The Cutprice Guignol

The Ninth Year: The Haunting of Swill House

Category: Discussion

Torchwood: Television’s B-Movie

Right, before I start, I have brief plugging to do- firstly, I’ve noticed the Doctor Who articles on the Guignol have been getting tons of clicks. If you want to read more of my Doctor-Who related nonsense (which I assume is what you’re here for), I’ll be writing a beginner’s guide to Doctor Who over the next few weeks over at the excellent site Popjunk, which I’ll posting here sporadically too. And another thing- for those new to the site, hello! I run other blogs both here (that’s an interview-based site about working in the arts), and here (that’s a music blog I run with another freelance pop culture writer). Check them out because I’m a sick-ass dope writing motherfucker. We good? We’re good. 

So, Torchwood. Torchwood (an anagram of Doctor Who, and a code name for the rebooted show when it was still in the early stages of production) is a spin-off from the second series of the new Who, following the exploits of periphary character Captain Jack Harkness- 

 

Swwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwoon.

Swwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwoon.

 -and his band of merry upgraded extras. Basically, each epsidoe revolves around them prancing about Cardiff solving mysteries. It’s Scooby-Doo, if the gang dry-humped in the back of the Mystery Machine at the end of every episode.

Torchwood was sold as a “grown-up” Doctor Who, packed with fluid sexuality, moderately offensive swear words, and pointed blood splatter. This is usually where I would start ripping the ever-living pish out of a show of this nature-a spin-off, a “gritty redo”, Russel T Davies….

But Torchwood is great. Well, it’s not, but that’s what makes it so eminently watchable. The acting is pretty average, with John Barrowman earning particularly criticism for his portrayal of Jack (although, honestly, he’s playing a swaggering, omnisexual intergalactic space cowboy- the part needs to be inhabited, not actually acted), but it works. The cast have strong chemistry, and Eve Myles in particular (who was scooped straight out of a season one Doctor Who episode, character name and all) toes the line of audience surrogate and plain exposition machine carefully and to great effect. I’m also a huge fan of Owen, because he looks wildly strange in a way that I find momentously attractive.

owen

Is this crush alright? It’s not, is it? I wish I were Aunt Peggy, and he were the gin.

He’s also the focus of some of the most interesting episodes of the series, and carries them with aplomb. One character I don’t understand is Ianto- there was such a vitriolic tidal wave when he left the show, I was expecting an engaging, witty, empathetic character and instead he’s the…pale-ish tea boy? You can keep it, thanks.

So the acting is no great shakes, and the stories are often two-word epiphanies that hit the writers at three in the morning on the way back from the pub. “SEX……GAS”. “LIVING…..FILM. “PTERODACTYL….PET”. You get my drift. The villains inevitably turn out to be either preening ninnies or badly CGI’d monsters or twist endings that make me want to harm things, but you’re there to see the gang bicker and leap into action at least twice an episode, not for Moffat-ian scripts. Everything is oozing with innuendos, second base, and snappy, office-banter one-liners. The whole thing plays out like a b-movie, in that it’s well aware that it’s not going to win any awards, but it’s enthusiastic and ridiculous and a little bit knowing anyway. Although once some screenwriting genius working for Torchwood managed to blurt out “MARSTERS….BARROWMAN” and it was good. REALLY good. 

To be that tacky late nineties wallpaper.

To be that tacky late nineties wallpaper.

Keeping up with series eight of Doctor Who, one of the things I’ve been missing most profoundly is that sense of bright, kitschy, self-aware fun. That’s not to say every episode should feature Daleks in pom-poms and a swanny whistle, but there is- or should be, in my eyes- a light element of camp to the Whoniverse, and watching Torchwood reminded me that. I’m entirely game for serious science-fiction that makes a strong moral point (see: Miracle Day and Children of Earth, the brilliant if oft maligned miniseries detours Torchwood took after it’s first two monster-bashing seasons were over) or science-fiction that’s bright, breezy fun. And I also think that the Whoniverse is better placed than many to pull off both in tandem. But, in the midst of an all-too-serious season of Doctor Who, it’s nice to remind myself just how blase and brilliant this world can be. 

 

Hang on, I just like this show because I think everyone’s fit, don’t I? It’s The Great British Bake-Off all over again. 

Tumblr, Self-Harm, and Me

This is a brief warning for people who come here for the funny jokes about Christian Grey being a wanker or retrospectives on Frasier (coming soon, folks!): this will not be particularly funny and may well be triggering for those who’ve self-harmed in the past.

I’ve recently discovered tumblr, because I was forced to sign up by an employer. “Oh well,” thunk I, “nothing wrong with exploring a new kind of social media, what with this being the digital age and all”. While I was browsing the internet for interesting topics to look up on the site, I came across a number of articles discussing the banning of pro-anorexia, pro-bulimia, and pro-self-harm blogs (which is what I’ll be focusing on). A statement released by the website said this on the matter:
“Don’t post content that actively promotes or glorifies self-harm. This includes content that urges or encourages readers to cut or injure themselves; embrace anorexia, bulimia, or other eating disorders; or commit suicide rather than, e.g., seeking counseling or treatment, or joining together in supportive conversation with those suffering or recovering from depression or other conditions”.

That all seems pretty sensible. But, me being me, I had to go and investigate exactly what kind of content this had left on those kinds of communities; after all, once something gathers a following on the internet, it’s pretty hard to ever sponge it clean entirely (see: 4chan).

I should point out at this juncture that this topic was of particular interest to me because I have suffered from depression and self-harmed on a semi-regular basis for around two years (I tried to make that as nonchalant as possible, but this is the first time I’ve admitted it to a wide audience and a tiny part of me is fist-bumping itself and going “WAY TO BREAK ‘EM BOUNDARIES, MACGREGOR”). Most of my scars have faded but I’m still extremely self-conscious about them, and self-harm is my The Big Bad, like booze for alcoholics or heroin for junkies. You may judge me off that statement however you want, and you’re welcome to, but I’d appreciate it if you kept any needlessly nasty comments to yourself. A morbid curiosity overwhelmed me and I had to take a closer look- what were these websites promoting that was so hypnotic to the tumblr community?

I investigated. And it’s pretty safe to say that many of the tumblr pages I came across that discussed self-harm continue to glorify it. Extremely graphic pictures of scars and cuts-some still bleeding, some clearly suicide attempts, some so bad that other users have urged the poster to visit the hospital-prompt comments complimenting their beauty. Some anonymous users despair because their scars are not as deep as the ones they see depicted on the site, and they believe this means they don’t qualify as “real” self-harmers. Gifs and pictures from movies glorify beautiful people slicing themselves to ribbons without tackling anything other than the superficial fact they are self-harming. Other posts advise on how to find razors and sharp objects in everyday items. One particularly hideous gif-and I’m sure it’s not the only one- shows someone actually cutting their arm open with a razor.

I can tell you this with some security because I am in recovery: if I’d found a community that had glorified and encouraged this habit back when I’d first started, I dread to think how far I would have gone to fit in. Self-harm is confusing and frightening and addictive enough without wondering if your scars are deep enough or pretty enough or numerous enough. And recovery is a long and often lonely process, so it’s not out of the realms of belief that someone might look for some sincere support on the web when nothing else is available and come across sites like these. This shit is utterly, utterly horrible, extremely disturbing, and offering very little in the way of the “supportive conversations” tumblr had imagined. Words cannot describe how angry and sick this made me, and you’ll find the same kind of blogs kicking around for eating disorders too-several particularly grim forays include a mixture of self-harm and pro-eating disorder material.

And let’s step back from my rage and take a look at the facts. Around 30% of tumblr’s visitors are under 25, so young people account for just under a third of their entire audience. Consider this: rates of depression in young people in Britain have risen 70% in the last 25 years, and it’s now estimated that around 1 in 10 young people all over the world will take part in some form of self-injurious behavior (SIB). Do you see what I’m getting at here? That tumblr should be doing a far better fucking job at protecting the particularly vulnerable third of it’s audience from distressing or potentially triggering imagery and communities? Seems pretty straightforward to me. But then I’m a nutter cutter: what would I know?

As a sign-off, I’d like to recommend anyone else who self-harms or is in recovery (I see it like alcoholism: you never really stop having the propensity to slip back into it, but you do have long periods of time-lifetimes, even-where you don’t) the following websites, which I’ve found really useful in the past.

http://selfharm.co.uk/get/facts/self-harm_statistics
http://www.7cupsoftea.com/ Especially this one.

Pure Mental: Madness on TV

Recently, me and the consort demolished two separate shows in the space of a week-Hannibal, which I reviewed earlier here, and cult anime Neon Genesis Evanglelion. Both shows are brilliant in their own right (I consider NGE, which was obviously my pick, one of the best things I’ve seen in my life, and I’ve seen shirtless pictures of James Marsters, so…), and both are worth watching if you feel like a big binge of cleverness, and, in the case of Hannibal, many beautiful men. But I digress-what struck me about these shows when held together is how different they seem on the surface but how damn similar they are on closer inspection.

I should, at this point, probably outline what Neon Genesis Evangelion is: an anime series from the late nineties that is outwardly about giant robots fighting space monsters, but REALLY concerns the importance of individuality and the nature of personal madness. Now, the best way I can describe this series is by my brother’s reaction to the ending. As the credits rolled on the final episode, he shut down his computer, turned off his lights, and climbed into bed with the covers pulled up to his chin with a mixture of bemusement and mild upset on his face. It’s really fucking strange. Hannibal is similarly bizarre; focused more on the slow but unrelenting descent into madness that FBI criminal profiler Will Graham suffers as his mind becomes enveloped by a particularly traumatic case and the machinations of psychiatrist Hannibal Lecter (played by Mads Mikklesen, a man so angular his face resembles a tremendously handsome Ikea shelf set). They might seem wildly different on the surface, but they do have one important thing in common: madness.

Now, I don’t claim to have ever been “mad” in the ways that these shows depict, and I’m thankful for that. But both myself and many people close to me have suffered from mental health problems in one way or another, so I’m always interested in how these sorts of things are depicted in fiction; either we get the sanitized, slightly glamorous version of insanity (you rarely see, for example, a character sitting around, depressed, binge-eating crap food and watching one episode of Top Chef over and over because they can’t bloody take it in), or the one-off descent into madness that’s cured by the love of a good woman/man/Vampire Slayer (I apologize for the Spike references; the consort is sitting next to me watching Angel as I write and I’m trying to distract myself from how shit it is by reminding us all that James Marsters exists).

But the way these two shows handle madness is very alike. In neither case is the madness in any way attractive or aspirational-it’s by turns irritating, harrowing, irrational, debilitating and frustrating. In Hannibal, you become lost in the woozy, violent half-dream world Will Graham finds himself in, and in NGE you grow to sympathise with characters who suffer through their problems because they have no other choice. There’s very little swooning around mantelpieces and taking to beds-in some cases, you have no choice but to carry the fuck on and treat mental illness akin to cystitis-pissy, a little painful, and constantly re-occurring. One of the final scenes of NGE features the main character being told the man the fuck up and do what he knows he has to do because, even though doing it seems like the absolute hardest thing in the world, it’s the right thing. This is the same voice I hear in my head (in a non-mad way) when I start sleeping for sixteen hours a day and refuse to change out of my comfy Batman t-shirt.

Both shows also use a very distinctive visual style to depict madness. I think this is worth mentioning because madness (and particularly depression) is often nothing to do with the world around you changing, but rather to do with your perception of the world. In NGE, characters are mostly seen isolated and lonely even when they’re surrounded by people who truly want the best for them; in Hannibal, Will is plagued by visions of animals and people he knows can’t exist. In both cases, little has actually changed, but the way we see these events through these character’s eyes lets us know that for them, everything is different. Madness is in the way we see the world, less what the world does to us.

Don’t get me wrong; many shows do a great job of depicting madness. And I am in no position to really judge the right or wrong way to do it, because I’m neither mad nor involved in making television (unlike, say, Gillian McKeith or Jeremy Kyle, who clearly cover both bases). But something that struck me about these shows was how satisfied and drawn in I was in both cases. It’s rare to discover shows that examine mental illness in a way that anyone with mental illness will appreciate, but these two definitely hit the nail on the-schizophrenic, depressed, delusional, self-harming, bipolar, OCD, disassociate, and just plain nuts-head.

America’s Next Top Model: Redux

Last year, I wrote a protracted and essentially pointless rampage against America’s Next Top Model while drunk, that involved a whole lot of babbling about sandwiches and the conclusion that the show was a bit grim but essentially harmless. I was wrong. Oh, how wrong was I. Apparently, I feel the urge to devour a couple of seasons of this unrelenting tripe a couple of times a year, usually when I’m sick or fighting off some bout of crippling boredom or depression (pause for uncomfortable laughter; is she joking? Are we allowed to laugh at it if she is? If she’s not, isn’t that the sort of thing you just shouldn’t joke about? I mean, it’s a bit far, really, and frankly I hope The Guardian launch a liberal hate campaign against her, the scummy, anti-mental health “satirist” cow. Bet she’s sexist too. How many women have you employed, eh, Louise? That’s the question the public are clamoring for an answer to.).

In theory, the show actually comes from a pretty reasonable place. Tyra Banks, who spends much of her time forgetting to put on trousers, decided to re-define beauty in the fashion industry because….well, I don’t know actually. Maybe she had an afternoon free or something. Either way, I kind of respect her buisness acumen; being a model is a career with a built-in sell-by-date, so turning your attentions to becoming Oprah-building a TV empire seems pretty savvy. And giving less conventionally beautiful women (like all these hideously unattractive women here) a chance to break into an industry that would have previously simply laughed in their faces because they were plus-size or short is actually a really nice idea.

While much of the criticism for the show can be drawn for the fashion industry itself-with models being told they are “too slim for plus-size modelling” and the majority of winners being skinny, conventionally gorgeous women in their late teens-I’m going to focus on what’s off with the show alone. For one, not one-NOT ONE- winner or contestants have gone on to become what is, by anyone’s standards, a top model. A top model is an instantly recognisable name, someone who’s probably run around with rock stars for a while, somebody for whom their actual profession takes a back seat to the maelstrom of publicity surrounding them because they’re kind of fascinating and cool. Now, Cara Develigne has proved supermodels still exist-it’s just that the show doesn’t prepare it’s victims for the fashion industry in any way. Ex-winner Caridee English released a statement regarding the effect the show has on the models involved, after contestant Jael Strauss was discovered to be harboring a pretty sizeable meth addiction. Basically, she claimed that participants were greeted by a world in which they were lofty celebrities but unqualified and inexperienced models. There’s something tragically misleading about baring this in mind when watching the show, as the girls go through a heap of emotional distress, upsetting photoshoots and the constantly drilled-in belief that they will have a sky-rocketing career should they win the show. On a related note, both an ex-contestant and a judge have appeared on Celebrity Rehab since their stint of ANTM.

Backing away from the heavy stuff, there’s also the made-up words and phrases the show shoves down your throat at every opportunity. Smize, for example. Which is a word ellision, one that represents the notion of “smiling with one’s eyes”. Can I ask you something? Go to a mirror right now. And try to do that; try to imbue your eyes with emotion without moving the rest of your face. Can’t be done, can it? No, it fucking can’t. Maybe I’m stupid and a terrible model (it would explain the current faliure of my modelling career), but I like to believe that an expression requires some movement of your whole face. “Smizing” is not just an irritating anti-word, it’s also bullshit. This, along with forcing the attractive and charming British photographer Nigel Barker to continually use the word “fierce”, is enough to condemn the show to hell from my point of view.

Then, of course, there’s this: a collection of words so outrageous you’ll die, right here, in front of your computer or preferred device. On the All-Stars Cycle (What?), Tyra Banks filmed a “Motion Editorial” (eh?) for her novel (Come again)? Modelland, about an elite model’s boarding school (Okay, seriously now) featuring anthropomorphic people (I don’t even-), which starred the finalists from that series fondling blood oranges and gorging on whipped cream (a single flatline will suffice).

I first saw this monstrosity in the early hours of the morning and genuinley considered the option that I’d completely lost my mind. Basically, it sums up the show beautifully; a pointless, pretentious, unironically awful piece of crap that has less to do with modelling than my breakfast. Thank you, and kill me.

On Adulthood and Alcohol

In the past week, it’s been my birthday, I got really sick, and a Fast & Furious star died in an ironic car crash. I’ve been getting good and existential over the last few days, helped by the slight move closer to death and lots of rum consumed over the last few days. With my teenage life-less as a member of the human race than as a runner in a weepy, Paula-Radcliffe style half-marathon-entering into it’s last year, some semblance of adulthood is drawing near and I feel this should be acknowledged. There have definetly been some vague steps in this direction over the last year-university, wobbly steps into a writing career, my own flat, becoming weirdly obsessed with hipster American sweets-but one of the main things that defines one’s leap into the Real World is alcohol.

When you start drinking-and my very first drink was a bottle of tooth-achingly sweet pear cider my Dad got me when I was sixteen-there is a certain amount of mystique to it. You think you’re infallible, impossible to inebriate and immune to hangover. The first time I got drunk was with my excellent friend back home over two Jackass films, when I realized I had had far too much to drink after I woke up with both my foot and my hair in a small pile of my own sick on his floor. My head was furious at me, my eyes thick with blergh, and my friend wasn’t impressed that I’d been sick down his Busted Tour T-shirt (sorry Cameron). But there was a kind of righteous, swaggering dignity to that hangover; like bills or unwanted pregnancy, I had a problem that was exclusive to the quasi-adult world. In my ironic t-shirt and crusty hair, I’d permanently joined the world of the grown-ups for a grim, miserable morning.

The first term of university is best glossed over; while I didn’t drink myself into a coma every night, being away from home and forced at fucking gunpoint by everyone in the world to MAKE FRIENDS FOR LIFE because it’s PART OF THE UNIVERSITY EXPERIENCE was simply aided by a generous dollop of social lubricant. It was also around this time that I began to see nothing wrong with indulging in a good movie, a bottle of wine and no humans cluttering up the proceedings because sometimes, people just can’t live up to inebriated fiction.

(On a side note, drinking alone is curiously maligned; I wouldn’t encourage sitting at home weepily downing a bottle of whisky as the night draws in evening after evening, but simply peppering around a bunch of people to make it seem more legitimate is ridiculous. I had a cheeky few glasses of wine over a Heston Blumenthal marathon last week and it was heaven; other people would have just laughed at me for getting weepy when he made the sick kids at that hospital happy).

I realised earlier this evening that I’m a real grown-up/ponce when I made and enjoyed a Fancy Drink (rum, coke and a squeeze of lime. Alright, so my standards are low). I sat with a great friend, gossiped, chatted about real life, American Horror Story and ate junk food as the night wore on-and that’s the best part. The moment at which alcohol becomes, not a quick way to avoid an arse-clenchingly awkward lack of conversation, or a cheap sleeping pill with added hangover, but simply a tasty addition to an already wonderful evening, is when I consider it to be a part of my grown-up life in the real world. I’ll drink to that.

Ryan Murphy: Defended

Ryan Murphy, eh? What’s the deal with the evil genius behind Nip/Tuck, American Horror Story, and (of all things) Glee? I’ve recently been re-watching Nip/tuck, the soap opera on acid that takes places in a plastic surgery clinic to better follow the lives of it’s two surgeon protagonists, Christian Troy and Sean McNamara. Now, this all sounds pretty par for the course so far, but this is a Ryan Murphy show, so I can guarantee that it’s probably going to smack you round the face with a big block of unlikely stories before running away and singing some show tunes on his other show.

One of the hallmarks of Murphy show (and, I suppose, a Murphy/Falchuck creation, because dear old Brad has had so much to do with the conception of both American Horror Story and Glee) is the completely hectic pace at which they rattle through plotlines; a kind of ADHD storytelling that works pretty convincingly if, like me, you tend to get bored with shows that linger over one plot strand too long. There’s also the sheer outrageousness of the plots to contend with, too; American Horror Story pretty much excepted, because, c’mon, it’s a horror show. But looking at Glee or Nip/Tuck or even Popular, shows which are allegedly set in the real world (even a violently technicolour version of it) are filled with stonkingly unbelievable plots.
For example, one character in one particular show (which I won’t name for spoiler’s sake) dates a closeted lesbian, tries to cut his own foreskin off, gets involved in a three-way relationship with her and her new girlfriend, dates a transsexual, dates a bigoted racist chick, beats the crap out of an unrelated transsexual, marries his father’s ex (who’s also a porn star), has a baby, gets into gay porn, becomes a meth addict, gets caught in a meth explosion, falls in love with his burns counsellor, decides to go to college to become a doctor, becomes a mime instead, goes on a robbery spree dressed as a mime, ends up somebody’s bitch in prison, strangles him with some lingerie before getting released early and running off with aforementioned baby and aforementioned transsexual to start a new life. After that, you’d want one. It’s mental. It’s ridiculous. And the worst part is I’ve barely scratched the surface of everything that happens to this character.

And that’s the hallmark of Murphy (and, later, Murphchuck shows): they are unbelievably silly. Yeah, occasionally Glee glanced over some after-school-special territory with bullying and homophobia and teenage pregnancy and what have you, but for the most part they revel in hysterical histrionics. Nonsense is what they do best, and I don’t think there’s anything outrightly wrong with that- in fact, I think it’s what makes them some of my favourite TV-brainboxes working right now. Never ones to rely on what they already know to sell a programme, they’ve constantly bounced between genres because, presumably, they get bored dealing with just one-and, surprisingly enough, they often create shows that are actually kind of excellent.

I will hold up my right to watch, read, and listen to trash as long as I enjoy it on some level, and Murphchuck have consistently created just the right balance of trash and moderate innovation for me to continue watching. Gourmet crap, if you will.

On Hangovers

So, I had a few drinks on Sunday. I’m neither teetotal nor a raging alcoholic; I have been both in the past but that’s neither here nor there. I usually most enjoy a drink, over Radio Four, at the end of a long, hard day spent getting up at three and writing till midnight. But on Sunday, I had what might be defined as One Too Many. I remember sipping red wine at ten, dancing to Paramore, swigging blue Wicked at twelve, moving onto vodka and coke by one. The very last thing I have any recollection of is a young lady handing me a bottle-cap full of vodka. “Vodka shots?” I probably declared in my loud, drunk voice, “I can’t see why n-”

Then it all goes black.

I know I arrived back in bed around half seven on Monday morning. I know I slept in my shoes. I know I woke up to my consort elbowing me in the head. And all I remember from the rest of Monday is agony. I sat up in bed and left my eyeballs lying on the pillow, stretching the tendons from my eyes to the point where I became convinced could actually hear them playing Duelling Banjos whenever I moved too quickly. I stared at a pizza crust for three hours as my stomach tried to crawl up my throat and punch me in the face. My liver hurt. MY LIVER HURT. Life was unbearably, crushingly, suicidally awful for a few hours. And, my God, did I milk it.

And that’s the thing about hangovers-you deserve no sympathy for having one. You know what drinking does to you; no-one makes out drinking leads you to a spritely leap out of bed at half eight to choirs of angels strumming harps of magic pearls. You know damn well you’re risking a self-inflicted kicking every time you get pissed. And it’s for that reason that you most want sympathy; not only did you make a silly, easily avoidable mistake last night, but also your head hurts and you want to eat aspirin like they’re magic beans that’ll sprout beanstalks in your insides to absorb the pain of it all. And crisps. Lots of crisps. Always crisps.

Micheal Winterbottom, Pistolwhipping and the BBFC: Sex and Violence in Movies

On a very brief side note, this is a moderatley wordy and fact-heavy bitchfest from a dedicated horror film fan, so back off now if you were only ever here for the puns about boobs.

When we started out trying to entertain ourselves with plays and what have you, sex was pretty much off the table. Well, you know, we could deal with hearing about it and could just about stomach a few raunchy puns (take the grand dame of all innuendos from the dour classic Hamlet, “Did you think I meant count-ry matters?”) , but generally violence was a lot more accepted than sex was. Take Titus Andronicus, one of Shakespeare’s most wildly excessive plays, which features on-stage cannibalism, triple murder, and various other acts of mutilation and violence. It decided that the rape scene would have to happen off-stage. Similarly, right back from the plays of the fifteenth and sixteenth century, exceptionally violent dramas were astoundingly popular, essentially creating the outline for rape-and-revenge movies in decades to come (if I can’t manufacture a link between Titus Andronicus and I Spit on Your Grave, I don’t know what to believe). But what I’m trying to stress here is that the violence was not only accepted, but actively sought out; sex was still kept to the odd nod-and-a-wink for decades to come.

This remained the case for many, many years- if you look at a list of movies banned worldwide in the first half of the twentieth century, a big chunk of them were disallowed due to sexual content- from the now-classic Brief Encounter to The Big Sleep– a trend which completely turned around post-1970 or so. Most films being banned were done so because of violent content-Cannibal Holocaust was banned pretty much everywhere, while other films like The Evil Dead, Resevoir Dogs and The Human Centipede faced sporadic bans acorss various nations due to “extreme violence”. Now, I’m not here to dictate what violence is and isn’t acceptable in whatever movie, but it seems, from this data alone, that violence has replaced sex in entertainment as the social nightmare of choice.

This could be put down to a whole heap of things. For example, the rise in internet pornography means that some 70% of men and 31% of women watch regular, unsimulated sex on the internet or wherever else you might get it (but then, where else would you get it?). Logically, this means that at least that number of people will be walking into a movie theatre with a pretty solid idea of what goes on behind the cheesecloth, not even touching upon those lucky few (excuse the pun) who actually do it themselves. There is also some argument that sex is more natural; that sex has a place in most people’s day-to-day lives whereas a pistol-whipping does not. Surely, then, that’s an argument for not having sex in movies- unless something particularly hilarious and plot-worthy happens during the actual rumpy-pumpy, we don’t need to see anything more than an implication. I, personally, have no idea what it looks like when someone gets shot in the back of the head, so logically that should be visually explained to me. Sex, though? I get the gist. Violence in movies, however, has constantly come under fire with a huge number of horrors films and various violent movies being linked with real-life crimes and murders. Enjoying violent movies is somewhat maligned in polite company, as it’s seen as the domain of psychos with stuffed bird collections and a suspicious number of hand-held wood carving instruments.

But why? Sex in movies hasn’t become less excessive-quite the contrary. Take the Michael Winterbottom sneering snoozefest 9 Songs as an example; showcased at Cannes, it features full-on unsimulated vaginal, oral and manual sex (y’know, screwing, blowjobs and handjobs), and received an 18 certificate, uncut, from the BBFC in 2004. And it’s a fucking terrible movie; there is something incredibly banal about sex presented, not for titillation, but simply as two marginally attractive people going at it for a few minutes onscreen. The story was completely uncompelling, and the modern-love-story angle virtually suicidal. Now, The Human Centipede 2 (Full Sequence )is an equally terrible film, using explicit, horrible violence in a banal and tacked-on plot. If I had to find some logical match for explicitness of sex and explicitness of violence 9 Songs and The Human Centipede 2 would probably be it. But Human Centipede was, as I’m sure you all know, banned in Britain before being released under an 18 certificate, after over 30 cuts were made to the original footage. It’s interesting to note the big furore in Britain over the “video nasties” trend of the 1970s and 80s, leading to the introduction of the Video Recordings Act 1984, which allowed the Government to actively outlaw certain blacklisted extreme slasher films (these included Mario Bava classic Twitch of the Death Nerve). The only other type of entertainment specifically banned from distribution in the UK? Hardcore pornography.

Well, with my rant over, I’m going off to watch some Saw movies then, obivously, kill everyone I know in increasingly ingenious and outlandish fashions. You can stick your 9 Songs and your Human Centipede; if a film is a good film, then it doesn’t matter how violent or awful it may seem. It’s still going to be a worthwhile bit of entertainment.