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Salient: Victoria University of Wellington Students' Newspaper. Vol. 32, No. 2. 1969.

Films with 0'Leary 0'Leaden

Films with 0'Leary 0'Leaden

From the cream of the "Sunday Times" cultural pages we present . . .

Hello Darlings!

I really must get down to syntax (puff putt) and have a real bitch about some of the atrocities we have been able to see lately. Films that you and I, the girls and boys from Porirua, Trentham and Wainui. Teeny boppers, and up-and-reeking mod youths, all of you; films that you see on your tiny tele, and in the movie places.

I feel it is about time some giftidly normal cinefemme let forth abuse at the industry that for over one hundred years has been tormenting our primitive dopey Kiwi minds. Because honey lampits, you and I (les admit it en?) are just bloody cruddy dirty slimy low-down swabbing hop-infested rugby rancid morons, and to this we add our lack of capacity to vohmit prettily, talkalively yap yap like Tiny Skin, and what's more, exist as we do by addressing ourselves in the mirror for Lionel's ache in the prettiest public house we sit still in, to deface.

But bonza bene-droppers, last year I was unfortunate only to see a selection of films. I think were unparalled in their cheeky intensity to corrupt our lovely neighbourhood. Baboons who invest their weekly Satdee noyt with their bit up in the putrid Gods (I cap Him), and snigger and crank up their unoiled ignorances, like the three I noticed during that superbly mounted movie The Fox, with my Inangahua miner torch (beautifully going cheap at landslide prices) and Trawler Trawler flares the other Satdee noyt.

These three snorted, lit fire crackers, ate a loaf of bread, sprayed their hair and I believe the young miss actually began pasting a hole in her nylons with chutty gum.

I make no bones about it. Because this film is seriously trying to destroy the barrier that for thousands of years has made women tremble in their sapphic gumboots. Taboo or not taboo, this is the situation.

I have here camp-piled, a list of atrocities that you will never see, released through the State Censorship board of Australasia and governing territories. These films I was privileged to see with many well known folkies, journalists, Ikebana Scholarship winners and many ladies from the Temple Of the White Elephant Chicken Sexing classes.

The Scret Chops Of Prinz Kuckuck (showing how a sirloin of Tarzan, midrift bared and horse blinkers persuaded a young mormon boy to arrive home from Ludo Leaping and bite his pet frog to death. The censor rejected references to Billy Graham. Doris Lessing and a portion of bacon.)

The Codpiece According To Madame Quott (plasticine potrines, an overmisuse of the grab, Apostles of the Leaking Lorna are seen smoking shredded hardboard and seeking hallucinatory sensations sniffing glider glue, (whilst in the air), an all viol soundtrack was deleted due to misquotations from a limpid Frank Thring soap opera).

My Mum Maurice (overtly Catholic, with a complete and utter repugnantly revolting attitude to breathing in confessionals. Cardinal Cushing was parodied in a wheelbarrow, and the Censor has objected with discretion in making the soulful solilqies of Herminoc Skins come from the mouth of Jim Badman, the prairie ponce.)

The Ooze, The Mong And The Gravy ( a superior horror thriller which in its atrocities and violence shows: a noodle being removed from a baby's farex bottle, Mr Plod's truncheon is crushed in the jaws of a yak, Baby Numnumb has his finger stall used for unsavoury happenings; a painting of St Francis of Assissi put in a pop-up toaster.)

Schplunkt Dte Gombtreppe Garabaldine (or roughly "She pot de belly') (this film destroyed the faith one has in motherhood, the odour sanctity of a warming cupboard, the soothing game of What's my Pill? and George Bettle wandering in a plain clothed self-addressed mumu along Paekock! with an eye-dropper.)

Sordid films, you will agree. Films that neither money nor patience would ever warrant their seeing. Almost as totally ridiculous as calling out names of directors, people who photograph it (would we wish to know who photographed the baby crawling into the kodak yonder) people who blasphemise because they rush and scan their movie magazines, take in all the tripe and bullsh from these foreign bigwigs, platitudes of great intellectuals sloberring at the heels of a Bergman, a Fellini, a Risnay, or a Godad, We shall thank ourselves for seeing what we see and having a jolly good snore off in between. Bah! I say to you cretin movie clots. You don't want to see films, you just want reflections in another eye.

I'm crazy to the end now. I'm home to watch the inner eye, the sancity of my little box. What a night—Country Calendar. The NZBC news (nearly 15 minutes of scintillating college work, and miniscular observations) and if we're lucky some of the new lads, the up and coming directors of our lovely land, with such wonderful household dramas filmed on location on our own home streets and backyards.

These films are the creative nowness. Give me pleasure, I say to the vision, and out pops little black sambo, naked and eating a Peanut Crunchy sandwich, as I snuggle down warm beneath my skin.

Nest Week: Garlicke Queer. Demongibletates Culinary Capons In The Alfa Lader.