Tomorrow People: A Much Needed Holiday

‘The Tomorrow People’ is a show of enormous ambition, being set at all times and all points in the universe and relying heavily on special effects, but it is undone by the execution, which is cheap and clunky and relies upon a largely untutored cast of kids to paper over the cracks. Where the show was successful, however, was in being emotionally disturbing. It’s easy enough to have a monster jump out at you, of course, and lots of people do that, but ‘The Tomorrow People’ took an indirect but no less affecting route, specialising in showing its youthful audience things that would nag at them and, later, twist their dreams into nightmares (I speak from personal – although not recent - experience).

Case in point:‘A Much Needed Holiday’, in which the young homo superiors repair to a distant planet to put on false beards, wear flip flops and swim listlessly and endlessly up and down an eight foot long paddling pool. Outside of the resort, however, nasty aliens with faces like the gravel at the bottom of a fish tank are at large, and are steadily stripping the planet of precious stones using a slave force of adolescent boys. They treat the kids appallingly: zapping them with stun sticks, making them grope around in the mud, putting them in cages, chaining them together as if they were livestock. I can clearly remener that, as a kid, I didn’t like that; I didn’t like that at all, and I was unable to process it before putting my sleepy head on. The resulting bad dream was almost as disturbing as the one I had about Terry-Thomas chasing me around the dining room table whilst dressed as a Pharaoh.  

Happily, back in the awake world, the Tomorrow People were able to sort it all out, freeing the boy slaves and exiling the arsehole aliens to some shitty rock in the middle of nowhere – forever.

I met Mike Holloway once, quite by chance, in the early nineteen nineties (he hired a video from the shop I was working in). Actually, I met him twice, as he had to return the film, and the second time he signed my Look In annual and we had a little chat about the show and the seventies in general. He was a really nice, cheerful, enthusiastic chap, but couldn’t quite disguise the wistfulness in his voice when he described the decade as ‘great times – the best’. I assumed he was talking about being in a group and on posters and starring in a TV show where he got to fire a ray gun every week, not about his legendary impersonation of a man who would later be revealed as the devil incarnate.

I particularly like the way he artlessly gives a little look to the right to get his cue. Bless him, he's just a boy.

Gawpers

Aliens could land in Trafalgar Square and exit their flying saucer on the backs of unicorns while a 78 year old Elvis sings ‘The Wonder Of You’ and, you can bet, if the media are present, some gormless British person will  ignore what’s happening right in front of them to turn around and gawp at the camera.

Example 1: this fellow is not interested in Jimmy Pursey and Sham 69’s request for their friend Harry to get a move on: he just wants to look questioningly into the camera and get his slightly defiant face into ten million homes. Well done, Sir, mission accomplished.

Unholy Relics

I’ve just had a very interesting weekend presenting some seminal Hammer films at the National Media Museum in Bradford. The highlight was getting to see some of the Museum’s archive, in particular material donated by Hammer (and others) make-up and effects genii Phil Leakey and Roy Ashton.

As well as a wealth of photos and sketches revealing all sorts of behind the scenes secrets, there was a small but priceless collection of three dimensional artefacts. For me, these relics were the equivalent of slivers of the True Cross or Moon rocks.

Old fangs.

Make up development shots from 'The Evil Of Frankenstein'.

From the Peter Cushing file of defunct newspaper 'The Herald'.

Gorgon Bites (top) and Vampire Bites (bottom).

'Now ventilated to let wounds breathe'

Vampire bites / scabs.

Noses and an ear.

Peter Cushing / Grimsdyke cast from Amicus' 'Tales From The Crypt'.

Finally, the Holy Grail of Hammer memorabilia, a set of fangs worn by Christopher Lee in 'Dracula' (above). By depressing his tongue, Lee could pump fake blood into the fangs and let it drip down the sides of his mouth. It's wonderful to know that these priceless objects are being preserved, and it was a real privilege to see them.  

Space 1999: Black Sun

I’ve had a fair few pops at ‘Space 1999’ in the past, mainly because I see a lot of myself in it, i.e. it under-achieves and does stupid things. ‘Black Sun’, however, a Series One episode originally broadcast in November 1975, is not just good in series’ terms; it’s good in sci fi terms, too. Actually, it’s just good – no need for any further qualification.

When Moonbase Alpha finds itself drawn into the inexorable orbit of a black sun (that’s a thing, apparently) all they can do is sit around and wait to be crushed to death. Yes, Bergman rigs up a force field he hopes (but doesn’t really believe) will save them, and, yep, Helena and five others are chosen by the computer to be evacuated, but mostly the story is just a slow, patient, thoughtful countdown to inevitable destruction, which makes for enough drama that there’s no need for the usual pyrotechnics and poorly choreographed fights the show tends to use as filler in lieu of story. The lights on Alpha slowly go out and the doomed crew just sit together and think about what might have been, or noodle around on guitars and look wistfully at each other. Commander Koening and Profesor Bergman smoke cigars and get pissed up and philosophical on sixty year old brandy.

When Moonbase finally enters the black sun, things go weird and bendy wendy: the crew become transparent, and put on plastic old person masks and freak each other out. Then an ancient looking Koenig and Bergman have a chat with a nice lady God who gives them a few free pointers about the nature of existence. These scenes are silly, but because the story has slowly built up to them, they don’t seem ridiculous. It even makes sense in a way, even though much of it is nonsensical – a sort of contextual, logical daftness which the programme most often lacks.  

Too quickly, the trip through the psychedelic unknown concludes with the Moon safely exiting the black sun through the back door and everything goes back to normal, well, as normal as it can be when you've just tripped your its off and ended up in a completely different universe. Koening and Berman don’t even have a hangover.

As a postscript, the happy ending is made even happier when Helena and the rest of the evacuees come back in a surprise return that wasn’t actually possible, isn’t really explained and definitely doesn’t matter.
After all, as a tired and emotional Professor Bergman said the night before ‘there is a thin line between science and mysticism’ and, as usual, he was absolutely right.    

Don't Get Excited...

...but 'Space 1999' will be here at midnight!

He's Here To Freak You Out...Of This World!

Colchester, Essex, 1983 AD. I am at a party and have become quite heavily involved with a pretty young lady. The new romance comes to an abrupt end, however, when I check my watch and realise that ‘Dracula, A.D. 1972’ is about to start on Anglia telly. It’s a film I haven’t yet seen, but KNOW will be great, so I rather abruptly make my excuses and leave, leaving my paramour both tearful and furious. Thus, the pattern of a life is set.

‘Dracula, A.D. 1972’ is a supremely silly film. At times, it’s educationally sub-normal. But I love it. I love the middle aged kids and the groovy places they hang out where the sixties still cling to the décor like pot smoke to a pair of garish curtains, and I love, love, love the fact that Count Dracula is going to bite them all and turn their groovy scene to shit.

I love the fact that it takes Van Helsing ten minutes and a pad and pencil to work out that Johnny Alucard’s surname is Dracula spelled backwards. I love that you can now kill a vampire with a power shower, or a bush. I love Peter Cushing’s concession to hip, a moderately daring neckerchief. I love the music, even 'The Stoneground', but especially the electronic séance track by White Noise, from 'An Electric Storm', one of my favourite albums ever. I like the vacuity of the male characters, and the fecundity of the female cast, perhaps the foxiest, bustiest bunch of Hammer starlets in history (Stephanie Beacham is outstanding in this respect). Most of all, I love that Hammer are getting a bit desperate and trying something new and, for the most part, getting it wrong – and I love that it doesn’t matter because the dividing line between brilliantly awful and awfully brilliant doesn't exist in this context.    

‘Dracula, A.D. 1972’ is ninety minutes of everything I love and cherish and admire and am obsessed with about British horror films, and I can categorically say that leaving the party and the girl and rushing home to watch it all those years ago had an enormous effect on me, an impact that has reverberated every day since, and, for better or worse, has directly led to this blog and all the stuff attached to it. And it was worth it. It was all worth it.   

Dracula, A.D. 1972

Coming Soon...

The Golden Age Of Top Of The Pops

001: Dandy

Interesting Postcards

I’ve been to Hunstanton a couple of times and never noticed it’s resemblance to Portmeirion or, indeed, how much the beach looks like the irradiated coast where David Bowie filmed the ‘Ashes to Ashes’ video. I’m not as observant as I used to be. Bloody Coalition.

I also like the distinction between Hunstanton and New Hunstanton, and the inclusion of the cliffs in the latter category, as if they are a relatively recent addition.

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. 

Back, From Outer Space

"Good news, fans of internet sensation ‘Island of Terror’: 

internet sensation ‘Island of Terror’ has returned!" And EARLIER than scheduled!

I won't be posting every day, but instead I will be concentrating on providing a seventies style three day week. All you have to do is sit back and watch the rubbish pile up.

There will be old favourites and new additions, with the usual focus on the best and worst of British - horror, sci fi, film, telly and disco. Lots of disco. You should have changed that stupid lock. You should have made me leave my key. Right, let's get (re)started.

Oh, and if you're in Bradford on Saturday or Sunday, pop into the National Media Museum, as I will be there introducing some classic Hammer films as part of the BFI's Gothic season. Come and say hello, I will be the one in the white suit, black shirt and silver medallion.

Cheers!

Paul