An Evening Inside the Head of Vivian Stanshall

Viv Stanshall, with a ship adrift on a sea of shaving cream atop his head

Vivian Stanshall: comedian, musician, cult figure, former frontman for the infamous 1960s surrealist pop group The Bonzo Dog (Doo-Dah) Band — inspiration to the future Monty Python troupe while both groups were together on a British kids show, famous for their appearance in The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour film, frequent openers for the likes of Cream in their heyday — is generally underappreciated (even criminally so) in the US, aside from a small but ardent following. Unlike his fellow Bonzos alum Neil Innes, who has achieved some measure of fame for his (large) part in The Rutles films and records, Stanshall gets overlooked in favor of more homegrown cult weirdos, like Msrs. Zappa and Beefheart. I feel as though Stanshall’s rather tangible eccentricity deserves to let its fierce light shine out through those in my film circle! And so, True Believers, I give you…

Sir Henry at Rawlinson End (1980): This is the film of the record of the radio show that made Stanshall famous among the right sort of people in the UK. It seems that in the early 1970s, when hipster DJ John Peel of the BBC wanted to take vacations, he’d ring up Viv, who would play records, but also present installments of a fictitiously long-running soap opera called Sir Henry at Rawlinson End. The (central) joke of these stories was the deployment of the story so far: hopelessly byzantine, with expressionistically interconnected characters and patently ridiculous circumstances. These periodic broadcasts proved so popular that they were followed by a Stanshall record of the same title, with two solid sides of narration that both did and didn’t quite synch up with the beloved radio plays. As such things sometimes do, this turned into an offer for a film, and with Stanshall behind the typewriter, the film shambled onto the unsuspecting screen. Shot in a sort of muddy sepia black and white, the story concerns the titular Sir Henry Rawlinson (Trevor Howard), the last of the old guard, bigot prince of rotting Rawlinson End, and the family, servants and townsfolk that make up his world. It’s rapidfire, stream of conscious humor often threatens to upend itself and like its audio forerunners, piles on layer after layer of detail and eccentricity into its elaborate presentation. Long available only on poor videocassette prints, the British have recently been treated to a pristine new print on DVD, which I now share with you.

Here’s a review of the film from TVCream’s Top 100 films list:

Practically everything the genteelly unhinged Vivian Stanshall did lends itself to untold repeated scrutiny – we only just noticed the other day how his early ’90s Ruddles Real Ale adverts contain a bizarre homage to Purple Haze – and nothing of his is more dense and packed with detail than the decrepit pile and inhabitants of Rawlinson End. Translated from the LP monologues and Peel Sessions, but crucially not losing the bite of the original riotous routines, the sepia-tinted world of musty armour, itinerant staff and gin-senile gentry is there in all its incontinent majesty, with Trevor Howard topping off a fine cast as lord of the manor. The plot, such as it is, involves Patrick Magee’s attempted exorcism of the trouserless ghost of Henry’s invisible toy dog-walking brother (played by Stanshall), but that’s almost a formality amongst the dovetailing vignettes of Harry Fowler’s spying spiv, Denise Coffey’s tapeworm advice, Sir H’s personal PoW camp, etc. etc. If it has a failing, it’s that there’s too much going on – as soon as one gag has unfolded, it’s superceded by another one as the script gets seemingly bored with itself. Not that the audience is in danger of following suit – it takes an effort to keep up with the pace of invention. But it’s well worth it. Stanshall’s wistful theme song, “The Cracks Are Showing,” is a corker, too.

For the still unsold, I’ve included also a Youtube copy of the trailer (which I showed after Fabulous Stains last time):

 

to be preceded by

“One Man’s Week: Vivian Stanshall” (9 April 1975): This short film, originally shot for BBC2, spends time with the erratic Mr. Stanshall, who takes us through the high points of a week of his life some five years before the Sir Henry movie. Viv shows us his pets, gets interviewed by the BBC, goes shopping for old records, and finally ends up in a recording studio in France with his band, biG Grunt. This is a fine introduction to the man for the beginner, and a rare intimate treat for the experienced. It’s also likely I’ll show Viv’s interview on the teen-oriented talkshow Friday Night, Saturday Morning, where he’s promoting Sir Henry, and it seems the host’s only research has been the “One Week” broadcast.

I do hope you’ll join me.

An Evening of Vintage Experimental Animated Science Fiction: Fantastic Planet b/w “Mars and Beyond”

FANTASTIC PLANET (La Planète Sauvage) (1973): Those who stuck around some after KISS last time saw the first minute or so of this one, and a trailer, and thus know some of what to expect; others may remember the trailer when I showed it before TRON in the spring. Regardless, the rather deadpan preview doesn’t quite prepare the first-time viewer for this one. This is the first full-length film from French science fiction animator René Laloux (who would go on to make the films Time Masters and Light Years before dying a few years ago), in collaboration with French cartoonist Roland Topor (the French Ralph Steadman, collaborator with Laloux on “The Snails,” also shown last time, as well as the force behind the infamous Marquis). Fantastic Planet is often called a political allegory (about the Russians invading Czechoslavakia in 1968), though it’s best remembered for its surreal, almost hallucinatory visuals and attention to zoological detail, as well as its both ethereal and break-ready soundtrack. This is one of the few science fiction films out there that lives up to the high bar set by its print counterparts.

Here’s how Anchor Bay’s release from a few years ago describes the film:

“Winner of the 1973 Cannes Film Festival Grand Prix Award, Fantastic Planet is an allegorical tale about the struggle for freedom of a race of humanoid creatures called Oms. The Oms live on the far away planet of Ygam, ruled by a society of blue-skinned giants called Draags, who keep the Oms as domesticated pets for their children. But when [an Om named Terr] manages to escape with a Draag knowledge device, he unites a society of wild Oms to use the knowledge and revolt against their exploitative treatment.”

to be preceded by:

“Mars and Beyond” (1957): Originally aired in 1957 as part of the quasi-educational “Man in Space” series on the Disneyland TV show (later the Wonderful World of Disney), this segment contains both serious “educational” content, and more wheimiscal slapstick material. Of particular interest is that the program is almost entirely (and quite lushly!) animated — in styles ranging from the comical, to deco-abstract, to pulp-magazine glossy, and most stops in between. This one’s a real treat. Directed by Ward Kimball, the Chuck Jones of the Disney studio. Watch for the cameo from everyone’s favorite Nazi rocket scientist himself, Werner von Braun!

An Evening in Honor of My Kid Sister: Danger: Diabolik

DANGER: DIABOLIK (1968): After the international success of Bond and Batman in the mid-1960s, the rest of the world decided to join in the fun. Mario Bava (Planet of Terror, Black Sabbath) entered the fray by adapting the Italian comic book mainstay Diabolik to the screen. Diabolik is a masked supercriminal who uses his brains, gadgetry and vast financial resources to undermine an unnamed European country. This one’s shot and edited in a way that evokes comics themselves, rather unlike more “static” period adaptations like Barbarella.

to be preceded by

“Body Movin’” (1998), The Beastie Boys video which is (rather self-conciously) based on Diabolik

Lisztomania!

Ken Russell’s Lisztomania will be, ideally, the first of several “movie nights.”

LISZTOMANIA (1975): Lisztomania is the very portrait of excess. Russell usually delights, astounds and offends with equal measure. Be prepared. Lisztomania is a (very loose) biography of composer/piano virtuoso Franz Liszt, but through a psychedelic pop art lens. It’s awfully campy, and full of elaborate setpieces, musical numbers, and crazy visuals. And, like much of Ken Russell’s work, there’s a strong sexual component too. The tagline said this one “Out “Tommy”s Tommy” and that’s not far off. From the jacket copy:

“The shaggy-maned idol rips into his song — and the audience screams with excitement. Some ecstatic fans storm the stage, wanting simply to touch him. Some want to bear his child. One adoring woman announces she already has. And outside the hall, a horse-drawn carriage awaits to whisk the performer away. Meet Franz Liszt, rock star circa 1840. Courtesy of Ken Russell, British cinema’s most excessive devotee of classical music (The Music Lovers, Mahler, Elgar, etc.) Lisztomania’s story of the turbulent friendship between Liszt (The Who’s Roger Daltrey) and Richard Wagner (Tommy’s Paul Nicholas), otherwise a historical footnote, is writ large to include vampires, groupie superheroes, Charlie Chaplain, Nazis and the Frankenstein Monster… surprise after outlandish surprise! You’ve got to see it to believe it… and by then, you too will be in the thrall of Lisztomania!”

to be preceded by:

“Sombra Dolorosa” (2004): Though this short is by Guy Maddin and not Ken Russell, its blender-style dream logic juxtapositions and savviness of the pop-culture landscape make it an excellent pair with Lisztomania. The following description is from an IMDB user comment: “Widow Paramo has lost her husband, Don Paramo, to the plague. Their daughter Dolores is inconsolable. With death in the air, Dolores is considering suicide, with El Muerto (the eater of souls) preparing himself to welcome her into the darkness. To save her daughter, Widow Paramo must battle the great El Muerto and defeat him. This battle, as with all existential wars, happens in a Mexican boxing ring and takes the form of a wrestling match.”

and

Ken Russell interview from BROTHERS OF THE HEAD (2006): Ken Russell talks about his method of making biography — and eschewing documentary — in this clip from the deleted scenes of Brothers of the Head, a pseudo-documentary based on the novel by science fiction writer Brian Aldiss about conjoined punk rock twins. In the film, Ken Russell is supposed to have directed an exploitation film based on the brothers called Two-Way Romeo.