Monday, 12 September 2011

Loving Feeling

Steven ‘Stevee’ (his spelling) Day is the popular breakfast DJ for Radio 8 (‘it’s great!’). As such, he dresses like Austin Powers, gets mobbed in the streets, and has a very complicated sex life.

'That's S-T-E-V-E-E. What? Well, I think it's really cool'.'

Mrs. Day reflects.

The World's ugliest sofa

I love a good dream sequence. This one's okay.

Mind your steering.

Hairy, husky Georgina Ward (from ‘With These Hands’, remember?) plays his estranged wife – she wants him back, sort of, but is shagging the pain away with his best friend. Stevee’s main squeeze Carol likes him, but is also working on a potentially more profitable relationship with her funny looking boss. Sensing this, Carol’s flatmate shows Stevee her tits every chance she gets. Model Francoise Pascal (the French one from ‘Mind Your Language’) also has Stevee in her sights, but is less than impressed by his bourgeois entanglements and not shy about telling him off about it. All in all, its one dilly of a pickle, and poor old Stevee hasn’t the wit or guts to make up his mind once and for all.

An early work by British exploitation legend Norman J Warren, ‘Loving Feeling’ is amazingly tame by modern standards and, really, wouldn’t have been much more shocking in 1968. There’s some nudity, and close ups of seemingly naked people embracing, but it’s more soapy melodrama than porno (just how I like it), with the risqué element coming from the candid portrayal of a small social coterie where sex is freely and readily available, and love is an equally exchangeable commodity.

This is a dilemma. He's one the horns of it. The twat.  
Our ‘hero’ Stevee (Simon Brent) is a first class plum, with his daft haircut, uncomfortable Regency shirts and his small collection of groovy but nondescript records he is bribed to play over and over again. Petulant and vain (he has big pictures of himself everywhere) he is totally powerless, always being bossed about by his studio manager and his various girlfriends – an immature man whose boyish charm is receding as inexorably as his hairline and his tenuous grasp on celebrity.

As the film ends he watches his wife drive off with his best friend. He’s alone, although I expect there’s a whole lorry load of ladies queuing up to tolerate him for a chance to go to a swinging showbiz party and meet Lulu. I don’t know what the moral of the story is, perhaps it's ‘you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone’, although ‘don’t be a twat, twat’ would work just as well.

Here's that okay dream sequence in full.

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