When Kim Newman recommends something I usually sit up and listen. The avuncular film critic and horror fan has recently released his Guide to the Flipside of British Cinema, a 40 minute documentary that accompanies the BFI’s series of obscure British movies now available on DVD. The films date from the 1960s and as a dedicated fan of forgotten cinema I have to confess that I’ve only ever seen two of them. Richard Lester’s The Bed Sitting Room (1969) is easily the best known of the collection, and even though I’ve never been a big fan of the film, Newman promises a fully restored print. Also there’s Privilege (1967), Peter Watkins study of pop stardom which followed his controversial television works Culloden and The War Game.
But it’s the films that have so far escaped my attention that interest me the most:
- Man of Violence (1968), a result of Pete Walker’s brief flirtation with the crime genre.
- All the Right Noises (1968), starring Tom Bell and Olivia Hussey.
- Herostratus (1967), which looks like the most pretentious art film ever conceived. Mr Newman, however, assures us that it is well worth watching. And this is a must as far as I’m concerned as it features an early film appearance by Helen Mirren.
- Primitive London (1965), a shocking doumentary on the seedier side of the capital.
Newman’s DVD is nothing more than a taster for these films, so expect nothing more sophisticated than a series of clips and shots of him discussing them. Oddly, he doesn’t mention all of the films available in the Flipside series, missing out Guy Hamilton’s The Party’s Over featuring a young Oliver Reed. It’s on the top of my must-see list. Expect a review shortly.
Kim Newman’s Guide to the Flipside of British Cinema also features three short films. The Spy’s Wife, made in 1972, is a very odd film starring Tom Bell and Dorothy Tutin and directed by Gerry O’Hara. Perfect for spotting London locations but only just manages to stay its 28 minutes welcome. Tomorrow Night in London is a very short piece from the late 60s showcasing the happening scene of the time. It’s the sort of thing repeated on Channel 4 afternoon viewing until about 1990. Carousella is a black and white documentary about strip artists, which brings to mind elderly gentlemen in long raincoats at the Scala Cinema. However it is rather fascinating, and is well worth investigating – the mood reminding of Ken Loach’s Poor Cow.
What defines a truly scary film?
I’m not talking about great art in cinematic horror, which I think is different. Kubrick’s The Shining and Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby are both artistic achievements, but I wouldn’t say that either scared me. I’ve watched them both countless times and can pick out many memorable aspects of them; Jack Nicholson’s masterful performance, Kubrick’s slow and deliberate direction, Polanski’s sheer cleverness in making a fantastic story believable. Both directors are also groundbreaking in using the modern setting for horror. But the films don’t really scare me; I love them just for the brilliant pieces of cinema that they are.
Much hype surrounded the release of Paranormal Activity, a film made in 2007. It attracted instant comparison with The Blair Witch Project in its use of the hand held camera technique and there are other more subtle similarities. But it is unfair to say that Paranormal Activity is a Blair Witch copycat. It’s a much better film, more disturbing and one that demands more than one viewing in a way that its predecessor never did. And whilst The Blair Witch Project was a scary film, Paranormal Activity is far scarier.
Katie and Micah are a fairly ordinary suburban couple. It’s the apparent ordinariness that makes this film so effective, particularly in the nondescript house where all of the film is set. Micah is intent on filming life at home. Some of this results in Blair style shaky handheld effects, whilst the rest of his footage comes from the hours of night vision photography taken in the bedroom. The double bed, the large white open door and the stop motion film as they toss and turn throughout the night. Why is he doing this? Katie believes she is being haunted, Micah believes he can solve the problem.
Director Oren Peli impresses in how the tension of this film very gradually cranks up. There’s one scene where a psychic, who appears at the beginning, is called again when things begin to turn bad. He senses the terrible atmosphere in the house and backs away, unable to help. It’s that sense of awful oppressive danger that comes across so well. Partly it’s to do with claustrophobia, the relatively tight setting of the film, but the build up is done so effectively. At first, the night footage reveals nothing more than noises coming from downstairs, although this in itself is disturbing and did cause me an ears-awake sleepless night after viewing this film. Perhaps one of our greatest fears is as simple as the concern about the creaks and unexplained movements we perceive going on around us during the night.
Peli works wonders with only a small set of tools. Most of the results are economically chilling. The noises downstairs. The bedroom door, seen to move on its own when Micah surveys a night’s footage. Katie’s sleepwalking, where she is revealed to stand in the same position for hours at a time. The experiment with talcum powder sprinkled on the landing, exposing far from human footprints. And so on. Like the psychic, the audience begin to sense the awful oppressive air in the house. Unlike him, they probably won’t want to leave it, bearing things out to their horrible end.
I came to Paranormal Activity fresh, not having read any reviews and knowing nothing of the plot. This is the way to approach it and I won’t give anything more away. Suffice to say that I was scared. A rarity. An unusual film indeed.
The Syd Barrett story is a well documented one, although it’s a story crying out for a sensitive biography that is wise enough to debunk the many myths surrounding the man. Myths that have grown steadily prominent over the years. An LSD casualty, a raving recluse, a harmless eccentric, a troubled and mentally ill man; all are varying accounts of what went wrong in the life of Pink Floyd’s founder member. In Syd Barrett: A Very Irregular Head Rob Chapman pieces together Barrett’s life, documenting the solid evidence and dismissing the fanciful rumour to produce a very well written and painstakingly researched work. It’s a valuable account of a complex and often misreported life.
Barrett first caught my eye as an impressionable 12 year old, when the Relics compilation album fell into my possession. Quickly realising that Pink Floyd weren’t going to be my cup of tea, I was however fascinated by three songs all composed by Syd Barrett – Arnold Layne, See Emily Play and Bike. They were all strikingly far removed from the Pink Floyd of Relics and worlds away from Another Brick in the Wall, which had recently brought them back into the singles chart. Barrett’s songs offered charm and humour that was evidently lacking in the later incarnation of the band; he was my first clue of the eccentricities, invention and brief glimpses of genius that the best music of the 60s had offered. Further research into his mystique revealed that he had virtually withdrawn from life to exist only as a legend, glimpsed rarely in his home town of Cambridge.
Considering that the surviving members of Pink Floyd didn’t want to talk to him, it’s odd that Chapman’s book works so well. A Barrett devotee, he makes no secret of the fact that he’s no fan of the group once Syd had left the ranks. Indeed, he almost relishes in the irony that part of Barrett’s legacy rests upon his former band going on to become one of the most successful of all time – despite the reality that the musical style they settled on was far removed from his own. Given the lack of Floyd input (although Chapman does include a generous dose of Gilmour, Mason, Waters and Wright interview snippets from elsewhere) there are arguably richer contributions from many other players in the Barret story, including teenage girlfriend Libby Gausden, manager Peter Jenner, flatmate Duggie Fields, sister Rosemary and loyal fans from successive generations of songwriters Robyn Hitchcock and Graham Coxon (the Blur guitarist is interviewed at length and writes the introduction).
So why, apart from the Pink Floyd connection, are people so fascinated – so obsessed – with a man who stopped recording in 1970 when he was 24, gave his last interview the following year and avoided any contact with the world right up until his death aged 60 in 2006? A man who’s recording output amounted to the Pink Floyd debut album Piper at the Gates of Dawn and three solo albums The Madcap Laughs, Barrett and Opel (the last technically a compilation and only released in 1988). A man who, despite being regarded as a talented painter, destroyed most of his work so only a fraction remained after he’d died. A man who, by many accounts, was often repetitively bothered by intrusive pilgrims rolling up on his doorstep.
Chapman concedes that the Barrett fire was partly kept alive by the perpetual rumour mongering surrounding a sensitive man reportedly sent insane by drugs, possibly spiked by an uncaring circle of friends. Rumours that became more and more fantastic, but never challenged until now, as Barrett became more withdrawn and introverted, apparently getting fat on Guinness, apparently standing outside Harrod’s in a Yogi Bear tie, freaking out and putting his head through ceilings, even trying to flag down an plane he’d missed. Apparently an often violent and uncontrollable man (oddly though, one of the greatest myths of all – that Syd walked all the way back to Cambridge when he eventually left London – turns out to be true). But Chapman is willing to prove any perversely romantic urban myth untrue, and attempts to get to the root of Syd’s mental state, although drawing mixed conclusions (the closing chapter is almost painfully moving). Most revealing is the accounts given by his sister Rosemary, who portrays him as more complex than the sorry image of the Cambridge recluse, but nevertheless a lonely and often distressed individual.
A Very Irregular Head also works strongly in proving Barrett’s strength as a performer and songwriter, and Chapman at times moves into Iain MacDonald Revolution in the Head territory in closely analysing both music and lyrics. It’s convincing, proving that Barrett’s small and briefly executed body of work was both highly original and hugely influential. Chapman also argues that it’s no great crime that Barrett abandoned the music world, reasoning that his surviving contemporaries The Rolling Stones, Paul McCartney and Bryan Wilson continue a pointless and uninspired career path. Syd Barrett was an original while he lasted and he’s remained an inspiration. Let’s celebrate that.
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