I never really got ol' JC, no doubt for cultural reasons, but possibly ALSO because my first contact was that song about him accidentally blowing some poor prick's head off while pointing a loaded weapon at him. Being from
GUN CRAZEH farming stock, I'd assumed it was a hilarious parody about gun safety! But no, it was as straight as Ken's magnificent play-doh hog!
I HUNG MAH HEAD 
Cracking cover of that Ternt Razner tune though, I like it much more than the original. And believe me, I love me some Tent Raisinor! Grrr, scary Midwestern man! I'm gonna cum all over you!
EDIT: Bryan my world is TURNING UPSIDE DOWN, I just learned AH HUNG MAH HEAD is actually a Sting cover - which makes sense! An English-speaking white guy ret
EDIT2: [removed mean word I promised AMB-kun I'd cut back on
] *ahem*
untutored enough to level his
VARMINT BLASTER 9000 at someone's face probably would be some manner of Crumpet
Oh! I
ALSO watch a film
Whistle And I'll Come To You (1968), a BBC (that's Big British Castle,
not the more popular Big Black Cock, for our alarmed Burgerfriends!) televisual adaptation of celebrated author and historian M. R. James's spooky tale!
I will be honest, Shumps Friends - I find the fapping praise for this one a little OTT. It's superbly-made, without question; however, you would think it's a willful terroriser, from all the "COR M8 WHEN I WERE A LAD,
FOOKIN SHAT ALL OVER ME COUCH" raves! To its credit, it's of entirely more reserved affect; a slow burn at mild yet undeniably eerie heat. Michael Hordern's snooty Cambridge professor is its true focus, and best asset; invading a quiet seaside hotel like a one-man
Twat Force Delta, romping upon the ancient surroundings with imprudence! The great man is a whizzing dynamo of fussing neurosis, unable to STFU or sit still for one moment, sermonising haughtily while demolishing his poached eggs and grapefruit!
EXCEPT when all alone in his room at night, a nagging dread of scoffed-at charnel warnings nibbling at his
bald fuckin dome
It's the deluxe, theatre-bred stagecraft one expects of vintage BBC, long before its august initialism was forever eclipsed by looming dusky dongs. Some will (no doubt having seen aforementioned boyhood recollections of badly shat briefs) come away frustrated, rather like Ol Prof's breakfast companions! It really is an indulgently unhurried work, feeling longer than its ~40min duration. But if you know what to expect - a smug snob's descent into sobering fright! - you may be pleased.
Happily,
is be on TEH TOOB in full for your consideration
Don't worry, ur ol mucker BIRUFORD won't grass you up to the rozzers for not paying your Loicense Fee
;3
The tale was also adapted much more recently, in 2010, starring another great man of British cinema, John "Aliens Fucked My Mouth" Hurt. I watched it just once, at its Christmas debut, and was quite impressed; in recollection, a willfully different, more sharply-personal tale, upon the same foundation of lonely fear. I was surprised to discover a hail of rubbishings, saying it had disgraced the '68 attempt; I found them a bit nostalgia-wanking, tbh. I would've immediately rewatched for COMPARE/CONTRAST action, but I couldn't find it on teh toob, so this thrilling tale will conclude tonight-ish!
Whistle And I'll Come To You (2010) Oof! Those cartoonishly wispy opening credits betray a lack of taste which will return to (bwaaa!) haunt the piece.
As recalled, an intensely more personal version of the tale. OL PROF is no longer a bumbling intruder, but the fulcrum of the story. Whether this is a fatal headshot, or merely an interesting spin, will depend on your charity! Erstwhile carer to his catatonic wife, he has placed her in a nice home, and on the staff's encouragement - he is very elderly, and childless, and clearly exhausted by what the staff commend as an exemplary lone carer role - he has taken a short seaside break to he and wifey's old favourite hotel.
Uh oh! The events that follow, if taken as some manner of supernatural recrimination, are comically undercooked, and amount to an hour of relentless elder abuse.
HOWEVER - and this is pure charity on my part - if taken as the gnawing guilt of a man who did all he could, and still felt he'd failed unforgivably, it's somewhat less shite!
However it it still quite poor 3; A hard core of quality dread encrusted in daytime soap scum. Everything involving wifey/carer is utter rohypnol; you will be
roofied and bummed by
EastEnders and
Casualty! :O I will not fault the actresses; I don't think anyone could do much with such riveting fare as "Nooo luv, she's fiiine liek, go and ave yer brekkie nooo" and *blank staring intensifies* There is some vanishing frisson of Michael Hordern's weapons-grade twatfacing in the early dialogue between old homie and the hotel proprietor, though the impression is that the older adaptation's beloved romping tosser was regarded as altogether too much fun for a
veddy serious,
veddy 21stC BBC piece about
veddy serious topics.
Get fucked :O
If you pressure-wash that shit off in an editor, so it's just oldboy on the phone, it's improved a lot. Even then, the big point of contention amongst the "M8, I TELL THEE, WHEN AH SAW TE GHOST, I SHAT RIGHT IN ME NANS MOUF" set - the lukewarm cover of the famous beach chase - feels wanly obligatory; deployed far too early, and executed with none of the original's impressionistic flair.
The handful of night scenes, conversely, are superbly unsettling; the only things of note here, other than John Hurt's customary excellence. A menacing air and moving performance in need of a better film. Moreover,
a different film; one wonders why this needed to be a WAICTY retelling at all, amounting to scantly more than a puerile attempt at "aging up" a quaint little ghost story.
For that matter, does she have a fanny? 
'tude
