Wednesday, 7 September 2011

I've made a terrible mistake, Leela. I've locked it in here...with us!

Good evening, or indeed good morning, or goodnight fellow beasts, wherever you may be.  It's evening for me, and the sky is all dark and September stormy.  I'm watching Sapphire and Steel; under these circumstances, I think a nicely unsettling discussion is called for.

I've talked to you about some of the horrid childhood nightmares and a few that probably creeped adults out as well.  Scary as they might have been, they were all part of the system, created by TV production companies, broadcast as advertised, credited, filed away and, if they were especially good, promptly burnt to make sure no-one could ever enjoy them again.

Isn't it more unsettling to encounter something that's not sanctioned?  Something that doesn't belong?  Something that's effectively broken in to your little broadcasting noosphere*?  I think so, but then I'm made up of 70% broadcast media these days, with precious little organic content remaining.  So let's take a look at some unoriginal pirate material (phone rings: 2004 wants its joke back).  Let's examine the world of the Signal Pirate.

It's quite tricky, breaking into a TV transmission.  Funnily enough, broadcasting authorities don't seem to want to explain how this is done in detail, but the short and vague version is that if you can get a fairly powerful transmitter of your own and fix it up near a less powerful relay transmitter, you should be able to merge your own signal in and freak the living shit out of anyone watching.  Right, that's enough science.  It's time to watch Max Headroom get spanked on Doctor Who.


Pirate Material Part One: Twenty Minutes Into The Future

It's November 22nd, 1987.  This is an auspicious date; the anniversary of Kennedy's assassination.  A day before the 24th anniversary of Doctor Who.  And a Discordian Day of Celebration, as I recall.  Any, none or all of these may have some bearing on what happened in Chicago that night.

It started on the evening news.  They suddenly cut from the Chicago Bears into...a lot of buzzing/humming noises, an image of a sheet of revolving metal and...well, a man in a Max Headroom mask, reeling about oddly.

For those unlucky enough to have missed out on Max, he was Matt Frewer in a full latex head makeup usually, presenting videos on late night TV.  The concept was that he was a computer generated VJ in a sharp suit and if you can think of anything more 80s than that, please keep well away from my house.

What's less well remembered ('less' he says!) is that Max began life in a Blade Runner- esque Channel 4 TV show and short lived follow up series.  Set in a dystopian near future, Max's original human version had adventures involving dodgy TV channels, artificial intelligence and, my favourite, killer adverts.  It was like Videodrome made by the Comic Strip Presents.  But the series had an ongoing theme of signal pirates and TV broadcasting rebellion, so I'm guessing either someone had paid close attention or the fancy dress shop had sold all its William Shatner masks to John Carpenter.



 We were simple folk, with none of your modern ways.


Normal service abruptly resumed, leaving the most flustered sports anchor in history to try and carry on regardless.  But more was to come, near midnight and the Doctor Who anniversary.  As usual, the station was screening Tom Baker, as so they jolly well should.  Horror of Fang Rock, to be precise.  The one with the killer jellyfish thing and the only example of pornography in the whole original series.  Go on, look for it.  I dare you.  It's there.*2

Suddenly, Our Tom changes and not in the good "the moment has been prepared for" way.  Max was back, and this time he was talking.  And what he said was...not good.  And for the life of me, I can't work out why.  Here's a few quotes that really, really disturb me:

"My brother is wearing the other one!"

"This one is...dirty"

"Your love is fading!"

"They're coming to get me!"

At which point, someone started spanking his bare ass with fly swatter.  And this is the point at which it became a bit creepier; on repeat viewing, it seems very like whoever doing the spanking is a child.  And that shifts the focus from a bit of Discordian prankster-ness to something a bit darker and nastier.  In all honesty, I'm suddenly finding it a bit difficult to try and be funny about this; maybe I'm over-reacting, after all, in all probability it's either a grown adult or, chances are, it was someone's sibling wearily helping out with a 'wacky' jape. 

EDIT: The jury is out on whether that's a kid or not.  Some more lazy research suggests that the mystery female speaks at one point, but it's hard to tell.  Lots of commentators seem to be of the opinion that it's an adult with the flyswat, but the whole thing is still nasty as hell.  My apologies to Max if I'm wrong here or just getting creeped out unecessarily.  By a madman in a rubber mask showing his arse.

But it still has the overwhelming sense of the unheimlich, the idea of wrongness, of things being not as they should be.  Something is WRONG with this clip but, apart from the above, I find it very difficult to phrase exactly what.

What's even more unsettling is that in the intervening twenty-odd years, no-one has ever been caught, investigated or prosecuted for this.  No-one has claimed responsibility.  Not a word, not a rumour.  Just one dark late night, and then 'Max' was gone for good.

I think, on reflection, I'd rather deal with the Spirit of Dark and Lonely Water.

Here's the linkage.



*Noosphere.  Like, a load of ideas and cultural concepts circling each other, yeah?  It's totally a real thing.  Don't look it up.

*2 Alright, alright.  Rueben, the undead lighthouse keeper has mucky postcards in his room.  The Doctor looks at them for ages.

No comments:

Post a Comment