Heads You Lose

‘Gawain and the Green Knight’ is a story that dates from the late 14^th century. In it, a mysterious green hued axe wielding stranger enters King Arthur’s court and requests that someone behead him. The only person to take up the challenge is the youngest of the Knights, Sir Gawain, who borrows the axe and slices the man’s head clean off. Somewhat disconcertingly, the stranger picks up his severed noggin, places it back on his shoulders and says that he will see Sir Gawain at the Green Chapel in a year and a day at which point the stranger will have his turn, i.e. a go at hacking off Gawain’s head.

It’s a great opening. The story soon becomes a mystical romance with much mystical nonsense about foxes and girdles and kisses and, in the end, the Green Knight decides only to shame him, not to decapitate. I haven’t read it, of course, but I have hopefully conveyed the gist of it and the importance of learning. Director Stephen Weeks presumably has read the story, as he has made not one, but two film adaptations of it, which is particularly impressive bearing in mind that he only directed four feature films in total.

The first version, simply titled ‘Gawain and The Green Knight’ takes a lot of liberties with the text, inserting more exciting and action packed incidents from other medieval stories. It’s okay, and occasionally has a pleasantly strange European art film feel to it but, fatally, is a bit dull. Even worse,  ‘Monty Python and The Holy Grail’, which is clearly an extended parody of this film and others like it,  has rendered the original impossible to take seriously.

It gains points, however, for featuring two of Britain's greatest character actors, the capricious Geoffrey Bayldon and the waspish Murray Melvin. It then loses a point for having Robert Hardy in it, before regaining it simply because Hardy has such a ridiculous fucking haircut, which sounds, overall, like a win.

Where Science & The Occult Clash!

‘Nothing But The Night’ is a bit of a one off, which is wholly appropriate given that it was the sole product of Charlemagne Films, a company set up to make intelligent horror films but lost so much money that they folded before they could make a follow up.   

The narrative takes a while to come together but, ultimately, it turns out to be a curious mix of (to paraphrase the US poster) science and the occult, with some lovely Highlands and Islands scenery and a great cast, including Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee, Diana Dors, Kathleen Byron, Keith Barron, Fulton Mackay and Cassandra out of ‘Only Fools & Horses’ as a kid who WILL-NOT-STOP-SCREAMING and, ultimately, will utter the greatest lines ever spoken on film by a child:

"You've destroyed my dreams. I curse your cruel God"

At its core is a rather disquieting tale of child abuse in a remote orphanage, but perhaps not in the way that you might immediately think. There’s also a marvellous sequence in which dear old Diana Dors (playing a crazy, shouty clairvoyant) goes feral, running around the countryside evading the authorities like a chocolate munching Ray Mears in a ginger wig and red leatherette rain coat.

Little seen, somewhat neglected, this film always reminds me of a pleasing mix of ‘The Damned’ and ‘Scream and Scream Again’, and although it’s no kind of masterpiece, it nevertheless has strange ideas and weird horror at its core, and that’s like Turkish Delight on Toast for me.     

Nothing But The Night

The Fatal Floor

‘Polish a floor, put a rug on it – 
you might as well set a man trap’

Native American Wisdom

‘...and to think he’d just come from the hospital’

‘The Fatal Floor’ has to be my favourite Public Information Film. It works on so many levels it makes Escher look like a one dimensional idiot.

There’s the relaxed, jolly ‘Man About The House’style music; the happy woman who thinks she is helping, but is actually putting everyone in mortal danger, including a new born Grandson. Then there's the technical virtuosity: the sublime dissolve as the rug turns into the trap; the freeze frame finale, the shocked faces and the strangled, slightly comical off-screen cry. It makes you gasp, laugh, think and, most importantly, it makes it simply impossible for you to polish a floor and put a rug on it without knowing exactly what sort of hell you’re getting into.

Finally, I particularly like the sheer level of micro-management that the powers that be are getting into here. Are they really going to tell us what to do in our own hallway? Yes, yes, they are. It’s rather sweet. Nowadays you’re lucky if they let you have somewhere to live, let alone give a shit about how you keep part of it tidy.  

Indoor League A La Mode

I love ‘The Indoor League’ so much it’s on my permanent medical record. The first, Yorkshire-centric series was an unexpected teatime success in a number of ITV regions, so series two introduced a raft of new things to appeal to a national audience, like arm wrestling, pool, southerners, black people and, ulp, women...

Fiery Fred Trueman, of course, was unphased. He's been all over the world, and as long as he's got his pipe and a pint to pretend to drink he doesn't give a jot. His outfit here is interesting, a musty coloured suit of armour topped off with a helmet of jet black hair. His trousers and shirt are taupe, but his thick cardigan is somewhere between mould and mustard. Freddie can't wait to see the ladies darts, which he describes as 'two lasses showing us what their right arms are for'...

This 'lovely little lady' (as the commentator insists on calling her) is Mrs. Loveday-King from down in Cornwall, 'Daphne du Maurier country'. Her outfit is deceptively simple, but her choice of colour, imperial purple, sets the tone for the way she will sweep her opponents before her. 

Here we see Mrs. Loveday-King's darting stance. Text book. As the commentator says 'if you think that all a woman can throw is spuds into a sink, then take a look at this'. I've highlighted the semi-hirsute man to Mrs. L-K's left not just because he is looking at her as if he's wondering what kind of a fit her flayed skin would be, but because I am entertaining the idea that, if you search closely enough, you will find pictorial and photographic evidence of this man at every major event in history, holding a pint and leering at the goings on. I might have to wait until I retire to pursue that project - or at least remember which telly programme I unconsciously nicked the idea from.

Mrs. Anne Westbrook is pretty mod in comparison to the simple elegance of her opponent, but her Vidal Sassoon hair style, big yellow collar and suedette jerkin with vague Native American stylings can't stop her slipping behind almost immediately. She's clearly nervous,but eventually starts to get some decent scores. After all: 'most of these women play with the men - and not just with their affections - they play 'em at darts!'. 

There's that bloke again. I'm pretty sure he's one of the figures at the base of a Brueghel crucifxion, I'll have to get my modern apprentice to look into it. Mrs. Westbrook soon discards the jacket, instinctively realising that something heavy and tight around the arm holes is not an ideal uniform for organised sport.

To me, this shot says everything about the tense, combative nature of darts, a sport where you are up against yourself as much as your opponent - where all you can do sometimes is watch your adversary take their turn and hope for the best - or worst. 

Mrs. Loveday-King is flanked by her rather sharp in an 'I teach at the Technical College' way husband, as well as her surprisingly hip parents (that said, they're probably in their early forties - these days, they'd be on skateboards). To Mrs. Loveday-King's right is a lady in a black sleeveless cardi and a melange of purples with a huge collar. She's part of Team Loveday-King, but looks a little old to be her daughter. Younger sister, perhaps? Anyway, that's irrelevant, and merely serves as a way of avoiding addressing the pachyderm in the Irish Centre, her fringe - part pudding bowl, part Frankenstein's monster. Mind you, her expression hints at experimental brain surgery. If so, sorry.  

The family are overcome with joy as Mrs. Loveday-King triumphs, and Mum gets to show off her bold brown and light blue paisley print dress, which reminds me a bit of Coventry FC's notorious second away kit of the late seventies. The lady on the far right seems to be a better candidate for 'the sister', and her skin tight floral all in one and thick glasses make her look like Olive from 'On The Buses' after a a crash diet and a shampoo and set. Hubby's pleased. She'll be getting some tonight. Briefly.

Finally, a grudge match between 'the world number one' Jean Smith ('in the red Paras beret' and housecoat) and Kay Bradfield, who looks like Sheila Keith and, inexplicably, has come dressed as an extra from 'The Sound Of Music'.  

Mrs. Bradfield wins with a virtuoso display of furious darts that 'even the men would be proud of'. Her victory comes after a shaky start for both of them, when the commentator stated that they were 'feeling nerves' and wondered if 'the port and lemons were taking their toll'. Sexist pig.

'Indoor League' will be back soon. In the meantime, Freddie says something incomprehensible along the lines of catching you all later. 

Hairy Britain

Some nice electronics on this 1973 adult education film, and loads of hair. NOT pubic.

The Wrestling

More from my small but much loved collection of Wrestling memorabilia. There's a lot to like about this little flyer, but I particularly like the promise of the Tag Match between The Artful Dodgers and The Sepia Set. As this is 1973, I'm pretty sure that the latter will be a pair of black men.

His Majesty, Peter Wyngarde

I am now proud to present a clip from 1973 in which Russell Harty interviews a be-permed Peter Wyngarde about his role as the King Of Siam in a West End revival of ‘The King and I’.

You’re going to watch it, so I won’t make too many points in advance other than to note that Wyngarde is insanely self-assured, despite the fact that his characterisation of The King is 90% Yul Brynner rip off, 10% panto Wishy Washy (or is it the other way around?). I also find it interesting that Harty spends a lot of time asking Peter about his sex symbol status, even inquiring as to if he has any plans to marry. It’s inconceivable that he wouldn’t have known Wyngarde was gay (it wasn’t a secret in show business circles, where his nickname was Petunia Winegum), so he’s just shit stirring, really. Russell bloody Harty. No wonder Grace Jones clocked him one.

I'll be back on the 15th of April. See you then.

Armchair Theatre: Red Riding Hood

In retaliation to critics who sneered at commercial television for its crassness and vulgarity, ITV created Armchair Theatre, a series employing the best writers, directors and actors Britain had to offer, presenting an eclectic mix of classic plays and new works for television. The series quickly became a flagship show, and ran between 1957 and 1974. On occasion, audiences hit twenty million, which is quite incredible.

The early shows were performed live, with all the problems that can bring (in a 1958 show, an actor died during transmission and the rest of the cast, who thought he had simply been taken ill, had to work around it: ‘Well, if John were here, I bet he’d say…’). At first, the shows were simply ‘filmed plays’, static, from a single view point. Over time, however, the series developed a more fluid style, re-writing the technical and artistic conventions of TV drama as they went along.

As you might expect of landmark telly, many of the episodes have been wiped, but the good news is that there are still a fair few kicking about, so let’s count our blessings. The wonderful thing about the series was its variety: you never knew what you were going to get, and what it was going to be like, but you could be sure it would be worth watching.

Red Riding Hood is an ‘Armchair Theatre’ production from 1973 starring Rita Tushingham and Keith Barron. It’s a strange and compelling drama about Grace, an unhappy young woman whose life is made a misery by loneliness and debt and trying to juggle the demands of two elderly bedridden relatives (her whining father and her nasty grandmother) and an unfulfilling job in a library. With all this going on, she has become drab and lifeless, a person without pleasures or desires of her own. Oh, and she wears a natty red cape and caries a wicker basket.

Henry has seen Grace at the library, but they have never spoken. In order to meet and get to know her, he beats her grandmother to death with her walking stick and waits in her house for Grace to visit. When she does, he asks her to stay with him for a fortnight while her grandmother is ‘away’ – two weeks of total freedom, away from work and the world and all the drudgery of her everyday life. She readily agrees, and they spend their time getting drunk, eating spaghetti, tickling each other and (I assume) having sex. In the meantime, Grace’s pathetic Dad is starving to death, which is terrible but then he is really annoying.  

Grace is nowhere as naïve as she seems: she suspects that Henry has done away with her grandmother and soon discovers the evidence. Interestingly, she doesn’t care: granny was a nasty old bag anyway.

At the end of the two weeks, things get unusual, and it becomes impossible to distinguish between the real and the imagined. It is unclear how much of what has happened has merely been Grace’s fantasy but, in any event, the pressure eventually drives her out of her mind.

‘Red Riding Hood’ was written by John Peacock, an interesting author who was also responsible for ‘The Smashing Bird I Used To Know’ and ‘Straight On ‘til Morning’, a 1972 Hammer film that covered similar ground (a love affair informed by mental health issues), and also starred Rita Tushingham. Rita is great in roles like this, sinister in her wide eyed but overgrown innocence: childlike, but manipulative and capable of spite. In the screengrabs it may look like she's giving a rather broad performance: all funny faces and over-acting, but that's just not the case - her face is incredibly fluid and full of expression, it just looks odd when you pause it and take a snapshot. When she flips, and flip does she flip, her total immersion is quite amazing - and extremely harrowing.

Keith Barron has less to do apart from look creepy, but he does this superlatively well: he has a blank, dead waxiness that is perfect for someone who may or may not exist. There is a great scene where he is playing the piano (a selection from ‘Peter & The Wolf’, of course) and looks down to see that he has smeared blood all over the keyboard. After checking that it is not his blood, he simply rubs his hands and carries on playing.

A genuinely powerful piece of drama, ‘Red Riding Hood’ is compelling and enigmatic and really very good indeed. The pieces don’t necessarily all make sense when you replay them in your mind, but it doesn’t matter: the overall effect is haunting.