Next Lobotomy Room Film Club: Macao (1952) on 16 February 2023

  

There is no place like it on earth. Macao in the China Seas across the bay from British Hong Kong. Where gambling is the heavy industry and smuggling and dope peddling come as naturally as eating. To this island of commercial sin comes Nick, a young grifter wanted back in the States – and Nora, a girl who never got the breaks. Both hard as nails, cynical, strangers. And on the same boat, posing as a salesman, comes a hard-boiled New York cop, sent out to capture a fugitive-racketeer is now the Frankie Costello of Macao …

Into this hotbed of espionage, intrigue and murder, three people take refuge! 

Robert Mitchum - living on velvet … loving the same way! 

Jane Russell - whose song belies … the fear in her heart! 

William Bendix - whose stock in trade … is danger! 

Yes, this is Macao – port of peril. Where boy meets girl too late! The risks they run …  the chances they take … fighting to remain together in a dangerous paradise!

On 16 February the Lobotomy Room film club (motto: Bad Movies for Bad People) whisks you away to the steamy Portuguese colony of Macao for this sordid noir thriller! Sure, the Times’ critic reportedly dismissed Macao as “melodramatic junk”, but I side with deviant queer film scholar Boyd McDonald, who concluded “Macao is, arguably, perfect.” 

Macao’s major selling point is the sullen dream duo of Robert Mitchum and Jane Russell, who effortlessly match other for tough wry humour and torpid impudence. As McDonald notes in his volume of essays Cruising the Movies (2015), “out of habit rather than anything in the script, the stars of Macao – and under their spell, the supporting players and extras – loiter about leering and sneering at each other, giving attitude. The attitude is one of contempt mixed with lust – an insolent craving, a concupiscent scorn … the players look as though they can’t stand the sight of each other, yet want to suck each other off … Russell, gifted with articulate nostrils and some slight imperfection in the nerves or muscles about her lips, is especially good at competitive sneering.” Seriously – how can you resist? 

Adding to the intrigue: temperamental veteran filmmaker Josef von Sternberg (the visionary behind all those great 1930s Marlene Dietrich films) was exhumed from semi-retirement to direct Macao but when preview audiences grumbled the film was too art-y and weird, an uncredited Nicholas Ray (of Johnny Guitar (1954) and Rebel without a Cause (1955) fame) was assigned to shoot additional scenes! Watch as well for delectable bad girl Gloria Grahame in a supporting role! 

Lobotomy Room Goes to the Movies is the FREE monthly film club devoted to cinematic perversity! Third Thursday night of every month downstairs at Fontaine’s bar in Dalston! Two drink minimum (inquire about the special offer £6 cocktail menu!). Numbers are limited, so reserving in advance via Fontaine’s website is essential. Alternatively, phone 07718000546 or email bookings@fontaines.bar to avoid disappointment! The film starts at 8:30 pm. Doors to the basement Bamboo Lounge open at 8:00 pm. To ensure everyone is seated and cocktails are ordered in time, please arrive by 8:15 pm at the latest.

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Reflections on ... Gloria Grahame in Human Desire (1954)

/ The gloriously feline Gloria Grahame /

Last week I watched Human Desire (1954), the hard-boiled, fatalistic Fritz Lang-directed film noir starring Glenn Ford and the sensational (or should that be sin-sational?) Gloria Grahame (“born to be BAD, to be KISSED, to make TROUBLE!”). In fact I watched it twice. Human Desire represented a reunion for the trio of Lang, Ford and Grahame: the year before they made the more celebrated The Big Heat (1953). 

The film is a loose remake of the haunting, very different 1938 French film La Bête humaine  directed by Jean Renoir. Smouldering young heartthrob Ford (that deep growling voice! That dark pomaded hair!) plays a Korean vet returning to small town life and his job as a train engineer – who gets ensnared in the toxic, potentially murderous marriage of his violent colleague (Broderick Crawford) and frustrated wife (Grahame).

Human Desire isn’t a prestigious film. It’s considered a minor work in Lang's oeuvre, is overshadowed in peoples’ memories by The Big Heat and regarded as inferior to La Bête humaine. For Lang, Ford and Grahame Human Desire was probably just another routine job or contractual obligation and business as usual. But seen today – 62 years later – Human Desire looks like a paragon of tight craftsmanship and tough, absorbing noir storytelling.  The tale of tense, desperate lives played out in shadows and penned-in by smoke-belching trains and a bleak landscape of criss-crossing train tracks, it throbs with tension, claustrophobia and atmosphere.   

Certainly the lead performances give Human Desire an edge. Broderick Crawford as the abusive husband is nominally the story’s villain. But the remarkable character actor Crawford depicts him as so mired in self-loathing, weakness, jealousy and alcoholism, he’s ultimately pathetic and even tragic. If anyone owns the film, though, it’s Gloria Grahame. As always, the perma-pouting Grahame (1923 - 1981) injects her trampy, insolent vixen role with complexity, humanity, perversity and bruised soul. 

She was perhaps never better than giving her confessional monologue to Ford as the doomed, slapped-around  Vicki in Human Desire. (“It’s hard for a girl, drifting from job to job ... most women are unhappy, they just pretend they aren’t … I guess I’m not much of a woman – or a wife”).  And Grahame looks wild in the film: with crazily over-drawn lip-line (worthy of Divine) and a wardrobe of hoop earrings, seamed stockings, berets, tightly-belted trench coats, pencil skirts and some serious bullet bras under tight sweaters. 

/ Glenn Ford and sweater girl Gloria Grahame (and a killer bullet bra) in Human Desire /

The late film historian John Kobal (1940 - 1991) is far more eloquent on the subject of Grahame’s screen persona than me. Calling her the “fallen-blonde, pouty-lipped, sinful-eyed angel” of noir cinema, in his book Hollywood Colour Portraits (1981) he argues “nobody else was quite like Gloria Grahame – glittering with the barely controlled fires seething beneath the social veneer. While she herself was no criminal, her presence alone could incite men to criminal actions if only to attract her attention as she prowled big city streets – so sultry, so spiteful, so wanton, and so lethal if the mood took her and the man didn’t. She was the great bitch goddess, shedding her coats like snakes their skin, and tugging at the tight coils of her hair to conjure up a world of bedrooms in disarray. Her freezing looks were as memorable as her scalding actions, and whether she made only one film like that or fifty she would still have made her niche ... silk or sack, her clothes are only worn to be torn; for her all things are black or white, and anarchy is the roost she rules.”

Mixed Bag O'Shite: Updates!

Gloria Graham’s Pussy: Sullen Gloria Grahame, dubbed the “fallen-blonde, pouty lipped sinful-eyed angel” of film noir by John Kobal. She certainly enlivened every film she ever appeared in. One of the most popular photos I’ve ever posted on my blog is Grahame wearing an ultra pointy bullet bra under a tight sweater. Thanks for all the traffic, Gloria.

The blog has been a bit quieter than usual because I’m DJ’ing less these days. Dr Sketchy is winding down a bit: it will take a sabbatical and be (hopefully!) triumphantly re-launched around December 2012 or maybe the new year. Before that, though, we’re taking our show on the road and will be doing our own Dr Sketchy tent at the music festival Bestival in the Isle of Wight on 6-9 September 2012. But Dr Sketchy’s glamazon stage manager Clare Marie is also organising the burlesque club Time for Tease, and I’ll be DJ’ing there as well – FOUR shows a day! So I’ll be DJ’ing five shows a day for three days. I’ll be the hardest-working man in show business! I’m drained already just thinking about it.

It’s surprising how anxious I am about Bestival! I never go to either music festivals or go camping, so I will be totally out of my comfort zone. Clare is providing me with a tent, and a woman at work has loaned me a sleeping bag. I may originally hail from rural Quebec and I did used to frequently go camping when I was a kid, but I’ve been living in concrete jungle London for twenty years now and am a total hard-bitten urbanite. The good news is the Dr Sketchy crew will be situated in the relatively deluxe VIP performers’ area, so will have decent shower and toilet facilities. As a self-confessed borderline OCD control freak, it’s hard not to worry about the things I have zero control over – i.e. totally unfamiliar decks, the logistics of DJ’ing somewhere unfamiliar to a bigger than usual crowd, the security of my DJ bag (if it ever got stolen, I would be abruptly retired!), the fact I couldn’t erect a tent if my life depended on it!

Anyway, am sure it will be a blast and it will be a fun challenge to keep things focused and fresh doing five shows a day. And it’s a great opportunity to DJ outside of London to a whole new audience at a prestigious event. Needless to say I’ll be posting my set lists and photos when I get back.

Some other updates:

A few months ago I blogged about the birth of my “nephew” Dorival. I saw Petra, Rob and baby Dorival last Sunday. I see them about once a month on average. At Dorival’s age you can see him develop dramatically each time you see him. His demeanour is usually mellow and sweet; his hobbies these days are mainly looking around noticing things, cramming his fists into his mouth and drooling (boy, can he drool).

Mutter und Baby: Beautiful recent shot of Petra and Dorival

Last Sunday I was sitting next to Petra on the couch, with Dorival on her lap, and he was staring at me wide-eyed and unblinking with real curiosity. At one point, Petra need to go to the bathroom and quickly handed Dorival to me and set him on my lap as she left the room. The previous time I visited he let me hold him and was totally calm about it. (When you hold Dorival, he snorts and wriggles the whole time. It's like holding an adorable baby piglet). This time, seeing me extremely up-close he stared at me, he either touched my face or I put his hand on my face (I can’t remember), paused and thought about it for a moment -- and then started to howl! Rob quickly came over and picked him up and tried to soothe him, but Dorival continued to scream for about seven minutes! So it properly freaked him out. He’s at the “making strange” stage. Obviously to see Petra and Rob’s faces in close proximity is very soothing and reassuring for him – to see my unfamiliar face was alarming! So I have the kind of face that makes baby cry – it’s official!



Dorival and I in happier days in July 2012, when he would still let me hold him. His tendril of hair curling under my nose makes me look like I have a moustache

Later, Petra’s elderly female cat Mamba was sitting on the arm of the couch, and I was crouching down next to her and saying to Dorival, “Look! Mamba lets me kiss her and she likes it!” He watched us, paused to reflect (he does the classic baby slow reaction to things, which is so funny) and then his whole face crumpled and he started to cry again! He didn’t like seeing me kiss anything! Petra is taking him with her to visit relatives in Germany for 18 days and said, “This doesn’t bode well.” They will all want to hold and kiss Dorival and she hopes he won’t be screaming the whole time!


Dorival in August 2012, hoping I keep my distance. Monitor Dorival's progress on my flickr page

In an ideal world, this would’ve been my Spring/Summer 2012 look – Continental Style for Men circa 1957. I love the Navy/White striped denim (or DENIM if you prefer) Capri shirt and the jeans rolled-up clam digger-length. His hair and sunglasses are perfection. He is the personification of La Dolce Vita (the photo is presumably taken in London’s Soho; you’d think he was in Rome). Cold day in hell I would ever wear espadrilles, though. I love the emphasis that Vince Man’s Shop is situated in the corner of Soho – whatever that means. Presumably his main clientele were gigolos?

My talented and glamorous friend Jirral Darmoise (I’ve known her on the rockabilly scene since the 1990s) makes exquisite handmade reproduction vintage chalkware that would look great on your wall! Check out her website Beatnik Blonde. These two pieces are my personal favourites:

Sophia Loren

Brigitte Bardot


Jirral and I circa Spring 2003. Could there be more leopard skin in this photo?

Read about this in The Guardian recently: someone found a book of police mug shots of Newcastle criminals from the 1930s in a junk shop. The photos have been loaded as collection onto flickr and are now being published as a book, too. Wow: Depression-era criminals sure had style! (Great nicknames, too: Cocky, Doggy, the Sunderland Kid). ALL of these criminals have style and elan -- but check out the mugshot of a grinning Michael Lavery ("General thief and shopbreaker"). He's defiance personified. John Dodgson ("A general thief and bad character. Works alone", with "extensively tattooed forearms and hands") has a haunting quality. He looks like Rimbaud.

My favourite, though, is George Coulson (below). This smouldering thug could’ve leapt from the pages of a Jean Genet novel. (And he's only 5'3". At 5'6", I would've towered over him. It's true what they say: good things come in small packages. Check out his dreamy profile, and the elegant way he's tied the scarf around his neck. And has anyone ever looked better in a flat cap?).

Read more about these photos here

Some Youtube finds:

My reverence for Ann-Margret is well-documented. Here is ultra-talented and chameleonic Kristen Wiig imitating sex kitten-gone-berserk Ann-Margret circa Viva Las Vegas / Kitten with a Whip on a recent episode of Saturday Night Live. Brilliant!

(If video won't play, watch it here)

How amazing is this? 1956 TV footage of teenage kids dancing - with the original soundtrack (presumably of 1950s rock'n'roll) replaced by fierce, angry punk music! It’s an interesting experiment: I know that when in clubs or parties someone projects old 1950s burlesque DVDs like Teaserama or Varietease against a wall, no matter what music the DJ is playing, the swaying hips of Bettie Page or Tempest Storm somehow magically manages to synch with the rhythm. I love how the punk songs contrast with the wholesome 1950s Iowa teens (girls in pencil skirts and cardigans, boys in horn-rimmed glasses and flat top crew cuts) – a good two decades before the birth of punk. (It’s worth remembering that in those days, the term “punk” still meant someone who was raped in prison). The opening of the teens dancing to "Run Run Run" (one of my favourite non-Nico Velvet Underground songs) works perfectly. Later, when it’s "Warm Leatherette" by The Normal, “Too Many Creeps” by Bush Tetras or “Why Can’t I Touch It?” by The Buzzcocks playing on the soundtrack, their dancing suddenly looks more aggressive, twitchy, sex-wracked and alienated! The music implies that underneath they're all bristling, seething juvenile delinquents. Read more on the perennially excellent Dangerous Minds blog.



Finally, Jackie Shane will sing us out with “Walking the Dog”, captured in grainy black and white in 1965 from the TV show Night Train. I’d never heard of this obscure rhythm and blues singer until this weekend, when Joe Pop (impresario of club night Wild Thing) posted this intriguing Youtube clip on Facebook. What. A. DISCOVERY! Originally from Nashville, Tennessee, Shane was an androgynous African-American (male) soul singer and drag queen who created a risqué sensation performing in the nightclubs and cocktail lounges of a more tolerant Toronto, Ontario in the 1960s. She even scored a minor pop radio hit with the bluesy and bittersweet "Any Other Way" in 1963. Amazing to think that such a transgressive outsider artist could find such widespread mainstream acceptance (it certainly makes me proud to be Canadian!).

Or perhaps not so amazing: judging by this clip (apparently the only surviving visual fragment of Shane performing), she was a genuinely great R&B chanteuse by any standard. (By the way: both vocally and visually, Shane “passes” as a woman, as far as I’m concerned. If I hadn’t told you already, would you have “read” Shane as a drag queen?). Backed by the suave Johnny Jones & The King Casuals, Shane’s languid delivery is at once tough and biting but restrained and coolly nonchalant. What style! What insouciance! And Shane looks great, too: chic in her sequined cocktail dress, cardigan and bouffant wig. Shane has been described as a hybrid of Eartha Kitt, Prince and Little Richard, which seems apt. She certainly shares Kitt’s feline sultriness (and penchant for thick black eyeliner), and apparently in the 1950s and 60s Shane used to party with Etta James and Little Richard – so she certainly moved with a debauched and kinky rock’n’roll crowd.

By the end of the 1960s Shane left Canada and vanished into deep obscurity. There was an urban myth that she’d come to a violent end in Los Angeles. Happily, in recent years she has been rediscovered and it’s come to light that Shane (now in her 70s) is still alive and residing back in Nashville. There are some fascinating accounts of Shane’s life and what she’s doing now online you can easily find in a cursory Google search. This account is particularly interesting: the author got to know Shane and her elderly aunt when he was based in Nashville in the 1990s and they needed help moving house. As far as he was concerned Shane was just a middle-aged local woman (so she obviously still "passes" well), but when he went to help them pack, he discovered this treasure trove of wigs, fur coats, gowns and old records that hinted at an interesting show business past.

Judging by online comments from people who know the present-day Shane, she emerges as a pretty fragile and reclusive figure with mental health issues (in particular agoraphobia), so any kind of return to performing is obviously out of the question. Still, let’s hope someone corners her with a tape recorder and get her memoirs down before she dies, because Shane probably has some eye-popping stories to tell about her low life in high heels. In the past I’ve blogged about how the likes of Little Richard, Esquerita and Bobby Marchan represent the subterranean queer, black history of rhythm and blues and rock’n’roll. The enigmatic and regal Jackie Shane clearly belongs in this pantheon.

Dr Sketchy 4 October 2010 Set List

/ Above: Perma-pouting film noir icon Gloria Grahame in sweater girl mode, demonstrating how best to fill out a bullet bra /

Getting to the venue was a chaotic, sweat-drenched nightmare, but even the tube strike didn't dampen what turned out to be a fun night. The featured performer and model was Beau Burlington. For one of her poses she worked a motorcycle mama / rock chick look (black leather jacket, long black boots), so I cranked up some female-fronted rockabilly: Wanda Jackson, Jackie De Shannon and a sultry psychobilly deconstruction of the old Peggy Lee standard “Woman” by my old mates Empress of Fur.

For one of Beau’s earlier poses I played a great new discovery. I love the jazz staple “Caravan”, and this accordion-driven version by The Dell Trio is the most berserk I’ve ever heard – so lurching, abrasive and frantic, it sounds like it could be played under the opening credits of a horror film. Listen to it here on the great blog The Homoerratic Radio Show.

Little Ole Wine Drinker Me - Robert Mitchum
Stranger in My Own Home Town - The Earls of Suave
Love Potion # 9 - Nancy Sit
Tonight You Belong to Me - Patience and Prudence
Drums A Go Go - The Hollywood Persuaders
Oh Lonesome Me - Ann-Margret
You Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dog - Little Esther
Yogi - Bill Black Combo
Oo Bala Baby - Mamie van Doren
Hearts Made of Stone - Otis William & The Charms
I'll Upset You Baby - Lula Reed
Poontang - The Treniers
Fool I Am - Pat Ferguson
My Heart Goes Piddily Patter Patter - Nappy Brown
I Would if I Could - Ruth Brown
Too Old to Cut the Mustard - Marlene Dietrich & Rosemary Clooney
Honey Rock - Barney Kessel
Comin' Home - The Delmonas
Gizmo - Jimmy Heaps
Tight Skirt, Tight Sweater - The Versatones
Caravan - The Dell Trio
Teach Me Tonight - Dinah Washington
Too Close for Comfort - Eartha Kitt
Yes Sir, That's My Baby - Ann Richards
Baby Won't You Please Come Home - Julie London
Spring, Sprang, Sprung - Jack Fascinato
I Wanna Be Loved - Ann-Margret
Les Feuilles Mortes - Juliette Greco
Autumn Leaves - Eartha Kitt
Petite Fleur - Chet Baker
Crazy Horse Swing - Serge Gainsbourg (Strip-tease soundtrack)
My Heart Belongs to Daddy - Hildegard Knef
Tuxedo Junction - Bill Black Combo
I Did What You Told Me - Adam Faith (Beat Girl soundtrack)
Woh! Woh! Yea - The Dynamos
If I Could Be with You - Mae West
Night Scene - The Rumblers
Lucky - Lizabeth Scott
Beaver Shot - The Periscopes
Woman - Empress of Fur
You Don't Know, Baby - Wanda Jackson
Trouble - Jackie De Shannon
The Strip - The Upsetters
Harlem Nocturne - The Viscounts
L'Eau à La Bouche - Serge Gainsbourg
Strip-tease - Nico (Strip-tease soundtrack)
Misirlou - Laurindo Almeida
You're My Thrill - Chet Baker (instrumental version)
Mack the Knife - Hildegard Knef
Begin the Beguine - Billy Fury
Boulevard of Broken Dreams / Fever - Sam Butera
I Wanna Be Loved by You - Marilyn Monroe
Everybody Loves My Baby - Brigitte Bardot

Sleazy does it ... my all-time favourite actor, the ultra-suave Robert Mitchum, was an underrated singer.



Resident emcee Dusty Limits suggested the theme "autumn" -- a good excuse to play Juliette Greco's version of the classic chanson "Les Feuilles Mortes", followed by Eartha Kitt singing the English language version, "Autumn Leaves." Here La Greco gives an exquisite and intense performance of "Les Feuilles Mortes" on German TV in the early 70s -- but check out how stony-faced and unmoved the tuxedo-clad audience is at the end. Tough crowd!



People often ask me, So what kind of music do you play at Dr Sketchy? Obviously it covers a wide range of various styles of kitsch and vintage sleaze, but strictly speaking the technical term for much of what I play is “Tittyshaker.” Think desperate, grinding instrumentals propelled by honking saxophone designed for strippers to rotate their nipple tassels to; the soundtracks of grainy black and white 1950s and 60s sexploitation B-movies; sequinned go-go dancers writhing in a cage ... and you’re on the right track. If you're curious to hear more, this excellent website is devoted to the dark art of the tittyshaker.

A prime example ...



For all your Dr Sketchy needs, go to the website.