There's nothing to do at the sea but whistle your own theme song and hit Americans who are hitting on your sister
Those who might have been fascists, in another time, goose-stepping play at being so and whistle their own theme song. Until the cop breaks the lines, and they become the disordered mini-mob, scattering out diffuse into the crowd. But, in the shot that follows, find themselves self-restored to rank and file, following a parodic but real gravity, drawn back past the point of joking, umbrella swinging, arms crisp, off to become the tolerated scourge of a seaside holiday town.
And these, mind you, are not the damned.
I.E.: British horror