Ah, Vipco.

When 88 Films announced their release of The Bogey Man it reminded me that this old company was once something of a hallowed name among hardened horror buffs: more or less kick-starting the whole video nasties debate (and debacle) with their gruesomely lurid cover to Abel Ferrara’s angsty art-slasher The Driller Killer (1979). At the time critics and outraged, self-appointed moral guardians surely did not even need to see Vipco’s horror catalogue in order to cast judgement upon what they promoted. The slipcases to such shockers as Tobe Hooper’s Death Trap (1977) or Flesh for Frankenstein (1973) showcased grisly pictures and ghoulish taglines in a successful attempt to cause the average punter to cry outrage. Unsurprisingly, given the climate at the time, these generally quite tame films were targeted for castigation and immediate calls for censorship.

Unwilling to actually take a stance against those who cried ‘ban’ Vipco’s Mike Lee instead claimed that ‘there is a lot of violence and that is probably quite bad, but who are we to decide? There really ought to be a line drawn somewhere...’ These words would come back to haunt the company when that ‘line’ was finally, and inevitably, ‘drawn’. Moreover, without those uncut copies of their flagship title, Zombie Flesh-Eaters, or indeed The Bogey Man, the company was forced to fold. As with such other trailblazing independents as Go Video, by the end of the decade Vipco became little more than a fondly remembered memory.

Until 1992 that was...

Yup, Vipco was back and they were promising to re-release all those ‘nasties’ that caused so much bother back in the early eighties. Soon we’d all be able to discover what the fuss was about, and relive the days of gory Lucio Fulci films and obscure, but outrageous, American drive-in fare. Well, that was the plan anyway... Vipco certainly came back on the scene – but it was with a whimper rather than a bang. The company’s first release was the cheap and cheerful schlock favourite The Deadly Spawn (1983) – a lunatic little monster mash but not one which had carved out any infamy during the pre-cert years. Also unleashed was the early Chevy Chase vehicle The Groove Tube (1974).

But then Vipco revealed their ‘big’ announcement...

Lucio Fulci’s Zombie Flesh-Eaters had been passed uncut!!! In retrospect it is amazing anyone believed this news for one second. The BBFC at the time had certainly shocked the occasional fan – for instance Peter Jackson’s riotous Bad Taste (1987) and Brian Yuzna’s scorching satire Society (1989) were both giving an uncut nod but the latex-lacerations in these features was played for laughs. Any genre offering with a more ‘serious’ tone was still trepanned of its explicit nature – and what chance did Zombie Flesh-Eaters have during the same BBFC cycle that outlawed The Exorcist and The Texas Chain Saw Massacre?

The answer was clear: in what could be considered a carefully-worded swindle, fans discovered that it was in fact the ‘uncut’ UK ‘cinema version’ that Vipco were talking about. This version, of course, had been snipped by around two minutes of brain lopping, eyeball piercing and neck-gnawing. Somewhat inevitably, this ‘not quite honest’ approach backfired on Vipco, and the company quickly decided, in the wake of numerous complaints, that it was wise not to swindle customers with carefully lettered captioning anymore. Instead, they started to list cuts on the back of the video sleeves. To be fair, it was not Vipco’s fault that their films were at the mercy of the late James Ferman – and the decision to clearly state what was now missing certainly deserved plaudits. Unfortunately, the sane punter was now effectively warned away from such mangled malevolence as Night of the Demon (1980), The Burning (1981) and Bloody Moon (1981). Indeed, the copious cutting actually only made these movies almost incomprehensible - as anyone who has attempted to brave the old BBFC-approved The House by the Cemetery (1981) will attest!

Still, at least the cases were as great as they had ever been!

In addition, the good news for the collector, was that Vipco had slipped out the ‘strong uncut’ versions of films such as The Beyond (1981) and Turkey Shoot (1982) in Europe, alongside such unreleased, and probably un-releasable, fare as censor favourites Cannibal Ferox (1981), and The Toolbox Murders (1978). This was done primarily to target UK tourists and, for a while, it was the only way in which to gain that full, letterboxed version of Zombie Flesh-Eaters. Suffice to say that this was one of the best things to come about from the entire revival of Vipco.

Vipco would also their 50th release, in 1999, with the European release of a widescreen Texas Chain Saw Massacre. It must have been perversely nostalgic to some, one imagines, to see these dinosaurs still cranking out the carnage on a soon-to-be-dated format almost 20 years after their VHS heyday!

Then came the ‘extreme version’ of Zombie Flesh-Eaters for the UK and a signal that Vipco were now attempting to gain a hold in the fledging DVD market. Apparently failing to learn from past mistakes, though, Vipco (now disguising themselves as ‘Horror Video Ltd’) slapped all sorts of enticing wording on the video case (‘more gore than ever before’ springs to mind) but, sadly, this was yet another cut version of Fulci’s classic. This time around, the movie was missing just over twenty seconds of footage - but Vipco would return to old practises with similar labelling whenever one of their pick-ups ignited the wrath of the censor's scissors (hence we had an 'extreme' version of the still-clipped slasher sickie The Mutilator). Ironically, though, the BBFC were becoming more and more lenient at this stage which allowed Mike Lee’s label to finally begin churning out uncut versions of numerous nasties: The Beyond, City of the Living Dead (1980) and even Zombie Creeping Flesh (1980) were now available without a single snip to their splatter mayhem. Unfortunately, all too often the prints looked abominable and Vipco, despite their newfound success, never invested in special features. Whilst City of the Living Dead had an enjoyable yack track with star Catriona MacColl, little else would transpire – outwith the usual four ‘bonus trailers’ (kudos if you can recall them!).

Looking back it is amazing to think that this could have been, and should have been, the company that spearheaded the now-boisterous market for marginal movies in ‘bells and whistles’ editions (and it is also worth noting that they did manage to bring the notorious likes of Cannibal Holocaust and The New York Ripper to Brit-buffs, albeit in choppy versions that would have surely benefited from some sort of bonus content). Alas, it was not to be. Yours truly actually attended a ‘fan’ commentary for Zombie Creeping Flesh back in 2001 (which never made it onto the completed disc) – so it is clear that Vipco at least considered becoming a legitimate ‘boutique’ label. However, with only worn out VHS masters to play with, they were way out of their league in this strange new world of Anchor Bay and Blue Underground. It is a huge shame because without even the 2000s version of Vipco many British fans might never have discovered Zombi 3 (retitled Zombie Flesh Eaters 2) or Massacre in Dinosaur Valley (retitled Cannibal Ferox 2). Neither of these pictures are masterpieces but, in retrospect, it is reassuring that the old video nasty wranglers were willing to secure the licenses and get them onto the shelves of HMV (albeit priced at £19.99!).

Nevertheless, in the end, despite a library of enviable acquisitions, Vipco failed to hang on and soon died a death as DVD customers demanded more bang for their buck. Looking back, it is unfortunate. It is easy to see, in Vipco, some of the enthusiasm for outré entertainment that those reading this blog will share. Here at 88 Films we would love to one day deliver a catalogue that rivals their millennium comeback (ideally without the cuts of course!). Yet, how many of us would remember some of these old gore operas, such as The Bogey Man, were it not for Vipco? In that sense, we perhaps owe them a little nod of respect – if also a great deal of lip-biting frustration.