Peter Strickland, the man behind BERBERIAN SOUND STUDIO, a film I liked somewhat, returns to the screen with THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY, a softcore, semi-sleazy yarn set in a world of women. The masculine title, according to Strickland, is meant to be ironic.
The film's initial spurt of inspiration was Jess Franco's LORNA THE EXORCIST: Strickland contemplated remaking that film for a couple of weeks before losing interest and leaving well enough alone. He did, however, stay on-topic, and delivers here a lesbian love story within a half-assed S/M structure; I say half-assed because one of the pretty asses in this movie doesn't seem quite as keen on the game as her "partner". Still, plenty of carnal fireworks emerge from the pairing, and there's a reasonable amount of nudity, some sex acts including a nice cunnilingus sequence, and bouts of imprisonment and servitude.
BURGANDY's women-only world is an interesting one, and forges a tone not unlike the world of Lucile Hadzihalilovic's INNOCENCE, a film exclusively featuring young girls adrift in a type of purgatory on earth. The women in Strickland's film are middle- to upper-class and enjoy meeting in stately drawing rooms to discuss insects. Although none but the central duo have sex with each other, one assumes there's plenty of lesbian sex going on behind closed doors.
Jess Franco's obsessions do seem to color BURGANDY, even though, technically, the film is more rigid and even-tempered than anything Jess ever made. The featured ladies think about sex a lot, which is good for the audience, and nobody seems to do anything terribly productive to fund the lifestyle they're enjoying (like Jess's ladies). The setting is the European countryside, and the true location (Hungary) is never referenced; probably a wise choice because this uncertainty gives the film a more fantastique vibe.
Actress Chiara D'Anna, who was also in BERBERIAN, is exquisitely carnal and subtly threatening in her role as Evelyn, the deceptively submissive actor in this little game. Her lover, Cynthia, is played with impeccable restraint by Sidse Babett Knudsen, a busy actress who appeared previously in television's BORGEN and the Mads Mikkelsen feature AFTER THE WEDDING. Both women carry the movie on strong shoulders, and make us believe in what is essentially very rich, dark nonsense.
Special mention goes to the film's opening title sequence; it captures quite perfectly title sequences from British thrillers that used freeze frames and often suffered visually (becoming dark and grainy) when dissolves were employed. Here, the technical deficits of these films are used as stylistic devices, and the result is sumptuous and atmospheric. The band, Cat's Eyes, provide a stunning score (available on CD), although nothing is quite as stunning as "The Duke Of Burgundy" title song ("Black Madonna" perhaps?), produced to replicate the sound and sweet fever of an old Carpenters song with Karen's gorgeous voice. It's just magic.
I'm dead against revealing plots and detailing story points, so I simply urge you to seek out and lap up this rare cinematic treat that was produced by Andrew Starke (currently making the superbly titled THE GREASY STRANGLER) and Exec Produced by Ben Wheatley. There is also a connection here to Pete Tombs and the Mondo-Macbro video label (that label did release LORNA THE EXORCIST).
Jess Franco would have been partial to this fine film and its proud obsessions.
Late in 2013, Code Red released Gary Graver's TRICK OR TREATS, a mostly terrible slasher with very little slashing and plodding pacing. David Carradine, Steve Railsback, and Carrie Snodgress do their best, but the script betrays their efforts. I saw the film theatrically at the Showcase Sterling Heights (MI) in '82 and was unimpressed.
A short while earlier, I'd seen Graver's (uncredited) THE ATTIC with Snodgress again, and a crotchety Ray Milland. Although it was an atmospheric piece, it had the feel of a troubled production. Both films are poor examples of what a great filmmaker Graver really was.
The truth is, Graver, who was an accomplished cinematographer with over 100 credits to his name, was an extraordinary artist who not only directed even more films than he shot, he made some of the greatest porn films ever under the name Robert McCallum. One of them is, in my humble estimate, a masterpiece.
Not withstanding his other stellar erotic works such as V- THE HOT ONE, THE ECSTASY GIRLS, SATISFACTIONS, AMANDA BY NIGHT, SOCIETY AFFAIRS, and SUMMER CAMP GIRLS, the Graver film that stands alone in the annals of of pornography (and genre filmmaking) is the extraordinary 3 AM ('75). Unlike most XXX-rated pornography made at the time, there is little about it that even feels X-rated. Its sex scenes represent a true bridge for its well sketched characters, and the narrative is as far from standard porn as you can get -- closer, in fact, to Cassavetes-style drama via a darker shade of Eric Rohmer.
The film, set on Stinson Beach, Northern California, about twenty miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge, focuses on a family whose brittle foundation is shattered at 3 AM one morning when one of its members is killed. The impact of the killing on each member of the family drives the loose narrative and plunges the viewer into a series of erotic interludes that exist for reasons far beyond raincoater quotas at the time. Sex, in 3 AM, is a pill used to fight depression, barricade loneliness, and build intimacy, even the incestuous variety.
Photographed by R. Michael Stringer, who worked with Orson Welles, shot TV's LAND OF THE LOST, and shot other X-raters such as MANHATTAN MISTRESS, SKINTIGHT, and SULKA'S WEDDING, 3AM is a very fine visual achievement, and a model of atmospherics and dread. The foggy Stinson Beach location lends a fey, otherwordly dimension to the film's "feel", and the low key cinematography has the vibe of European porn such as Lasse Braun's BODY LOVE.
Because of its loose narrative requirements, 3AM takes on a foreboding, dream-like feel that, today, recalls other films of that era such as MESSIAH OF EVIL, LEMORA - A CHILD'S TALE OF THE SUPERNATURAL, and the Jess Franco duo NIGHTMARES COME AT NIGHT and A VIRGIN AMONG THE LIVING DEAD. The use of voices by composer Peter Van Den Beemt so reminds me of Bruno Nicolai's work on VIRGIN, while the employment of a rich, discordant soundtrack is right out of MESSIAH OF EVIL, a film made two years earlier in '73 that Graver may or may not have seen.
Georgina Spelvin, who headlines the movie, is perfect cast as aunt to two fatherless teenagers and guilt-ridden sister of a dead man's wife. While acquitting herself formidably in the dramatic scenes, she is electrifying in two beautifully shot, scored, and directed lesbian interludes. In the first one, a woman wanders off the foggy beach into Selvin's bathroom while she's showering. Emerging from deep depression, she allows this stranger to take her in the shower in what is surely one of the most natural seduction sequences I've ever seen in any movie. Although the scene is volcanic in its intensity, it never feels like porn because the camera coverage and editing are so inventive and atypical for the genre. The scene is really about a woman embracing deep physical intimacy at a time when she's not capable of dealing with anything more complex. The music in this scene is inspired, and the constant cascading of water on the women's bodies adds immeasurably to the end result. The second sequence involves Spelvin's gentle seduction of her niece. Totally different from the shower scene, it, nevertheless, grows entirely naturally, and arrives at a perfect place.
The film's other couplings flow naturally from the narrative and never feel gratuitous. The surreal atmosphere is consistent throughout, and when it's all over, you're left with a breathless sense that had more pornography gone in this direction, an exciting sub-genre might be flourishing today.
The film is not widely available and has not been resurrected on BluRay. If anything should be a candidate for reassessment and re-appreciation, this is the one. The late Gary Graver's masterpiece.
This morning, the 109th Follower of this blog appeared. Less than twelve months ago, the blog didn't exist.
I started Phantom of Pulp because I've always had a strong desire to share my passions. I did it when I was a six year old, and I'm doing it forty years later. I'm the guy who's always driving to someone's house -- with my multi-system DVD player -- to show them an obscure movie or expose them to a bizarre book. With the internet and blogging, I figured it was time to share what electrifies me with many like-minded individuals (relatively like-minded, anyway).
I've always been attracted to the stuff you'll find on this blog. It feeds my hunger for brain food. It excites me. It fulfills me. It strokes my insatiable curiosity for everything. It makes life worth living and encourages exploration.
I didn't intend to create a horror blog or a movie blog or a book blog, and I know this doesn't fall into any of those categories. That's why I called it Phantom of Pulp. Pulp, top me, is the product of fertile, unfettered minds.
I post stuff that gets lots of feedback and no feedback at all. Reviews of current releases get quick responses. Reviews of older flicks attract comments, too.
Porno-themed posts run hot and cold, if comments are anything to go by. Porno paperbacks seem to hit the spot for a select few, while my pieces on extreme pornography assume orphan status; either nobody wants them, or nobody wants to be seen to want them. Who knows?
I'll keep posting because extreme pornography, to me, says so much about human nature and our extraordinary diversity as a species. Posts on illustrators such as Toshio Saeki (a favorite) are generally well received by a consistent few, as are posts on current and not-so-current horror books.
The 109 of you who officially "follow" this blog are, no doubt, as different from each other in some ways as we are similar in other ways. Those differences keep the feedback hopping.
Personally, I'm a creature of extreme contrasts. On a weekend, I can eat breakfast while reading Toshio Saeki, then spend the rest of the morning watching Fly Away Home before screening In A Glass Cage for a friend in the afternoon. Before I fall asleep, I will probably crack open an Enid Blyton picture book that has just arrived from England.
I am fascinated by everything. EVERYTHING! My intellectual curiosity is unlimited. Hopefully, this blog reflects that.
The words weird, disgusting, and shocking rarely enter my internal lexicon. I find some material confronting, but, almost immediately, it becomes fascinating to me and worthy of further investigation. New obsessions are as regular as sunrises for me. The richness of our world is something to celebrate. Those who push again the tide of mediocrity need to be honored, embraced, and encouraged. I honor them here.
I want to thank and honor my 109 official Followers and those who Follow this blog discreetly for allowing me to share my passions with you and for contributing to the enrichment of my psyche.
If you folks were running the planet, I wouldn't need this blog.
As filmmaking duty calls (THE CLOTH DAGGER, my new film, is in production), I wish you all a Merry Xmas and Happy New Year!
Jess Franco and "intercourse" at the drive-in? You'd better believe it!
The Sandy Drive-in, Melbourne's independent drive-in, on Tulip St., Sandringham, opened in '62 and closed in '84. As an independent, it ran its own race, and was notable for its titillating double features.
Pairing "Succubus" with Richard C. Sarafian's atmospheric thriller, "Fragment of Fear", was a clever idea. Both films had a breezy, subversive vibe. Although "Succubus" was made in '69, its release in Australia was delayed until 1971. The film is one of Jess's best -- if you like Jess, that is; he does leave many people cold; but if you can get into the man's surreal brand of psychedelic, sensual horror, you won't be disappointed.
As a youngster, the ad smacked me in the eyeballs. I didn't need to be convinced that "Succubus" was right up my alley -- even if I was only 9 (!). The word "intercourse" sent me running to the oversized World Book dictionary that my parents kept on their wooden wall unit in the lounge room (which doubled as a mini-wine cellar ). I opened the book and flipped to the i's. I found the word and read its definition out loud a dozen times. It took a while for its true meaning to sink in (if you'll pardon the pun). Although this was the first time I'd ever heard the word, it wouldn't be the last.
Unfortunately, I was still ten years away from being allowed into an R-rated movie, but my mind was turning R-rated fast thanks to ad mats like these. I'd learned what "intercourse" was, thanks to "Uncle Jess" Franco -- now I just had to do the follow-up.
I found my father in the garden and my plan began with this: "Dad, where's Sandringham?"
He was hosing the shrubs, so he couldn't hear me so well.
"What?"
"Do you know where Sandringham is?"
"It's at the beach."
"Uhuh."
I needed more information than that.
"Dad?"
"What is it?"
"Would it take very long to ride to Sandringham?"
He panned his hose away from me so he could hear better.
"What, from here?"
I nodded.
"You wouldn't ride to Sandringham."
I nodded again.
"But what if you didn't have a car? Would you ride there then?"
My father shrugged.
"You're not thinking of riding there, are you?"
I shrugged, too.
"It's a long way."
I nodded in agreement, but added: "But it's good exercise."
Now he nodded, too.
"Have you told your mother you're thinking of doing this?"
I nodded.
"What did she say?"
"Nothing." I made it sound like she had no objection.
It was true -- kinda. I'd mentioned to my mother that I intended to ride to Sandringham without even knowing how far it was. She had looked at me and said exactly nothing. Then she'd sprayed water on a shirt she was ironing.
"Dad, how long would it take to ride there?"
He thought for a moment.
"I don't know. Three or four hours."
Three or three hours?! Was that all?! I was prepared to ride for twelve hours to see vampires and "sexual intercourse"(as the dictionary further defined it), even if my viewing was going to be through a cyclone fence while perched on my bike seat. All I had to do was come up with a great reason to disappear for eight or nine hours.
The first issue was dinner and time frames. Our family always ate at six-thirty. If dinner wasn't on the table at six-thirty, my father would look at my mother and say: "You can't complain about the service -- there isn't any!" Then he'd laugh, but she wouldn't. If it was going to take me three to four hours to reach the Sandy drive-in on my bike, I wouldn't get there until ten o' clock if I left at six. Showtime was eight-thirty. I needed to come up with a whopper to pull this one off. I'd have to skip dinner and hit the road by five-thirty, at least.
Both my parents were churchgoers. Mum's preference for services was Sunday mornings, but dad preferred Saturday nights. He also preferred a different church, The Holy Redeemer, where the parish priest raced through the service and was done -- sermon and all -- in half an hour. Clearly, this priest disliked church as much as my dad did and almost as much as I did.
My father only attended services to set an example for us and keep in my mum's good books. My plan was to stay in her good books, too, and see some "intercourse" at the same time.
"Can I ride up to church tonight?" I asked my mother at three o' clock that afternoon.
"What church?"
"Your church."
My mother looked pleased.
"You want to go up there on your own?"
"Uhuh."
See, I knew my dad wouldn't be there -- he'd be at the church where Father Speedy Gonzales held sway. My mother, who preferred Sundays, wouldn't be there, either, so nobody would be know that I wasn't there. It was a great plan.
"What about your bike? What are you going to do with your bike?"
It was a legitimate question from my mother's point of view. From my point of view it was irrelevant; I wasn't going to be leaving my bike anywhere.
Still, a lot of bikes were getting stolen from the church lately. I guess "Thou Shalt Not Steal" didn't apply within church grounds.
"I'll chain it up," I said.
"No. Leave it at Jolly's."
Shit!
The Jolly's were friends of the family. Nice, friendly people with kids. They lived thirty seconds from the church, which was next to my school. For some stupid reason, my school didn't allow kids to ride their bikes. I got around that rule by leaving my bike at the Jolly's. I'd park it there for the day and pick it up when school was out.
Now my mother was asking me to leave my bike at the Jolly's. That killed my plan because the Jolly's would know if my bike had or hadn't been there.
I combed my brain for solutions. "There's a place at the church that nobody knows about where you can leave your bike and still see it from inside," I said. "I can leave it there instead."
"Where's that?" My mother wasn't buying that one sight unseen.
"Against the window."
She looked confused and tried visualizing where I was talking about. She knew the church grounds well.
"Which window? You're not leaning your bike against one of the stained glass windows. What if you break it?"
Jesus, this was getting difficult.
"It's not right against the window," I explained. "It's actually against the bricks near the window."
She sighed. I guess she had lots other things to think about like dinner and vacuuming. That's why she said: "Alright. But if anything happens to that bike, you're not getting another one."
"Uhuh."
I spent the rest of the afternoon in my bedroom leafing through roadmaps and scribbling down directions to the Sandy Drive-in. I didn't know any of the streets. We lived in the East. The Sandy was in the South. It was like another country to me. My concept of life outside Mount Waverley was referenced by train stations only. Sandringham wasn't even on our line.
At four-thirty sharp I announced that I was leaving for church.
"WHAT? ALREADY?"
My mother was cooking dinner and she glared at me.
"You don't need to leave this early. The service doesn't start until seven-thirty."
"I want to get a good seat."
"A GOOD SEAT?!?! You'll be sitting there on your own for hours."
I didn't factor in this kind of opposition to my plan.
"But I might want to say a prayer and go to Confession first."
My mother visibly softened. She calmed down and squinted at me, as if seeing a small halo beginning to form above my head. Perhaps she thought, in that fleeting moment, that I was salvageable after all.
"Really? You're going to go to Confession?"
I nodded. "I haven't been for a while."
My mum nodded, encouraging me.
"You still don't need to leave this early. You haven't even eaten yet."
"Can I eat when I get back?"
She stirred her casserole. I inhaled the steam.
"Alright."
I started walking out.
"So you're going now?"
"Yep."
My mother crossed the kitchen and opened her purse.
She handed me a dollar bill.
"Can you get me a carton of milk on your way back?"
"Yep." I took the money and left.
Knowing that my mother would be looking out the window to see which I went, I went the way she expected, then circled the block. Then I headed for the Sandy Drive-in. I had four hours to get there.
Although the first part of my plan had gone off without a hitch, the second part was more problematic.
"Succubus" would finish around ten-thirty, maybe ten. That meant I wouldn't get home until one o' clock, at least. By then, my parents would have discovered my plan and would probably be calling the police.
I considered involving my brother in the plan and paying him for his subterfuge, but he'd turned very annoying lately and was reporting everything I did back to my mother, especially the bad stuff. The little pint-sized supergrass was taking pleasure in busting my schemes wide open and threatening me with exposure. It was his way of scoring points with my mother and wielding some power over me. In better times, he could have pretended I'd called and informed my parents that I had a flat tyre and would be home late. There were no cell phones, so they'd have no way of getting back in touch with me. It would have worked. But not right now. No, I'd have to call them around eight-thirty, when church got out. The problem was, that was also showtime (!)
The first hour of my ride to the Sandy Drive-in was pretty straightforward. I took the same road for ten miles. The traffic was heavy, so I rode on the footpath (sidewalk). When I came to the first major turn, I took it and headed south towards the beach. This road was known as Warrigal Rd. According to the maps, if I stayed on it, it would put me in the area where I needed to be. Then it was just a case of taking some smaller streets to Tulip St. and the drive-in.
Somewhere between that last thought and fate, something terrible happened. At a huge, six-way intersection, where Warrigal Rd. met the Nepean Highway, a famous Melbourne thoroughfare, I took a wrong turn. I knew something was wrong fifteen minutes later because I didn't recognize any of the street names I'd written down. I was a ten year old in another country, and I was approaching a state of high panic. Should I turn back? Where was "back"? Should I cut down one of these unfamiliar streets and hope it hits a familiar one? I didn't know what to do. I didn't dare ask anybody for directions because my entire mission was built on lies. Even worse -- lies involving God!
Even today, I don't know what I did. It's still a blur.
All I know is I didn't see any "intercourse" at the Sandy and I didn't have to make that phone call to my parents at eight-thirty about having a flat tyre.
It was a hollow victory when I arrived home at nine o' clock and handed my mum the carton of milk she'd asked me to get.
"You remembered. Good boy," she said. "How was church?"
"Alright," I lied.
"Who heard your Confession?"
"Father Curly."
My pants were definitely on fire.
My mum didn't ask me any more questions.
She gave me a hug and began re-heating dinner.
She was proud that her son had gone to church on his own, taken Confession, and remembered to bring back the milk.
I felt like a shocking fraud, and I'd given myself a real reason for Confession this time.
Even worse, I felt like a failure, because I'd gotten lost on my way to the Sandy Drive-in. I obsessed over the Sandy for a couple of years until I finally convinced my father to take me to see 'Conquest Of The Planet of the Apes' there. It was a great venue with a party atmosphere. Still, it didn't erase the pain of coming so close to seeing "intercourse" and vampires by the bay.
*****
Information about the Sandy Drive-in and other Australian drive-ins can be found on David Kilderry's amazing drive-in site:
