted hoop earings XL XXL XXXL for the “ladies” and “discreet” for the “gentlemen” Rings on all fingers and cheap fags hanging from the lips. Fake designer trakkies for both genders thought “muffin Tops” a must for the ladies and the obligitory peroxide multi-toned hair colour.”

“Beer-Bellied, hairy-arsed layabouts-and that was just the women. All that was missing was a pair of duelling banjos.”

Another urged them to “get their fat arses off their sofas and away from the eejits lantern and they’ll get a chance to breathe in some fresh air instead of the usual diet of tobacco smoke and stale pub air.”

Other commenters (most of whom I think it’s fair to assume are well-educated and from middle class backgrounds) referred to the protestors as “gutter runners”, “chavs” and “ugly trampy women”.  While such comments were made half-seriously and half in jest and I did find myself amused by some, they do make an important statement on how a certain section of society is perceived. The social sub-class to which the protestors apparently belong, is not of course confined to the Protestant/loyalist community. Simply swap the Rangers shirts and the union flags which were on display for Celtic shirts and tricolours (but retain the fake tans, fake designer sportswear, cigarettes, prominent tattoos and the inexpensive jewellery known as “Argos bling”) and you have the mirror image from the other side.   One only has to think of the Republican Sinn Féin idiot protesting outside Croke Park holding up a placard saying “No to foreign games” totally oblivious to the irony that he’s wearing a Celtic shirt. 

 One could argue however that the problem is more acute on the loyalist side which harbours a disenfranchised working class in a post-industrial society no longer able to get jobs in traditional industries such as shipbuilding and linen who feel deprived of a coherent voice – but that’s another debate altogether which I won’t go into at this point (but if anyone reading this would like to discuss the topic further I’d be happy to continue – in fact a more discerning commentator on Slugger articulates this view, referring to a social grouping who are “not aided by a lumpen-middle class (well represented I suspect on this board) who cling to the notion that their own outdated politics and prejudices are somehow more respectable that that of their working class co-religionists.”) 

Instead my thesis will explore within the wider context the phenomenon of one of the most demonised groups in contemporary western society, the white underclass.

It’s easy to indulge in snobbery and elitism where chavery is concerned – something which I, myself in all my smug middle class complacency, am guilty of to an extent. It’s also difficult to write about the subject without coming across as patronising, but there’s no point in pretending we have a classless society, when we quite blantly do.

Chavs, spides, skangers, trailer trash – ubiquitous throughout the English-speaking western world. Stereotypes mix with reality in a confusing mish-mash amidst the council estates of South London, Liverpool, Glasgow, Dublin, Limerick and many other large cities, dreary provincial towns and downmarket seaside resorts across these isles. It’s not hard to conjure up the negative images – rows of rundown houses, each one sprouting a satellite dish, the almost compulsory burnt mattress in the garden, heavily tattooed muscular midle-aged men in the mould of Johnny Adair sporting chunky gold jewellery and sportswear walking pit bull terriers or rottweilers on leads, overweight young mothers, Sporty Spice lookalikes, wearing low-necklined top revealing huge rose or butterfly tattoo on the upper breast area, wheeling pushchairs, the child inside often of mixed race (cf Kathy Burke’s Waynetta Slob character “I want a braaaahhhnnn bybie!”), large gangs of hooded youths drinking cheap cider, abandoned pubs boarded up with wooden planks, or in certain parts of Dublin, scrawny tracksuited boys astride half-starved, malnourished horses.

Such characters enjoy their fair share of representation in popular culture, partcularly as objects of comic derison.  On television think Little Britain’s Vicky “Yeah, but no but” Pollard, Catherine Tate’s Lauren “I ain’t bovvered” character, Harry Enfield and Kathy Burke as “the Slobs”, the dysfunctional Battersby family in Coronation Street, Cletus, the trailer park-dwelling redneck in The Simpsons and the exploited guests who appear on the human zoos disguised as trashy daytime shows like Trisha or Oprah Winfrey.  In the pages of Viz comic we have the Bacon family, the fat slags and Tasha Slapper and in contemporary literature the novels of Irvine Welsh and Roddy Doyle pull no punches when it comes to the depiction of disaffected working class communities.

 

This section of our society is all too easy to mock and ridicule – like the proverbial shooting fish in a barrel. Chav-baiting has almost become fashionable.  Ironically the members of this sub-group within so-called “working class” allegedly don’t work and are branded by the reactionery right wing press such as the Daily Mail in the UK and the Sunday Independent in Ireland as dole-ite welfare scroungers and chain-smoking, beer-guzzling couch potato layabouts who have no intention of earning an honest day’s crust.  Ethnic minorities, homosexuals and the disabled are all protected by political correctness, but the indigenous underclass is supposedly fair game for satire and ridicule.  Racism, sexism, ageism are all banned by a militantly PC society, but classism is still very much alive.

Is it all about income and financial status though?  Not neccessarily.  The emergence of the “celebrity chav” as popularised by Wayne Rooney and Colleen Mc Loughlin, Katie Price and Peter Andre and former Big Brother contestant Jade Goody indicates that money doesn’t automatically convey respectability or acceptance. 

Michael Collins in his excellent book The Likes of us, a history of the white British working class (which I’ll admit I haven’t read, but have seen extracts on the Guardian website) with a healthy sprinkling of humour provides a succinct summary of the situation:

“Traditionally, the white working class would take to the street only for the end of a war or the beginning of a sale, with the exception of the death of a princess. Naturally there were other exceptional occasions: Jarrow marchers, the dockers responding to the Powell furore, and in the 1980s, in Southwark, there was rumour of revolt when the call went out for the muzzling of Staffordshire bull terriers. But more recently within the working class, there were those women taking to the streets against paedophiles. There were the taxi-drivers protesting during the petrol price debacle, and the Billingsgate porters’ bid to reclaim the streets when they marched to oppose London’s congestion charge. Those who champion democracy, direct action and single-issue pressure groups were suddenly referring to many of these protesters as “mobs”, and even suggesting that the police be sent in to form a thin blue line. Then there was the more pressing concern of a growing support for the British National Party. In Slade Green a BNP member beat the Tory candidate to second place in a by-election. Behind this “protest” vote – as it has been described in the press – are working-class whites in poor areas who believe they have been neglected and ghettoised, their views ignored.”

The meaning of the term “working class” however has become somewhat ambiguous. Skilled trades such as plumbing, carpentry and plastering, all traditional working class blue collar occupations are now in similar (if not higher)  income brackets to white collar professions such as teaching and the civil service – and have thus effectively become “middle class”.  With a university education no longer a guarantee of a good job, it seems that more and more middle class parents are now encouraging their children to become plumbers and electricians rather than get themselves into thousands of pounds in debt and end up as low-paid office clerks or call centre workers.

The real underclass among the native white population of these isles are the welfare state generation – what we call the “working class” don’t actually work – much like the upper classes of the traditonal aristocracy who tended to inherit money rather than earn it, and thus had no need to work.

Society has come full circle.

 

Mother Russia’s Forgotten Children

On the recommendation of Chekov from Three Thousand Versts I’ve just borrowed Lost Cosmonaut by David Kalder from my local library. Kalder, a young Russian-based Scot styles himself as an “anti-tourist” and goes off in search of obscure Russian republics very much off the beaten backpacker track. So little is known in the west about the now independent former Soviet republics such as Kazakhstan (apart from the false impression given by Borat, the odd Olympic medal-winning Graeco-Roman wrestler and a few cyclists like Alexandre Vinokourov who occasionally do well in the Tour de France), Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Kyrgystan and others. But even less is known about the semi-autonomous republics within the Russian Federation such as Tatarstan, Udmurtia and Kalmykia. Kalder deserves credit for visiting places no-one else wants to go to, which partially explains his fascination for them. I share this urge, myself, but to a much lesser degree. When I told friends a couple of years ago that I would be summer holidaying in Latvia and Lithuania, I was greeted with bemusement or “what do you want to go there for?” The simple answer is “because they’re there”.

Despite being rich in history and culture, Kalder’s destinations are distinctly unglamorous locations with little to do or see. Kalder makes no secret of this. The cultures of these regions have been heavily diluted following an intensive Russification policy at the behest of Stalin. Ethnic Russians were encouraged to move here and heavy industries were set up so the regions, rather than Moscow and its environs would bear the brunt of pollution and environmental degradation. However it’s the hidden heart of these regions which particularly fascinates him.

One frustrating thing about this book is the lack of a map to show where these places are. The reader is unable to get a clear idea of their location within the context of Russia or their proximity to neighbouring countries, mountains or coasts.

Nevertheless Kalder’s style is entertaining. The book does have a collection of photographs, mostly of dreary buildings and local curiosities which add to the book’s post-modern ironic tone. Kalder has also done his homework on the history of the places he visits. It’s certainly an innovative style of travel writing and one that looks set to be copied by others.