Author Archives: fústar

Jun 05 2012
5 Comments
Film, Interview, Television

Diphtheria, Tuberculosis and Holy Communions: The IFI Irish Film Archive

Greetings, grandchildren. I’m delighted to be unveiling the inaugural Where’s Grandad? interview – with Ms. Kasandra O’Connell, head of the IFI Irish Film Archive (which “acquires, preserves and makes available Ireland’s moving image heritage”). Kasandra kindly took the time to speak to me about the archive’s work, collections and challenges. Hope you enjoy it.

Fústar: First of all, Kasandra, can you tell us a little bit about what kind of public information films (films from State Sponsored Bodies and Government Departments) the Irish Film Archive holds?

Kasandra O’Connell: I think to understand how the IFI Irish Film Archive came to hold so many of these films it is important to understand a little of our history, as the two are closely linked.

When the National Film Institute of Ireland (now the Irish Film Institute) was founded in 1943 under the patronage of the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Dublin, John Charles McQuaid, it had a clear moral and educational agenda. McQuaid believed that the Church should be actively involved in the production and distribution of film in Ireland to counteract what was seen as the immoral influence of commercially produced films. His main point of reference was Vigilanti Cura (1936), Pope Pius XI’s encyclical on the use and misuse of cinema, which called for the Church’s involvement in all aspects of motion pictures to achieve the “noble end of promoting the highest ideals and the truest standards of life”.

In order to fulfil McQuaid’s objectives the National Film Institute of Ireland (NFI) not only maintained a distributing library of films available to schools, colleges and associations around the country, but also became involved in the production of safety, health and educational films in the 1940s, ‘50s and ‘60s. Many of these were commissioned by government departments to offer information on matters of public health and safety, personal finance, and on historical and cultural subjects. The first film, Uachtarán na hÉireann (made in 1945), recorded the inauguration of Sean T. O’Kelly as president of Ireland.

NFI films made for the Department of Health tackled such varied subjects as TB prevention and cure, (Dr Noel Browne’s TB Film in 1946, and Voyage to Recovery in 1953), diphtheria immunisation (Stop Thief, 1953) and food hygiene (Gnó Gach Éinne [Everybody's Responsibility], 1951). For the Department of Local Government, the Institute produced a series of road-safety films, including Mr Careless Goes to Town (1949), Safe Cycling (1949) and Accident Procedure (1966). The NFI also collaborated with Department of Posts and Telegraphs and An Post to produce films that encouraged people to save in lean economic times: Where Does the Money Go? (1954), Our Money at Work (1957), Love and Money (1961). And A Nation Once Again (1946), and W.B. Yeats: A Tribute (1950) were made for the Department of External Affairs.

When the IFI Irish Film Archive collection came to be created in the mid 1980s, the material from the distributing library was at its core. We also began to gather material from government departments who were in the process of changing from using film to video tape, and so had no need to hold on to their film collections.

Some of the largest collections were those deposited by Bord Fáilte (The Irish Tourist Board), the National Road Safety Association and the National Museum of Ireland’s folk-life collection. Other films come from the Department of External Affairs and subsequently the Dept. of Foreign affairs, the ESB, the Defence forces, Bus Éireann, Irish Dairy Board, and the Departments of Tourism and Transport. We also have films from Fianna Fáil.

Fústar: I believe quite a number of Irish film/TV luminaries were involved in the production of these films (particularly back in the 50s/60s).Can you mention a few names who were closely involved/associated with these productions?

Kasandra: Many of the films of this type are noteworthy for their high production values and for the calibre of those involved in their creation. Luminaries of the Irish acting world such as Micheál MacLiammóir, Cyril Cusack, Maureen Potter, Milo O’Shea, Siobhán McKenna and Niall Tóibín make appearances, and, at a time when the Irish film industry was under-developed and opportunities for technical training were limited, important figures in the Irish filmmaking community such as Liam O’Leary, Robert Monks, Colm Ó’Laoghaire, George Fleischmann, Gerard Healy and Rex Roberts were often involved in making these kinds of films.

Fústar: The title of this blog refers to a well-known 1980s water safety advertisement. I’ve been unable to track down a copy of this, and neither have Irish Water Safety themselves (I’ve been in touch). As I understand it, the archive doesn’t house many such films from the 80s on. Can you explain why this is and the problems associated with acquiring such material?

Kasandra: Unfortunately during the 1980s much of the public information films that were produced were made for television rather than for the cinema, and as such did not find a natural route into our possession, RTÉ may have a copy of campaigns they have run on television as they have a very good archive. In addition many of the films began to be made by advertising agencies rather than production companies and those titles often remained in the collections of those agencies rather than being held by the organisation or Department that commissioned them. We traditionally have little interaction with the advertising industry and I have found it difficult to set up a mechanism through which more recent public information or safety films are deposited with us for cultural and educational purposes.

A search a few years ago in an attempt to locate and acquire copies of recent tourism and road safety campaigns proved fruitless, there was a general uncertainty within the commissioning organisations as to where they might be held and who owned the rights to them. There are often so many different types of organisation involved these days, public private, semi state, commercial etc. and this reduces the likelihood of the end product coming in to us for posterity. The days of a staff member in for example the Dept. of Tourism finding a can of film on a shelf and ringing us to ask if we will look after it are unfortunately over, that film will most likely be in an external agency who will hopefully keep a copy for their own archive. I would love to have the resources to do a proper audit to try and to identify what campaigns or films are out there and to gather them into one collection which was accessible to the public. But unfortunately in the current economic climate and with so many different agencies/departments involved it would be quite a task.

Fústar: So, essentially, there is no formal process for transfer of state films to an archive, and no designated repository for the preservation of this material? Is this situation likely to change do you think? Are other European countries different in this regard?

Kasandra: In many other European countries there is a system of Statutory Deposit for film materials, in the same way that there is in Ireland for books. This ensures that a copy of all moving image material that is produced in that country, that falls within the definition laid out by the state, is automatically added to their national film collection. In Ireland film is not legally assigned to the care of any particular National Cultural Institution, so it is not covered by the rules of statutory deposit. As the IFI Irish Film Archive is not an official National Cultural Institution we have no legal right to insist people or organisations deposit a copy of any moving image material they produce with us.

The existing National Cultural Institutions are already stretched and do not have the specialist facilities to look after moving image, even though they would technically be the legal place of deposit for state records; however there is scope in the current legislation for an organisation such as the National Library or the National Archives to designate another organisation (such as ourselves) to look after film on their behalf. Although this has been previously discussed it has never been done, in the absence of any legal mechanism to collect and preserve Irish film we have put in place our own agreements with the main Irish funders of moving image BAI, IFB and Arts Council. Through these agreements we manage to preserve a large amount of indigenous film production each year, but anything not funded by these organisations does not have to come in to us.

Unfortunately preserving and archiving moving image is an expensive and technically challenging activity and it is difficult to see how the situation is likely to improve given the ongoing economic situation.

Fústar: I believe that the archive also contains numerous amateur films (“home movies” as it were). Can you tell us a little about this type of archived material, and how it usually reaches you?

Kasandra: For the last 20 years The IFI Irish Film Archive has dedicated itself to collecting, preserving and making Ireland’s moving image history accessible to the public. In that time we have amassed a collection of over 27,000 cans of film. In addition to the features, newsreels and documentaries you might expect to find in a national moving image archive, we also have a large and incredibly rich collection of amateur films made by non-professional filmmakers. Regular people who used their cine-cameras to record the world around them and the things that were important in their lives.

Their films are not only a personal record of their friends, family and interests, but are snapshots of the time they were made, often recording an Ireland and way of life that would otherwise be forgotten. Ireland doesn’t have as rich a history of indigenous professional production as other Western countries, which makes these non-professional representations all the more significant. This material gives us an alternative view of Ireland one that reflects the personal interests of members of the population, and these films are often the only record of a specific event, places or a particular aspect of history, culture and society.

Over time these films can often grow in value and meaning. A film of a family or local event may now be a fascinating record of a custom that has died out or of a landscape that has altered beyond recognition, even though this information was incidental to the filmmaker’s intention at the time of filming. Although many of the amateur collections deal with the things we ourselves probably record – family life, holy communions, birthdays, the arrival of a baby into the family, holidays and local activities – there is also variety amongst the non-professional genre with material ranging from lovingly shot records of family life and events of personal interest to amateur attempts at animation, travelogues, documentary and indeed even non-professional takes on Hollywood genres.

The oldest non-professional collection we hold was made by Horgan Brothers’ films (1910-1920), and contains some of the earliest moving images of Ireland in the archive’s collection. The Horgan Brothers were cinema owners in Youghal who screened their newsreel style films to the public in their cinema. Youghal Gazette excerpts include footage of people leaving mass, praying at Declan’s Well and enjoying a trip to the seaside and the first Irish animation from c.1910 featuring a pirouetting town hall clock. A few years ago we held a Home Movie Heritage Day, where we invited a selection of Home Movie makers to choose one of their films from the IFI Irish Film Archive’s collections and to share their celluloid memories with the public explaining what their film meant to them. It was the first Irish event of its kind and was quite a touching event in many ways as it really showed the power of the moving image to connect generations.

Amateur collections are mostly offered to us by the filmmaker or a member of their family. Often they no longer have the equipment to be able to view the footage or may have had it transferred to DVD, but usually they contact to us because they realise the film has some evidentiary or social value and they are eager to see it preserved in an organisation that will make it available for cultural purposes. We work with the depositor to catalogue the footage and to ensure we have all the information we need to ensure the film they have placed in our care is as well documented as possible, and therefore a richer source for future generations.

Fústar: Have many of these films (I’m thinking of the public information films here, particularly) been publicly shown since the time of their original release? Have any been released on DVD?

Kasandra: We screen these films from time to time within the IFI’s exhibition programmes and a number of years ago we made an 8-part TV series for TG4 called Seoda which drew on the collections preserved in the Archive. This included a number of information or State sponsored films which are described below, the DVD is still available for purchase from the IFI’s Filmshop.

Our Country (1948)

  • Our Country was funded by the political party Clann na Poblachta, and was produced by O’Laoghaire in 1947 in advance of the 1948 general election. The film directly confronts the harsh realities of life in Ireland at the time and is interspersed with addresses from Noel Hartnett, Dr Noel Browne and party leader Sean MacBride TD.
    B&W • DIRECTED BY LIAM O’LAOGHAIRE• 1948
  • Portrait of Dublin, made for the Department of External Affairs in 1952, was designed to promote Dublin to its inhabitants and to potential visitors from abroad. The elegant Georgian squares, the bustling markets, the tranquil parks and the sparkling nightlife present a city that is vibrant, cultured and steeped in history.
    B&W • DIRECTED BY LIAM O’LAOGHAIRE• 1952
  • Coisc an Gadaí/Stop Thief is a dramatised film in which a young Dublin girl becomes gravely ill with diphtheria and her parents are filled with remorse for their failure to immunise her.
    B&W • DIRECTED BY GERARD HEALY • IN IRISH WITH ENGLISH SUBTITLES • 1953

Turas Tearnamh/Voyage to Recovery (1953)

  • In Turas Tearnamh/Voyage to Recovery a young man (Joe Lynch) contracts tuberculosis to the dismay of his wife (Joan O’Hara) and to the shame of her aunt (Marie Keane). He
    recovers following a long spell convalescing in a TB sanatorium.
    B&W • DIRECTED BY GERARD HEALY • IN IRISH WITH ENGLISH SUBTITLES • 1954
  • In Cá nImíonn an tAirgead?/Where Does the Money Go? A housewife wastes food and electricity, a young woman fritters away her earnings on hats and magazines, and a bachelor puts his money on horses, greyhounds and into the barman’s pocket.
    B&W • DIRECTED BY GERARD HEALY • IN IRISH WITH ENGLISH SUBTITLES • 1954
  • A Thaisce agus a Stór/For Love and Money is a bizarre, cautionary comedy starring Milo O’Shea and Maureen Toal as young office workers whose engagement is doomed unless they create some financial security. He daydreams about wildly heroic ways to secure his fortune before doing the decent thing and sorting out his Post Office Savings account.
    COLOUR • DIRECTED BY RONALD LILES • 1961

Love and Money (1961)

Fústar: Are there any plans to release packages of such material in the future? I know that the Charley Says… DVDs released in the UK by Network have proven very popular with audiences old enough to remember (and be haunted by) such material from their childhoods…

Kasandra: We may include some more of these films in the next series of Seoda, there certainly is enough material there, in the meantime some films are available on line here: http://www.europafilmtreasures.eu/

(by fústar)

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May 30 2012
6 Comments
Collectibles, Ephemera, Toys

The Last of the Nippers

Late last week, I received a thrilling package from Maxol HQ. The generous sender told me that he had “literally…raided the safe” for said package’s contents. And oh, what glories were contained therein. So glorious that I now feel kind of bad for previously referring to the Nipper-enslaving Maxol executives of the 1980s as “cigar-chomping, fat cat, petroleum-bastards”.

Anyway, see for yourselves (click to embiggen).

A few things worth noting…

1) My (on loan) nipper came cocooned in “his” own vintage plastic bag (which describes him, matter-of-factly, as a “COLOURFUL HANDPUPPET WITH SOUNDS”). Had he been hibernating in there since 1985? Waiting for (and dreaming of) a liberation that never came? The nipper completists among you may wish to know that the distributor of these colourful-handpuppets-with-sounds was “HIRA (Ireland) Ltd” (whoever/whatever that is/was).

2) The tag on his arse describes him as a “Mattey Product”. Can anyone shed any light on who/what Mattey was/were?

3) If you choke a nipper the results are simultaneously hilarious and disturbing.

4) The tiny (and very fragile) watches came in yellow and pink (with subtle differences in design on each face). Makers were “OMAC UK”.

5) On the “FREE A NIPPER!” stickers Brendan Grace looks like a cross between Peter Sutcliffe and Giant Haystacks…in a schoolboy costume. This may well be the most terrifying look ever cultivated by anyone.

I could go on, but think it best to let the creature itself self-describe. Over to you, my little pink friend.

(by fústar)

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May 26 2012
3 Comments
Collectibles, Crap Ireland, Ephemera, Lovely Little Yokes

Lovely Little Yokes: #1 – Good Luck From Ireland

They…are all around us. Or, at least, they used to be till somebody (perfectly understandably) stuffed them into a plastic bag (because they were sick of the sight of them) and shipped them off to the nearest Enable Ireland charity shop (or wherever). Ceramic gewgaws. Plastic tchotchkes. Objects that someone once loved enough to say, “You know, Auntie Mary might like that”.

The purpose of our new series – “Lovely Little Yokes” – is to catalogue and “celebrate” these forgotten and abandoned trinkets. Putting them proudly on display. Giving them a chance to shine again (however briefly). Or, as is more likely, just reminding everyone why nobody wanted them in the first place.

First up, this little beauty. Purchased for 50c in Limerick Animal Welfare, Roches St, Limerick (obviously).

OK, so it’s a leprechaun/gnome…pointing at a pig’s hole. Leprechaun/gnome is enthusiastically smiling, as if to say, “How can you not love this?”.

And this is no ordinary pig. It’s the cutest, most coquettish-looking pig I’ve ever seen (ceramic or otherwise). The garland of shamrocks suggests a pig in the process of attending a local festival at which it will celebrate its Irishness. It seems to be enjoying this experience considerably more than I would be in similar circumstances.

Above is view from rear (and of rear).

For those who can’t make out the text, it’s “AN TSEAPAIN TIR A DHEANTA”. Which is basically just telling you that this little piece of hibern-o-crap was made in Japan. I can only assume that the reason for the text being in Irish is to seduce tourist souvenir-hunters into assuming it means something utterly lovely and lyrically-Gaelic and ancient. It very much doesn’t. But, c’mon. A pig that charming? You’d forgive him any deception.

(by fústar)

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May 19 2012
9 Comments
Music

It Was a Shame How He Carried On (Or, What I Learned From Boney M…)

There was a certain time, not so very long ago, when you couldn’t walk into a house in Ireland without tripping over vast piles of James Last or Boney M records. My family home had them. Your family home had them. Homes that didn’t even have record players had them. You’d find them in fields and car-parks, just sprouting out of the ground.

Most ubiquitous of all Boney M releases was (the delightfully named) Night Flight to Venus.

One of my earliest musical memories is of falling over a coffee table while wobbling along to “Brown Girl in the Ring”. About 12 years after that I fell into a Christmas tree while “dancing” to The Pixies. Plus ça change…

It wasn’t all about pain with Boney M, however, it was also about…education. If it hadn’t been for Frank Farian and the gang it might have been many years before I learned that Grigori Rasputin was both “a cat who really was gone” and “Russia’s greatest love machine” (an insatiable, and unkillable, early-20th century disco stud). Thus, while still in short trousers, I became seduced by the impossible sexiness of all things Russian and revolutionary. It’s most likely Boney M’s fault that I find the sight of an embalmed Lenin sexually arousing.

So potent were such memories that when I stumbled across the below a couple of years ago I almost fell over a coffee table (again) with excitement (even though none were nearby).

OK, first of all, there’s that sleeve. And second of all…there’s that sleeve. It’s like Smell the Glove – only real. The reverse is less jaw-dropping, but excitingly reveals that track 3 of side 1 is “Belfast”.

Those who (like me) had experienced their first history stiffy listening to the goatish exploits of the bould Grigori might be drooling at this point. Wondering what nuggets of sex-disco wisdom are about to be laid upon us RE: The Troubles. The results are disappointingly non-lurid and blandly nonsensical.

Here was a golden chance to create something spectacularly tasteless. Something that would attach an erotic charge to their tanks and their bombs and their bombs and their guns. Disco Semtex. Conflict porn. But they fucking blew it.

Ah well. I’ll always have sexy dead Lenin.

(by fústar)

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May 04 2012
19 Comments
Chocolate

Who could hate or bear a grudge, Against a luscious bit of fudge? (Remembering “Big Time”)

There are some things whose eternal (but barely registered) presence you take for granted. Things both ubiquitous and easily ignored. Artefacts that function as shorthand for a kind of parochial (defiantly un-hip) “Irishness”. Cidona is one (despite modest attempts to “yoof” it up). Ireland’s Own is another (in fact, it’s several). Oatfield sweets are/were yet another…and look at where taking them for granted led.

The sad closure of Oatfield’s Donegal HQ jarred me into a state of hyper-consciousness RE: the hardy local survivors that surround us. And few are hardier (and harder) than Caffrey’s “Big Time” (or “Time Bars” as we knew them back in the day).

Established by the late Thomas Caffrey (“Ireland’s Willy Wonka”) in 1948 and still, as far as I know, a family-owned business (out in Walkinstown), Caffrey’s range of products look (and taste) like confections secretly deposited in shops by an impish time-travelling chocolatier. Tea Cakes, Macaroon bars, Mint Crisps, Whippers, and hoary old favourite – the “Snowball”.

Snowballs, if memory serves, are composed of marshmallow centres swathed in chocolate. So far, so yummy. Or it would be, if Thomas Caffrey had left it at that. In a final mad flourish he covered the chocolatey surface in…dessicated coconut. Being someone who pukes, shrieks ‘n’ weeps at the sight/smell of a Bounty, this is/was about as appetising as showering the exterior with dessicated donkey faeces.

But back to “Big Time”. Let’s try and make sense of it, starting with the packaging. While the shocking (nuclear) yellow makes it the kind of Hi-Viz bar you’d want on a cloudy night on a lonely country road, the olde timey, Wild West font simultaneously screams “Nostalgia!” and “Irish love of Cowboy Americana!” (bit exhausting screaming the latter). It may not be as overtly Spaghetti-West-of-Ireland as Triple A Golden Maverick or the (jaw-destroyingly chewy) “Texan” chocolate bar, but it still evokes a cultural universe inhabited by the (Stetson-ed) likes of T. R. Dallas.

Unwrapping it reveals what can only be described as a tiny version of the obelisk from 2001: A Space Odyssey coated in fudge and chocolate.

Biting into it merely confirms this impression. The mot juste here is: adamantine. I’d forgotten this. I’d forgotten that once, as a wee chap, I’d adventurously (and recklessly) bitten hungrily into a freshly-opened “Big Time” (without softening the material up with some preliminary licking). When I yanked the bar out, the surface remained…barely scratched. The only notable change being that there was now a tooth embedded in it.

“Big Time” wasn’t so much something you ate, as something you overcame. You needed a strategy. Licking it into submission could take weeks, but it did reduce the chances of you losing parts of yourself (while also being an economic solution to the problem of limited pocket money coupled with limitless desire for sweet things). Smashing it into (just about) chewable chunks was an alternative approach, but the only material hard enough to smash a “Big Time” bar was another “Big Time” bar – necessitating forethought, and further expense.

While I didn’t lose a tooth tackling the above-pictured “Big Time” yesterday afternoon, I did surrender some dignity. While jamming the bar sideways into my gob, seizing it with molars and canines, and attempting to rip portions of it free I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. Face scrunched up, red with effort, gurning…I looked like Popeye having a heart-attack (or on the point of orgasm).

Attempting to conquer Caffrey’s finest means channelling both your inner child, and your inner animal. It’s like some sort of primal chocolate therapy. And all this for 50 cents. Worth it? Big time.

(by fústar)

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Apr 22 2012
9 Comments
Dublin, Film

Cad a dhéanfaimid anois?: When Gorgo destroyed Dalkey (kind of)

In the winter of 1959, strange and ancient forces were stirring in the deep waters of Coliemore Harbour, Dalkey. Forces awoken by the destructive meddling of nasty old man. Forces that would soon kick (spectacular) ass while leaving the bubble-gum to one side. But…we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

The story begins on November 8th of that year, as announced by The Irish Times the following morning:

“A film unit from King Bros Production Ltd arrived in Dublin yesterday to start location shots for the film ‘Gorgo’. The picture is about a monster which cuts a destructive path through the heart of London. Gorgo (35ft) and Mother Gorgo (200 ft) first appear off an island near the Irish coast”.

On November 10th, the same paper detailed how production supervisor George Mills had shot scenes in Dalkey the previous day (some featuring Dublin-born actor Barry Keegan), before pointing out that “Local extras are being hired – mostly to play the part of fishermen”. Two days later, the cast and crew packed their bags, dried themselves off (it had, predictably, been lashing rain for most of the shoot), and headed back to London. Their 5-day adventure? Soon forgotten. A mere rippling of the surface of Irish film history.

Around this time last year I decided to try and track down some of these local extras, if, indeed, any were left alive. Why? Well, firstly, because I hate the idea of stories being lost, or remaining untold. Secondly, because I bloody adore Gorgo.

The story is a simple one. A salvage vessel operated by the unscrupulous Joe Ryan (Bill Travers) and Sam Slade (William Sylvester) witness an undersea earthquake off the shore of the fictional (and palindromic) “Nara Island” (actually, Dalkey). This releases a pissed-off Gorgo, who’s eventually captured and taken to London for public display. An academic realises that Gorgo, giant though he may be, is actually only a toddler. Cue the emergence of a ferociously maternal, 200-foot-tall Mama Gorgo. She stomps out of the sea, destroys Nara, and heads off to London, where she opens a gargantuan can of kick-ass. Baby Gorgo and Mama are reunited. We all learn something about human hubris, greed and puny attempts to tame nature. The end.

OK, it may not be the most sophisticated or original monster film ever made. It may not be the most technically accomplished. It may not even be the most entertaining. But it still remains unique in a number of ways. It is (to the best of my knowledge) the only Godzilla-style Kaiju (Giant Monster) film ever filmed (at least partly) in Ireland. It is certainly the only Kaiju film ever to feature actors speaking in Irish. Irish? Yes, more of that anon.

I contacted Gerard Coakley, editor of the Dalkey Newsletter (“delivered into every residence in Dalkey every month”), and asked him for help. Gerard suggested running my query as a “Letter to the Editor” in the August edition of the newsletter, to see what memories it might stir. It stirred quite a few, though some were a tad…confused. One gentleman called me to tell me that, yes, he had been an extra – charged with rowing Martin Sheen hither and yon. As I tried to think of a tactful way of raining on this false-memory parade I heard his wife bark: “Martin Sheen was never in that picture!”. Saved.

The garbled and partial recollections shared with me meant that investigations never yielded a feature (as was planned), but I did get to talk to local monster-inflater-in-chief Tony Lamb. Over to Tony:

“What we were pumping up was the actual monster than they were using, it was like pumping up a rubber dingy. There was a gang of us down there, and it was only about 12 feet in size, and we used to inflate it up for them. We used to get paid for it, you know what I mean? Just a few bob. Then we used to have to put it into my brother’s boat and bring it outside the harbour into Dalkey Sound. And you’d look at the camera and it was huge then, you know the way they make it into a monster and all that. When we went to see it we were all laughing because a friend of ours was in it. Jim Brown, ‘Coco’ Brown we called him, he’s since dead now he was an old man, you’d see him walking up the slip picking up driftwood. And the next minute he’s in fucking Germany or wherever! Ah we remember it well down in the harbour. We always made a few quid hiring out the boats to them. We used to have to throw old nets over the pier, and make it look like it was a real old place and all. They made loads of films down there, and they still do today. And we’ve been in most of them”.

I haven’t been able to positively identify “Coco”, but I’d like to think it’s this weathered-looking chap:

Or, it could be one of these cagey locals:

Note, you can just about make out the local Martello tower in the background. A better view of it here, squeezed between Bill Travers and William Sylvester:

I initially thought Tony’s memories of an inflatable Gorgo might be muddled, as Gorgo uses the old “Suitmation”, actor in a rubber monster suit, technique. But in a 5-second underwater scene, where Joe and Sam first see the monster, I think what we’re seeing (just about, the water is pretty damn murky) is Tony’s pumped-up pal:

Instead of using a studio-based tank (as you’d expect), the scenes of Joe and Sam diving were, I think, actually filmed on location in Dalkey. Hence the Stygian waters. Anyway, it’s nice to think of Tony’s breath literally making Gorgo come alive.

And what of the Irish/Gaeilge? Well, when Joe and Sam first come ashore on “Nara”, they ask the two sea-dogs pictured above, “Is there a harbour master we can talk to?”. The reply?

“Cad a dheanfaimid anois?”

That’s “What are we going to do now?”, for all you Sasanaigh. An, er, somewhat cryptic reply, and one favoured by the islanders in practically all situations. It’s multi-functional. When they go night-fishing in currachs…

…a local lad announces his intention to chuck a harpoon into the boiling waters with, yes, “Cad a dheanfaimid anois?”. Nara, clearly, is an island of anxious types, crippled by indecision.

In another exchange, Harry (played by Barry Keegan), asks a group of fishermen “Cad tá sibh a dhéanamh?” (“What are ye doing?”). The defensive answer: “Níl am againn caint a dhéanamh le Sasanaigh!”. Harry translates this for the foreign lads as “We don’t have time to talk to foreigners”, which is spot on. Then, when he sees the locals gazing into the waters and looking concerned, he asks, “Cad é?” (“What is it?”) and back comes (once again) good old, “Níl am againn caint a dhéanamh le Sasanaigh!”. This time Harry translates it as “Two of the divers didn’t come up, Joe. They think they’re gone.” Oh, Harry. You mis-translating eejit.

So is Gorgo ultimately just of local interest because of this (slightly Dada-ist) smattering of Gaeilge? Well, no. There’s also a (presumably accidental) “Republican” sub-text. This is, after all, the story of a young Irish monster who is captured, forcibly imprisoned, and taken (against its will) across the Irish sea to be gawked at by punters in Battersea Park. Objections to this dodgy expatriation are lodged by the Irish government (and the “University of Dublin”) and ignored. Bastards!

Seán, the little, apple-cheeked, moral centre of the film affectionately refers to the monster as Ógra, meaning “Youth”. Thus, the re-branding of the beastie as “Gorgo” not only suggests an arrogant contempt for local naming (and a desire to linguistically take ownership of the creature), but the failure to understand the significance of its Irish name leads directly to the flattening of London (by an understandably enraged mother). Big Ben is demolished. Tower Bridge is thrashed. The most iconic structures, of the centre of British power, laid waste – by a vengeance-seeking Paddy Godzilla. My post-colonial-o-meter is going off the fuppin’ scale, folks. And so, humbled Londoners gathered themselves, gazed upon the ruination, and asked: “Cad a dheanfaimid anois?”

(by fústar)

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Apr 18 2012
3 Comments
Advertising, Collectibles, Toys

Vive la Liberté!

Reader Susan Cullen sends us this slightly moth-eaten, but still surviving (goddammit), nipper.

Carrot devoured years ago, alas. Speaking of which, those mangy Velcro-covered paws are giving me the shivers and the fear. Now have visions of my own (abandoned) nipper dragging himself across the floor, into the bed, and then, um, causing me minor skin irritation with some frantic paw-rubbing.

Any others? Send ‘em on.

(by fústar)

Tagged
Apr 17 2012
17 Comments
Advertising, Collectibles, Ephemera, Toys

Only Gorgeous: Maxol, Bottler, and the Liberation of the Nippers

Ireland, in 1985, was, of course, a giddy and utopian place. Where endless streams of laughter flowed through a sun-dappled wonderland of enchantment. The movings at Ballinspittle? Oooh! The foundings of the Progressive Democrats? Yay! But Marian apparitions and super-sexy Desmond O’Malley were not the only things setting young hearts racing.

Forget Mandela. Forget “The Birmingham Six”. Half a decade earlier, beings of a very different order were crying out for justice and liberation. Small and boggle-eyed beings. Fluffy and cheap-looking beings. Nippers.

Cruelly enslaved by their cigar-chomping, fat cat, petroleum-bastard masters their plaintive squeaks for release captivated a nation. Here’s their first appearance:

There was something so frazzled and anxious and sad about the nippers (not to mention Brendan Grace). They were simultaneously desirable collectible objects, and tragic entities who needed us to lead them out of bondage. And we did. In our thousands. Here’s Tom Noonan, Chief Executive of The Maxol Group (Boo!):

The promotional campaign was launched in late 1985 and was timed to take advantage of the build up to Christmas in that year. The advertisements were an instant success. The campaign unashamedly targeted the children of motorists, who subsequently begged, bothered and cajoled their parents into collecting the nipper stamps at Maxol stations. Approximately 400,000 nippers were freed by the end of the campaign and a star was born.

Nippers, like many living things denied their dignity and freedom, took refuge in stimulants. In their case, 7-UP.

Note the loose use of the term “treasure” there. Rugs, cutlery, photo albums. Even for mid-80s Ireland this was a bit on the shit-biscuits side. Having said that, there are some gems that I would happily beat a nipper to death for.

Digital nipper watches.

Analogue nipper t-shirts.

While Brendan Grace is still a findable object (if you’re so inclined), these wonders have long since disappeared into a promotional ephemera black hole. Just to clarify, Brendan Grace can still be viewed, touched (probably) and held (ooer), but nipper watches and t-shirts now exist only as glorious memories…and pixellated JPEGs. Life sucks balls.

And what of the nippers themselves? As Maxol’s ad campaign developed, an extraterrestrial point of origin was hinted at.

Hang on. So…they were coming to Earth, in hijacked NASA Space Shuttles, and willingly allowing Maxol (and their stooge, Bottler) to hold them captive? Then carrying placards begging us to release them from this “torment”? I liberated a nipper. Most of my friends liberated nippers. We were passionate about the cause. On mature reflection, I think we were had (our best instincts cynically exploited). If I still had my nipper I’d punch it hard in its manipulative little leporine face.

We’re left with questions. Does anyone still have a nipper? Does anyone have one of those impossibly groovy nipper T-shirts (or, even, a comfy Maxol rug)? Did anyone ever go to see the (genuinely not made up) “Bottler in Nipperland” panto? What ever became of almost half a million freed nippers? Where did they go?

(by fústar)

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