Review #609: 'Cecil B. Demented' (2000)

Cult director John Waters has always been a favourite amongst those familiar with the 'Midnight Movie' circuit. The Midnight Movies were a bunch of films that included David Lynch's Eraserhead (1977), Alejandro Jodorowsky's El Topo (1970), and Waters' own Pink Flamingos (1972), that were screened in New York in the 1970's to an audience looking for an artistic vision that tended to push the boundaries of taste and subject matter, and led to re-discoveries of films now considered classics such as Freaks (1932) and Night of the Living Dead (1968). Waters, as well as championing the great auteurs such as Pasolini and Fassbinder, was always an outspoken fan of zero-budget schlock like Criminally Insane (1975) and the work of Herschell Gordon Lewis. And this is the focus of Cecil B. Demented, a movie essentially for cinephiles, and one that has the movie business as a whole fixed in its sights.

Hollywood starlet Honey Whitlock (Melanie Griffith) is on the verge of another smash hit when she attends the premiere in Baltimore. In front of a shocked audience and many cameras, she is kidnapped by psychopathic film director Cecil B. Demented (Stephen Dorff). Demented takes Honey back to his studio, where his loyal crew, calling themselves the Sprocket Holes, have a vision to take cinema back for the auteurs, and crush the studio system (who are in production of Forrest Gump 2). Honey is to be the star in the first of a new movement - Outlaw Cinema - a process that strips back all production values in favour of achieving ultimate reality. They have also taken a vow of chaste, and will not have sex until the movie is done. Seeing opinion of her drastically slide on television, Honey starts to sympathise with Demented's movement, and eventually she wilfully comes over to the cause.

It can be said that true satire cuts both ways, and that is certainly what Waters achieves with this. As an obsessive movie fan myself, there's many a time when I've been eager to tear down the poster of a new Zac Efron movie or punch someone in the face when they've describe how much they love Marley & Me (2008). I sometimes want to scream about how much they're missing through ignorance and that it's their fault so much shit gets made. But there's times when I've looked back at my own pretentiousness and felt embarrassed at criticising someone who ultimately wants something entirely different out of cinema than I do. Demented's bunch of misfits are nothing more than dysfunctional psychopaths; cartoon cut-outs that are too extreme to not laugh at. Waters seems to be amused more by these scarf-wearing chin-strokers than by those who inadvertently fund the studio system.

Although a lot doesn't really work in Cecil B. Demented, I still got a lot out of it. This is mainly due to the fact that I share a lot of Waters' opinions, and can get as much enjoyment out of a tacky old Larry Cohen or Herschell Gordon Lewis horror as I could with something from Godard or Bunuel. Occasionally the bad taste humour doesn't go down so well, such as the sloppy penetration sounds when the gang can finally get down to it, or the rather silly 'Demented Forever' sing-a-long, but Stephen Dorff's wide-eyed, energetic performance managed to be a nice distraction. Demented could be seen as an answer to many of Waters' fans objections to his occasional dabbling with the mainstream, with his colourful efforts Hairspray (1988) and (the very enjoyable) Serial Mom (1994) playing in direct contrast to Pink Flamingos, which infamously contains a scene of dog-shit eating. But this is a criticism and a homage to the movies, something that all cinephiles can understand.


Directed by: John Waters
Starring: Melanie Griffith, Stephen Dorff, Alicia Witt, Adrian Grenier, Lawrence Gilliard Jr., Maggie Gyllenhaal, Michael Shannon
Country: France/USA

Rating: ***

Tom Gillespie

Review #608: 'Jour de Fête' (1949)

With Jour de Fete, French genius Jacques Tati began exploring many themes that littered his quite wonderful career. The plot is, like many of his works, very simple and is centred around one very basic idea - here the bumbling postman Francois, played by Tati. The small rural town of Sainte-Severe-sur-Indre is visited by a travelling fair, who bring joy and colour to an otherwise quiet area. Francois goes quietly about his business under the nose of the village-folk who hardly seem to notice him, apart from when they're making fun of him or getting him drunk. After seeing a documentary showing the advanced methods of postal delivery in the U.S., Francois makes use of everything around him to make his own service as fast and efficient as in America.

Clocking in at only 70 minutes, this is certainly Tati's least ambitious project, but he was very much honing his craft (this was his directorial début). His reputation as the Antonioni of slapstick is evident, as Tati feels just as comfortable watching the simple and natural interaction of the village's inhabitants in the quite beautiful rural landscape, as he is falling on his arse. Tati barely appears for the first twenty minutes or so, which is relatively laugh-free, but these early scenes are important in understanding the point of the film. By having such a calm and naturalistic opening, Francois' desperate struggle to meet the demands of a society relying increasingly on technology becomes all the more ridiculous. And there lies the satire, something that he explored more head-on and ambitiously in Playtime (1967).

Not to say Jour de Fete is without ambition, as Tati was so dedicated to his craft that he shot the film on two cameras - one with standard black-and-white photography that was the norm in 1949, and one with Thomsoncolour, a quite primitive and experimental colourising process. Thomsoncolour went bust before the film was released, and Tati was forced to release the black-and-white version that circulated for years. Tati's daughter Sophie Tatischeff and cinematographer Francois Ede managed to release the film in it's original colour in 1995, but the film looks grainy, damaged and diluted. Yet it's nice to think that Tati thought his work and vision was too grand for black-and-white, and he's right. Although this is by far the least laugh-out-loud of Tati's work that I've seen, there is plenty here to hint at the genius to come, namely the quite brilliant final few frames that has an excited child running after the leaving fair, gradually shrinking in the distance.


Directed by: Jacques Tati
Starring: Jacques Tati, Guy Decomble, Paul Frankeur
Country: France

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #607: 'Meet the Feebles' (1989)

After his bad taste début, er, Bad Taste (1987), the young Peter Jackson made the decision to take his filth-laden sense of humour to a new level and direct Meet the Feebles, the kind of film you would expect Jim Henson to make if his life had gone in an entirely different direction and had formed a psychedelic drug habit. He still had little budget to work with, as well as the (understandable) concerns from his funders, but this was the first time he would work with his future wife Fran Walsh, who would work with him on every film after this. Maybe it is her influence that makes Feebles a noticeable step up from his début, or maybe it's not, but the film works thanks to a director seemingly more comfortable in his role, but still renegade enough to inject his guerilla sensibilities into it.

The basic 'plot' revolves around The Feebles variety show, of which the main attraction is singer Heidi the Hippo (voiced by Mark Hadlow, Dori in The Hobbit (2012)), a former big star who has formed an uncontrollable attraction to cakes. Amongst the various characters is newcomer Robert, a softly-spoken and naive hedgehog who goes to great lengths to attract a seductive poodle he has fallen for. It is mainly through his eyes that we witness the mayhem of the show, which is ran by Bletch the Walrus (Peter Vere-Jones). Bletch is involved with Heidi, but is secretly having sex with a slutty feline, and is always making money on the side through Trevor the Rat's (Brian Sergent) pornography films. The show comes under threat when sex-addicted Harry the Rabbit contracts an STD and is given a few hours to live, but is busted by the Fly, a pesky journalist.

What Meet the Feebles lacks for in taste and any sense of actual purpose, it makes up for in sheer invention and entertainment. It moves along furiously, never stopping to consider something as unnecessary as plot, drifting from one scene of complete debauchery to the next. If you would be offended by the sight of animal ejaculating through his elongated snout onto the the pierced udders of a dominatrix cow, then I would recommending passing on this one. The humour is almost akin to that of South Park, but doesn't get bogged down with satire or observational gags, and instead seems to seek to disgust. It is juvenile, certainly, but it's undeniably funny, and is simply too twisted and disturbing to go about unnoticed. It is the anti-Muppets, representing depravity where Henson's creations were driven by naive optimism (although the puppets here are quite wonderfully designed).

After the proceeding Braindead (1992), which employed a lawnmower as the answer to a house overrun by horny zombies, Jackson seemed to grow up and film the astonishingly dream-like Heavenly Creatures (1994). It is simply mind-boggling how the director of this, a film that has a contortionist get his head stuck up his own arse, would go on to be the biggest director in Hollywood and create one of the finest achievements of modern mainstream film-making, The Lord of the Rings (2001-2003). Although he never won any Oscars for them, there is plenty to enjoy in early Jackson. You could even say that some of the hideous creations in Feebles were a pretext to some of the monsters seen in Rings and The Hobbit. Although I don't remember seeing Gollum eating shit out of a toilet with a spoon.


Directed by: Peter Jackson
Starring: Danny Mulheron, Mark Hadlow, Brian Sergent, Peter Vere-Jones
Country: New Zealand

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #606: 'Noam Chomsky: Rebel Without a Pause' (2003)

Having read part of his Manufacturing Consent (co-written with Edward S. Herman) for one essay or another at University, I was familiar with the work and reputation of Noam Chomsky. He is perhaps most famous for his work in linguistics, but Chomsky's brain is far too powerful to be consigned to one area, and he writes and talks about philosophy, science, politics, logistics, and history frequently, and is respected in all fields. At the beginning of this low-budget and somewhat narrowly focused documentary of the man, he is introduced into a lecture hall before giving a talk to a crowd of adoring students as a man who has created works of literature on par with the likes of William Shakespeare and the Bible. Rebel Without a Pause ultimately shows Chomsky as a rock star, depending on his wife to arrange his 'tours', and shows that at the age of 75 (back in 2003), his attraction has not wavered.

The film is little more than clips from 3 or 4 of his lectures and discussions, that cover a range of topics such as the Iraq War, 9/11 and mass control. He talks openly, tackling controversial topics with ease and saying things that most people would not. You could call him left-wing, even Marxist, but he is undoubtedly an anarchic figure. Yet his open and laid-back approach, as well as his willingness and his natural eagerness to discuss topics with others, make him effortlessly watchable, and help save this relatively uninspired documentary from being a total failure. Chomsky states in one of his lectures that he talks boring and plainly, which is precisely what this documentary does. It is badly filmed, badly edited, and often the audio becomes impossible to hear. There is also no narrative, and jumps from subject to subject with a title card to help you along. It's certainly a must-see to those new to Chomsky, as he is an extremely compelling figure, but no doubt a better and more in-depth film about the man will come along in the near future.


Directed by: Will Pascoe
Starring: Noam Chomsky
Country: Canada

Rating: ***

Tom Gillespie

Review #605: 'Sightseers' (2012)

Many of my fondest childhood experiences are from my holidays and days out to the more scenic side of Britain; those small, rural villages and towns that seem to have the one (rather dull, looking back on it) tourist attraction. Sightseers spends its time around these places, with its lead character Chris (Steve Oram), a caravan enthusiast, a frequenter of such oddities as the Pencil Museum, the National Tramway Museum, and Mother Shipton's Cave. The film, directed by British up-and-comer Ben Wheatley (director of one of 2011's best films, Kill List), explores the hidden, underlying eeriness of these places, with their serenity a mask for small-town hokum and empty tedium. It's a little bit like The League of Gentleman, which poked fun at isolated yokels to create something really rather sinister amongst the hilarity. Only Sightseers is much crueller, gruesome and certainly less funny.

Tina (Alice Lowe), is a rather strange woman who lives with her mother Carol (Eileen Davies). Their relationship is strained due to the accidental death of their dog, who died in ridiculous circumstances. Her new boyfriend Chris, a ginger-faced eccentric, is taking her off in his caravan for a holiday around the Black Country, where they will see the sights and tourists hotspots, as well as getting in as much sex as possible. At the National Tramway Museum, Chris becomes increasingly angry at a careless visitor that keeps dropping litter wherever he goes, regardless of Chris's pleading. The man is 'accidentally' crushed beneath the wheel of Chris's caravan, which inadvertently awakens something inside of the previously meek Tina. The further their holiday goes on, the more corpses pile up, until Tina's unquenchable thirst for murder becomes a bit too much for the more casual serial killing Chris.

In the same vein as Kill List, Sightseers manages to mix sensational and outrageous fantasy with realistic, familiar environments. While Kill List turned suburbia into a skull-crushing hell-on-Earth, Sightseers explores the almost paganistic, lush yet wet countryside of the Lake District, and turns it into something more haunting and unsettling. Tina and Chris (played with alarming naturalism by scriptwriters Lowe and Oram) are strange creatures, both seemingly undeterred and almost inspired by their simplicity. Chris takes absolute delight in bludgeoning his victims, like a victim paying back a bully, righting all the little things that piss him off - people being loud in a restaurant, middle-class attitudes, simple rudeness. But he's also a very bitter character, angered by a man he meets in the caravan park that has a nicer caravan and is a successful writer. Chris has taken a 'sabbatical' to focus on his writing, only he's not a writer, he's a serial killer.

Tina is something else entirely, and is one of the film's saving graces. Both timid and naive, yet bubbling with the temperament of a spoilt little girl, she is the product of shying away from growing up in society, living with her demented mother and spending her time knitting in her bedroom that looks the same as it would have while she was growing up. The caravan trip is one almighty sexual and psychological release from her dull life, even knitting lingerie for her to wear for Chris. As the bodies pile up, she becomes increasingly out of control, becoming jealous over a fellow caravan enthusiast that Chris befriends and trying to set him up to be taken out of the picture. Lowe's performance is quite remarkable, bringing a improvisational naturalism to such a melting pot of a character.

But it's the sense of cruelty that blocks Sightseers from being the hoot it maybe should have been, peppered throughout with scenes of extreme violence, including a man's head half-squashed beneath the wheel of Chris's caravan. Yet while Kill List's violence was undeniably shocking, it served a purpose to the underlying sense of horror amidst its ugly subject matter. Here, it's not particularly clever or funny, nor does it seem to serve any big purpose, it's just nasty. Wheatley (with Lowe and Oram) seem to truly loath these characters, mocking the many stock types that appear throughout the film that serve no purpose other than to meet a gruesome end. Ultimately, Sightseers is certainly worth a look for its macabre mood, fine acting, and the locations (for those who grew up in the UK), but says nothing profound and isn't as funny as it really should be.


Directed by: Ben Wheatley
Starring: Alice Lowe, Steve Oram, Eileen Davies
Country: UK

Rating: ***

Tom Gillespie

Review #604: 'Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World' (2003)

One of the best failures to launch a franchise in film history, Peter Weir's beautiful sea-faring epic, Master and Commander, was overshadowed commercially by that other ship-based film to come out the same year, Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl. While Gore Verbinski's box-office smash was a lot of fun and managed to re-create the sense of comedy-adventure perfected in Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981) (while making billions with its sequels for Disney), Master and Commander goes about its business quietly, creating tender scenes of human interaction alongside some magnificent sea-battles of its own. So the novels of Patrick O'Brian are seemingly destined to remain an untapped resource in cinema, but there is still plenty to enjoy here as a stand-alone film.

During the Napoleonic wars, captain of the HMS Surprise, 'Lucky' Jack Aubrey (Russell Crowe), has been given the task of pursuing French privateer Ancheron, and to 'sink, burn, or take her as a prize'. When one of the crew hears the distant sound of bells one night, the Surprise is taken unawares by the immense power of Ancheron, which is near twice the size of Surprise, and wields much more firepower. Almost fatefully damaged, Aubrey takes the Surprise and retreats into the fog to repair the damage, only to be attacked and pursued again. They reach the Galapagos Islands, where Aubrey predicts Ancheron will head to in order to attack Britain's whaling fleet, and will allow time for the ships doctor Stephen Maturin (Paul Bettany) to walk the islands to gather specimens and notes on the wildlife.

After the exciting opening that shows the almost complete destruction of the HMS Surprise, Weir takes us in close quarters with the various levels of the ship's hierarchy from the mates who lie packed like sardines inside the ship being fed on gruel and rum, to the spacious quarters of the captain and his lieutenants. Drinking wine and eating steaks in what looks like a grand dining room of aristocracy, Aubrey and his immediate underlings are certainly privileged. This is mirrored in the scenes of Jack and Stephen playing violin together, and while these moments are key to understanding the close friendship between the two despite them clearly being men of differing values, it also shows their upper-class backgrounds. The shipmates are less so. They are happy being rewarded for good work with double-helpings of gruel, but have an almost necessary brutish nature that becomes apparent when they begin to bully Midshipman Hollom (Lee Ingleby).

As well as portraying the societal structure of Britain within the confines of a ship, the film is also about the trappings of power. Jack and Stephen's philosophical discussions about this subject when Jack's hand is forced for the survival of the ship, causes Stephen to compare Jack's behaviour to Nero. Jack argues that the men require discipline and a strong hand to follow while Stephen advises that such an attitude can lead a man to be seduced by the trappings of power. There is also the matter of Jack's pride. At what point does duty end and ego begin? The pursuit of Ancheron will surely lead to the Surprise's demise and the death of its crew, but the men will follow 'Lucky' Jack no matter what.

Don't be fooled though, Master and Commander offers scenes of relentless action, with the Academy Award-winning cinematography and sound editing coming together to form scenes that are as beautiful as they are breathless. The hand-held camera gets deep into the action, as cannonball's smash through the ship, sending razor-sharp splinters into the air and taking men's limbs with them. 14-year old midshipman Blakeney (Max Pirkis) loses an arm in the opening battle, and his idolising of Jack and Stephen forms the heart of the film. Jack is strength and leadership, Stephen is calm and thoughtful, characteristics on opposite sides of the spectrum, but Blakeney wants to be both. Sometimes it can feel crammed with too many ideas, but Master and Commander is a terrific film, and, like a lot of Weir's back catalogue, manages to be as thoughtful as it is gripping.


Directed by: Peter Weir
Starring: Russell Crowe, Paul Bettany, James D'Arcy, Max Pirkis
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #603: 'I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang' (1932)

Based on Robert Elliot Burns' autobiographical novel I Am a Fugitive from a Georgia Chain Gang!, Mervyn LeRoy's powerful drama follows war veteran James Allen (Paul Muni) who starts life as a drifter to pursue his dream of engineering. Out of work and broke, he is tempted into a free burger at a diner by a fellow drifter, only to be caught up in a robbery, to which he is forced into participation. He is arrested, and sentenced to ten years on the Georgia chain gang, where he and his fellow jailbirds are routinely mistreated and occasionally flogged. He manages to escape, and after a short spell as a fugitive, manages to work his way up in an construction firm. Years later, having established himself as a prominent member of society, he is finally tracked down. Unwilling to turn him over state lines, his new city Chicago becomes embroiled in a battle of custody with Georgia, who want to return him to the chain gang for the remainder of his sentence.

Not merely a generic prison movie, I am a Fugitive... finds its power rooted in it's condemnation of the American justice system. It is claimed that Burns' experiences and eventual exposure of the barbaric nature of the chain gang led to its cancellation. These men work bare-backed in the blazing sun, hammering rocks and train lines and whatever else there is to strike, eating gruel unfit for an animal in between. These are hardened criminals (apart from Allen, who is certainly innocent, but whether Burns truly was is another question), so do they deserve a harsh punishment? Of course. Do they deserve to have their human rights taken away from them and to be treated like dogs? Certainly not. But it goes deeper than that, and, anchored by Muni's terrific performance, questions how a person can ever prove themselves fit for society. Allen becomes a pillar of his community, surely an indication of rehabilitation? And is the way to help a person get to this stage to beat them down at every turn, diminishing all sense of hope?

This being pre-Hays Code, LeRoy is allowed to take the movie to places you wouldn't stand a chance of seeing just a few years later. Allen enjoys the comfort of a prostitute, looking up and down her body with an animalistic look in his eyes, adding depth to a complex character, taking his arc from squeaky-clean optimist to flawed, damaged human being. Special mention must go to cinematographer Sol Polito, who captures the sweaty claustrophobia of the chain gang, as well as framing a rather savage flogging scene with Expressionist flair, giant shadows creeping up the walls. I also ask you to try and avoid squirming during the scene in which Allen has his shackles purposefully dented for his escape, the mallet crashing down on his ankle repeatedly. 81 years after its release, Fugitive still packs a considerable punch, highlighting a heavily flawed justice system that hasn't really learned from its mistakes (see the incredible Paradise Lost (1996-2011) documentaries for proof).


Directed by: Mervyn LeRoy
Starring: Paul Muni, Glenda Farrell, Helen Vinson
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #602: 'The Driller Killer' (1979)

When looking at Abel Ferrara's entire body of work, his feature debut (aside from his dabble in porn - 9 Lives of a Wet Pussy (1976)), The Driller Killer, has many of the same themes theme that run throughout his filmography. In a urban, decaying setting, a central character flourishes while simultaneously destroying themselves in the process, physically and/or mentally. Here, artist Reno (Ferrara himself, credited as Jimmy Laine) undergoes a psychological decline brought on by bill and rent troubles, a demanding boss, the loud punk rock band next door, and the depressing, crime-filled area that he lives. After seeing an advert for an electric drill on the television, Reno begins a killing spree, mainly targeting the homeless and drunk.

Whereas the likes of King of New York (1990) and Bad Lieutenant (1992), two of Ferrara's finest achievements, maintained this feeling of grime and general street filth, they were helmed by a far more experienced director, and were anchored by Christopher Walken and Harvey Keitel, two of the finest American actors of their generation. The Driller Killer never manages to crawl out of its bargain-basement Taxi Driver (1977) credentials, filmed by a director seemingly more concerned with controversy than creating a serious picture. In fairness, the gore levels are relatively low and features only one scene of full-on blood-shedding - being the iconic moment depicted on the cover that caused so many Daily Mail readers to blow their top in the 1980's video nasty debacle - but it's just so bloody tedious.

Ferrara cannot act, but he certainly looks the part. He's always been a strange character in the movie business, which is one of the main reasons why the bulk of his later films are so intriguing. His near-supernatural ugliness and strange mannerisms made me believe that there could be something genuinely wrong with him, that helps to add at least of bit of weight to the film. Yet his screen-time is oddly limited, and the attention frequently shifts to the No Wave punk band The Roosters, who seem to practice endlessly, spout lyrical nonsense, and behave even more bizarrely than Reno. Is this shift of focus Ferrara's way to juxtapose Reno's mental decline with the rise of the New York punk movement, intertwining them somehow? Well, no. You know a film is in trouble when repetitive music scenes primarily there as a diversion is more interesting than the central story of a man drilling into people's skulls with a power tool.

The Driller Killer was single-handedly responsible for the video nasties list, so I guess we can 'thank' it for that. Although the films on the list are generally terrible, it created an interesting little story in recent cinema history, and helped save a few titles from absolute obscurity. It's certainly far from the worst nasty on the list (for me, Snuff (1976) holds that title), and is an embarrassing reminder of the nation's reaction to the scaremongering of the 80's, given the film's lack of gore and unconvincing effects. Ferrara would flourish in the 90's, so we all know what he is capable of and how much better this film could have been, but this is repulsive, amateurish film-making.


Directed by: Abel Ferrara
Starring: Abel Ferrara, Carolyn Marz, Baybi Day
Country: USA

Rating: **

Tom Gillespie

Review #601: 'The Bed Sitting Room' (1969)

The years haven't been entirely fair to Richard Lester. His Beatles' films A Hard Day's Night (1964) and Help! (1965) used fast editing and loose camerawork to catch the sheer insanity of the Beatles' existence. These innovative techniques were brushed aside as being 'hip' and 'mod' back in the 1960's and Lester's work went misunderstood until it became clear that he had single-handedly invented the music video. Yet while other British auteurs of similar scope and individual vision, such as Ken Russell and Lindsay Anderson, garner a cult following and have some of their films considered masterpieces, Lester's work, apart from his Beatles films and his Superman efforts, have remained disappointingly obscure. But the great people behind the 'Flipside' series from the BFI have managed to unearth this minor treasure from Lester's 'swinging 60's' days, and The Bed Sitting Room is a great little vision, full of off-the-wall humour, depressing/uplifting satire, and one of the finest collections of British comedians ever seen on screen.

After the shortest war in history (lasting just 2 hours and 28 seconds) has left the Earth a desolate wasteland, a small group of eccentrics from various social status's wander the country, terrified about their pending mutation. Lord Fortnum (Ralph Richardson) is concerned the nuclear radiation will cause him to mutate into the bed sitting room of the title (which he later does). Father (Arthur Lowe) tries to maintain his traditional family life while living on the tube along with his wife Mother (Mona Washbourne) and his 17-month pregnant daughter Penelope (Rita Tushingham). Two policeman, Inspector (Peter Cook) and Sergeant (Dudley Moore) urge people to "move on!" from a chassis suspended on a hot air balloon. Mother is handed her own death certificate, and after she mutates into a wardrobe, Father forces Penelope into marrying Bules Martin (Michael Hordern), a man Father believes to have a 'brighter future', despite Penelope's love for Allan (Richard Warwick), the father of her child.

It seems that The Bed Sitting Room is more about Britain than anything resembling an anti-war message. It both mocks and admires British society, in the way that we so desperately cling onto tradition. As well as Father holding together the family unit aboard a tube train, the countries inhabitants still worship the next in line to the throne. The fact is, the Royal Family are all dead, and the next in line is Mrs. Ethel Shroake of 393A High Street, Leytonstone. Therefore, the national anthem now goes "God save Mrs. Ethel Shroake of 393A High Street, Leytonstone!". It's this kind of absurdist humour that makes The Bed Sitting Room so rich in comedy, both laugh-out-loud and outright bizarre, very similar to the work of Monty Python that came the same year. This is mainly thanks to the performances of the stellar line-up that includes - as well as the aforementioned actors - Spike Milligan, Roy Kinnear, Harry Secombe, and the great Marty Feldman. It's a downright strange experience, but one I found hilarious, baffling and often actually quite sad, created by a cast and crew of artists at the top of their game.


Directed by: Richard Lester
Starring: Rita Tushingham, Ralph Richardson, Michael Hordern, Arthur Lowe, Peter Cook, Dudley Moore, Spike Milligan, Roy Kinnear
Country: UK

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie