Not given an actual release yet but starting to make the rounds of film festivals is anthology movie VIDEO SHOP TALES OF TERROR, one of a number of ultra low budget UK genre movies that have been made over the last few years. Some of these, such as the oeuvre of the late Andrew Jones, have found distribution through supermarket shelves, others through mail order and VOD, and doubtless there are a few languishing in distribution hell to be discovered by UK horror obsessives at some point. The thing many of these films have in common is an almost guerrilla approach to film-making, fuelled in the absence of money (and sometimes talent) by sheer enthusiasm and love of the genre. VIDEO SHOP TALES OF TERROR is packed with enthusiasm and has buckets of genre love. It also has buckets of blood, gore, and an endearingly cheerful sense of nostalgia.
The action centres around a video rental store, the exterior of which is rendered a charming little model straight out of Michael Bentine's Potty Time. To continue the 1970s kids' TV vibe the proprietor of the shop bears an alarming resemblance to Dusty Mop from ITV show Hickory House. It's from here we go into the stories.
First off is MJ Dixon's Egghead, a jolly bit of comic strip-styled fun very much in the EC style in which disgraced surgeon Dr Egbert Humphries goes to a rival of his to get a new face and things get horrible from there. Next is Sam Mason-Bell's The Red-Lipped Moon, in which a man investigates the death of his friend and ends up meeting the lethal Ivy. Filmed in slick, stylish black and white this one has the look of a classy 1950s British B movie and gets the awards for the most professional-looking segment of the bunch.
Third is the brief Fleurs du Mal in which there are strange time-travel goings on Andrew Elias' 1894 horror set in a convent staffed by Nigel Wingrove-style nuns who wear nail varnish and makeup. After that it's Mary Whitehouse You're a C***, an extremely jolly and good natured EVIL DEAD tribute from Alexander Churchyard and Max Davenport that includes Mrs W herself back from the grave (and the reason for her being brought back did make me laugh out loud) and some endearing stop motion animation.
Tom Lee Rutter's These Burnt Children features disillusioned film director Ron Bayliss taking revenge on producer Benny Southpaw. A scene with a medium (with the splendid name of Lemora Lachymose) is the closest VIDEO SHOP TALES OF TERROR ever gets to the classic Amicus anthologies of old and as the segment reaches hysterical fever pitch you're left with the distinct feeling that a John Waters-style script in the hands of Mr Rutter could be a dangerous and wonderful thing.
The final tale is the SALON KITTY-style Vergessen. Those in the know will enjoy ticking off the Nazisploitation personality names in this tale of a brothel designed to get secrets out of visiting officers.
But that's not all. The wraparound features plenty of bonus bits and pieces, including a trailer for something called Don't Sit On His Face which again had me laughing out loud. A bit later on there's a bizarre advert for Japanese hot dogs and the soft core porn video Video Repair Man which, true to the era, has at least eight 'sequels'.
The overarching theme of VIDEO SHOP TALES OF TERROR is determinedly (and affectionately) retro. It's frequently crude, both in terms of subject matter and execution, but it succeeds in one very important area, in that it actually feels like a project its makers enjoyed making, and their enthusiasm, dedication and love for their subject matter really does shine through, and it's infectious. By the end of the movie I felt I'd had a disgustingly fun time. Well done, chaps.
VIDEO SHOP TALES OF TERROR is currently awaiting a distribution deal
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