Monday, 11 June 2012

Mary Millington's World Striptease Extravaganza

'Mary Millington's World Striptease Extravaganza' is an extraordinarily tacky affair. Made one dismal afternoon two years after Mary's suicide, it has nothing to do with her whatsoever apart from showing a short clip of her rather awkwardly undressing and claiming that, as one of the greatest strippers in history, Mary would have liked to have been involved in what follows. That's why they call stuff like this Exploitation Films, I suppose. 

Kathy from the south of England.

If that goes twang you could have someone's eye out.

He likes it. He's a cretin.

It isn't really a film at all, someone just set up a camera to record an interminably long series of strip shows from an international cast of girls from London with different skin tones. The darker skin tones are occasionally the butt of the razor sharp wit of Bernie Winters, roped as MC for this prestigious event. Schnorbitz does not appear, presumably he had better taste and a sharper agent.

Bernie was an unusual choice, given the cerebral nature of his humour.

The format is idiotically straightforward: girls come on, two at a time, reprersenting their own 'native' countries. They dance to disco music (unconvincingly mimed by a bloke on piano and a drummer), take their clothes off and thrust bits of their newly revealed anatomy at the audience of pervy old men and football hooligans. This goes on for hours (well, I thought it did, although the clock said it was only forty five minutes).

Susie from Hong Kong.

Healthy & Safety wouldn't allow this nowadays.

The wankers answer to Statler & Waldorf.

Some of the girls are pretty, some are not. Some look high on PCP, some look in need of some TLC. The main emotion appears to be weariness. Some are strictly solo, locked in a gyratory battle with the girl sharing the stage with them, some work together, tickling each others fannies with feather dusters or sniffing each others arses. After a while, I got sick of looking at it so started to concentrate on the music instead, sort of space disco played through a cheap transistor radio. After that, I started to wonder about Schnorbitz, and his son, who is apparently still a draw in Blackpool, although I may have made that up as a coping mechanism.  

Australian lady soon to give us a glimpse of what it's really like down under.

Gormless and aghast.

They're enjoying it. Twats.

Dusty Bin?

At one point, loads of girls rushed on stage and start disrobing en masse, but I had drifted off too far by this point so had no way of knowing why. They may have been amateurs, I suppose, certainly they were pretty poor at getting their kit off. Headband first, love, then bra, surely?  

Ah, the glamour of it all.

Right towards the end, something strange happens when they arbitarily introduce a two minute story. Suddenly telepathic, the audience hears the 'thoughts' of Kathy, 'from the south of England', who is expecting to win the competition, not because her pink satin hot pants came off in one fluid motion, but because she shagged the Head Judge last night. He subtly confirms that the arrangement still stands with a covert gesture designed to go unnoticed by the audience and the rest of the girls.

For no particular reason, we are also treated to a clip of the previous nights action. I wonder who the other girl is, and why she didn't enter the competition? Perhaps her and Schnorbitz had the same agent. Anyway, it's pointless, confusing and completely gratuitous, even for a film that only exists to show fronts, bottoms and front bottoms. Little Mary must have been spinning in her little grave.   

I zoned out again at the end again but, judging by the screen shot, the girls are so incensed by the fixed competition and by the sheer degrading seediness of the event, that they rise up as one and attack Bernie Winters, stripping him and pushing things up his arse before killing him and sticking his severed head on a pole. They massacre the rest of the audience, and then, bloodied, angry and semi-naked, take to the streets in search of producer David Sullivan.  

Bernie Winters, with seconds to live.

If only.


  1. This is a must-see.

  2. I felt increasingly tranquillised during this film, and not in the usual good way.
    Only the constant sense of wonder at each second of Bernie Winters screen time kept me going.

    This ranks as one of the most accurate film reviews I've ever read by the way. I owe you a small barrel of (cheap) brandy.

  3. I hope Schnorbitz's son will bring the brandy to me?