Melbourne a Thriving Hive of Softcore Succulence For Children

To me, the Melbourne of the late 60's and 70's was a thriving hive of softcore sexual succulence.

I didn't have internet porn when I was a kid. I couldn't get on-line and stream obscenity until my balls turned blue.

No, I had newspaper ad mats like these.

I guess they're responsible for my insane filmmakers' optimism.

In order to be a filmmaker, you've got to be insanely optimistic while attempting to remain realistic. It's not an easy line to walk.

I certainly didn't walk it well when I was seven years old. In fact, I must have been some sort of nutcase to even ask my mother to take me to I Married You For Fun.  What the fuck was the likelihood of that happening? See, insane optimism?

Still, I persisted. I pointed to the ad and said "Can I see that movie? I'll mow the lawns for two years if you let me."

I never saw the movie, but I still mowed the lawns for two years.

Ripped off.

The Star Adult Cinema on Melbourne's Elizabeth Street fascinated me for a decade. I actually thought you'd find people lounging around naked like this inside. Every now and then, my mum would take me into the city to see my eye doctor. On the way back to the station, I'd always insist on walking past the Star. It had flashing lights, pictures of semi-naked girls, and men in long coats buzzed up and down its grimy steps. Sometimes I'd take a short detour down those steps, but my mum's firm hand always pulled me back into line.

What's a "loving feeling"? I asked myself. Are those people on the poster experiencing one? "Beautiful birds," the poster sings. "Beautifully stimulating." Stimulating? Was that something I could be part of?

Not on your fuckin nelly, mate!

Steptoe and Son was a popular British TV show screened on Channel 2 in Melbourne. 'Steptoe' was a grumpy old coot and his son tolerated him. I made no attempt to see this one at the drive-in because I could already see it on TV. Didn't other people realize that?

Of course, this was a slightly raunchier version of the TV show. The girls probably said "Saucy!" a lot and acted like they didn't want sex -- not unless they had a beer first. 

Forbidden Decameron screened at the Playbox, not a traditional Melbourne porn venue. The theatre became a traditional live venue in the late 70's and never turned back.

The film, riding on the Decameron bandwagon, was a '72 flick from Italy. I never saw it, but I was fixated on the fact that it was "a more sensuous insight" into the writings of a bloke I'd never heard of.

What did "sensuous" mean? Could I be part of sensuous things?

I didn't know the answer to that one.

The word "romp" was used, too. I was learning quickly that a "romp" usually involved naked things.

A '78 film from Germany in which a lot of girls romp and act sensuously, I was 16 when it hit local drive-ins,  but because I was in the middle of important high school exams at the time, I was denied the film's subtle pleasures.

The support, Alice Sweet Alice, is one of my favorite horror movies ever.  

I took the Slaughter ad mat to school and achieved temporary popularity very quickly. This was as close as my classmates got to women with bumps on their chests. Bumps AND guns upped the ante considerably, so  I rode my legendary status for a day or two.

I grew up knowing that Jim Brown was a very important American. I couldn't figure out why he wasn't President.  He had more girls than the President. Well, maybe not more than JFK.

The Wife Swappers was another of my youthful fixations. When I finally saw it, I wasn't disappointed. It delivered.

But back when I was 8 in 1970, the concept of wife swapping confused me. I wanted to know the mechanics of wife swapping, so I asked my mum.

"What's wife swapping?"

Mum's answer began in the usual way: "Who wants to know that?"

My reply was the usual also: "A kid at school."

"Where did you hear that?"

"It's in a movie."

"What stupid movie?"

My investigation into wife swapping almost ended there. Almost.

"Mum, does dad swap you?"

"What?"

"Does dad do some wife swaps?"

"Don't be ridiculous. He's at work."

That wasn't an answer, but it popped my balloon temporarily.

Until dad got home.

I approached him after dinner as he settled down to watch a popular Melbourne TV show called League Teams. On the show, they announced upcoming line-ups for Saturday's footy games.

"Dad, what's wife swapping?"

Dad looked through me while pondering the question.

"What's what?"

He'd heard me, but he needed time to recover.

"What's wife swapping?"

"Oh, I don't know. Who wants to know that?"

"A kid at school."

"Which kid?"

"I dunno his name. Just a kid."

Dad tried looking at League Teams to avoid looking at me. A bloke named Lou Richards was speaking.

"Dad, have you ever swapped mum for another mum?"

He didn't do it much, but dad looked at me and smiled. It was a smile that came before a low volume answer.

"Nah," he said. "I wouldn't get away with thinking about that, let alone doing it."

I didn't know what dad meant, but I was sure he'd shared something a little grown-up with me. I appreciated that.

This one confused me. "Some girls do, some girls don't."

"Do" what?  What do they "do"?  What don't they "do"?  What was I missing out on?

Pre-The Blood on Satan's Claw, the beautiful Linda Hayden in the classic Baby Love. Saw this at the Burwood drive-in with dad. The main feature was Medak's The Ruling Class, a film I didn't really get at the time.  I did get Baby Love, though, and I fell in love with Linda Hayden.

Lucky for me, there was a girl who lived out the back of our local Milk Bar named Louise. I started to think that she looked like Linda Hayden after I fell for Linda. Louise could do no wrong. I followed her down to the park once and watched her smoking a secret cigarette, one she'd pinched from her own mum's Milk Bar.  Smoking looked sexy when Louise did it.

Nothing serious happened with me and Louise, but I did go "digital" with her on one occasion. That's another story, and I didn't need to marry her, either.

I urged both my parents to take me to see The Initiation. I promised to make beds, dry dishes, mow lawns, and forsake five years of birthday presents for the privilege of seeing this. A Canadian flick from Denis Heroux, a future producer of Scanners,   I worshipped the artistic poster, and was deeply affected by the idea that three people could be naked together.

I made my case with mum while I was drying the dinner dishes:

"It's about flowers," I said.

Mum took a quick glance at the ad mat I'd already pasted into my scrapbook.

"Why do you even want that in your book?" she said, not at all pleased with my interest in illustrated threesomes.

"It finishes next week," I said.

"Good," she said, "and good riddance. We don't need films like that."

What do you mean "we", I thought. I need films like that.

"Can't we see it?"

"It's not for children," she said.

"Then who's it for?"

"Grown-ups."

"I thought you said I'm a grown-up now," I countered.

"You're not THAT grown-up," she sneered, flipping the dish towel onto the rack. "And it's time you went to bed, too."

I persisted. "I'll see it on my own if you don't let me."

"You won't be seeing it on your own or with anybody. It's not for you."

And that's what stuck in my head for years: "It's not for you, it's not for you, it's not for sure." The statement echoed in a cheap echo chamber.

When I did finally see it, those words made it more enjoyable. I was finally watching a film that wasn't for me, wasn't for me, wasn't for me. I was defying my mother. Not even a great score can make a film as enjoyable as one watched in a state of defiance of your mother.

I tried hard to convince dad to take me to The Hitchhikers. Despite the fact that it was restricted to children over the age of 18, I almost succeeded. I recall him looking up where it was playing and studying the ladies on the ad. To me, that was as good as a yes, let's hit the road, son!

Unfortunately, nobody hit the road. I hit bed instead.

I never saw the film for another twenty years, but I sure enjoyed waving to female hitchhikers whenever our family went on a holiday at Xmas time. Dad never stopped to pick any up because he didn't want me having too much fun, I guess. Or maybe he was scared of what mum what say. She'd already put her foot down on wife swapping. God knows what she'd think about hitchhikers.

More Sinful Than The Sinful Dwarf

Have you ever wanted to scream, "Fuck that dwarf, and the horse he rode in on?"

Well, I know I have. Sometimes, it feels like we're being inundated by people of the half-pint persuasion. They get between your toes, and you just can't scrape them off.

In the Japanese classic, The Dwarf (Issun-boshi, '55, Shintoho) one of my finds of the year, a dwarf doesn't ride in on a horse, but he does ride in on a bucket. Yes, folks, a bucket! And it's not a pretty sight.

But it is the perfect opportunity to raise your megaphone and scream, "Fuck that dwarf, and the bucket he rode in on!" (as these police officers are doing below).



The producers of this classic clearly scoured the hills and dales of Nippon to unearth the sickest example of human reductionism ever foisted on the moviegoing world.

As you can see from these pictures, this sideshow poster boy would have given the late Todd Browning enough orgasms to stop his dear, departed heart.

The Human Torso (Prince Randian)

from Todd Browning's masterwork, Freaks ('32, MGM)

Even The Human Torso would have been sickened by his appearance.

Not only is this living nightmare short-changed in the height department, he's been short-changed at the dermatologist. His scar- and acne-pocked face is enough to send hardened soldiers home screaming to their mothers.


In this extraordinary piece of Japanese cinema, the status-discounted monster is a murderer -- not that there's anything unusual about that in his world; they're all murderers or perverts. His family are protecting him, so they're targeted by the police. Eventually, they expose the micro-murderer and attempt to bring him to justice (which, in the case of a dwarf, can only be violent death).


In the mid-90's, my brother and I clashed with one of these freaks in the streets of Melbourne.

It was 1:30 am on a weeknight, and we'd just emerged from a double-bill at the Capitol Cinema, the local Chinese movie palace -- Daughters of Darkness 2 and Bloody Beast. Up until the moment we tangled with Mr. Diminished, we were certain that the monsters on-screen would be the worst we'd encounter that night; one was an incestuous rapist (Hugo Ng), the other was a Mainland Chinese rapist (Ka-Kui Ho) who preyed on MILFS (carrying babies). It didn't come much more heinous than that, right?

Well, turns out it did.

We left the theater and walked down the tram tracks in the center of Collins Street, a major city thoroughfare barely used at night. Our car was parked a couple of blocks up, the street was pretty much empty, so we took our time and discussed the movies.

Half Pint in Peril.

Suddenly, a hellish voice was heard behind us: "Hey, you guys, come here!"

I turned. My brother turned. But we saw nothing. Nothing but an empty street bracketed by buildings. And the silver tram tracks.

"What was that?" I asked.

My brother shrugged.

We continued on our way, perplexed but not distubed.

Then it came again. "Oi! You two! Come here!"

This time the voice was closer and more distinct. It had the timbre of a jockey. Now, a jockey isn't a dwarf (not technically), but he wouldn't be kicked out of a Wizard of Oz reunion, either.

"Sounds like a jockey," my brother said.

"Yeah. But where's the horse?" We looked hard for the horse.

Then we both stared hard into the street. It was well lit, but we couldn't see the source of the voice with the gentle bedside manner.

"You two! Oi! I said fuckin' come here!"

That was when we saw It. Barreling down the center of the road towards us. Sausage legs churning like pistons.

It was horrible.


"I said fuckin come here!" It bellowed, a gush of saliva emerging from its mouth.

I'm 6'2 1/2", my brother is 6'1". We had nothing to fear from this angry but tiny prick. In retrospect, even 'Stewie' from Family Guy would have tripped over this clown on his way to the refrigerator.

Dwarf on a Wire!

So, as he barreled towards us, saliva flying, expletives spouting, sausage legs churning, we got ready to meet him head-on, and, if necessary, drop him like a sack of potatoes to the tram tracks.

Well, we didn't actually do any of that.

Nope. We ran. We turned and ran and ran and ran until his squeaky voice became a squeaky whisper.

I looked over my shoulder once and was terrified by what I saw.

He kept coming. Head down like a sawn off Olympian, he was indistinct from a fat, miniature bullet train, his offensive voice his whistle, his saliva his steam.

He was not going to give up.

But neither were we.

"Get your keys out!" I shouted at my brother as the car got closer. "Have your keys ready or we're dead!"

My brother slowed as he groped for the keys in his pocket.

I glanced back again and felt my stomach churn.

The little fucker was closing the gap.

Victory would soon be his.

"Got 'em!" my brother said with enormous relief, and at that moment, we arrived at the car.

Unlocking his own door first, he jumped inside and smashed his hand down on the lock.

The killer dwarf made a quick move to catch me as I jumped inside and swiped at me like a cat. I'm sure he hissed, too.

As there were no cars parked in front of us, we were able to rapidly accelerate forward and get the fuck out of there.

I'll never forget what I saw when I looked back.

The image has tattooed itself onto my brain.

Why so angry, Little Man? They're just protecting The Children.

The height-handicapped fucker was stomping his feet and shaking his fist so violently, you'd think he'd just been pink-slipped at Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.

His anger was off the meter.

As we drove home, proud of our brave confrontation with a creature barely tall enough to chew our kneecaps, we reflected on the reality of dwarfs, and could only conclude that the danger is real.

Forget Weapons of Mass Destruction.

Weapons of National Collective Nightmares walk among us, and nobody does a goddamn thing about them.

From a story by Edogawa Rampo (Horrors of Malformed Men, Walker in the Attic, Blind Beast, Black Lizard), which had already been filmed three times, and a script by Kennosuke Morooka, comes this blend of film noir and ero-gro that shines a light (or is that a shadow?) on those permanently knee-high to the proverbial grasshopper.

More proof that they're all murderers.

What filmmakers who toil under the flag of the Rising Sun truly understand is how to handle a dwarf -- and that's run them out of town. Some of the most satisfying sequences in this gem involve dozens of police chasing the puffy-limbed freak up stairs, down alleys, and into a factory. Seeing them nip at his heels warmed my charitable heart.

Chased out of town (and good riddance, too!)

In no small way, the film underlines what we already know, but need to be reminded of now and then:

A dwarf is good -- good for nothing.

...and the only Good they're up to is No Good.

***

Thank you to "D", a regular contributor here, for additional valuable
information used in a redraft of this blog.

RWC

If a frog is big enough to ingest a human being, that frog is something to be feared. When it is followed by other frogs like some slimy version of the Pied Piper of Hamlin, it is something to be respected.

When my mother was finished with the Obituaries on that busy Thursday morning in '72, I slipped the newspaper out from under her ink-stained fingers and opened it to the "Incredible Horror" above. "Millions of slimy bodies squirming everywhere," the ad mat announced, "millions of gaping mouths Devouring Devouring Devouring."

Je-sus Christ! To my 10 year old mind, this was true horror. This was my kind of hideousness. The poster said everything I needed to hear. I grabbed the dictionary immediately to look up "gelatinous". What a word! It had to mean something scary and taboo. The definition of gelatinous read something like "having the nature of or resembling jelly". Whatever that really meant, I was so up for every gelatinous minute of this.

I couldn't wait to see the woman on the poster attacked by frogs. She'd struggle and fight and act bravely, but, deep down, I'd want her to lose her struggle because I wanted the frogs to win. If they won, they'd start coming after other people. People like me. That meant I'd get days off from school to fight them and outsmart them. Eventually, I'd be forced to fight the big one who'd want to swallow me whole, even though he'd allow my hand to dangle from his mouth as a kind of warning to others.

Chucking school and spending my days facing "a slobbering, pulsating mass of gelatinous immensity" was an exciting prospect.

A prospect that died in my parents' hands.

Although the film was only rated "NRC" (Not Recommended For Children) and was showing at many drive-ins and a city hardtop (Albany), school was in full swing and holidays were a long way off. Between guitar lessons, skateboarding, being chased on a daily basis by a skinhead called "Merrigan" and his acne-ridden cohort "Monkeyface", there wasn't much room to squeeze in "Incredible Horror" like this.

My plunge into pre-teen depression was Olympic-sized.

I knew that I'd never be able to see these creatures again. There were no videotapes in '72. Once a movie played at the drive-in or theatre, it was done. It disappeared. Some movies turned up on TV, but not the really scary ones. TV was reserved for girly nonsense like "The Sound of Music", my mother's favorite. The only thing that had going for it was Penny (Angela Cartwright) from "Lost in Space" who had somehow ended up in it. How she found her way back to Earth to star in a musical puzzled me for years. Didn't she think to bring the others back with her? Maybe not Dr. Smith.

The Albany cinema was part of the Village chain. A lot of exploitation and AIP stuff was dumped in there. It was a small, claustrophobic grindhouse with a narrow, off-street entrance. You didn't find "The Towering Inferno" or any blockbusters playing there. During its theatrical release, "Frogs" was paired with "Chrome and Hot Leather" for one week only. What a glorious double that would have been! For someone else. Not me. My influence on the pares (my preferred nickname) was minimal at best. Even crying and moping lost its persuasive power. As I said in another post, these ad mats WERE the movie for me. Where they started, I stopped. A ten year old genre fan like me had limited funds, limited transport, and limited options, so pulp ad mats became the triggers of my imagination.

If you've ever seen "Frogs", you would understand the horrific sense of disappointment I experienced years later. The biggest letdown was their size. They couldn't have swallowed a thumb, let alone a human. Did they at least hop at supersonic speed? No. They hopped and stopped. Hopped and stopped. Hopped and stopped. They were practicing patience, not murder.

A couple of people did get attacked by snakes, but you expect that from a snake, don't you? It's not like they have a rep for being nice to people.

The film was set in a jungle. An old bloke called Ray Milland lived in a house in that jungle. He didn't move very fast when frogs started hopping and stopping around him. He died, sure, but he wasn't swallowed whole and his hand didn't protrude from the mouth of that fraud on the movie poster.

Finally I understood why the film was rated "NRC" and not "M" or "R". It should have been "RWC" (Recommended for Wimpy Children).

Perhaps my parents sensed that "Frogs" was a gelatinous, slobbering dud long before I developed a nose for smelling crap . Perhaps they were learning what I didn't yet know at the tender age of 10 -- that any "horror" that is rated NRC or PG-13 isn't horror at all.

Things That Squeak

Original 'Willard' still not on DVD, unfortunately. Rights problems, I hear.

The film enjoyed a healthy run at Hoyts' drive-ins...

and a Melbourne city cinema, too, 'The Athenauem' on Collins St. (now a legit theatre)

Interesting to note how many suburban drive-ins Hoyts ran in the 70's. In the metro area, only the Coburg Drive-in still exists. It is a triple-screener and is now operated by Village, Hoyts' competition. The famous Dromana Drive-in still operates on the Mornington Peninsula. It is independently owned.

The 'Willard' novel by Stephen Gilbert, originally published as 'Ratman's Notebooks' (68), is an excellent read in the first person.

Was James Herbert's 'The Rats' ('74) inspired by it to any extent? Perhaps. Although 'Ratman's Notes' is not an Animals Attack novel, its subject is still a ripe one for inspiration.

The film sequel to 'Willard' was 'Ben' ('72), which spawned a hit theme song by Michael Jackson, who would probably enjoy the company of four-legged things that squeak.

Watch The Poster, Avoid The Movie

Unfortunately, the "fuzz" that flashed his badge "on" the 'The Dirt Gang' (try "at" next time) didn't receive anything like the treatment he receives in this striking ad art (a nice front tyre to the chops!), which is one of the many reasons why this film was such a disappointment.

The poster art did inspire small-time juvenile delinquency in the Melbourne suburb of Mt. Waverley, though. My brother, myself, and two friends formed our own "Dirt Gang". We would jump on our dragsters, roar up the street with cardboard pegged to the spokes, stop outside the local Milk Bar (read: Dairy, General Store) on Bernard St., and hurl handfuls of dirt and crud at the window. Nobody got bludgeoned with a bicycle tyre and no "fuzz" flashed his badge "on" us, but we did scare some old ladies and infants in strollers. After our mean-spirited dirt raids, we would return home for lime cordial, served by my mother, and salivate over my "Dirt Gang" ad art for an R-rated film we couldn't legally see for another 8 years. Clearly, we were beyond rehabilitation.

One should never lose hope entirely, though. Back in the good old days when George Lazenby made films like "Universal Soldier" (not to be confused with Dolph Lungren's effort), you could count on infamous Melbourne-born femi-nazi Germaine Greer (!) to sell your action movie.

The Metro cinema, where the film screened, was part of the Greater Union chain, and was shuttered over 30 years ago, as were most the city's single-screen hardtops.