The Butter Mouse

Today The Kandinsky resembles a sea plane, the kind suitable for only a dozen passengers maximum. My cabin hasn’t changed shape, and the outside is visible from the porthole. Yet the crew assure me that my own room, and indeed the rooms of the hundreds of other passengers, are now invisible.

https://www.thebuttermouse.com/new-blog/2018/1/21/a-year-in-nadada-week-three-the-archipenko-snake

The Kandinsky is a cruise ship today. The Butter Mouse watches me from the shelf in our cabin. Time is already harder to keep track of, so my apologies if there has been a delay since the last post.

‘Ten years ago we were still trying to clone Wooly Mammoths. Now you can feed them butterscotch, and be back in time for the buffet.’

https://www.thebuttermouse.com/new-blog/2018/1/3/a-year-in-nadada-week-one-into-the-cave

The Butter Mouse has moved, possibly forever. For all future stories, and all of the previous posts, please visit

If only the snow had come two days earlier, then we would have had a White Christmas. Never mind. 

I trudge through the slippery ground towards the building. My target is a gap in the fence, congealed by rust into an opening large enough to crawl through.

Shards of metal tears against the top of my jacket, and soggy ice chills my jeans. The musty smell of mud and old leaves attacks the courtyard, and my trainers refuse to grip. Whatever remains of the grass is frosted white.

I ignore a fire door, in case whatever rotten fire alarms that still hang on the walls kick into gear. My target is a broken window covered in sagging plastic sheeting. With a fibrous crinkle the flimsy protection gives way, and inside.

Somehow the temperature is even colder in the building. The concrete stairs are slippy, and the battered handrail gives a creak with every step. But this is a secret palace, a hidden piece of jigsaw puzzle I have been looking for all my life.

The stairs end on landing stripped to the wooden beams, engrained with dirt and stagnant water. Opposite is a door, with a metal and twistable handle. The window which the man peeked out of must be through there somewhere.

The beams groaned under my trains, predicting a trip to A&E. Even when I turn the handle, I expect this to be the end of my journey. But with an oiled click, the door swung open, to a world of freshly cleaned offices and new carpets.

Desks, more workbenches really, stretch across a long room. The furthest are lost in the darkness, but I understand the rumours are true.

I want to study them in more detail, but fear reminds me to push to end of the room, where the window must be. And there below where I saw him is another model of a tiny man, his face covered with a tiny cardboard mask of a mouse.

There must be a reason for this. Maybe this is a promotional model, or perhaps the man acted as life model. I know I have to go. There is no reason for me to be here. But I need more. There must something, a brochure or leaflet explaining what this place is. But there aren’t even any logos. No files, or family photos. No sign anyone is here.

The only exception is a leather book on the same desk as the mouse model. The volume is stuffed with objects stuck to the paper. Inside is a series of photos, most scratched, or folded at the corners. Under every one are paragraphs and paragraphs of scratchy handwriting.

That building has been closed up about all my life.

There were rumours that there was once an animation studio in there . Or they made props, or specialeffects, something like that. The windows have crappy MDF board sprayed across them, graffitied with swear words, tags, and names of lovers. Constant puddles of water in the grounds always stagnating from last year’s autumn leaves. The fence gets rustier every year, the keep out signs faded and sadder.

I walked past this wreck every day on the way to school, both secondary and primary. On my way to my first job interview. That brutalist, post-war structure, already lost and without a purpose.

You have to remember, before I was even born, this building had been empty for years. But last week, I glanced up at the building, and I am sure that at one of the top windows, one of the few not boarded up, was a man in a mouse mask. The cardboard veil was yellow, with wire whiskers, and a painted on nose and eyes. The man was bald, with ears that stuck out like they had been welded on. He stared down at me for about a minute, and was gone.

This will be the naughtiest thing I have ever done. But I have to check, and see if anyone is there. 

Next week is perfect. The week after Christmas, and the chances of security, or even someone going past walking their dog, are minimal.

The final piece of interactive fiction of the year.

Next week, it all changes.

People say Christmas was better in the old days. That modern festive songs aren’t as good, or the chocolate are not up to scratch. For some reason the spark is not there anymore.

They haven’t changed. The Christmas lights did.

I am not talking about the latest tiny white orbs, with twenty different patterns and a lifetime guarantee. I am talking about the multi-coloured classics with adaptor plugs the size of a fist. The bulbs were actual, hot glass, harnessed to green wiring more akin to something you would wrap round our bean poles than put on a tree.

Shops don’t sell them any more, and the sets have vanished from attics across the country. The only place you can find them is in the background of television special from thirty years before.

Give them a watch. You will get a sense of what was different. Those lights build an atmosphere you can sense is warmer for everybody.

Because those figures who stood in the shadows of the room on found them comforting. Once lit by candles and oil lamps, they have always been, watching Something about that rainbow of lights drove them crazy. They swarmed around the red, blue and green, fighting for invisible space. You missed this riot of course, but their battle took place all around you for the whole month of December.

The Sadness Bomb is per one of the most effective combat devices ever created. No other weapon has ever incapacitated so many without a single gram of explosives.

Construction started twenty years ago. The aim was to spark off something in the brain of the victims. Find a universal emotional tie.

The first step was the creation of Seiko Productions. We all know the logo. A silhouette of a mouse, rising up on its back paws, and the twelve note sting that rises and falls. The music took six months to infuse with melancholy, the design another year to spark off ennui.

So began their puzzle games. A simple enough premise. The player follows a mouse across a snowy field, and try to catch him before the blizzard overwhelms them. You might have to avoid a series of hidden pits, or clamber over walls before the rodent disappears. But the snow is always there, the mouse is always.

Critics attacked Come Home Seiko for an unnecessary level of difficulty, and the need to repeat levels again and again. One even mentioned how the theme song will scar your brain.

They churned them out, across console to handheld to mobile, the notes playing again and again. That logo flashing for a few seconds before every play. Even if you are not a gamer, you’ve seen and heard them on the bus, or round a friend’s house.

The bombs themselves are cube shaped, and require two soldiers to lift them near enemy lines. Speakers are the best analogy, but these explosives are so much more. Upon detonation a single flare dances across the sky, and a hundred tiny holes reveal themselves in the makeup of the cube. A familiar tune rings across the battlefield, and an iconic rodent logo projects onto the trees.

Anyone watching paused, a held breath warming in their lungs. No-one remembered Come Home Seiko, or even the connection with any kind of game.

Instead they thought about nice times with their families, or travelling back from work after a hard day. A quiet night off, with the computer for company. Every memory wistful, the happy core made rotten by the present.

She.

That is the first word in one of the greatest novels ever told. The prose is not oblique, and there is a clear, gripping narrative to follow. The characters are strong, and the descriptions will brand the neurones of your brain.

Only a handful of people have got past even the first sentence.

Writing a book sideways, properly sideways, takes a great deal of effort. Some of the dimensions you have to write in do not have floors, let alone paper or pen. Some worlds have people made of cut out foam shuffling through grey corridors. I got to the third word, ‘through’, before getting lost in a jungle where the ants tower over your head.

But if you focus your efforts on discovering the next set of letters, you will discover a masterpiece that works not only as a piece of writing, but in a visual experience. The word ‘Sun’ is carved into a moon that circles planet made of diamonds. ‘Destiny’ lies at the bottom of a boiling sea, near the remains of a ruined civilization lost under seaweed and coral.

This will be the most difficult read of your life. These are illustrations beyond illustrations, a travel guide with the trip included in the book. But those who stumble back in ripped spacesuits, two stone lighter with a full beard, tell a synopsis that is enough to make you cry.

‘She walked through-‘

I used to get the bus at the same time every morning, and return the same time every afternoon. The house on the corner always had the lights off. The green glow of a large fish tank in the front window was the only proof someone lived in the building.

Every day, twice a day, there wasn’t anyone in. I was leaving my flat soon, to somewhere walkable to work. The opportunities were running out. I had to know what was going on.

The time of this mission would take thirty seconds tops. Hop out the bus, dash through the flowerbed, ogle through the window, and then sprint away. Mystery solved.

I remembered to say thank when I got off the bus. The jade illumination of the fish tank lured me in like a chum bucket. I launched myself up the drive, squelched through the flowerbeds, and slammed against the glass, pushing both my palms against them to steady myself. Two sweaty palm prints left ideal proof of my crime on the glass.

Every strand of hair on the carpet was pristine. The sofas a soft leather, and still in the wrapper. There were even picture frames on the wall, although the glass displayed empty backboard. Inside the tank sat a creature with a tail made of blue scales. Halfway up this change to pale skin. Two tiny arms sat beneath a shrivelled and wrinkled head. Manky hair floated in the water, and its mouth opened up and down, revealing tiny teeth. Gentle singing flowed through the air, and thirty seconds passed five times over. Then ten.

You don't have to go outside.

Rachel had the degree, and the know how to forge a career in a dozen different enterprises. But after the accident, and the inheritance that followed, what was the point?

She cut out the rubbish. Ate lots of soups and stews. Bought secondhand clothes online. Cut and cut, and you will still have plenty left. Do not laze, but do not spend.

When the sun shined Rachel did her yoga in the front room. She felt like a flower, soaking up the sun’s rays. She hadn't gone further than five hundred metres in two years, but rather than a pasty blob, Rachel was someone you would happily shake the hand of. Not that you would ever get the chance.

Her focus was the television. The magic box kept her informed, kept her on trend, kept her educated and entertained. In the winter months she watched fifteen hours day. Her favourite shows were charity events, Eurovision, or anything that was deemed a special, when millions of people separately joined together to love something.

When the dot in the sky appeared, she flipped over from the news.

Only when the meteorite was a week away, did Rachel panic. She peeked from behind the curtains, and watched the fleeing crowds. Her heart rate tripled in under a minute.

Then a glorious thing happened. One that convinced Rachel that she might be the luckiest human being alive.

Since they knew the end was inevitable, the televisions commissioned specials across the board. They roped in any celebrities they could, any crew members willing to work for a meaningless fortune. There were final episodes of game shows, music events, even conclusions to sitcoms and dramas. So many times they ended with everyone waving at the camera, wishing everyone one last goodbye.

The windows shattered, and thick smoke poured through her front door. Plaster dust coated her bed, and the whine of fire trucks and police cars blocked out the screaming. But on the television they still laughed, even when the camera toppled over.

At last. I got round to watching the last five episodes of The Butter Mouse. Sorry I didn’t review all of the episodes at once, but I needed time to digest all of the episodes properly

Sorry about that.

Sorry about that.

Anyway, here we are in the final few episodes. The plot lines are coming together, the plot lines are coming together, and the plot lines are coming together. 

It's so nice to discover this second half keeps up with the quality. We delve further into the world of The Butter Mouse, and the mis-en-scene slowly pulls in closer and closer. Rome dies away, and dies away, and dies away, and in its place are the tightly lit corridors of the police station, the killers flat. 

And of course, by the final episode they are in the abandoned factory. And hour long episode of intense, claustrophobic corridors is enough to get under the skin of anyone who is looking.

For the first time in this new series, we have actual mice skulking around. And by the bucketload. They crawl over pipes, skulk through the drains, crawl over the detectives shoe.This is not the time to get musophobia.

Time get not is this the to musophobia. 

When we finally get to the climax, the show cleverly intertwines the fantasies of the killer between shots of him and the detective, and the mouse romping over the city. To make that last twenty minutes into a showdown is a brave move, especially for such an intelligent shoe. 

Crawl over the detectives shoe. 

Crawl over the detectives show.

Especially for such an intelligent show. But this a cry of rage, a release of emotion from the otherwise cerebral calm detective. In the end this has always been a show about madness, this has been the concept of paranoia, and here were have this phenomena is in distilled form.

So that’s it. That is everything covered in The Butter Mouse canon, and there might not be any more. At this stage we don’t know if there is another season coming.

Not the end of The Butter Mouse of course. I am certain I know what is going on now, that there is a giant mouse

That there is a giant mouse

Patrolling the streets outside, waiting for the moment to break into my mind. I sit here in my reviewers chair, my television blank, the mouse affecting everything in this room like a busted radio.

But maybe this is a dream. I cannot tell right now.

I hope there is season two.

I wait.

We live in a dream age for television. And I use that phrase quite deliberately. There are shows made in the last five years that cater for such a specific audience that they are like fantasies plucked from the imagination of fans and artists. Series reborn in crisp digital, tacking issues unheard of before, with a special effects that feature films from the millennium could not match.

I cannot believe I an reporting this, but Il Mouse De Burro has undergone this treatment too. The twelve part streaming series, The Butter Mouse, has given this forgotten movie new life, and in the most incredible way.

The plot is a Scandi-esque crime drama, which follows the work of a female detective as she tracks a killer in the streets of Rome. Shot almost fifty fifty between scenes of the sleuth and the perpetrator, the series bring humanity to both. At the same time the cat and mouse between the two is brought to an almost literal level. Those weird hallucinating visual of a giant mouse scampering through the Colosseum and the Trevi fountain will stay with you.

Man I love this show. The visual are great, there score is creepy and compelling, and the acting is superb. Even the titles are an instant classic, with an animated mouse digging out those letter in dark Italian streets.

I know there has been some scepticism over the more supernatural element of the show, and the possibility that ‘the butter mouse’ may actually be a real creature that is somehow controlling his actions. I am only halfway through the series at this stage, so I cannot say for sure.

However, this balance between fantasy and reality is not really what the series is about. Instead the show explores the dichotomy and similarities between the two main characters, their personal lives, and how the crimes affect their lives. Regardless of whether it is real or not, The Butter Mouse becomes more of a metaphor for what is going on, and the evil that stalks any normal streets.

Not bad for a show based on a low budget Italian slasher.

I cannot stop thinking about that damn mouse.

And I do mean that literally. The reason that I have only watched the first five episodes is that I have to spend hours digesting each episode. Before I know it, the sun has gone down. And then when I sleep, The Butter Mouse infests my dreams, and ruins any chance of a decent rest.

I haven’t had a proper meal in days.

Now we are digging into the rubbish. 

Yellow Mouse was perhaps the nadir of the cheap noughties horror films. Taking the plot of the Italian original and relocating the setting to America, the film trashes the finesse and indie sensibilities, and turns into a cheap knock off with little use outside of the bargain bin. 

Yellow Mouse sucks. I know that is a crude concept, but this is a failure in almost capacity. Visions of a giant mouse are now created with a crappy cgi rat that is more rotten Brown.  The backgrounds are often green screened, meaning you have two layers of digital nonsense blurring against each other. A far cry from the beauty of Rom.

If the original movie contains the DNA of the slasher film, Yellow Mouse spills out the rear end of the genre. The chase scene are cliches romps with inevitable grisly conclusions. Rather than the pate showing, bristled moustache villain of the original, the villain is a google-eyed tubby psycho, who shouts and screams his dialogue with camp aggression. The part where he screams 'Mouse! Mouse!' Again and again has become a minor sensation on YouTube. Apart from that, there is little to discuss.

There are very few reasons to check out this flick, especially if you are a fan of the original, or even the sequel. This is a textbook example of why remakes are often the nadir of cinema, and do not waste your time finding out why.  

The only other aspect of any note is that I keep having dreams about this film. That crappy cgi mouse has infested my consciousness alongside the seventies original Together they roam the pathways of my mind, and I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in weeks.

What kind of movie maker funded this madness? How on Earth does the plot tie in with The Butter Mouse? And why are the zombies yellow? Who know what madman made this flick. The director has no other credits, and could be a pseudonym for Popino for all we know.

Let me rewind a little. Il Mouse De Burro Two is an undead gore fest in a similar vein to Fulci and Argento. But of you are looking for coherency and even medium level production values you aren't going to have much luck. To start with, even the dubbing is dreadful, and my copy was a desaturated letterbox print on DVD, with more scratches on the negative than a sofa in a house of cats.

The plot follows a group of scientists who travel to the South American jungle, under the report that there is an outbreak of the undead. After tracking down the research base, they find themselves trapped in the green inferno, zombies assaulting them on all sides. But there is a charm to the insanity that makes the flick worthwhile for those looking for ghoulish horror.

In terms of the narrative, we never understand how zombies fit into the world, and if these events are is a regular occurrence. Why the dead are rising, and why they have done so in this tiny corner of South America, are left to the imagination. 

Don’t worry too much about that. Instead focus on the individual scenes, and the bizarre, forty year old visuals. The zombies are smothered in a thick yellow make-up, and you can only tell they are undead by the way they shamble along, and the inevitable consumption of the protagonists. Make no mistake, these are roped in, chubby extras just a shower away from returning from humanity.

The film contains one of the weirdest scenes I have ever seen, when hundreds of mice pour over a corpse, with the deliberate attempt of making a zombie versus rodents scene. The special effects do not stretch to a full reality, and the editing between real mice and ketchup filled dummies are all too apparent. I did wince at the shot of the rat squeezing through the plaster ribcage.

The less said about the cast the better, notable only for their thick moustaches and loud brown suits. They do at least form an amazing contrast between the gorgeous Brazilian landscape, and the animals that live within. All these creatures visit me all the times in my dreams. There is a point where the leopards stalk through the undergrowth, and I don’t know why their fur is golden, and their spots have vanished.

As for how this fits into Il Mouse De Burro, search me. Just switch off your brain, get some popcorn, and enjoy that yellow make-up. This film certainly shouldn't be top of the pile, but for zombie completists it's worth a look.

I have always been a huge fan of Italian cinema from the 1970s. This period was a perfect mix of arthouse visuals and big budget, and created surreal movie giants like Fellini and Antonioni. But for me the most interesting period was the Giallo movement.

Named after the pulpy yellow covers of the detectives novels of the period, Gilallo was a blend of intrigue and bloody gore. With titles like The Black Belly of the Tarantula sowing the seeds of the slasher genre, they are an acquired taste, but have had an influence on many top end filmmakers.

One of my favourites is Il Mouse De Burro. Following a serial killer of the same name who stalks the streets of Rome, haunted by visions of a giant mouse, this film follows many of the tropes of the sub genre. At the same time, it contains some amazing visuals, and incredible footage of Italy, forty years ago.

Director Piero Popino has only this one credit on IMDB, and there isn’t even a birth date for him. But the film is very well accomplished. There are fantastic shots of seventies Rome at night, and long first person tracking shots of the killer that keep the tension going for the full eighty seven minutes. When the murder kicks off, there are some grisly splatter effects that almost hold up.

Perhaps the most well known section of the film is the dream sequence. There is a trippy scene where the killer tries to sleep, visions of a giant mouse stalking through the city streets haunts his nightmares. The effect is done with miniatures and lighting, and though the budget squeaks in places, there are creepy visuals abound. I seem to remember them cut into in a dance video from the nineties, and shown on a late night Friday TV show. The clip wasn’t online.

I have thought about them a lot since watching the movie, and I must admit they have haunted my dreams too. Almost constantly. There is something about the way Popino films the shots that turns the city into a rat warren, and takes the term rat race to a whole new level.

All in all, I recommend you give Il Mouse De Burro a watch. It’s a forgotten gem of the genre, and those at all interested in Giallo should check the movie out. Especially when compared to what came next…