RANDOM REMINDER

Press, Volume CXII, Issue 32879, 30 March 1972, Page 18

RANDOM REMINDER

OF GUYS AND GHOULS

An old show business maxim holds that nothing is as permanent as change. But these days it seems that entertainment trends have completed a full circle. Silent comics, such as W. C. Fields, are amusing an entirely new generation of viewers; die Charleston of the roaring twenties is said to be “in” again.

In some of our main cities it has become, a young correspondent asserts, fashionable for his “now” generation to sit through a programme of so-called horror films. Vampires more hideous and horrific than ever before are to be seen making their stealthy way through fog-enshrouded mansions visibly enthusiastic about their plasma picnics. And, for good measure, evil spirts abound as never before. But, we are informed, there has been a metamorphosis in audience reaction—it has changed remarkably. Screams of former years have been replaced with peals of laughter and it is a fair assumption that the script writers have been hired more on the grounds of economy than excellence. A young Christchurch

couple visited Auckland during the holidays and were invited by their host and hostess to attend a marathon macabre carnival commencing at midnight. The four sank into their 50-cent seats to view a four-hour programme—a Marx Bros resurrection and three horror films. The audience appeared to enjoy the antics of the Brothers Marx (screened first) but a good percent-

age of them indulged in a sort of audience participation while viewing the programme. Many hurled rude remarks—and a few missiles—at the baddies during the star attraction considered by the management to be the spice of the programme, and screened last. This star attraction was concerned (or perhaps it wasn’t) with the activities of a mentally deranged medico at loose on an island of blood—a mythical and obscure tropical atoll. It was perhaps understandable that audience participation reached a frenzied peak during its screening. Briefly, the scenario dealt at length and in vivid detail with the activities of the man of medicine. He gave over his spare moments to injecting his

victims with chlorophil, a sort of green light to other dastardly goings-on. Virtue remained triumphant with the discovery of his 42nd victim who had been found in the moat in a deformed state and in extremely poor health, his over-all complexion a transluscent green apart from his pillar-box red eyeballs.

Anxious natives and distraught relatives had carried the patient on a stretcher to more congenial indoor surroundings and were hovering around him when the good doctor arrived on the scenecomplete with Carnaby Street clothes, a small black bag and exuding diagnostic determination. The medico’s opening line should surely be awarded some sort of Anatomy Award on two counts. Firstly for its banality: secondly for the boisterous reaction of the audience.

Looking objectively at the man on the couch, who by this time appeared to be bucking up and running the full gamut of the tonic-sol-far whilst seemingly gargling with his own blood, he pointed to the man in extremis and said “I take it that this is the patient.”