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Mark E. Smith and the Inscrutable Fall

Formed in Manchester in 1976, The Fall — with vocalist and founder Mark E. Smith at the helm — is the most inscrutable of post-punk bands. Experimental and enigmatic, The Fall released 31 studio albums from 1979 to 2017, a significant number of live albums, and many beloved John Peel sessions (24, a record number). Peel himself once cited The Fall as his favorite band, as do many in the British press. But all recordings by them are decidedly uncommercial, and Smith was forever proud for it to be that way.

Mark E. Smith
Mark E. Smith

Born in 1957, Smith had a normal childhood, but always felt like the outsider. At sixteen, he quit school and worked menial jobs — something he may even have become accustomed to had it not been for the summer of 1976 and seeing the  Sex Pistols show at the Lesser Free Trade Hall. Members of Joy Division / New Order, the Smiths, Magazine, and The Buzzcocks were there, too. Each was inspired that night to eschew the pop music of the time and pick up instruments that most couldn’t even play. Each inarguably original. And Smith — who told Dave Haslam he already had begun his music career in 1975 — from thenceforward took the DIY aesthetic of the Pistols and made something uniquely his own. Unique, even, among his post-punk contemporaries.

Forever the contrarian, Smith — in the 42 years of the band’s existence (with rotating members) — never really had a hit, nor did he want one, really. THE INFOTAINMENT SCAM (1993) reached the UK Top Ten, but it was their only album to achieve this degree of success. Covers of R. Dean Taylor’s “There’s a Ghost in My House” and The Kinks’ “Victoria” charted in the UK in 1987 and 1988, respectively, but among their original material, only “Cruiser’s Creek” — from 1985’s excellent THIS NATION’S SAVING GRACE (where the song was an unreleased b-side until 1988) — broke through to the public at large, becoming a minor classic of what post-punk had become by the middle to late nineteen eighties. Their most heard song? “Hip Priest,” used in the final scenes of SILENCE OF THE LAMBS (1991) is played by serial killer Buffalo Bill on an unseen stereo while FBI agent Clarice Starling (Jodie Foster) walks a dark basement, gun drawn. It’s a moment many have seen, but few have really listened to. It’s an uncomfortable moment, and the music is similarly disorienting. Hardly accessible. And hypnotic.

The Fall
Mark E. Smith with his wife, guitarist Brix Smith, and keyboard player Marcia Schofield. Manchester, 1987.

I AM KURIOUS ORANJ (1998) is perhaps their most approachable album. Intended as the soundtrack for the ballet “I Am Curious, Orange,” a collaboration with the dancer Michael Clark, ORANJ was The Fall’s eleventh studio album.

ORANJ was also the last to include then-at-the-time wife Brix Smith, whose songwriting skills were strong — even as her marriage to Mark was weakening. The guitar riff in “Cruiser’s Creek” wer hers, as are many memorable songs on I AM KURIOUS ORANJ. But the lack of her presence on 1990’s EXTRICATE (also deemed accessible by critics) is apparent. Still, the proverbial show went on for The Fall for almost another two decades. Mark E. Smith didn’t seem to skip a beat.

“One of the most intelligent blokes [to walk] the planet,” said Echo & The Bunnymen’s Ian McCulloch in a 1999 issue of UNCUT magazine, Smith’s voice (often heard through a megaphone or cassette recorder which he often brought on stage) may have been caustic — and the music described by those who hate it as repetitive. But it was never boring, and often hypnotic. Smith’s lyrics, though sometimes buried in the mix and occasionally unintelligable, were at times biting, even beautiful.

After his death in 2018 at age 60, the British press and world at large briefly sang his praises, something Smith himself would have hated. He didn’t look for praise. His band didn’t sound like anyone else. And his attitude toward music was as mordant as the man.

In an unreleased documentary, Smith said

“It’s rock and roll. It’s all about the abuse of instruments, not playing instruments. That’s why music is so boring [now]. Every record you hear is so well-produced, and the blokes playing it have the imagination of a flea.”

By being so creative, innovative, and on the fringe for so many years, The Fall was able to help other bands that followed them find the elusive middle between experimentation AND commercialism. It’s a palpable dichotomy. And one need only listen to The Fall’s later albums, like I AM KURIOUS ORANJ, to even begin to hear and try to understand how that convergence and split makes for quite memorable music.

 

Bravo, Bava: Kill, Baby, Kill

KILL, BABY, KILL one-sheet poster.
Click for one-sheet poster.

Formulaic but highly effective, KILL, BABY, KILL (1966) [aka OPERAZIONE PAURA (OPERATION FEAR)] may very well be Mario Bava’s best movie. While laking the intensity of BLACK SUNDAY and its star, Barbara Steele, there is an unmatched atmosphere of the unworldly in KILL, BABY, KILL. All the trappings of the gothic are there: the outsider called to a mysterious, isolated town in the Carpathian mountains; a decrepit mansion; a curse; secret passages; a family crypt covered in cobwebs; and most gothic of all, a ghost — the ghost of a little girl (played by a boy) whose face at the window is one of the most indelible images one takes away from watching the film. Indeed, it is images, color, and sound that are most impressive in KILL, BABY, KILL, even if the plot is lacking.

Director Mario Bava — whose output in the nineteen fifties and sixties is staggering — considered it among his best work. Its muted but distinctive color palette of blues, greens, and yellow make for a dreamlike spectacle. And while its characters may be underdeveloped (a problem in many of Bava’s films), KILL BABY, KILL is one of the more straightforward ghost stories in Italian horror cinema (a sub-genre known for its surrealism). In many ways, KILL, BABY, KILL unfolds like an M.R. James tale — even Poe.

MODERN MEDICINE MEETS OLD-WORLD SUPERSTITION

In the early twentieth century, a city doctor, Dr. Paul Eswai (Giacomo Rossi Stuart) is dispatched to a small village to perform an autopsy on a woman who died under mysterious circumstances. He is joined by a student, Monica (Erika Blanc) — who, we later learn [as in many gothic tales] has a strong connection to the village and its murderous ghost child. The pair soon find that this is a town of superstitions. They learn that the townsfolk live in fear of a ghostly little girl named Melissa Graps, the daughter of a Baroness. According to legend, anyone who sees Melissa’s spirit soon dies in a horrific “accident.”

The ghost of Melissa
The ghost of Melissa, surrounded by creepy dolls, is part of a nightmare that neither Monica, nor us, will ever forget.

It seems that the little girl, Melissa, was killed years earlier, trampled as she tried to retrieve a ball in a crowd gathered in the town’s square. The grief-stricken Baroness — convinced the townspeople ignored her child as the little girl died — uses supernatural forces to fuel her revenge as Melissa’s ghost begins knocking off villagers left and right. A sorceress (Fabienne Dali) helps our hero and heroine to battle the Baroness. And in a dreamlike climax, Monica learns the secret behind her connection to the town (and Melissa). Eswai has his own “trip.” At one point, he chases a hysterical Monica through the rooms of the decaying mansion, encountering the same room again and again in a nightmarish circle — along with his doppelganger! Ultimately, Eswai saves Monica from falling to her death. The Baroness dies by Ruth’s hand, Melissa’s spirit is freed, and the village curse is broken.

PRAISE FROM SCORSESE

Martin Scorsese thought it Bava’s best work. In his introduction to Tim Lucas’ great All the Colors of the Dark  — which you should track down at a library as secondary market prices for this book are verrrrrryyyyy expensive) — Scorsese writes:

“[Bava] used light, shadow, color, sound (on- and off-screen), movement and texture to lead his viewers down uncharted paths into a kind of collective dream. Critics often compare movie-watching to dreaming but, in Bava’s case, the comparison actually means something…”

“…He places his viewers and his characters in an oddly disquieting state where they’re compelled to keep moving forward—even though they don’t know precisely why, or where they’re going….”

“…The atmosphere itself becomes the principal character, a living organism with a mind and will of its own.”

Scorsese would go on to admit that Satan in the form of the little girl who tempts Jesus in THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST  is directly influenced by Bava’s little girl ghost. Fellini and David Lynch have also said that KILL, BABY, KILL influenced their work.

KILL, BABY, KILL lobby card.
KILL, BABY, KILL lobby card. Note “The SQ Show” usually meant a special presentation of a foreign film, or even sometimes, a double feature.
A ROMANTIC CRAFTSMAN

Towards the end of his life, Bava told L’espresso that, “In my entire career, I made only big bullshits, no doubt about that….I’m just a craftsman. A romantic craftsman,” adding that he made movies “just like making chairs.”

Melissa at the window
Melissa at the window

Romantic craftsman? Chair maker? If Romanticism is understood as a departure from the reason and science of The Enlightenment, and instead places emphasis on emotion and imagination, then Bava is a master craftsman of the Romantic. And KILL, BABY, KILL is among the most romantic of his movies.  A dream of colors. Of images. Even the eerie sound of a child giggling and a ball rolling down the steps of a spiral staircase. And that face. That face.  Pressed against the window.