A film that never was.

I found some old copies of Starburst magazine whilst clearing out the house, all mostly dated between 1996 to 1999. Anyway there was a series of giant purple and silver coloured ads that caught my eye and instantly took me back to my teenage years. They were advertising for a chance to star in a ‘Uniquely British science fiction film’ entitled ‘legionnaires’.

Legionnaires

It would seem that anyone could star in the film, if they could only pony up the required cash (a measly £333) which would go towards funding some of the movie.

I also found various slim articles on the film and its progress which contained images of storyboards and concept art and this seems to imply that Starburst and Cult Times took it all very seriously as well (after all it had Jason Connery in a lead role!).

I mean the blurb for the trailer is designed for a deep Hollywood announcers voice, long booming bass sfx and moody lighting wouldn’t have gone amiss.

“IN THE LAST YEARS OF THE 20TH CENTURY MANKIND DISCOVERED THE SECRET OF TRAVELING BEYOND THE FINAL FRONTIER. SOMETHING WAS WATCHING. SOMETHING UNSEEN. SOMETHING UNKNOWN. SOMETHING UNINVITED. NOW ONLY ONE THING STANDS BETWEEN A WORLD WITHOUT A FUTURE AND THE FUTURE OF THE WORLD :- LEGIONNAIRES”

Legionnaires 2You can just picture it can’t you! A British Starship Troopers! Complete with wee Union Jack flags on the shoulders of their Mecha suits and stiff upper lips all round! In fact the entire premise was sold on its ‘Britishness’ that somehow this film would be the rebirth of home grown science fiction, an appealing thought in a world before the rebooted Dr WHO.

I remember showing the advert to a friend of mine on the same art course (ceramics) and he simply rolled his eyes into his skull and made a farting noise with his lips and said ‘con!’. He would be proven to be oddly prescient in that opinion.

‘But there’s a Freephone number at the bottom’ I said as this proved this couldn’t be a con. The ads made claims that you could be an extra, be in the crew, get a credit and that everyone would attend the opening night and get freebies, freebies, freebies!

Then… there was nothing, no film ever appeared and no news as to why either and to be honest I plum forgot about it until seeing the ad again.

My interest peaked I decided to do a bit of digging on the internet and amazingly this has thrown up a lot less than I may have first hoped for. Mainly I suppose as the internet was still fairly in its infancy back then and that most of the sites and chat rooms dealing with this topic will have been mothballed or shut for years now.

I did though manage to uncover something about it here and there, mainly angry pages of complaints from would be actors and investors as to why the film stalled. It seems that it did actually get to the point where they were producing merchandise and posters before they had even started filming it at Elstree Studio. It also seems that anyone who put the required £333 into the pot was counted not just as a shareholder but also given the chance for artistic input into the movie’s direction which never sounds good does it? The plot thickens!

UK

What appears to have gone on-

£80,000 of the money earmarked for the movie appears to have simply vanished, people were left narked and out of pocket despite claims that the company making the film was insured against any loss so everyone would have their money back if anything should happen. Yet even when Legionnaires Plc Company knew that all the information that they were using to sell the project was incorrect to say the least, for example there were no ‘name’ actors confirmed for any parts in the movie, they kept up the pretence and the recruitment drive for more cash investment and extras.

Fours years passed and the film remained in a limbo world of ‘no comment’. Whilst all this was happening the script would continue to be rewritten many times over changing in tone and moving away entirely from the original premise that had attracted many to the project. There are some accounts of extras having been filmed in a lonely, undermanned sound stage against a green screen for a few hours but little else appears to have been done apart from a couple of early CGI ‘teaser trailers’ shown at conventions such as Capscicon ’97 & Wolf 359.

Legionnaires Plc Company would eventually vanish off the map hounded by investors, the company website would remain and deny all dealings with the actual film, people would get angry, very angry and ‘This is Wiltshire’ would still be reporting the story in the year 2000 with-

Due to massive demand the company set up to produce Elstree Studios’ first sci-fi film since Star Wars 20 years ago has extended its share offer. Legionnaires plc says it has been receiving 18,000 calls each month since December from people interested in buying shares to help fund the project due for release next spring.

Yet it had all seemed so promising, the October 1997 issue of Starburst seemed to positively rave about the project and especially about the head people involved, Gary Boulton-Brown and Kathleen Fairbairn. Even saying that-

Unlike the Heretic (Very unlike) Legionnaires has a lot to say (and show) for itself, not least of which is the fact that Creative Independent now have an office at Elstree and studio space booked there from December.

Yet even with this rave report on the prospects of this project being a winner there was a note of caution from Gary Boulton-Brown which was rather telling-

Gary positively invites debate and awkward questioning regarding the all important share offer and how safe and guaranteed it is. He admits that the main cast has not been contacted as yet (at the time of going to print) and that there is no absolute guarantee in a venture like this

In the same article any concerns on the obvious lack of any real details about plot, casting or dates and even the ‘look’ of the film was easily brushed away by those involved claiming they feared their idea might be stolen by other studios and then being pipped to the post.

This is a film that was supposed to have been released sometime at the end of 1998 and it was claimed would forever change the face of British indie Science Fiction. Instead it left bitter disappointment, anger and a lot of debt and many, many questions unanswered and a poor Jason Connery sat waiting by the phone for a call back that never happened.

Jason ConneryThe deadline for investors to claim their money back ended in January 2002, Gary Boulton-Brown would continue to run another company called, somewhat ironically ‘Maverick Camera Ltd.’ (since dissolved) yet oddly enough some sources claim he was still registered as the Company Director of Legionnaires Plc until 2009 when he ‘resigned’, as for Kathleen Tamar Fairbairn she resigned from Legionnaires Plc in December 1998 at the height of the concern over the project. Lee Medcalf who was employed on the project as computer graphics conceptual artist and modeller stayed on until December 1999 with a ‘promotion’ to the title of ‘Full Modeller & Animator’ for the entire movie. He describes this time in his own words on a publicly accessible trade CV site –

Legionnaires PLC was a publicly funded production company that was formed to make the SF movie Legionnaires. The production company which was co run by Garry Boulton Brown and Kathy Fairbarn collapsed due to a DTI investigation in to impropriety in company finances.

…and there I’m afraid the trail goes cold but I’m sure that somewhere, someone will have the full story, or their side of it, up on another website.

In the end we had to wait until 2006 until we saw small union jack flags on any British Science Fictional offering coming anything close to what Legionnaires promised for a uniquely British take on sci-fi… and well, that didn’t go down too well with many.

hyperdrive

A rather tragic letting off of steam.

What makes life that little less liveable for me? Daft things, silly things that in reality amount to very little when compared to far more serious issues.

One of these things though are adverts. To be precise the slew of shitty, samey, faux cheerful banter filled adverts. Closely followed by those stern faced, shouty, pointy, high volume, finger waving, angry, soulless but impeccably tailored, ‘have you had an accident?!” type adverts. All in a constant loop of mind-numbing crappiness.

Lawyers
I remember a time not that long ago when you could pop your TV on and the first thing you heard or saw wasn’t always another advert, last night I went though the channels and every single one was on an ad break it seemed.
Even the BBC sneak ads of a sort in-between their programming only they call them ‘previews’. In reality they amount to little more than being adverts for far better shows than the one you’ve just been sat watching only this one isn’t on for another week though so tough luck there viewers.
This is why I hardly watch TV anymore, its chased me off by its sheer aggressive manner of over advertising.

Even the once mighty Barry Scott (aka actor Neil Burgess) seems robbed of his once overly violent energies now, a beaten man reduced to almost whispering his infamous greeting of “Hello! I’m Barry Scott!” well aware that the ironic party is long over and people rank their hatred of his character alongside that of Hitler, Fred West level murderers and Traffic Wardens.

B. Scott
If it’s not adverts it’s the proliferation of modern continuity announcers with thick impregnable regional and rural accents, some do little more than mumble the following schedule in some odd ‘street’ patois obviously aimed at the ‘yuff’.

innit

All this might be bearable if all the channels hadn’t got into the habit of allowing these YTS level announcers to waffle over the end credits of your favourite programmes. Even before the action has finished and the first credits role the sound goes down and a needless announcement to ‘stay tuned!’ is made, or at least I think it is as I’m not always sure what they’ve said if they’re from the North East or the Midlands.
Sadly in the modern world concise and clear speech broadcasted outside of radio is seen as being a worrying sign of possible usage of Received Pronunciation (or RP if you’re common) and therefore putting the announcer in real danger of sounding patronising to the average viewer like a well meaning teacher speaking to the slow class kids.

RP

So there you have it, a rather tragic lament over very little of any real worth but hey, what else is the internet for if you can’t share these things and annoy others in the process?

Well, that didn’t go down well at all.

Hmmmm, views to my blog appear to be slowing down. It would seem nobody wishes to read the laments of a mid thirties man as he bemoans not being cool enough to have fully enjoyed the entire ‘Britpop’ thing or being a young student about town back in the day. Now the 1990s is due a retrospective comeback I’m being racked with nostalgic blues and felt the need to share this aging induced moroseness with the world.
Big mistake, I’ve lost followers.
People are always telling me that I shouldn’t live in the past, but I don’t know, at least the beers cheaper if I can do so.

Also, I’m rather sorry that the previous entry might have at first appeared to have been a serious review of the book ‘Just For One day’ but it soon digressed into a series of self obsessed paragraphs with little in the way of connection to the original theme, I promise, hand on heart, to curb such actions in future posts. Can I state for the record that having finished the book I can assure you that it is actually a thoroughly decent read that has seen me schlepping around town to the mp3 player accompaniment of a collected assortment of mid to late 90s era indie in which Sleeper features quite heavily and has made running the gauntlet of the town centre much more bearable.

britpopping

So to sum up, I now know long winded self important blog entries to be a bad thing and shortish, concise to an actual point entries to be the ideal. Thank you all for your patience, please bear with me as I find my way in the over saturated world of the blog.

 

Second installment from ‘Cheap Day Return’ : A Johnny LaCrosse adventure.

Chapter 25: ‘Leroy Entendre I presume?’

I slammed the gears of the bus I was now driving into third and took the corner of the road like Hitler took Poland. I was in no mood for politeness and the disability scooter shouldn’t have been on the highway to begin with. I pulled onto the curb and let the startled passengers off leaving my card on the driver seat should any wish to mail me their cash tips.double deckerI skipped up the first two steps to the council chambers then I skipped back down them then I hopped to the left and spun around. They didn’t call me the OCD Kid for nothing when I’d been a boxer. What had been a disability in normal everyday life had been a blessing in the ring, I’d spent so long skipping and hopping around in multiples of eight that the opposition had often just collapsed through boredom or given up in frustration, to be honest half the time I hadn’t been aware I was in a match I’d been so wrapped up in my rituals. But hey, I had the regional semi-final warm up games championship belt hung up in my closet at home to prove my pugilist credentials.

Now safely inside the chambers I shimmied to the reception counter and flicked the small dust covered rusting service bell, a shrill ting-a-ling rang out to be answered by a shriller voice from the staff room. A woman who looked like a shrew in a tweed scarf was now shuffling my way. Pausing only to break wind and blame it on the floorboards she moved behind the reception desk and placed a pince-nez on her face, not her nose just her face. It sort of hung pointlessly across her left cheek and seemed to be stuck under her eyelid. I pretended not to notice.

“Mr Entendre?” I asked.

“no..er.. Polly Cartwheel” she replied, I sighed the sort of long drawn out sigh usually reserved for use by special needs teachers or care workers.

“No” I said “I want to know which floor and office is his.”

“Oh no he doesn’t own any of them petal, he just works here. You see the council owns the building… it’s not his floor you understand. Is there anyone else with you that I can talk to for you?”

This dame was a loose end and it was time to cut the crap and get the job done. I pistol whipped the old dear to the ground and in sixty seconds or a minute, which ever is quickest, I’d had her trussed up like the Xmas goose and Xmas had come early this year along with a world of hurt because deep down we all know we’ve been naughty boys and girls and that Santa’s bringing the pain and heartache we all crave like a masochist craves a studded leather belt and a ball gag.

Pausing only to check the floor plans on the fire drill sheet I holstered my piece and took the stairs hopping and skipping all the way.

Damn it! I should have taken the lift this is going to take me all day to get to level three.

noir stairsI finally skipped and rotated up onto level three and as luck would have it I arrived the exact moment that fat man Entendre was leaving his office for his daily fix of fried chicken. His greasy malformed fingers clutching his money off coupon booklet like some grubby alien baby clutching an unhealthy rattle. The fat bastard was so engrossed in how much he could shave of his bargain bucket tab he’d failed to notice me creep up behind and whip out my revolver on him. I pushed the business end into where the arch of his back by all rights should have been, the gun vanished into rolls of fat, simply sucked into a vortex caused by the sheer scale of the man. Luckily I had a spare rod in my sock holster.

I bent down to retrieve it but in all the skipping and hopping I’d done that day the damn thing had slipped down almost pass the ankle as I pulled at it I went down flat on my back and that’s when the fat man stood back and the world went black!

Oblivion.

When I awoke I was still on the floor in the hallway, the sweetness of the oblivion now replaced by a raging headache that felt like I’d been hoarding an army of woodpeckers in my head and told them to go nuts on the interior oak panelling. The fat man had long gone the lazy bastard hadn’t even bothered to finish me off or maybe he couldn’t risk leaning over in case he tumbled down the stairwell or had just figured he had no need to do any more. He knew what I had on him and the firm was shaky at best.

I’ll say this for the Fat Man he had guts alright.

jackie gleasonNow feeling as chastised as a nun at a family health clinic I worked my way back down the stairs again. Damn it! Forgot to use the bloody lift! I arrived at the ground floor to see several paramedics cart the old bag from reception away, with any luck they’d figure she just had fall and somehow managed to tangle herself in the detached phone cable which had worked itself into the shape of a hitch knot. Hell, old folks must do that all the time. I slipped my card into the top pocket of the community police warden along with a crisp two pound note bearing the visage of the heroic  King William III which I’d picked up from the no thrills bureau de change in the alleyway behind my office and headed off to hail a cab.

rain noirThe rain was coming down now like a kamikaze pilot making his final run and the wind weakly flicked around my trench coat like a lazy pervert gently fondles asses. I was on the trail of the Fat Man and I knew every location of every fried chicken outlet in the greater Blackpool area and had a passable health inspector warrant card forgery to get me in the backstage area should I need to. I pulled a cab over and got in.

Coshing the driver I took the wheel and sped off into the greying day, my rules baby, my rules.

cab

Excerpts from ‘Cheap Day Return’

noire alley

Chapter 24: ‘Flickering lights and torn dirty tights.’

My heart beat like a tom tom drum being played by a heat crazed native. This sister was all hips and feline curves but it was way past the time all good kitties should be outdoors and the only milk I had in the broken office fridge was well past curdled and the SPAR had long since closed.

“Listen cute face” I rashly said as the index finger on my right hand flicked the safety off my British made Webley revolver I keep taped under the desk whilst my left hand deftly poured us both a stiff drink, neat, on the rocks. The triple Malt hit those icebergs with all the drama of the Titanic. The tension in the room was palpable.

“I don’t play cat sitter for no one and you couldn’t afford me if I did.”

I sat back down in my leatherette armchair with the aplomb of a dirty Tammany politician who’d just talked his way out of a sleaze racket at a press conference and made mother Teresa look like a penny sweet paid whore in the process. The chair squeaked in protest, I overruled.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you just said but I think I like it.”

She murmured as she slid across the cheap wood board desk her bargain basement boob job knocking off the novelty snow globe my Aunt had brought back from Coney Island. She grabbed my neck tie and playfully throttled me with it, “I haven’t been this close to a man since my days in the convent but that was several lifetimes away and I’m all grown up now. This kitty has grown claws and knows how to scratch!” with that she nicked my eyelid with her single dirty nail which was held onto her finger more by prayer than anything else.

I couldn’t help but think that the cat thing was had run it’s course now she’d joined in with the theme.

pulp blonde“Maybe you are all grown up!” I snapped flinging her off the desk and into the faux leather chaise lounge I keep for emergencies, “But that don’t mean a damn thing in this cruel city, this city of the night, this cesspool of sleaze and corruption hanging onto the rocks of the Northern coast like some sort of parasitic bug on the malnourished caucus of a stray dog!” I sipped the bitter almond taste of my cheap dime store whiskey and sicked up a bit in my mouth, I covered the noise with a cough.

old crow whisky

“All this city cares about is eating up the good and pooping out what’s left and then making you wade through that poop to get the bus back to the one road town you call home. This ain’t no city of love it’s a Venus fly-trap made concrete and steel and I won’t let it make a meal out of us baby blue eyes! I just won’t dammit!”

She stood up, adjusted her huge bosom and grabbing me by the shoulders with the delicate touch of a blacksmith cried-

“But I like it here in Blackpool! It’s the Vegas of the North darling we can be it’s Rat Pack if only you’d get that through your thick skull or did the shrapnel you took in Korea kill what brains you had rattling around there to begin with?” She slapped me, it felt good, it felt real. Reality had been something I’d missed since I moved in across the road from the ‘Dame Miley Cyrus Arms Bar Floor Show Revue’ and the ‘Bulldog Café greasy spoon and B&B’ over a month ago.

You don’t come to Blackpool seeking reality.

The sting of her touch lingered on my face like a heatwave across the sunburnt ass of a mule.

Damn, Korea, I’d forgotten about Korea. Sure it had been hell but what could you expect from a cheap package flight and no knowledge of the lingo or the country, I’d been a fool to book my holiday there. The shrapnel was a constant reminder to me that the next time I travelled it was to be strictly first class and all the way to a luxury pad.

She shifted her D cups and made a move for the door, less a bee line than a hornets angered waltz. Stopping to gulp back the last of the bottle of Jacks I’d tried to hide behind the near empty filing cases she paused and looked at me with her one good eye, the other one looked directly at the crack in the yellowing celling.

“You know Johnny” she said “We could have made it you an I yet you chose to keep it business not pleasure.”

“If it’s pleasure you want you oughta try the theme park” I blithely uttered as I casually fingered yesterday’s Metro.

“Goodbye Johnny, maybe not goodbye but maybe lets just call it a farewell?”

She paused for effect her hand on the lead doorknob that was masquerading as brass.

“Well” I said, “Those are pretty much the same thing.”

She sighed, her boobs deflated marginally, “Don’t lets blame Blackpool, it’s just too easy.” and with that she had squeezed her plus size frame out of my doorway and into the neon lit night. Somewhere out there I heard a cat let out a distressed howl.

She’d be okay I thought, she was home on the mean streets of her beloved Blackpool…

and the day return ticket I’d slipped into her brassiere was valid until 12am.

blackpool 1950s

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