world_of_weird

The works of Norman J Warren and David McGillivray can be likened to the little girl with the little curl - when they're good (FRIGHTMARE, TERROR) they're very very good, and when they're bad, they're horrid. SATAN'S SLAVE completely lacks the edgy, tense, paranoid atmosphere of foreboding doom that marked Warren's later work (including the unfairly maligned INSEMINOID) and the gleeful nastiness that made McGillivray's collaborations with Pete Walker memorable, and the result is a tedious experience indeed, with a sub-standard Michael Gough performance, several sequences that make little sense (though the version I saw was probably hacked to pieces by the sensitive souls at the BBC - good of them to leave the eyeball gouging intact though!) and a central premise that just seems corny to our modern sensibilities. The opening credits should give you your first warning that something's amiss, because no fewer than FIVE directors of photography are credited, which is probably why the overall look of the film is so muddled - for every sequence that musters a degree of low-budget atmosphere, there are several that have the over-lit, barrel-scraping feel of a cheap public information film. Warren seemed remarkably unconcerned about coaxing decent performances from the cast at this stage, and the number of alternate versions suggests he wasn't too bothered about creating a definitive director's cut either. In all, a sad disappointment and a missed opportunity - I much prefer Warren as an unsubtle misanthropist to his mantle here as a bargain basement Roman Polanski.

One other thing - the ident at the beginning for the film's distributors Brent Walker is pretty good, with a great synthesizer fanfare, like the old Cannon movies ident from the eighties, only cheap-looking. Catch it if you can!

Chris Morris is undoubtedly a satirist gifted with genius, albeit a very dark and anger genius. He found his natural home on Channel 4 with the excellent BRASSEYE, a dead-on spoof of current affairs programmes, which was followed a few years later by the flesh-crawling pitch black sketch series JAM, which outdid its own radio origins simply by adopting a slurred, woozy visual style that perfectly matched the surreal flavour of the sketches and situations. Then, for some bizarre reason, he looked to the internet for inspiration, found Charlie Brooker's scabrous and wildly funny satire on vacuous media types on the TVGoHome website with the titular Barley as the loathsome protagonist, and this is the result.

Laugh? I nearly dug out a Little and Large video.

Save for a brilliantly dead-pan performance from Julian Barratt as the reluctant King of Cool, and some neat background touches (a light Gilbert O'Sullivan song recast as a techno dance track, a magazine cover trumpeting an interview with the minor TV celebrity Nicky Campbell as if it were the long-lost eleventh commandment), NATHAN BARLEY hardly works as satire, as comedy, as social commentary, or as anything rather than a confusing, headache-inducing whimper of impotent rage at the very people who are likely to watch this kind of thing. And there's the rub - satire has to have a target, the bigger the better, and if you restrict your satire to your target audience, it's not likely to have much of an impact. As a previous reviewer noted, punches are indeed pulled, and if there had been an ounce of the throbbing-vein anger and disgust that had made Brooker's website so addictive on display here, NATHAN BARLEY would have been a minor classic. Instead, it's the televisual equivalent of an executive toy, a shiny, modernistic gadget that exists only to occupy vacant mindspace.

A thundering disappointment that should be avoided at all costs.

Coming hot on the heels of the sleazy HOUSE OF WHIPCORD and the outrageously gruesome FRIGHTMARE, veteran exploitationer Pete Walker and his puckish screenwriter David McGillivray decided to stir up some more mischief, this time aiming their vitriol at the hypocrisy of the Catholic church, with a blackmailing killer priest who uses the tools of his trade (incense burners, rosary beads and communion wafers) to deal out death to non-believers. Given the hoo-hah the Monty Python team caused with LIFE OF BRIAN four years later, you'd have expected the controversy to rage as Pete and David had hoped it would, but HOUSE OF MORTAL SIN barely raised a murmur - most likely because it's a rather dull and restrained affair compared to their earlier exercises in wonderfully hideous terror. Anthony Sharp is fine in the lead as the crazy cleric, alternating between pompous bumbling and trembling mania at the drop of a hat, whilst Susan Penhaligon makes a memorably vulnerable victim, but the film feels too much of a cut-and-paste catalogue of borrowed elements (the mother fixation from PSYCHO, Sheila Keith basically reprising her WHIPCORD role as Sharp's demented housekeeper, the dysfunctional family business from FRIGHTMARE) to really ring true. The set-piece murders are impressive, and the ending is as bleak and as desolate as you'd expect, but the film contains more padding than a cheap mattress and Walker seems to have confused tension with tedium in several scenes. Still, it's entertaining enough for a slow evening.