Film Reviews by NP

Of all Jess Franco/Erwin C. Dietrich collaborations during the mid to late 1970s, this is the most bizarre. The two prolific auteurs here turn the tables on the ‘women in prison’ dramas for which they are collectively best known, by making ‘respectable’ men very much the prisoners, and seductive, glamourous women are in charge. Blue Rita (Martine Fléty) demands total obedience, sexual and otherwise, of her female co-horts, and their various forms of indoctrination are dwelt upon in typically lingering scenes of softcore lesbian activity. Franco achieves some haunting compositions with these scenes – which serves as a precursor for the kind of thing he did, more explicitly, in his latter-day One-Shot Productions – with many liaisons filmed through a fish-tank, and with misty disorientation within the sci-fi love/torture parlours.

The look of this film is very different from the usual perception of an Uncle Jess film. No swaying palm trees or majestic, sun-drenched beaches. Instead, we have Parisian walk-ways, exotic, bustling streetways and picturesque city-scapes. Interiors are confined – or perhaps that should be unconfined – to chambers that wouldn’t look out of place in ‘Barbarella’ or ‘Logan’s Run’; spacious and featureless, less like a sensuous boudoir and more like a set for an early music video, complete with dry ice.

The characters are not massively well-defined, lost somewhat beneath the impressive and heavily stylised visual trappings, but my favourites include the briefly known Moira (Vivky Masmin) and the apparently naïve Sun (Dagmar Bürger).

Regular musician Walter Baumgartner excels with a mad fusion of gurgling electronica, tribal and jazz, with a repeated brass section track that sounds like the theme to Coronation Street. It might be his most eccentric musical concoction.

The story involves Rita, who hates men as a result of former abuse, and her female brigade, who kidnaps and tortures wealthy men and male ‘spies’ and makes them talk by sexually stimulating them to the point of insanity. This espionage nonsense is interspersed with Franco-favourite sleazy club scenes that are elevated by garish costumes, purple wigs and pink walls. Interesting use is made of colour, infusing every scene with a kind of garishness that provides a palpable contrast to the ‘ordinary’ world ‘on the outside.’ That contrast, I think, is my favourite element in this film. You really don’t know what goes on behind closed doors.

Wronged woman Nancy (Daryl Hannah) gets zapped by a laser from a flying saucer and as a result, grows to giant size whenever she gets angry. With a premise like that, how could so much of the running time have turned out to be such dull viewing?

And yet, all the ingredients spell better things. There is a phoney, tongue-in-cheek recreation of 1950s America, in which actors are encouraged to overplay events to make it clear we’re not to take them too seriously. There are some (presumably) deliberately cheesy effects to replicate the style of B-movies of that era (a genre in which the original 1958 version of this snugly fitted). Problem is, whilst everything is competent, the script isn’t terribly funny, nor is it poignant despite Hannah’s vulnerable appeal. Chunky philandering liar and cartoon husband Harry (Danny Baldwin) balances well a hateful and comedic persona.

As you may imagine, her increased stature gives Nancy a sense of empowerment. No longer a wallflower, she still makes it her business to track down her errant husband. Yet it isn’t solely personal empowerment she feels, but a strength on behalf of all women, giving this a feminist flavour, all the while looking great in a cavewoman-style outfit. Hannah carries the fifty-foot look very well, and is lithe enough to actually convince. She isn’t perhaps the most personable actress, and it occurs to me from time to time, for someone of her renewed gravitas, she underplays it somewhat. The image of this towering, haunted victim of circumstance dazedly and pathetically scanning the streets and calling out her husband's name in the doomed hope he can help her, however, is effective.

The ending sees Harry, and a handful of other presumably deceitful/unfaithful men put very much in their place by Nancy, who has now been reclaimed by the flying saucer and is in the company of other 50 foot women. Whether this is supposed to be seen as one ‘in the eye’ for menfolk or philanderers everywhere, is unclear.

Alongside ‘The Reptile’, a film made back-to-back with this, ‘Plague of the Zombies’ is widely considered something of a diamond in Hammer’s crown. And it is. Whereas ‘Reptile’ was infused with a rich Cornish atmosphere on which to base its tale of terror, only the realisation of the titular creature let things down. No such trouble here – in fact, the appearance of the zombies depicted in this John Gilling directed production went on, coincidentally or not, to influence many of the living dead productions to this day. Milky eyed, rotting, stumbling creatures, they are truly a sight to behold, especially in their first appearance: Diane Clare’s Sylvia Forbes stumbles through the night after her fragile friend Alice (the mighty Jacqueline Pearce) only to find her presumably dead, and in the arms of a shockingly revealed, grinning dead man. It is sterling stuff.

Peter Bryan’s screenplay sets the ball rolling immediately with a fox-hunt being carried out across countryside and village by a handsome troupe of violently arrogant upper-class young bloods. We immediately despise these cowards, and therefore hold Squire Clive Hamilton in both fear and high regard, as he appears to be their master. Hamilton is played by one of my favourite actors, John Carson, a superbly spoken gentleman who seemed to specialise in well-bred rotters. Had Christopher Lee not been available, I am convinced Carson would have made an equally well-received Dracula.

Andre Morell, another Hammer stalwart, is also a great presence here, as he is in all of his appearances. He plays Hamilton’s nemesis Sir James Forbes, a stuffy but very appealing professor. Brook Williams is also very good as the harassed young Peter Thompson. A word too, for the formidable Denver, Hamilton’s lackey and first class bully - Alexander Davion plays him wonderfully.

Apart from some unfortunate day-for-night sequences not quite convincing (a common problem from filmic productions of this time), the Cornish location is magnificently used. Superstitious villagers, scared locals, a charmingly manipulative and evil aristocrat, Michael Ripper, something strange going on in the mines – all terrific horror staples. And that dream sequence celebrated by Hammer fans, deserves all the accolades it gets.

I am not sure there are any film-makers currently as prolific as Andrew Jones, who, with production company North Bank Entertainment, continues to release low-budget horror films at a fast rate of knots. Most are enjoyable, some very much so. Never afraid to ‘pay homage’ to other projects, Jones here writes/directs something very close to Quentin Tarantino’s ‘Inglourious Basterds’, but on his terms.

It is bargain basement stuff, of course. Hitler’s briefing room is backed with black drapes, while he sits in front of an un-ironed swastika drape, whilst true to Jones’ direction, many scenes are a collection of close-ups. The best performance probably comes from Suzie Frances Garton as the resolute and duplicitous Ilsa (what else?) Koch – with suggestions of sensuality beneath that pristine cool veneer, she attacks the role with relish. In a disappointingly brief appearance, sometimes Jones regular Jared Morgan plays the bar-tender; he is always good to see. Perhaps it is ubiquity to blame, but I find it more difficult to be convinced by Lee Bane as ‘Mad Dog’ Murphy, someone too stylised to ever truly exist; whispering every line Eastwood-style, his avowed intent and catch-phrase, to ‘kill Nazis’ becomes more irritating than threatening. As ever though, he plays his role to the hilt and offers the key: don’t take things too seriously. Other performances (and accents) vary greatly. Hitler, for example, provides Oliver Fritz an opportunity to display the Fuhrer as a bizarre, ailing grotesque.

There are some interesting choices being made here and as is often the case with Jones’ projects, the more you watch, the more these choices take you in. The long conversational scenes, the slow-burning story-telling, and some ripe performances combine with simmering interest, a good build-up of threat and as ever, some nice location filming that does enough to allow you to believe events are taking place in Nazi Germany 1944. That’s another thing with films from the North Bank Entertainment stable – they cannot be accused of being unambitious. This could have been set in England with no Hitler appearance at all – but no, we have approximations of American accents, two curious werewolf hybrids and a bucket-load of Nazis.

For a story with ‘werewolves’ in the title, we have to wait a long time for even the first mention of them by name. The reveal comes at the time the two main story-strands come together, in a midst of monster masks and CGI blood-splattering. Like the rest of the film, some moments will leave you impressed, others not so much. But it seems the adventures of (don’t call him) ‘Mad Dog’ Murphy and his band of men are not quite over, as the post-credit flier tells us.

Something that has dogged the prolific horror stable of Andrew Jones is occasional lapses in sound quality. That is an affliction that blights this otherwise enjoyable exorcist tale. Such are the mumblings of actors Lee Bane and Jeff Raggett that you can barely hear what they are saying, and this kind of problem drains many of the scenes of any impact they might have. When the (very) familiar profanities from the demonic influence are similarly obscured, this proves more than an annoyance.

Otherwise, writer/director Jones does what always does: turns in a perfectly serviceable slow-burner that dwells on intimate, low-key scenes rather than spectacular theatrics, and puts his own stamp on the ‘possession’ genre.

Tiffany Ceri is excellent as the titular character. An unusual departure for a story dealing with demonic possession is that we only get to see her once she under the influence of evil – even the very long opening credits are interspersed with images of her writhing on a convent bed – so we lose the effective build-up of terror as she goes deeper under the evil spell. But there’s a reason for that, and even I won’t give away that spoiler. Lee Bane gives one of his better performance here, restrained and reflective, as the uncertain Father Richard Lamont. Jeff Raggett plays the reassuring Father Theo Reisinger with calm authority.

All in all, another competent production from Jones’ North Bank Entertainment company. Is it frightening? Despite all the wailing and gnashing, no. The enhancements of milky contact lenses and modulating voices to sound like a kazoo go through the motions, rather than effectively scaring us, much like the venture itself. It is ‘Andrew Jones does The Exorcist’ which is playful and entertaining in an economic way, but doesn’t go beyond the familiar.

It’s not always possible, but I try to watch films blind, without knowing anything about them. For a long time, there was no dialogue in ‘The Pack’ and I was trying to identify the location. At first, I seemed sure it was America, then Britain and finally – when characters begun to speak – Australia.

Wild dogs are notoriously difficult to get right. Several otherwise worthwhile adaptions of ‘Hound of the Baskervilles’ have been somewhat let down by their depiction of the titular mutt. Here, effects are only slightly awkward. A mixture of quick glimpses of slavering jaws, crimson splattering, what I suspect to be a puppet and scampering mongrels do a good job convincing, except when you see the sleek and happy complete animal, darting uninjured out of shot after an attack, it is clear that ‘no animals were harmed (or stressed) during production’. And quite right too, of course.

The acting throughout is top-notch, from the first victim of the pack (an unctuous money-lender) to the occasionally brattish but well-rounded juveniles. The story-line of a likeable couple, Adam and Carla Wilson (Jack Campbell and Anna Lise Phillips) with money troubles under siege in their own house by a pack of blood-thirsty canines is treated seriously and directed with real flourish by Nick Robertson. Campbell may overdo the rugged deep voice thing, but he provides a solid character.

It is true to say that once the ‘siege’ was underway, the interesting elements of the build-up became more standard, and the excellent actors were somewhat reduced to reacting to the attacks. But that is the way it goes, and there were several moments of genuine tension.

Enjoyable, solid, well-made whelp chiller.

Here’s something – a Jess Franco ‘Women in prison’ film (his first), with Harry Allan Towers and not Erwin C. Dietrich, who would be associated with future incarceration endeavours. It is interesting to note the differences – this is nearly a decade before the Dietrich projects and the usual lesbian and titillation hasn’t reached graphic levels yet. Also Bruno Nicolai’s soundtrack almost seems to have been loaned from a blockbuster movie, lending more doom-laden atmospherics to the terrifically austere surroundings than is sometimes strictly necessary.

There’s a good cast here. Herbert Lom is always very watchable: I’m surprised he did this – his perverse cold-hearted Governor Santos is someone Howard Vernon or Paul Muller (or Franco himself) might usually play. Having said that, his peccadillos are always off-screen. Marie Schell is hardened and glamorous as Leonie Caroll, brought in to observe the activities of current governor Thelma Diaz. Diaz is played by the magnificent Mercedes McCambridge, short on stature but a performance as arch and camp as can be imagined. McCambridge (whose main point of interest for horror fans might well be her voicing of the demon in 1973’s ‘The Exorcist’) appears to relish each moment and steals every scene. Maria Rohm plays Maria who, blonde and pretty, is always in Diaz’s sights. And it is always a pleasure to see Rosalba Neri, here as constantly smouldering Zoie: a former ‘exotic dancer’, I’m delighted to say.

The Alicante location is delicious and the building used for the prison is suitably Spartan and yet crammed with interest. Flaking paint, featureless walls, paradise-like views always out-of-grasp. The whole production looks terrific and might well be Franco’s most restrained, coherent and ‘mainstream’ WIP picture. It also might just be my favourite. Things move at a fair rate, the relentless austerity is broken up by the flashbacks that flesh out the back-stories for the main inmates. The violence and torture takes place for the most part, just off-camera, and is no less effective for that. And the story builds up a genuine sense of frightening momentum towards the end, which makes the very satisfying finale tragically inevitable. Thoroughly recommended to those familiar with Franco, and those who are not.

The soundtrack is enlivened by the occasional insertion of variants of the theme song, ‘The Day I Was Born’ (sung by Barbara McNair, the wronged and wonderful Rita from Franco’s 1968 ‘Venus in Furs’), which is guaranteed to bury itself into your brain for a long time after you first hear it.

… or ‘Black Mountain Side’ as it is sometimes known, is a story that has much in common with John Carpenter’s ‘The Thing (1982)’, but made with a fraction of the budget. For an independent film, it boasts great cinematography, convincing acting and good sound design. The occasional effects are believable, but there are really too few of them.

Or perhaps I should say, there is too much of everything else. Even shorn of twenty minutes, this would still be a slow-burner, saved to a certain extent by the characters (all men), who are believable and share a sense of chemistry with each other. But it is just too dull, I’m sorry to say. There’s little pace, momentum or even atmosphere which is surprising given the excellent location. The views of the wonderfully crisp snowy backdrop of are fairly static and often looks like the same shot repeated.

Things happen, certain characters become affected – there is a terrific moment when one of them, apparently randomly, cuts off his hand – all powerfully staged. But there’s no build up from that. The slow reveal of the evil spirit is nicely restrained, and represents a high point.

I really wanted to like this more than I did. In its favour, it has a Lovecraftian ‘vibe’ to it, but that’s never much more than a vague suggestion. Even the ending is decidedly perfunctory and after nearly two hours, that is a shame.

Sometimes, when there is a lack of budget, infusing a film with a sense of dark humour can compensate. It seems to me that director/writer Rene Perez embraces this and never lets his production take itself too seriously. This filters through to the actors too, who may not be truly convincing, but seem to be enjoying themselves, and that enjoyment is somewhat infectious.

The storyline is also suitably odd. A group of four financially embarrassed wannabes are brought together to take part in a reality television show in an expansive shack in the middle of a deep forest with no internet, and no signal for cell phones. As the gravel-voiced hostess announces, it is best not to set fire to the house, as there will be no-one remotely near to put it out. What would health and safety say? And yet, there is someone watching, a chain-smoking, well-dressed millionaire type (played by Richard Tyson), who observes all from a variety of cameras dotted about the place.

This is the sequel to ‘Playing with Dolls (2015)’, also spearheaded by Perez and starring Tyson alongside Natasha Blasick. A further instalment, ‘Playing with Dolls: Havoc’ was released in 2017.

Back to this, and the two star-struck females Stina (Karin Brauns) and Nico (Elonda Seawood) are quite clearly hired for their physical (and surgically enhanced) looks, but then, if this really was a reality show, then that would be true to form. The girls are empty-headed but quite likeable. The killer, who appears not be an actor, but a real murderer – in which case, do the producers know this? – pops up from time to time and dispatches people and bizarrely, remains unseen by the rest.

The further we get into this, the less I understand it. Here’s a spoiler: Trina, the last survivor, is told she has won the prize of a million dollars. What does she think has happened to the others? Clearly she’s not bothered! Sadly, no-one seems to have told the killer, who ties her up and begins to torture her in some pretty grisly scenes – after which, he gives her a hearty pat on the shoulder!

Colin Bryant, who is hugely built, plays Magnus, the hero. In another spoiler, he hasn’t perished after all and he and Stina elect to fight the masked killer. A couple of minutes into the scrap, watched by Tyson … the end credits roll! Is this a cliff-hanger or did they just run out of money?

Despite the head-melting incomprehensibility of it all, I really rather enjoyed this. The direction is good, the masked killer looks formidable and there are some very gory moments. The weirdness of it all convinced me to keep watching to see what would happen next. A project that relishes its own oddness.

Uncle Jess Franco’s itchy camera zooms away from an austere, guarded prison building to the sound of a young woman, naked and chained as it turns out, screaming for mercy. This will be one of a collection of Franco/Erwin C. Dietrich collaboration then, a ‘women in prison’ drama.

Lucky Lina Romay (as Maria da Guerra) is a new inmate. “The crime you are guilty of could not have been committed by a normal woman,” she is told, and is soon sent by duplicitous ‘doctor’ Carlos Costa (Paul Muller) for electro-shock therapy. The torture is suitably graphic and convincingly played, as are subsequent indignities, both sexual and ‘therapeutic’. Mostly, this is conducted accompanied by the inappropriately cheery jazz score from regular composers Daniel White and Walter Baumgartner. And while I’m listing familiar elements from other ‘WIP’ films, yes, the locations are excellent and the director makes very good use of them.

On one hand, this is a series of scenes featuring pretty, dubbed women in various sexual situations. On the other, if you find it possible to look beyond that – and it’s not always easy – you have a thin tale of Maria, a mentally delicate girl, being abused in a vile manner in a film only Franco could make. The ‘doctor’ played by Muller has been dubbed with a very camp voice, which makes his sexual manipulation of Maria unlikely. After sharing with us all the dubious sight of his hirsute back whilst rutting with Soledad Miranda in 1970’s ‘Eugenie De Sade’, here similar treats are in store for Lina Romay – lucky Paul Muller! By this time, Maria’s so forlorn, she can barely smoke a cigarette.

Maria’s crime is told in flashback, and in the telling, provides one of the strangest moments in a Franco film – which says a lot. A slow motion scene of incest and violence between her and daddy (Jess Franco) – although it is acted in slow-motion, but filmed at normal speed – demonstrates Maria’s current predicament. This is followed up with some almost penetrative shots of various inmates’ genitalia (one with inserted cigarette) and a close-up of a dead mouse in Maria’s breakfast. Whilst the story is an overall mish-mash and is leanly spread out, there is no denying the set-pieces are guaranteed to disturb, one way or another.

Romay is excellent, as is Martine Stedil as Bertha and Beni Cardoso as deranged Rosaria. Monica Swinn plays the monocle-wearing, trouser-less chief wardress. She’s very good, even given the usual wall of dubbing that compromises any performance. Why does she do what she does? Because she can. Just why she reserves special treatment for poor Maria, well …

This opens with two soldiers, an officer and his prisoner, slowly smoking cigarettes with such elongated silent intensity, you wonder if they intend ever to speak at all. When they do, it is simply to invite the telling of a story that started at the beginning of their last mission …

‘Nazi Zombies’ or ‘Maplewood’ as it has been known, is directed by David B Stewart III, who also writes it, provides the evocative music (with great use made of the relentless chimes of a funereal church bell); he is a film editor, production designer, set decorator, costume designer and camera operator. He also plays Brig. Gen. Abrams. He’s not credited as ‘cigarette financier’, which is probably just as well because throughout, characters are puffing thoughtfully on a smoke. The grainy images and relentless close-ups betray a lower than low budget, and with little reason to care for the characters in the first place, by half way through, we don’t know who is who or what is what. Helpfully, we keep cutting back to the officer and prisoner who try and patch the story together story for us.

Events take place at a sluggish pace and the production tries to take itself far too seriously. Angsty, square-jawed, testosterone filled men strut around in a confined secret military base infiltrated by badly lit zombies. I feel awkward in finding it so dull, because some effort has clearly gone into it – the setting is claustrophobic, some of the acting is good and the zombies are a lot more impressive than the realisation of others in such low-financed productions. But the lack of budget stifles it, robs it of tension and pace, and the characters are simply ultra-serious military men (and Lt Meyer played by Elissa Mullen). The night-time scenes are under-lit to the point of obscurity and there are sound problems typical with films of this type. Recorded in 1999, this project failed to see the light of day for almost four years.

With a title like that, and a director like Jess Franco, it’s fairly sure that there will be a certain amount of sleaze in this film. I didn’t realise how much – in many ways this is his most perverse project. 15 year-old Maria Rosalea Coutinho (Sarah Hemmingway) is spied enjoying a playful kiss and cuddle with a local lad by Father Vincente (William Berger), who then manipulates Mariah’s terrified mother into forcing her into life at a convent. Vincente then brings himself to orgasm at the confessional booth after coercing Maria into telling of her mild sexual fumblings.

Many raised eyebrows were caused by the casting of Hemmingway, who looks extremely young, and who is tricked, coerced, tortured and humiliated by the hordes of liars, sycophants, perverts and manipulators around her, most of whom cloak their blatant indiscretions behind the veil of their perception of religion.

As you might well imagine, there are lesbian scenes between the nuns, complete with dialogue like “You have served the prince of darkness, now I will perform the ritual.” These are restrained for Franco, and frankly rather too long. It is the treatment of young Maria which is most effective – a pure innocent who has been cast amongst this nest of vipers because of what they consider to be HER bad attitude! It’s not nice at all. Especially as the unpleasant events are conveyed without spectacle, either by Franco, or the benign choral score from Walter Baumgartner.

As with all Franco/Erwin C. Dietrich collaborations, this is crisply shot and appears to have been provided with a decent budget. As always, the locations are incredible. An exercise in ‘nunsploitation’, the use of religion as a veneer of respectability is effective, and Hemmingway appears so naive with her character offering barely any resistance to the horror she finds herself in (excepting her pleas to a mother too stupid/timorous to help). Even Satan appears to join in with the black mass being practiced. Berger is highly convincing as Father Vincente, effortlessly bending others unto his will and gleefully taking advantage of Maria. You get the distinct impression he and others like him are used to getting away with these kind of atrocities and bare them no thought. Even through the barrier of dubbing, it is very easy to despise this rotter. Of all Franco’s output, I find this film one of the most difficult to watch.

Back in 2001, the original ‘Jeepers Creepers’ presented us with a kind of slasher film, but with enough eccentric twists that ensured it provided something different. Two years later, the sequel undid all the good that was done and gave us a generic runaround peopled with stock characters. It has taken 14 years for this third instalment to appear (set between 1 and 2), and sadly the results are unremarkable.

A selection of characters are introduced, the less tolerable of which thankfully emerge simply as ciphers. Other than that group of brattish teen motorcyclists, we have two grizzled old cops: the bejewelled Sheriff Dan Tashtego (Stan Shaw) and Sgt. Davis Tubbs (Brandon Smith); farmer granny Gaylen Brandon (Meg Foster) and her casually stunning grand-daughter Addison (Gabrielle Haugh). Addison’s suitor is naturally called Buddy (Chester Rushing), and he is last seen departing for a basketball game in the van that was attacked in Jeepers Creepers 2.

The first time we see the Creeper here, he is as we remember him. This time, he is posturing on top of the roof of his van as it slowly drives away into woodlands. You dearly want a low-hung branch to nobble him. His powers have reached a new level, leading to some improbable/ridiculous over-the-top deaths (the double impaling of two of the motor-cycle gang springs to mind). The Creeper somehow lacks the spectacle he did in the first film. Perhaps it is unfair of me to hope for more, but when he spends so much time despatching the motor-cyclists to prove how nasty he is, it’s hard to be particularly impressed.

His truck is the star of the show here. It’s equipped with a CGI-enhanced box of death-dealing tricks Batman himself would be envious of. Instead of making the audience wince, however, the plethora of spikes and lasso mechanisms produce groans.

We don’t really have time to get to know anyone, each character is fairly generic. This is a real shame as again, the bickering, likeable brother and sister from the original helped make it so enjoyable, because they were real and their dialogue didn’t consist solely of ‘goddam’ and ‘son of a bitch’ (these are the words that even usher out the film). Events don’t flow particularly well, instead they seem cobbled together as if from separate productions. As the running time rolls on, this becomes particularly evident as tone skips from one thing to another with sinking, increasingly dull rapidity. Goodwill on behalf of the audience soon gives way to bafflement and the dawning realisation that this really isn’t very good. Director, writer and co-producer Victor Salva must take the blame for much of this – TV movie production standards and most of it occurring during bright sunshine. No real sense of atmosphere, no convincing jeopardy, nothing.

Gina Phillips, Trish from the first film, is mentioned at the beginning of this, but doesn’t turn up until the very end here.

Pretty new nurse Lizzie (Vanessa Grasse) is left to patrol a mental institution for deranged and violent children on her own, with no security to or senior staff to protect her. All on her first day. So being attacked and threatened is something she gets used to rather quickly. Even in 1955, surely this a serious security lapse. Ah well, it allows Lizzie, and us, to get to know patient Jackson (Sam Strike, formerly an actor on UK soap EastEnders). Jackson, a seemingly wholesome young fellow, isn’t his real name however – his real name is Jedidiah.

A furious Verna Sawyer (Lili Taylor) enters the institution and, on her own, incites a riot. She’s come to rescue Jedidiah, her son. Soon, they are both taken hostage by patients Ike (James Bloor), Bud (Sam Coleman) and Clarice (Jessica Madsen), who are escaping. This story follows their murderous rampage and the various events that lead to the birth of the legendary Leatherface.

I suppose whether you view this enterprise as a success or not depends on whether you feel Leatherface’s early life needs chronicling, if it is necessary (if you forgive the word-play) to put meat on the bones of a mindless, rampaging killer who became a horror icon back in 18974’s ‘Texas Chainsaw Massacre’. It’s up to the viewer to enjoy, or otherwise, a series of bloody events that carefully put all the pieces into place directly before the original story was told. Is the lead character better as a faceless lunatic killer, or a person with a past and an identity? Again, it’s for the individual to decide.

This individual had a great time with this. Terrific cast, no bubble-headed girls or vacuous boys. A strong, fast paced story full of eye-watering moments and genuine thrills. A decent budget, strong enough to stage a convincing 1950s setting, but not so generous as to be a slave to CGI that would add an unwanted cartoon element to proceedings. Sense is even made of Leatherface’s transvestite tendencies, which met with such disdain in 1994’s ‘Next Generation’ project.

Turnbotham Round is the envy of Britain. The absence of crime there is such that the BBC themselves have come to make a programme about the place, specifically Sergeant Dudfoot (English comedian, actor, author, film director and amateur astronomer Will Hay). 10 years have passed since any crime was reported, and while Dudfoot is being congratulated for lack of poaching activity in the area, his two colleagues march past the window laden with game. Such unfortunate coincidences are the backbone of Hay’s comedy. His colleagues are Hay regulars, precocious schoolboy type Albert Brown (Graham Moffatt) and diminutive, wittering old man Jerry Harbottle (Moore Marriot).

The turn-side to their crime-free village is that the authorities begin to feel that three policemen are unnecessary. Wary of losing their jobs, which comprise of doing nothing in particular except arguing in quick-fire chatter, the trio go about inventing crimes, unaware that a smuggling caper is going on right under their noses. As a cover for their nefarious activities, the gang exploit the local legend of the headless horseman. Conveniently – and hilariously - a rhyme regarding the horseman contains a reference, in its elusive last line, to a cave where the smuggling activities are taking place.

It’s the headless horseman that earns this dated cavalcade of squeaky chit-chat, comedy sniffs and funny walks any connection to the world of horror. It is surprisingly well realised, and the first of its fleeting appearances are steadily built up by whispered forebodings of the nature of its curse, and the blazing ‘phantom hearse’ it travels around the night in. (“Look at the driver’s head.” “What’s wrong with his head?” “He hasn’t got one!”)

Hay is best known for being the head of this particular team: in real life, the private and serious man didn’t want to be part of an ensemble, and dumped them when he moved from his prolific phase with Gainsborough films, with future side-kicks including John Mills and Charles Hawtrey.

The comedy seems very stagey today, very pantomime-esque and too ‘large’ for the small screen. It is silly rather than sophisticated, and not without a large degree of charm, even a few laugh-out-loud moments – mainly due to the dialogue between the three leads, in a finely timed barrage of misunderstandings.

Harbottle: Help! Help! Police!

Dudfoot: Shut up, you old idiot. We are the police.