Miami Connection

The year is 1987. Motorcycle ninjas tighten their grip on Florida's narcotics trade, viciously annihilating anyone who dares move in on their turf. Multi-national martial arts rock band Dragon Sound have had enough, and embark on a roundhouse wreck-wave of crime-crushing justice.

And that, according to www.miamiconnection.org, is the plot of one of the greatest best-worst movies ever made.  However after watching the film myself, shown last week on the roof of the Oh Yeah Music Centre, I’m not sure I noticed too much of that plot in action.  I’m not entirely sure what I saw – I just know it was awesome.

First of all, the bad guys in this movie are motorcycle ninjas.  Have you even heard of motorcycle ninjas before?  Have you?  Of course you haven’t.  It’s ridiculous.  It’s genius!  I mean, even ninjas face transportation problems – especially ones who deal in “stupid cocaine”.  Do you think they’re going to drive a battered Ford Fiesta?  You’re a fool.  They’re going to drive motorcycles.

As for the good guys, they’re a martial arts rock band called Dragon Sound.  A multi-national martial arts rock band.  Consisting of five orphaned men.  Who are also college students.  Who live together.  And constantly walk around their house half naked.  Enough said.  Well, I say rock band...they mainly seem to sing good natured synth pop songs about being friends forever while performing tae kwon do on stage.  You know you would go to that gig.

And, hey!  It turns out our heroes aren’t all orphans!  One of the gang, Jim (Maurice Smith), discovers – and here’s a great big spoiler warning, film fans – that his father (“a black American”) is still alive!  While the rest of Dragon Sound are initially disappointed to learn their orphan connection has been broken, they eventually share in Jim’s squealing happiness, hoisting him aloft on their shoulders, all shirtless as usual.  It’s a beautiful thing.

In amongst the touching male bonding, though, we get several action packed tae kwon do scenes to enjoy.  I was particularly impressed with a montage in which Mark (played by writer/actor/tae kwon do expert/motivational speaker Y.K. Kim) demonstrated how the humble foot can be used as a deadly method of martial arts face control.  Or something.

The tae kwon do scenes get more ridiculous as the film progresses, and by the end band member John (Vincent Hirsch) is basically just running around a park with his shirt off, covered in the blood of his enemies and screaming.  It’s rousing stuff.

If shirtless men engaging in hand to hand combat doesn’t grab your attention, there is at least a touching love story for the more sensitive viewers to enjoy.  And just like Romeo and Juliet, our young lovers belong to two rival camps.  The aforementioned John is deeply in love with Jane (Kathy Collier), but Jane is the sister of Jeff (William Ergle) – and Jeff is the second in command of the motorcycle ninjas!  It’s OK though – John kills Jeff in battle, and Jane is refreshingly cool with this.  This may not be exact dialogue from the film, but their deep and meaningful talk about the killing basically goes like this:

John:  “Yeah, sorry about killing your brother and stuff”

Jane:  “Whatevs”

And then they kiss, while Jim leers over them thinking about his daddy.  

There’s just so much going on in Miami Connection, I couldn’t possibly blog about it all.  I mean, I haven’t even touched upon the scene in which another band member hilariously sexually harasses bikini clad strangers on the beach.  Or the scene in which Mark playfully force feeds grapes to his still half naked house mates.  And who could forget the touching scene where Jim buys a new suit in which to meet his long lost daddy, his friends in the changing room with him, caressing his new threads lovingly and calling them “beautiful”?

If I haven’t sold you on this film by now, there is no hope.  All I can do is leave you with the same powerful message Miami Connection leaves its viewers with, and trust you all to do the right thing.  Love your friends, listen to synth pop, and stay away from stupid cocaine.  Peace, guys.

Shonen Knife, Black Box, 9th May 2014

"When I finally got to see them live, I was transformed into a hysterical nine-year-old girl at a Beatles concert" - Kurt Cobain

It was a snap decision to go see Shonen Knife at the Black Box.  My friend Claire and I had never actually heard of the band before, but Kurt Cobain’s fandom and the idea of an all-girl Japanese punk rock band who played Ramones covers was too good to ignore.

We spent the week doing our Shonen Knife homework so we wouldn’t be completely lost.  I was in love with their 60’s style matching girl band outfits and music videos featuring nothing but cats.  And how can you not love a band whose songs feature lyrics like “banana chips for you, banana chips for me, in the afternoon banana chips and tea”?

The first thing that struck on us on arrival at the venue was, of course, the fabulous merchandise stall – even though an over zealous Black Box staff member tried to shoo us away, telling us the stall wouldn’t open until after the gig.  Of course 5 minutes later said stall opened for business, staffed by the lovely Atsuko, former Shonen Knife drummer and sister of front-woman Naoko.

We immediately proceeded to spend money we didn’t have buying Shonen Knife tote bags, badges, Space Xmas tour posters and, in Claire’s case, a rather fabulous green vinyl edition of their new album, Overdrive.  We spent a brief moment jumping up and down excitedly with Atsuko before taking our place in the moshpit.

Support came from local band European Jane who defied usual support act protocol by actually being rather good.  I was particularly taken by their set list, featuring song titles such as “shit riff”.  Their bassist informed the crowd they had no online presence whatsoever and invited people to come up and actually speak to them instead.  Real communication, how quaint!  Still, it turns out they are on Twitter after all, so go investigate them (once you've finished reading this).

But of course, we were there for Shonen Knife, and eventually the women themselves took to the stage in matching blue sequin tunics.  Only having been listening to the band for about a week at this stage, I’m afraid I can’t go into too much detail about how they played this song and that song.  Even the set list I nabbed after the show doesn’t provide much help here, written as it is in Japanese.

I was able to recognise and vaguely sing along to Twist Barbie, but in all honesty that wasn’t the point.  The point was – Shonen Knife rock.  We weren’t here to watch earnest singer-songwriters sing equally earnest acoustic ballads about feelings, we were here to see three awesome women play punk rock pop songs about ramen noodles (amongst other things).

Inspired by the fabulously haired bassist Ritsuko, the women in the moshpit (us included) all began a very girly style of headbanging, the aim being to get hair your to swish about like you’ve just stepped out of the best shampoo commercial in the world.  There was also some gorgeous synchronised punk rock posing from from Ritsuko and Naoko, while drummer Emi played with the energy of a large army of Duracell bunnies.

If the Shonen Knife rider really does consist of Snickers bars, marshmallows and gummi bears, as Naoko’s Twitter suggests, it’s easy to see how their sweet-based calories get burned off each night – the band just can’t stand still.  Coupled with the fact the Black Box was hotter than hell during a heatwave, the entire crowd probably sweated off a few pounds over the course of the gig too.

After their main set the band came back onstage for an encore, asking for any audience requests.  Despite the fact I’d only been listening to Shonen Knife for a week, I still felt the need to shout out my request for Choco Bars (the song, not the product).  Another fan requested the track Explosion, and democratic Naoko put the final decision to the crowd.  Needless to say, the vast majority of people also wanted to eat choco bars all day long and my request was played.

The band hung around afterwards for an autograph session, during which Emi and I bonded over bobbed hair.  Well, I say bonded.  I drunkenly pointed at my bobbed hair, pointed at her bobbed hair and she laughed.  With me, not at me.  Honestly.  The ladies graciously hung around long enough to ensure everyone who wanted an autograph got one before helping to pack away their own merch stall and equipment.  Sisters are doing it for themselves.

We left the Black Box exhausted from our relentless pogoing, our hair a terrible sweaty mess with added Hello Kitty hairslides.  It was brilliant.  Shonen Knife are my new favourite band and I want to listen to them all day long.

Robert Newman's New Theory of Evolution, Black Box, 7th May 2014

"I’m reading Tolstoy in Russian....just doing the verbs at the moment”.  And that ought to give you some idea of kind of jokes featured in Robert Newman’s new show, The New Theory of Evolution.

That’s if you can call what Newman offers jokes, of course.  It’s certainly very funny, but it’s essentially a very funny Royal Institution lecture.  The basic premise of The New Theory of Evolution is that neocons have distorted Darwin’s theories, with big business-style interests clinging to the idea of “survival of the fittest” as it’s what fits their ideology best. 

In fact, Newman argues, it’s mutual co-operation and not a dog-eat-dog mentality that has led to the evolution of the species.  “Survival of the misfits”, he calls it, or the idea that that all species originate from misfits pushed to the edges of ecological tolerance in tiny populations.  So definitely not your standard Comedy Roadshow routine, then.

Newman has definitely done his research on the subject – and not just watched the Life on Earth box set, he assures us.  It’s a show full of genuinely interesting ideas and scientific facts.  I particularly liked the research cited on nematode worms, who cannibalise their fellow worms and in doing so, actually appear to consume their knowledge as well as their bodies.

It’s all so packed full of ideas, I couldn’t help but feel there should have been an accompanying reading list.  And of course, it turns out there actually is, on Newman’s own website.  Seriously, comedy gigs with reading lists – more of this, please.

I admit, it’s very much the kind of show people go to in order to feel clever about themselves – you can almost hear everyone in the crowd mentally slapping themselves on the back for getting all the jokes. 

Of course, my friend Ian and I probably have to be included in this mental self congratulation too, especially as we’d had three glasses of wine before Newman took to the stage.  The alcohol did lead to a moment of confusion for Ian towards the end of the first act, as he drunkenly thought Newman was leading up to some vaguely homophobic debunking of the “nature vs nurture” argument.  Exactly how this thought came to him I’m not sure.  Through a wine glass, I assume.

Fortunately, I managed to set Ian straight (as it were) before some very unusual alcohol-fuelled and science-based heckling took place.

Annoyingly, people were still taking their seats once Newman began his routine, so clearly not much of a late door policy, then.  One woman sat down next to me ten minutes into the set and, as if to hide her late arrival, began laughing loudly straight away even though she had effectively walked in mid-sentence.

Considering Newman used to be a stadium filling stand-up pin-up, he appeared to be genuinely quite nervous in the tiny space of the Black Box.  Gone was the ever so slightly arrogant (but, you know, sexily arrogant) technique of old.  Instead, Newman was a little bit stammering and distracted, especially in the face of the Black Box’s bright lights (“We’re not at a disco”).

Pathetic fangirl that I am, though, I was pleased to see that his looks have largely remained intact.  He might not be the long haired, Byronic sex god he once was – now he’s more the ruffled but sexy university professor you’re probably not supposed to fancy.  But hey, that works for me.

I’ve noticed that a number of reviews for The New Theory of Evolution have grumbled either about Newman letting comedy get in the way of a good science lecture, or for letting the lecture get in the way of the jokes.  Personally, I thought there was a good balance of both and admire Newman for being so unashamedly clever.  It might not be the kind of routine that sells out stadiums (to misquote Tim Minchin, you could be as clever as Voltaire but it won’t get you nowhere if you want to sell tickets), but it’s Newman doing the kind of material he wants to do and is clearly passionate about. 

Having said that – the ukulele songs need to go.  I’m happy for the show to be a mix of part-comedy gig, part-lecture, but twee songs played on a small stringed instrument don’t really fit either of those moulds.

Still, ukulele aside, listening to a clever, funny person say clever, funny things makes for a lovely way to spend an evening.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a reading list to get through.  Then, as Newman quipped at the start of the show, “we can all spit into groups and discuss our findings”.

The Tingler

“At any time you are conscious of a tingling sensation, you may obtain immediate relief by screaming. Don't be embarrassed about opening your mouth and letting rip with all you've got, because the person in the seat right next to you will probably be screaming too. And remember - a scream at the right time may save your life.”

We’ve all experienced it – that tingling sensation down the spine in moments of terror.  The fear you’re being followed home down a dark street, strange noises heard in the middle of the night, the realisation otherwise sane human beings actually vote for UKIP – that sort of thing.

What if that tingling wasn’t just a mere feeling?  What if it was caused by a living, parasitic creature that exists in all of us, feeding on your fear then growing and crawling up your spine, even potentially killing you in the process?  That’s the idea behind William Castle’s The Tingler, shown last week as part of the Belfast Film Festival.

The Tingler stars Vincent Price as pathologist Dr William Chapin, who discovers the horrible creature’s existence.  He dubs it ‘the Tingler’ due to the sensation it produces in down the spine and because, as his assistant David proclaims: “since we don’t know what it is yet, we can’t give it a Latin name”.

Fortunately, the Tingler isn’t undefeatable.  The creature can be stopped by simply screaming – letting rip with all you’ve got, indeed. 

Dr Chapin gets the chance to examine a real life Tingler after the untimely death of Martha, the deaf-mute co-owner of a silent movie theatre who is literally scared to death due to her inability to scream.  Realising news of the Tingler would cause untold panic among the public, Chapin decides to hush up his discovery and return the creature to Martha’s body, brought back to the apartment above the movie theatre she had shared with her husband.

But of course, things don’t go quite to plan and the Tingler gets loose, wreaking havoc on the unsuspecting film goers below with terrifying (and unintentionally hilarious) consequences.

William Castle loved to break the fourth wall with various movie gimmicks.  When the movie was first released, this was the point his latest gimmick was deployed in the form of ‘Percepto!’ – basically, electrical buzzers attached to the underside of some chairs in the cinema.  On screen, the Tingler gets into the projectionist’s booth, the silent movie being screened breaks down and the creature crawls across the screen.  It was at this point in the real life cinema the lights would get turned off and ‘Percepto!” would get switched on, giving some unsuspecting cinema goers a jolt as Vincent Price warned them not to panic but to “scream! Scream for your lives!”

Obviously, the Film Festival’s beanbag cinema wasn’t quite able to attach electrical buzzers to the underside of the beanbags.  However they did their best with some large speakers on the floor and the bass turned all the way up to eleven, causing the beanbags to shake and the spine to tingle, well, sort of.   During the shorter scenes this technique didn’t really have enough time to work, but it was most effective during two of the longer set pieces where Dr Chapin embarks on a memorable acid trip in the name of Science, and when poor Martha gets scared to death.

Another technique Castle used when The Tingler was first released was to employ screamers and fainters to attend the film screenings and, well, scream and faint in the theatre.  There were no fainters present among the beanbags, though as most people were watching the movie in a horizontal position it would have been hard to tell anyway.  Pleasingly though there was a screamer present, but of course, she could have just been genuinely unable to cope with all the horror onscreen.

And there is plenty of horror onscreen, though most of it unintentional.  The Tingler hasn’t earned itself the title of camp classic for nothing after all.  Some truly terrible dialogue is coupled with some truly terrible acting for full fearful effect.  “Well, everyone can scream!”, Dr Chapin’s sister-in-law exclaims.  “A deaf-mute can’t scream”, David replies ominously.

If you wanted to look deeply enough, you could probably find something interesting in the film’s subplot involving marriages gone wrong – Dr Chapin’s relationship with his wife is full of adulterous behaviour and matching attempts to kill each other, while the unfortunate deaf-mute Martha is also killed off by her ineffectual little husband.  Unfortunately, the characters are all so one-dimensional that this is never really developed.

The film doesn’t exactly advance the portrayal of women on screen either.  Dr Chapin’s wife is a drinking, smoker adulterer who attempts to kill her husband and possibly killed her father, too.  On the other hand, her sister is a virginal, clean living girl who cheerfully rolls her eyes when the men go off to discuss their highly important men’s work.  And let’s not forget Martha, a deaf-mute bundle of OCD and nerves who gets scared to death by things worthy of the ghost train in a particularly low-budget amusement park.

However, critiquing the plot points of a movie like The Tingler feels a little bit pointless.  It’s b-movie fluff, and highly enjoyable for what it is, especially when it’s a Friday night, you’ve had a glass of wine and are watching the movie from a beanbag, for example.  If you’re a fan of Castle, Price or just campy horror in general, watching The Tingler is a fun way to spend an evening – just as long as you don’t panic and remember to scream.  Scream for your lives!

Going Dark

                                       

Spending 75 minutes in a darkened room full of strangers might seem like an odd way to spend an evening, well, for most people anyway.  However Sound & Fury’s Going Dark, performed recently at Belfast's Mac, is a play that asks you to do just that.

The play tells the story of Max, an astronomer who learns he losing his sight, and is performed in very low level lighting, sometimes in complete darkness, in order to fully explore Max’s condition.  Part play, part astronomy lesson, the audience is invited for some of the evening to become one of Max’s students, gazing up at astral projections on the ceiling as he walks us through the Milky Way and the history of our universe.

I loved the astronomy lesson aspect of Going Dark.  Max, played by actor and Sound & Fury co-creator Tom Espiner, walks around the small space of the theatre, directing his laser pointer at various constellations and using some neat tricks to explain the birth of stars.  His love and enthusiasm for the subject is obvious, which makes it all the more heartbreaking when he can no longer see the starry projections that are clearly visible above him.

However the real emotional punch of Going Dark is how Max’s worsening condition affects his relationship with his son, Leo.  A single father, Max is determined that he and his son can cope with his blindness together and panics when it is suggested that social services might need to become involved. In one scene, Max even blindfolds himself in an attempt to see if he can still prepare his son’s school lunch and is delighted to find that he can – even if he does almost send Leo off to school with a can of beer.

We never actually see Leo – he appears as an unseen voice – but thanks to some excellent sound direction you find yourself genuinely believing Leo is in the room, even craning your head towards where the sound is coming from to get a better look at the boy who isn’t actually there.  Leo is voiced by Espiner's own son, who was recorded asking questions and chatting away about the subject matter.  The recordings were then edited into individual cues, with Hattie Naylor’s script partly written around these.  This improvisation creates a very natural feel to Max’s interactions with Leo – you believe you are listening to a father talking to his son, rather than an actor reading lines with a stage school brat.

The sound direction is excellent elsewhere, too.  During the scenes where the audience is plunged into complete darkness the sound itself almost becomes a character in the play.  In one scene, for example, you appear to be have been thrown into the middle of deafening traffic that seems to coming at you from everywhere, genuinely making you feel like you’re about to bit hit by a car despite sitting in the middle of a theatre.

The complete darkness is startling at first - and Going Dark's very first 'scene' is in pitch black, as the theatre turns into the great outdoors with crashing thunder, falling rain and birdsong surrounding the audience.  It all does a better job of portraying Max's sight loss than words ever could, as it makes the audience actually experience it rather than just watch a performance.

Tom Espiner is excellent as Max.  Even for a professional actor, performing a one man show in such an intimate venue takes a lot of nerve, and Espiner never loses the audience’s attention for a second.   He perfectly captures Max’s enthusiasm for the stars, the love for his son and the sheer panic his worsening condition causes him – from his confusion during a peripheral vision test, fear caused by the hallucinations he suffers as a side effect and the realisation his very career might be under threat.

The script's attempt at marrying together the various aspects of the play, through Max's assertion that "the universe itself is going blind", is perhaps a little bit forced.  However, Going Dark is ultimately a beautifully realised piece of experimental theatre that fully immerses the audience in a deeply affecting story.

The Devil Drops In

So, last night the QFT held it's first ever Horror All-Night-a-Thon.  Not just any horror, oh no.  The Devil Drops In was all about the Prince of Darkness, and some of his exploits on screen.  A night spent in a darkened room with a bunch of horror fans watching Satan cut loose might not be everyone's idea of good time.  But I went along for the ride and, by god, I survived.  I survived!

Nine hours of horror and countless cups of free coffee later, my memory of the night is somewhat...hazy?  But in the interests of intrepid journalism, let's attempt to walk through the evening's terror.

The Devil Rides Out

The campiest romp of camp romps.  A Hammer horror starring Christopher Lee (of course) based on the novel of the same name by Dennis Wheatley.  Lee plays the Duc de Richleau who discovers the son of a friend is involved in all things Satanic.  Attempting to rescue Simon from the Devil's clutches, the film takes in not-entirely-high-speed car chases through the English countryside in which nobody actually appears to be driving, and an unintentionally hilarious cast of supporting characters including a cross eyed Duchess and the Devil himself.  Fortunately, Satan (a half man, half goat type being) appears to be easily defeated by some car headlights, so that's the end of that.  The film basically ends with one great big deus ex machina and some God praising - God bless us, everyone!

Invocation of My Demon Brother

Nope.  No idea what was going on here.  Kenneth Anger's short film is full of psychedelic '60s mysticism which therefore means it made no sense whatsoever.
What I can remember - there were some evil cats.  There was a man wearing some fabulous glittery robes.  There was an Albino doing some serious thinking.  There were quite a lot of penises.  There was a bored looking dog.  I understood how the dog felt.
The film also boasted a soundtrack by Mick Jagger.  I say soundtrack - it was basically Jagger hitting the same key on a Moog over and over again until I thought I was in Guantanamo Bay and confessed to some acts of terrorism I had never actually committed.

The Blood on Satan's Claw

Or, Lark Rise to Hellfire.  Some '70s folk-horror that involves a witch with one hell of a Scouse brow wreaking havoc on some simple folk in the countryside.
I think my favourite character in the movie was the chap I christened Stumpy (it was a long night, I can't expected to remember names).  He had some fabulous long hair and a stump for a hand after the Devil - a hairy chap himself - charmed Stumpy into chopping off his digits.  Although the Roger Daltrey-a-like who spent the movie running around in a sleeveless vest and pedal pushers while failing to save anybody's life whatsoever was a close runner up.
For all the witchcraft, the most disturbing scene was probably Frank Spencer's wife having an orgasm.  As I understand it, the film ends with the Honey Monster doing an erotic dance for a fat man with a sword and a fabulous taste in robes and headwear.  I may not understand it very well.

Lucifer Rising

Some more Kenneth Anger occultism.  Apparently, the film takes in a ritual summoning the angel Lucifer.  This ritual seems to involve women shaking their breasts at the sun, men with technicolour dreamcoats and perms staring at soft furnishings and Marianne Faithfull getting upset about some ruined leggings.




Prince of Darkness

John Carpenter's 1987 sci-fi inspired horror in which Satan - or the Anti-God - appears to be an extraterrestrial goo living in a lava lamp.  Featuring double denim, handlebar moustaches and and mullets galore, the film couldn't be more Eighties unless it had a neon sigh flashing throughout saying "I WAS MADE IN THE EIGHTIES, BY THE WAY".
There is also some light racism thrown in for good measure, what with the uptight Asian girl scientist, Jewish mother jokes ("I said RICH doctor!"), and a black man, infected with Satan goo, singing Amazing Grace as he climbs the stairs.  And, hey, it's the Eighties, so there's some Aids metaphors thrown in for good measure as the Anti-God makes his way through the world via the sharing of bodily fluids.
Of course by this point it was very early in the morning, and I confess that the grainy video dream sequence repeated throughout the movie was enjoyably unsettling.  It was all very Nigel Kneale, but to be honest, it just made me want to watch Doctor Who two-parter The Impossible Planet/The Satan Pit which covered pretty much the same storyline much better.

The Exorcist

Oh, you've all seen The Exorcist.  Even if you haven't, you know the plot, so there's no need for me to explain it.  Which is just as well, as I'm afraid I didn't quite manage to stay awake throughout the entire thing.
Still, I woke up for the end of the movie, and the end of the horror-a-thon.  And in time for breakfast!  God knows, after watching Linda Blair spit up pea soup, I often feel the need to eat bacon sandwiches and bagels.


And that was that!  We survived the night of terror and wandered off into the morning light, yawning and cowering away from the sun.  And then sleep, for those who had no fear of the Prince of Darkness wandering into our dreams anyway.