Kenny Everett's horror movie may not be Citizen Kane, but it deserves its rescue from the vaults. Phelim O'Neill on how thousands of British films could soon be lost for ever
The recent discovery in Argentina of the more complete version of Metropolis highlights how easily a film can become "lost". For almost all the 81 years since Fritz Lang's masterpiece was released, the longer version has been talked about and searched for before being discovered, almost by happenstance, in a forgotten corner of the Museo del Cine in Buenos Aires. If a film as well known and feted as Metropolis can seemingly disappear from the face of the earth, then what chance do movies that came nowhere near changing the face of film have of surviving?
The 1983 horror-comedy Bloodbath at the House of Death, starring Kenny Everett, might not be anyone's idea of a classic - and I'm certainly not attempting to compare it with Metropolis - but it does have as much right to be seen. Bloodbath is a silly, often corny and quite impressively gory spoof of the horror genre, mixing toilet humour with potshots at Alien, The Entity, Poltergeist, The Legend of Hell House and assorted Hammer films. The ongoing Scary Movie franchise treads almost identical ground - which is not to say Bloodbath is pioneering, but rather indicative of what was to follow. It's also the last British film appearance of horror legend Vincent Price, while Everett, whose massively successful TV and radio crossover career is still unmatched, still has his fans, as the repeats of his shows on digital TV channels show. So why has it taken until this month Bloodbath to get a DVD release?
Laurence Myers, who was called in to produce Bloodbath when its financing threatened to collapse, has a theory - and one that would most reasonably account for the film's disappearance. "It's a fairly terrible film," he says. "I recall showing it to [censor] James Ferman who thought it was fine and funny enough, but thought we were showing him the reels in the wrong order. We weren't - the film just doesn't make sense."
Also, the nature of film distribution was different in those pre-multiplex days. "We were dealing with single screens back then. There was always the next American blockbuster queuing up behind you. If your film didn't perform then they'd pull it to make way for something more profitable." Myers, now a leading theatrical producer, spent more than a decade producing and distributing films. His company, GTO Films, distributed arthouse fare such as Picnic at Hanging Rock, as well as delivering such dubious homegrown treats as the Glitter Band/Rubettes/Mud glam rock movie Never Too Young to Rock. He's not surprised Bloodbath has finally returned. "It's not the film I want on my headstone or in my obituary when I die, but it's not without fans. It doesn't matter if a film is regarded as part of our national heritage or some rubbish like that, audiences couldn't care less about that stuff. They either like it or they don't."
Bloodbath isn't the only worthwhile British film to have been lost. Even releases under the protection of major studios have not been guaranteed longevity. Films such as the edgy 1969 British thriller I Start Counting lie dormant in studio vaults, the lack of star power earmarking them as not worth the bother to release on DVD. Even Ken Russell's The Devils, which might not fit in with owner Warner Brothers' current image as purveyors of family-oriented Will Smith blockbusters, is unavailable. Films from the independent arena rely on small companies run by people passionate about film if they are to see the light of day again, because the focus group-led majors and quick-buck merchants have no interest. In the case of Bloodbath, the film's saviour came in the form of independent London-based DVD company Nucleus Films.
"Every day I am faced in my office by a wall of old VHS tapes," says Nucleus's Marc Morris, "I'm constantly asking myself: 'What here isn't available on DVD?' Bloodbath kept leaping out at me." For Morris, that was just the start of a process that's taken almost two years to see through. For the best quality on DVD, the movie should be sourced from a digital master struck from the original negative. Failing that, a new scan from an existing print. Copying the tape version struck for TV is a desperate last resort. Morris says: "There were no prints of Bloodbath to be found and it wasn't even sold to television so we had nothing to fall back on. The original negative had to be found."
That is the point at which many would-be distributors give up. All feature films name the lab used to process the final print in the credits. But, like any commercial operation, laboratories are not permanent fixtures in an unchanging world. Many go bust, change hands or have their assets split up. The longer the time elapsed since a film was made, the more obstacles mount up. Locating an individual movie can take a lot of detective work, and many labs employ a staff just to deal with tracking down the owners of negatives. "These rights may be passed down through families or companies as producers either pass away or get out of the business," says Morris. "Films may even be stowed away under their production title, one that may bear no relation to the one used when released into cinemas." Even when ownership can be verified, it can come with a hefty price.
"Storage fines," says Morris, shuddering at the mention of what has become the bane of the DVD company's life. "The labs store and preserve these films for decades in controlled environments. They're not charities and these things cost money. Many movie owners simply abandon the negative rather than pay hefty costs. If this happens the film is usually thrown out, a fate that's far too common." Bloodbath had accrued around £25,000 in overdue charges, and for a film with such limited marketability that price tag could have scuppered the whole endeavour. Fortunately Morris was able to haggle the amount down to a much more manageable figure when the lab realised that whatever he was offering would be the only money they'd ever see from the movie. Morris's offer was better than nothing, even if it was only marginally so. As a result, a near-pristine negative has been saved from destruction and the DVD of Bloodbath has a picture quality to rival its competitors on the shelves.
Back in 1983, Bloodbath at the House of Death was quite a well-known title, mostly for the wrong reasons. The production coincided with the aftermath of Everett's infamous "Let's bomb Russia! ... Let's kick Michael Foot's stick away!" outburst at the Young Conservatives' annual conference, so the film's title was regularly invoked in the press. Although his conference appearance did little damage to Everett's popularity with his fans, the media turned on him. The knives were out and well sharpened by the time Bloodbath came out, and its vitriolic critical reception still taints the film's reputation.
Today, it's virtually absent from film literature in print and on the internet. Even sites dedicated to Kenny Everett, Vincent Price or British films either omit it or give it a cursory mention, but how could they do otherwise when they've been denied the opportunity to see it? It's almost as if it had never been made. While some people might wish that were the case, it seems unusually unfair that a comparatively recent film boasting such familiar names as Price and Everett (as well as a slew of British comedy fixtures including Sheila Steafel, John Fortune, Barry Cryer and Pamela Stephenson) could just vanish.
It could and has happened to others. There are thousands of features and shorts stored in processing laboratories throughout Britain that have been deserted by their owners. They just sit there, accumulating dust and fines, until they are slung out or burnt. There could be some real classics in there, although the quality of the films is irrelevant; all films, even the bad ones, deserve the chance to be seen if requested. Otherwise, what's the point of them?
· Bloodbath at the House of Death is out now on DVD