I
N 1983, WHILST ON MYschool holidays, my life changed. The events of one evening, though I didn’t realise it then, would define me as a human being so much that 25 years later I’m still writing about them. So
just what was this life-shaping event? A car accident? An operation? Discovering I was the Duke of Essex? No, I watched Dracula AD 1972 with my Mum on ITV.
That all? Well, let’s recap a bit first. This was the early ’80s we’re talking about, when horror double bills were almost as commonplace as news headlines. I was also blessed in that Mum, having served a three year stint as a dresser at the Beeb in the late ’60s, had worked with practically every actor she pointed out onscreen, and delighted in teaching me everything about them.
So far, I had seen The Legend Of Hell House, The Beast In The Cellar and Fear In The Night, the latter my first glimpse of ‘The Mighty Cush’, AKA Peter Cushing. But this was different. This Axminstered world of flares, sideburns, almost-long hair, girls in flowery smocks and floppy velvet hats, standard lamps, chintz curtains and Afghan waistcoats enthralled me. It made sense, although probably not to Cushing (anymore, I would later find, than it had done for him in Corruption in ’67) and Lee, who were doubtless somewhat puzzled by the “youth” and their jazz cigarettes.
And there, in the middle of it all, stood Stoneground.
With their Allmans-style Southern boogie trappings, Ginger Baker’s Airforce black chick backing vox and SERIOUS beards, they were hardly an obvious choice for a Chelsea-set Hammer film. But there they were, freaking and maraca-ing their way through ‘Alligator Man’.
As decades passed, recollection of the actual band faded, and the “memory cheats” (so common among genre buffs) set in. Thus I “remembered” something far more Satanic and Sabbath-esque. I also forgot the music in the graveyard scene, which, it later transpired, was White Noise’s ‘Electric Storm In Hell’. But between Cushing, Stoneground and Caroline Munro’s knockers, a fascination had begun, not to mention a subgenre largely undocumented in print. Until now. Come with me on a journey…
“That it should come to this...” Christopher Lee contemplates the situation while the Dracula AD 72 starlets –including Caroline Munro and Stephanie Beecham, left and second left –look on.
One such entry was Sydney Hayers’ Circus Of Horrors (’60), starring Anton Diffring and Donald Pleasence. Every British Horror fan remembers it, not least of all for its repeated plugging of the schmaltzy Tony Hatch ballad ‘Look For A Star’, and regular television screenings throughout the ensuing decades would ensure that subsequent generations got to sample its delights. And of course, it was only one of many. Those who had the misfortune to be unemployed when Channel 5 started, or followed late night ITV around 1990, might have caught the ’61 Butchers’ quota quickie thriller Painted Smile, and its recurrent theme song, crooned by teen idol Craig Douglas. The film itself may not be of much interest to scene followers, except that the song was originally earmarked for a young combo the producer rejected due to their relative obscurity. Their name? Oh, you might have heard of them. The Beatles…
The producer’s loss was the movie buff’s gain. There is morbid pleasure to be had in watching the last days of rock ‘n’ roll played out by fading crooners, some of whom never had the fame to fade from to begin with. They proliferate throughout Brit cult titles of the period such as Live It Up, Play It Cool, Rock You Sinners, The Golden Disc, Beat Girl, These Are The Damned (“black leather, black leather, rock rock rock”), Night Of The Prowler and The Yellow Teddybears, the obscurity of the performers giving the films a strange cachet.
But enough monochrome shorthaired nonsense. Let’s dive into the murky waters of Mod- and hippie-sploitation.
Don’t forget, there had been a full cultural revolution, and no-one spots a growing youth culture like an eagle-eyed film producer. “Ripped from yesterday’s headlines!!” screamed the blurb of Secrets Of A Windmill Girl, which
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Rock ‘n’ roll’s nascent forays into UK exploitation cinema began more than a decade earlier. It’s impossible to pinpoint an exact date but Edmund T Greville’s Beat Girl (’59), which, for the sake of continuity I shall point out also stars Christopher Lee as a seedy strip-club proprietor, might be a good place to start. With its fumbled yet endearing attempts at hipster dialogue, twanging John Barry soundtrack, a script referencing everything from Dave Brubeck to wild rock ‘n’ roll (some of which was sung by its guest star, Adam Faith) and polite yet racy approach to crime and decadence, it’s almost the blueprint for every British cult film for the next two decades on. All that was missing was the horror, although that was soon to come as directors edged slowly away from traditional Gothic towards a more youth-friendly, contemporary approach.
Beat Girl with Adam Faith (right).
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