The Flesh And Blood Show (1972)

REVIEW

"If it wasn't so bloody tragic and horrible, it could almost make a movie script"

Ah, 1972. When Ziggy led the Spiders, when the Led was still in the Zeppelin, when Richard Stilgoe, Peter Wyngarde and Jon Pertwee were permanent fixtures on our screens, and when the Three Day Week loomed on our economic horizon. And the time when Pete Walker, exploitation auteur extraordinaire, took the concept of the horror film by the scruff of the neck and practically reinvented it, a campaign which began properly with this film and lasted for five glorious years. I say 'properly', because he had made previous inroads into the market with the Susan George-fronted Die Screaming, Marianne (1971) but in reality the title promised more than the film actually delivered; the heroine neither dies nor screams in the film at any given point (although she does 'steam' whilst locked into a Turkish bath by her stepsister Judy Huxtable) and the horror element of the film is fleeting and abstract, consisting of the aforementioned scene and the death of Christopher 'Unit 4 Plus 2' Sanford by being burnt to death in a lime pit an influence on the 1975 Greek shocker Ta pedhia tou dhiavolou (1975), maybe? The Flesh And Blood Show is Walker's first attempt, after a run of mildly successful sex comedies and thrillers such as I Like Birds (1966), School For Sex (1968) and Cool It Carol (1970) at a truly 'horrible' horror film - although it would seem tame judged in comparison to what he followed it with. There are some, less informed persons, who say that the film in itself is only of any significance because of what it pointed the way towards, but it would be missing the point to dismiss it as an inconsequential work, as will be pointed out further on. It can't be that bad if David Flint and Harvey Fenton named their rag after it!! Amusingly, most people I have shown the film to agree that it actually comes across as 'sweet' and 'charming' rather than scary or shocking, and that in no way is it as gritty or stereotypically 'urban' as its director's later work. But we will come to that later.

Although Walker probably had no premeditated game plan as such (and indeed, his biography Making Mischief by Steve Chibnall, 1995 - would seem to further suggest this) his 1970s ouvre practically defines the concept of the 'urban' (as opposed to the 'gothic') horror film, a trend which most would agree begins, as so many things in horror do, with the seminal Peeping Tom (1959) and continued throughout the ensuing decade with such low-budget classics as The Man In The Back Seat (1961), Bunny Lake Is Missing (1965), Repulsion (1965), The Penthouse (1967), Twisted Nerve (1968) and Goodbye Gemini (1970) - to say nothing of Hammer's black-and-white "they're trying to drive me MAAAD" output of the 60s that encompassed such gems as Maniac (1963) and Hysteria (1965) that showed the supposedly traditional studio moving with the times. To sum it up; films in which the horror takes on a psychological (read 'Hitchcockian') rather than supernatural bent, and which are set in the present day, featuring clothes and dialogue of the time rather than the sometimes twee Victorianisms offered by traditional films or modern imitations of Hammer's style (cf The Black Torment (1964).

Normally set in and around 'Swinging' London (and its Middlesex suburbs, within reach of most of the studios) and carrying a diction which sits historically somewhere between the old 'Ealing' style and the dreaded 'Estuary English' which would explode in the mid-80s, these films took a somewhat downbeat attitude towards aspects of 60s and 70s life which must have troubled its creators' minds as much as 'modern' culture deeply troubles my own. The speculative judgement often made was that sex led to death (mark you, every horror movie from Nosferatu: Eine Symphonie des Grauens (1925) onwards has suggested this to some extent) and that death often chose certain social groups or types as its victims. In the case of Walker, this is writ large; every film from Cool It Carol onwards is an attack on some authority, profession or trend that clearly displeased him, with dire consequences for its progenitors. The Flesh And Blood Show chooses as its scapegoats the theatrical profession; whether this is due to some deep-seated hatred formed in his years as an apprentice between 1956 and 1960 has never been made clear, nor has exactly what the film is trying to say about the business - or indeed who we are supposed to root for - but I think it's fair to say he regarded the people who made his career possible with more than a little disdain.

The film takes as its central characters a group of long-haired, doe-eyed and fluffy-jacketed actors, the sort who were regarded as upstarts at the time but who are now looked upon with the same nostalgic sigh as their stiff-upper-lipped predecessors, who are given an invitation by the mysterious "Theatre Group 40", allegedly based in Soho. Their task is to go down to the pier theatre in the fictional "Eastcliff" (a mixture of Eastbourne and Westcliff, methinks) and improvise a play called, surprise surprise, The Flesh And Blood Show. We never do get to see, of course, the results of their work, although we are treated to footage of said thesps prancing and jiggling in furry costumes and woad, so maybe Warhol's Pork (1966) or Julien Beck's "Living Theatre" of the time (which allegedly provided Jim Morrison with his Lizard King persona) were reference points; we also get a semi-Joan Of Arc monologue from Jenny Hanley, which seems totally incongruous among the more 'improv' (or 'imp' or 'i' if you're a Hale and Pace fan) elements, but maybe the lack of direction favoured by those who stake their claim 'on the boards' is the point Walker is driving at here. Whatever the motivations, one thing that is pretty much plain from the off, even without the benefit of 30 years' hindsight, is that these naïve young fools are going to be picked off one by one - why else would such a group of disparate individuals, whom we may not actually be meant to sympathise with (albeit more than one would for the cast of Danny Boyle's pitiful Shallow Grave (1995) or a hundred Screams and Facultys) be thrown together on screen? Ironically, would that Wes Craven and his ilk had never seen films of this era, maybe the world of horror today would look rather different (some might say better!)

It's a matter of conjecture exactly how many later directors were influenced by Walker (it has been suggested, for instance, that House of Whipcord (1973) predated the 'Women In Prison' craze in mid-late Seventies Latino horror, and that Frightmare (1974) may have had some effect on the almost simultaneously-released The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (also 1974)) but what is for certain is the amount of tricks and plot devices that appear in The Flesh and Blood Show that have since become part of standard horror usage - the first coming immediately after the opening credits, when cruel prankster John (David Howey) frightens his colleagues Carol (Luan Peters) and Jane (Judy Matheson - how many Hammer starlets can one cram into a non-Hammer movie?) via ingenious use of a plastic dagger and some blood capsules lifted from an unspecified horror film he has just appeared in. The resulting anger (which turns to laughter), of this wayward piece of tomfoolery - and thus the obvious use of wry humour as a red herring - has been imitated in every US teen slasher from Sean S. Cunningham's Friday The 13th (1979) onwards, and is so much of a given in horror now, it stands in danger of being described by that dreadful term 'post-modern'- but in 1972 it was practically 'pre' (although Michael Armstrong's 1968 teen chiller Haunted House of Horror might be held equally responsible).

John's practical buffoonery- which holds him under suspicion for the rapidly escalating body count, especially once he has mysteriously vanished - continues apace for the first half of the film (although one of its key scenes, the legendary 'waxwork murder' is actually revealed to be the work of the real perpetrator), and provides the audience with plenty of the misleads Walker relishes so much, which reached their peak with Schizo (1976) and The Comeback (1977). Once the other main ingredient in the plot - the disappearance 28 years previous of local Shakespearean Sir Arnold Gates, his wife and another young actor - has come to light, it has to be said that the aforementioned herrings seem less red. It's not spoiling too much to reveal this, as anyone who's seen the box of the UK Satanica video re-release edition will have no difficulty in working it out immediately.

For a film which prides itself on denigrating young actors, it should be noted that most of the cast acquit themselves rather well - even Robin Askwith, whose abilities have often been called into question, and the slightly 'wooden' style favoured by the performers of the era is still far more endearing and pleasing to the eye and ear than the charisma-lacking efforts of their modern-day counterparts. After all, where now can one hear such gems as "She's probably turning on in the loo" ,"Sorry love, I didn't fink it was possible to disgust you!!", "Hey duchess, you're supposed to dress for the theatre!" or my personal fave, "Sex craved obscene young jackanapes? Are we really?" today? Not to mention the old "working actresses trying to get some rest or resting actresses trying to get some work" question. In common parlance, they don't make 'em like this anymore, and they don't seem likely to either.

The Flesh And Blood Show, if one had to explain it to an alien, is actually a perfect example of the Seventies archetype so many (including myself) bemoan the death of today; to immerse oneself in it for 96 minutes is indeed to be frozen in time, in an era when decimal currency was a new-fangled fad and the car coat was he height of fashion. The seaside setting (actually a rarity compared to the amount of 'rural' or 'urban' settings on offer) adds to it an air of sweetness of cuddliness one would not usually go looking for in a horror film (as does its Stanley Myers-penned score, particularly at the very end of its closing scene) but which becomes very endearing once one has found it. It's nowhere near as lurid as its title suggests either - which may explain why it was one of the few Walker movies to appear on British television - apart from the relatively grisly deaths of Sarah (Candace Glendenning , who would soon star alongside Askwith in the similarly themed but even cheaper Tower of Evil (also 1972) and take the lead in Norman Warren's horror debut Satan's Slave (1976) before disappearing, and surely one of the most stunning women ever on celluloid) atop a Muppet balcony and Peters at the foot of the pier steps, there is very little blood on show at all. There is, however, plenty of flesh, and the owners seem to have no qualms about displaying it to all and sundry- Peters opens the door to her flat in the middle of the night completely in the buff, like you do, and then later jumps into bed with Aussie Tony Weller (Tristan Rogers) within about two minutes of being introduced to him, Angela (Penny Meredith) the first victim, is discovered kipping in the aisles next to Askwith with her top bollocks firmly on display under he house lights, before engaging in a lesbian tryst with Matheson in front of virtually everyone, and Glendenning shows very little cant (sorry, couldn't resist) at being found changing by the mysterious yet friendly Major Bell (Patrick Barr) who has, ahem, 'dropped by to observe a rehearsal'.

Barr, who had been notching up an impressive Brit horror career since Midnight at Madame Tussauds (1936) and whose booming, Aylmeresque tones gained him two more plum Walker roles in the aforementioned Whipcord and Home Before Midnight (1979) playing judges, clearly relishes his role here, and his "SCUM!! EXCREMENT!!" speech, stuffed full of Bard-based eroticisms (how much more of this plot exactly would you like me to give away?) is a jewel in writer Alfred Shaughnessy's crown (although it bears an uncanny similarity to John Cleese's rant in the 'Architect Sketch' from Monty Python's Flying Circus (1969 - 1974). And the final scene, from which the quote (delivered by Askwith) at the start of this review is taken, is also a joy to behold, and fair brings a lump to the throat. Or maybe that's just me being a sentimental old twerp (I must be, as I've watched the film about eleven times now, and enjoy it a little more on each occasion).

If Flesh And Blood has a major fault (no pun intended - watch the film and you'll get the joke) other than that its status as whodunit is somewhat compounded by its blindingly obvious solution, it's the incredibly dark and murky photography (on a par with that of its American thematic counterpart, Bob Clark's Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things (1970)) which, coupled with the fact that many of its female dramatis personae seem at first disconcertingly similar to each other, can make for confusing viewing on initial showings. (The discovery of the first corpse and its subsequent removal, along with the only really 'scary' scene in the film - where Peters storms out of an argument onto the pier in the dark and is accosted by a shambling, shadowy tramp-like figure - are also blighted to an extent by this oversight). However, when the theatre lights are on and we get the full Grand Guignol atmosphere, or when the cast are out of doors, the photography is among the best ever engendered in Walker's career, and the strange clash between the two styles only serves to further distinguish the film from its peers and further endear it to the viewer.

Walker's direction, despite this genre being relatively new territory for him, and the fact that this is an exploitation film made by an exploitation filmmaker notwithstanding - is strong, deft and assured, putting the work of contemporaries such as Derek Ford, Lindsay Shonteff and Italy's Umberto Lenzi to shame, and Ray 'Mr Benn / Big Deal' Brooks (also in Whipcord) makes an ideal leading man, although in truth it's the 'communal spirit' of the cast - another product of the hippie dream, no doubt - that make the film more than just the sum of its parts. You even get, as part of another ongoing Walker tradition, a faded pop star - this time Jess Conrad, crowbarred in for no apparent reason near the start as a 'young actor' in full period Elizabethan costume. Walker also cameos, as he often does, in the marvellous (some would say 'overlong' but I disagree) flashback in 3D monochrome which must have looked fantastic on the big screen and is vital to the final denouement, although the less said about Stewart Bevan's clearly visible schlong the better. To top it all, there's a twist in the aforementioned closing scene (which makes it such a belter) that I've been kind enough to leave for you to discover should you get to see the film, which isn't actually that difficult (second hand VHS copies do float around shops, and it is available on DVD from various internet sources).

Crivens, what a veritable feast. Sex (with everyone and anyone apart from weirdo John, according to our 'liberated' cast), long hair, dope smoking, a spooky old theatre, a heroine with a past, Shakespeare, fur coats, jiggery-pokery, excrement, aargh blood death, and Jess Conrad. What more could you want?

D.R. SHIMON

PS. To write this review, I set off to find a dusty old pub called The Bram Stoker on the Old Brompton Road in London, which had seemed to me on previous passing the type of place Walker and his cohorts would have sat down to discuss the genesis of such a film as this over a few jars of foaming ale. On arrival, I discovered it had been closed down and replaced by a rather faceless gastro joint delighting in the title Duke Of Cambridge (although that may well have been its original name, I can't be sure). Nevertheless, I ordered a pint, lit a cigarette and sat down in the corner to write; but twenty minutes later found myself sadly bereft of inspiration. A short stroll up the Gloucester Road found me in an Eerie Pub Co. house, The Black Widow, where, surrounded by turquoise walls and Victorian mirrors (plus some very 1970s faux-mahogany furniture and the usual Frankensteinian trappings so beloved of that particular chain) the words flowed freely onto the page.

I think that about says it all… except that I wish Pete Walker, who celebrates his 65th birthday this year, would sit down in a place like this today and see what inspiration it provides him with. Come on Pete, where are you when we need you most? Oh yes, that's right - renovating old theatres.
I sincerely wish the best of luck to any young actors who deign to tread those boards!!

Last Updated: 15 October, 2008