Eva is ‘That Kind of Girl’. What kind of girl? Well, a European for starters, an Austrian au pair who is too free with her favours and ends up with a very anti-social social disease.
To be fair, Fraulein Eva starts off innocently enough, but is soon seduced by an older man, Elliot, who takes her to strip clubs and breaks down her resistance with his quiet, low voice and repeated requests to come back to his Kings Road flat ‘for coffee’. Once she gets into it, however, she really goes for it, infecting Max, a haplessly chirpy librarian and ‘Ban the Bomb’ enthusiast (he gets it from only kissing her, poor blighter) and Keith, a sexually frustrated young man whose fiancée won’t put out. When Keith tells his girlfriend he’s slept with Eva, instead of kicking him in his contagious genitals, she foolishly gives in to his base desires, thereby catching the unscratchable itch on her first go and, even worse, falling pregnant. It’s basically ‘La Ronde’ with VD, a merry go round of discomfort, discharge and regret.
|Little Eva, pre-pox.|
|Twist, Daddio, twist!|
|'Special? That's good, isn't it?'|
|Happy couple, full of penicillin.|
Fitting in some interesting footage of the CND Aldermaston to London march, the film was the feature debut of Gerry O’Hara, a talented TV director whose career would culminate in the Joan Collins disco sex fest ‘The Bitch’. It was produced by Robert Hartford-Davis, a fascinating figure who I’ve done to death elsewhere but am nowhere near finished with yet. Here's a rare picture of him, the bastard.
‘That Kind Of Girl’ has a strong message, one that is explicitly repeated several times throughout the film: ‘the only way to be safe is to NEVER have sex before marriage’. The trouble is that sex before marriage seems like (and, let’s face it, is) so much fun: beatnik clubs, twist parties, semi-naked swimming, doing it while your girlfriend’s Mum & Dad are at the pictures…with the exception of Elliot (the source of the ailment, who quickly becomes a crazed, foul mouthed stalker) all of the characters are so desperately naïve and useless about sex that it’s almost embarrassing – the idea that they might blunder into marriage with someone equally clueless seems a recipe for disaster and depression and lovelessness (I made that word up, but you know what I mean). To be honest, I’d rather have the clap. That’s an observation, by the way, not an invitation.