hernebay

I have fond recollections of "Pipkins", even though I was already in my teens when it began, and in my twenties when it vanished from our screens, alas!, for ever. The early episodes featured character actor George Woodbridge as the eponymous Inigo Pipkin, but the real glory days of "Pipkins" occurred under the stewardship of Wayne Laryea, a young black British actor. The undisputed star of the show, however, was Hartley Hare, a character of extraordinary depth and complexity for a children's show. Vain, neurotic and unbelievably camp, the self-deluded Hartley (who rather resembled Frank Williams's Vicar in "Dad's Army") hopelessly held a torch for the coquettish French (!) ostrich, Octavia, who on one occasion pointedly rebuffed his advances with the immortal (and sublimely delivered) put-down: "Oh, 'Artley, you are so SMALL!"

I saw this film about three years ago, late at night after a session at the pub, so my perceptions at the time, and my recollections now, might not be exactly razor sharp. I have to say, though, that I found it strangely compelling. Arthur Howard, the much put-upon Pettigrew in the "Whack-O" TV series (which also starred the dark genius of 50s/60s British comedy, Jimmy Edwards), is in "Paradisio" a similarly likeable, self-effacing individual this time thrust bemusedly into the role of Everyman in the midst of Cold War intrigue. Michael Coy is quite right to point out the fascination of its Continental location footage, which reminds us how recent an event WW2 was at the time. The sparseness of dialogue rather contributes to the film's "ambient" quality, and the almost dream-like visual texture gently seduces the eye.

"Hurrah for buxom babes!" I say, the taste of most of us men even today, I would aver. It's probably true to say that films like "Paradisio" serve as useful benchmarks for the gradual post-war shift in sexual attitudes from repression to frankness. Seen from our perspective, as Michael Coy hints, "Paradisio" seems laughably inhibited and prim (rather like Arthur Howard himself, or at any rate his on-screen persona), but today's unflinching treatment of sexuality would not have been possible without such earlier, less candid treatments. I'd gladly watch it a second time.

Anyone unchastened by the dogmas of Political Correctness will find "The Iron Maiden" a delightful experience. Gender roles remain refreshingly undeconstructed. Michael Craig is a hero of surpassing manliness, while Anne Helm is a heroine of beguiling, if occasionally infuriating, femininity. Craig is a first-rank aircraft designer for Cecil Parker's top-flight (pun fully intended) aviation firm.

In classic "Pride and Prejudice"/"Jane Eyre" fashion, initial aversion is quickly translated into hopeless infatuation, a process much assisted by the allure deficit of Craig's hapless romantic (and business) rival, John Standing, a chinless wonder to end all chinless wonders. Pivotal to the proceedings is Anne Helm's commandeering of Craig's beloved traction engine, the eponymous Iron Maiden, which earns her a richly-deserved spanking. After this key event, even the social ambitions of her foolish mother, which favour the advances of Standing, cannot deflect the course of true love. Craig bonds spectacularly with Helm's aircraft tycoon father, and he goes on to win the Woburn traction engine rally against his other key rival, Admiral Digby Trevelyan, with the eventual assistance of the tycoon's chastened daughter.