About Me

I'm a writer, translator and aspiring director. Occasionally, I actually do some work instead of using this blog as a displacement exercise.

Friday 4 November 2011

The Teaser

Yes, me again. Disappointing, isn't it?

I've had a pretty quiet summer. My main activity appears to have been gaining weight, thanks to the assistance of a semi-competent personal trainer who had no idea what she was doing. My original trainer is back now, and the weight is sloughing off like skin from a burn victim. She's getting a Christmas present. Patience of a saint, that woman.

The other thing I've been up to, surprise surprise, is watching DVDs, and I've managed to make a big dent in the pile as a consequence. Which has since filled up again with new discs - apart from the copy of if... which never turned up from the Amazon vendor. A circle of hell is reserved for him.

The thing I haven't been doing is maintaining this blog, principally because I have really struggled to think of topics to write about. So, I've had to make something up. I'm going to do a marathon.

Not a running marathon. That would be insane. A DVD marathon. Inspired by the wonderful Adventures with the Wife in Space, I will be undertaking that great right of passage for any true Englishman - I will be watching the James Bond films in order over the course of a year and blogging about them. And possibly livetweeting; I haven't decided yet.

As was announced yesterday, the new James Bond film, Skyfall, will be released at the end of October next year. This will be the 26th screen outing for 007, counting the 23 regular films, the 60s version of Casino Royale, the lawsuit-enabled remake of Thunderball, Never Say Never Again, and the little-seen 50s TV version of Casino Royale. I will be starting in two weeks time, and watching one film every fortnight, leading up to the release of Skyfall, and will try to post as soon as possible my thoughts and comments on each film.

I've been a huge Bond fan for many years, and cannot in fact remember a period when I hadn't seen one of the films. In the spirit of full disclosure, I should say that this isn't the first time I've done this. ITV ran all the films in 1999, conveniently slotting them around my exams, and when I first acquired the DVDs I ran through them from late 2003 to spring 2005. I'd be interested to see if there is any change in my opinions, as well as appending the Daniel Craig films to the equation.

To try to give the postings some kind of structure, I'm thinking of putting in some regular categories that might not have appeared in previous similar compendia. Already, I feel that listing the moments when Bond does something weirdly out of character ("Bond bakes a quiche"), or just weird ("Bond locks a midget in a suitcase"). Any other suggestion would be appreciated. There will also be the usual succession of interesting facts and remarks about how closely each film resembles the source material. A fun visual game will be adding pictures of those nearly cast, with a line of dialogue as a caption so you can imagine them saying it. That does sound like fun, doesn't it?

First off the blocks will be the 1954 version of Casino Royale, a 50-minute production broadcast live on American television. Hopefully, the review will be online sometime on Saturday 19 November. Wish me luck. A final note of oddness. At my place of work I recently saw someone reading this blog. It was the entry about last year's Christmas party and my subsequent blackout. Perhaps I've found the culprit. Yes, you. You will never know when I will strike, and you will never hear me coming. But I will have my revenge. Oh yes.


Wednesday 15 June 2011

Ants in Their Pants

Remember how I said I was going to write about something cheerful. I lied. In fact, I lied so hard that if you are remotely squeamish, you shouldn't read this post. It's about a banned film and will contain graphic descriptions of its content. I don't want to upset people unnecessarily, so if you find the Saw movies more than you can handle, please stop reading now.

The pictures, by the way, act as a safety valve. If the article gets a bit much, just cast your eye over to them and remember that what I'm writing about is fiction, while the pictures are all real life. Comforting, isn't it.

Last week, the British Board of Film Classification took the rare step of refusing a certificate to a film submitted for DVD release. The film in question is Human Centipede II: Full Sequence, a sequel to last year's cult horror. The first film rapidly gained notoriety in horror circles from festival screenings, with word of mouth leaking into the mainstream press, due to its central idea. A mad surgeon kidnaps three people and sews them together, mouth to anus, to form a "human centipede". Those who have seen the film attest that the film is significantly less shocking than that capsule description implies, but there is still capital drawn in the film from the suffering and degradation inflicted on the characters. In particular, the surgeon character takes special pleasure when the inevitable occurs and the man at the front defecates into the mouth of the woman behind, with the latter forced to swallow to stop herself choking to death.

In the film's denouement, investigating police catch the surgeon in a firefight, leaving all sides dead. With the man at the front having cut his throat and bled to death, while the woman at the back has expired from blood poisoning. This leaves the woman in the middle the only survivor, alone and helpless in a house in the middle of nowhere and surgically grafted to two corpses.

The sequel picks up the unusual idea of someone watching the film and being sufficiently aroused by it to want to make his own version. He is able to kidnap 12 people, joins them together as in the first instalment, and films the results.

The reason the BBFC declined to certify the film is the nature of the fan's behaviour. He is shown watching the first film on DVD while masturbating with sandpaper, and later becomes aroused by the coprophagia forced upon his victims. Ultimately, he wraps a length of barbed wire around his penis before raping the woman at the back of the 'centipede'.

These various acts are, according to the BBFC report, portrayed from the obsessive's point of view, meaning that the audience is encouraged to agree with his attitude that people are nothing but vessels for his own entertainment and that the brutalisation and humiliation of his victims is a source of sexual gratification.
I'm sure that you're starting to guess where the problem lies.

More specifically, the BBFC stated that two pieces of legislation are of concern. The Video Recordings Act 1984 states that the effect a work has on its audience must be taken into account, namely whether it is capable of inflicting psychological harm on a viewer, such as by encouraging a dehumanised view of others, and harm on society by extension. The Obscene Publications Acts 1959 and 1964 may provide grounds for prosecution under UK law for the distribution of such material. The BBFC elected to play safe and refuse a certificate. The distributor, Bounty Films, has six weeks to lodge an appeal, something it is currently working on.

That's enough facts. This is supposed to be an editorial. I've noticed that opinion online regarding the entire situation has trended towards outrage that the BBFC dares to act in such a censorious manner and restrict what consenting adults are allowed to watch. In fact, this is also the line adopted by Tom Six. He has commented that since the film contains no actual violence, it should be released as it is. He has also made some depressingly unoriginal comments about the UK being repressive, while I noted that others have taken the right-on stance of "yeah, but what's the real horror film? This or BBC Parliament? Enjoy living under the spoonfeeding tyranny, losers!" Mature debate, I'm sure you'll agree.

But amidst all the poseur idiocy, the question of whether or not an artistic work - and it is artistic, whether you like it or not - should be banned if no harm was done in its production. The film has been made to serve a market. A very lucrative one, judging by the amount of straight-to-DVD horror released each week. People don't take kindly to being patronised and being told that something will deprave them, so this reaction is entirely understandable. But at the same time, there is a voice gnawing away inside me saying that this sort of thing is repulsive and shouldn't be allowed. What sort of enjoyment can be gleaned from this? It seems as though it would be entirely prurient, gloating over the horrific ordeal of made-up characters. But if a person wants to watch it, surely the choice should be up to them, no matter how revolting the material.


So while the BBFC cannot afford to allow the public to "make up their own minds", since one of those minds might be unbalanced, it still has be prudent in allowing leeway for doubt and artistic licence. A Serbian Film, released in cinemas and on DVD last year, contains scenes that would make Tom Six blanch, but the film is intended as a political allegory of living in the former Yugoslav republic. In deciding to pass the film with over four minutes of the most extreme material removed, including cuts to a scene in which a newborn baby is anally raped, the board took this into account, citing its own remit to consider the makers' artistic licence and intent. The BBFC appears of the opinion that such an argument applies to Human Centipede II. It may be an artistic work, but that doesn't mean you can do what you like and claim your muse told you to do it.

Another factor in the decision, one which requires fewer examples of nightmare fuel, is whether the BBFC even has a role anymore. This is first time that a film has been refused a certificate since 2009, and then it was for similar reasons, but technology has progressed markedly since even then. Torrenting and the importing of Blu-rays means that those who want to see the film will be able to do so anyway, so the lack of a certificate seems to only be blocking the film from those would either stumble upon it or are not interested in seeing it anyway.

The other, more obvious element, is the date on the Obscene Publications Act. When it was last reformed, it was only three years after the notorious Lady Chatterly's Lover trial, when the prosecuting council asked the jury whether it was the sort of book one would want one's servants to read. This badly needs to be reformed, if only to keep pace with changing social trends. Remember that homosexuality was still a crime in 1964. The BBFC's decision-making process, though guided by regular consultations, is still dependent on Parliament providing boundaries as to what is acceptable, and if these are not kept up to date, any modernisation in the board's thinking is wasted.

The whole thing's a tricky situation. Should it be banned? I don't know. Is there any point in a ban? I don't know. The only thing I'm certain of is that I never, ever want to see it.

Sunday 15 May 2011

Grand Theft Telly

The big American television networks announced their lines-up for next season this week, and the news has been pretty interesting. Dead wood like Brothers & Sisters, V and The Event has been axed, seemingly struck by the Curse of Channel 4 - if they buy it in and heavily publicise it, it'll fail. See also Dirty Sexy Money. Meanwhile, remakes of Charlie's Angels and Prime Suspect have been commissioned, as has a remake of Free Agents, a much-ignored and sharply written series from... oh, Channel 4. That explains it.

A larger question is being asked, however. Not the one about how the new version of Wonder Woman from the same creative team as the infamous US version of Life on Mars even got as far as a pilot, but how many of these programmes are actually going to be available to British viewers who don't have electronic equipment bolted to the sides of their houses by multinational corporations.

Lost used to be the one programme that my entire household sat down together to watch. For the first two series, anyway. Then the import rates went up, Channel 4 opted to hang on to Desperate Housewives instead, and Sky bought Lost. You want to watch it. Then subscribe, consumer. And don't imagine that we're putting it on our Freeview channel. We only run that because of obligations to Ofcom, which is why it's filled with cheap documentaries and repeats of Cold Case.

It was at this point that I started investigating what this "torrenting" business was all about. It turns out, it's rather handy.

The same fate had previously befallen protracted right-wing fantasy 24. Two seasons on BBC Two, then WOOSH. Gone. The next two seasons eventually turned up on the aforementioned Sky 3 at about two in the morning. I acquired season five from elsewhere and the remainder is still a mystery. I was hoping that by the final season Jack Bauer was fighting off an alien invasion, since he's already killed every Muslim in the world.
Torrenting was a solution to the Lost conundrum. Seasons three, four and five were delivered to my desktop thanks to some nifty freeware, and the only reason I didn't continue with the final season was the loss of my home broadband connection. So my parents taped it for me. My mum even got up at the crack of dawn to record the final episode on its global simulcast, and watched the whole thing to make sure it recorded without a problem. I wonder what she thought was going on. In any case, she earned a big bunch of flowers for that.

So many other excellent programmes are locked away by Sky, it seems strange that no-one seems to make a fuss. House, Battlestar Galactica, Mad Men, Breaking Bad, Chuck, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Weeds, Futurama. Many of them are produced for the Fox network in the US, which like Sky is a subsidiary of News Corporation, making these deals look the tiniest bit suspicious. You can always buy the box sets, of course, but this is a matter of principle. I expect to see these programmes continue to be shown on free-to-air television, paid for either by the licence fee or advertising, not on a channel for which I need a licence, and a contract with another company, and a man to come to plug in some wires, and EVEN THEN still have to sit through commercial breaks. It's pure greed. Nothing more.

So why do I object? What wrong with Sky? Their business practices leave quite a lot to be desired, for the main thing. As a subsidiary of a multinational media company, it has financial resources to draw upon that cannot be matched by other broadcasters, so it is able to outbid the likes of the BBC and Channel 4 - ITV makes no effort, Channel 5 will shortly stop bothering and few other networks even try. The same company then uses its mouthpieces in the press to attack the competition and try to claim the moral high ground, despite its broadcast news services in both the UK and the United States being at best partisan and at worst guilty of fraud and libel on an unprecedented scale. Even the influence it has over politics is used to expand its domination of the British media - witness the way Rupert Murdoch has been cosying up to the Prime Minster, and how the consultation regarding the complete take-over of Sky has been assigned not to the Business Secretary Vince Cable, an admitted opponent of Murdoch, albeit a professionally-minded one, but to Jeremy Hunt, the troglodyte yes-man squatting in the post of Culture Secretary. And because people keep buying the Sun, keep watching Sky News and keep failing to ask questions, it's only going to get worse until there won't be a medium for you to ask questions  in.

In short, the main reason I haven't been watching Battlestar Galactica is because of David Cameron.

As a quick postscript, there are two other US programmes that are shown on terrestrial, if you can find them. ITV has the rights to the US version of The Office, but the series is so poorly scheduled and promoted it's a miracle I even caught the last series. The other is Community, shown on MTV spinoff VIVA, which I fully expect to lose the rights to the second season, especially since the lack of listings in the Radio Times can't be helping its viewing figures, and by extension its ad revenue.

Blimey, I'm in a right mood today. It must be the comedown after the weekend and yesterday's Doctor Who. Wasn't it brilliant? Didn't you just fall in love with Idris? I certainly welled up quite a bi at the end, but in a very manly, repressed way.

Oh, and the fitness is going well. I've put on weight again, but my appetite is coming under control and I've lost fat and gained muscle. So that's nice. I'm going to try to think of something nice to write about, like why I'd want to live in Brighton, or my favourite shade of green, or which brand of instant coffee is best.

Sorry for the lack of amusing pictures, but the crappy software keeps putting huge gaps in the text when I try to align it to one side. Someone will suffer.

Tuesday 26 April 2011

Diary

Of course, since I first wrote the previous post and put it to one one side for later revision, I have decided to bring the diary after all, especially since my life seems to be hotting up in proportion to the weather.
The fun started two weeks ago, with the monthly BFI film quiz. Inevitably, my team won again, but the prizes were so uninteresting I preferred to leave empty-handed. The quizmaster has an odd habit of rambling off the point at great length. At a previous quiz, he threw in the unplanned question of how to attract more visitors to BFI Southbank, and in lieu of actually awarding any points, decided to read out each and every suggestion.

For some reason, he had started talking about how doctors have a tendency to cup your testicles and ask you to cough, and he was incredulous that this has any medical benefit. In fact, it can act as an early signal of hiatus hernia, and I shouted this out when he opened the floor to ideas. When he asked me, yelling across the floor, how I knew, I said I was a doctor. It seemed to be the simplest way out of the conversation.

Then he leaped over and thrust his microphone into my face, asking me to explain further. I leaned into the mike and said, "I'm a doctor, not a public speaker", then sat back. Yeah, that showed him.

The following night was my book group meet. Discussion was lively and enjoyable, but most notable for the book in question - "Gun, with Occasional Music" by Jonathan Lethem - being universally disliked, except by our chief, who was away attending a project management course, and delivered her thoughts by text message.

I thought I might indulge myself in having a pint of beer when I got to the pub, before switching to mineral water for the rest of the evening. However, I was starting on the way home to not feel myself, and by the time I woke for work the following morning I was pretty sure that I was medically ill. I phoned in sick, attempted to watch the previous night's episode of Rubicon - a new US drama about intelligence analysts that has an obvious le Carre debt to pay - but by brain couldn't cope. I retired to bed, and woke again at around 3pm, feeling better.

After an afternoon loafing about in my "study", I thought I'd go out and get some fresh air. A trip to the cinema seemed like a good idea, so off I popped to Canary Wharf. I picked up something to smuggle in for my tea, went to the cinema - and found both films I wanted to see sold out.
This is where my magical new phone came in handy. With only a few squiggles of my index finger, I found out where the film were showing nearby and when, leaped onto another tube and emerged at the GiganticaEnormoDome. The O2 is almost unbelievably vast, so much so that it contains an 11-screen cinema and that is the fourth-largest entertainment venue under its canopy. There are bars and restaurants, poorly-signposted stairwells to get lost in and underground car parks where sinister men unload cardboard boxes from Transit vans at the dead of 10.30pm. I have witnessed this, and I shudder to think what their intentions were.

The 8pm showing of Scream 4 was busy, and I should have learned my lesson from the last time I went to the Dome to see a horror picture on a Friday night. The youths in the audience couldn't stop themselves from talking, screaming at the slightest whiff of tension and generally behaving as though I had paid to see them perform as well. I ate my tea with a scowl, but enjoyed the film.

Continuing my quest for the outside, I decided that I'd take a walk instead of going back to the tube station. This walk, ultimately, lasted five miles and covered the route from the Dome to my front door, via downtown Greenwich - surprisingly quiet for a Friday night - and Tesco, where I bought a packet of hot cross buns which I consumed when I got in. Poor impulse control, there.

The weekend brought the first specks of summer over the horizon, and a friend of mine was in town for the day. Still owing her a decent Christmas present, since I felt that the six-pack of beer I won at a previous BFI quiz was a barely sufficient stopgap, I made a few visits on my way into town to buy some nice soaps, a plush rabbit and some unpasteurised cheese. Mark my words, gentlemen. The way to a woman's heart is not with poetry, or flowers, or chocolates. The simple gift of high-grade cheese is enough to make her heart melt to a spreadable consistency, and for her to be Dolcelatte in your hands.

In the meantime, I was still stocking up on gifts for my mother's birthday. As has become tradition, I help Dad with buying and wrapping the presents from him, as his physical condition prevents him from taking care of it himself. I searched Oxford Street in vain for small gardening tools, but then received a call from Visiting Friend. She was out of her martial arts club, and was at the pub with some of her fellow pugilists. The catch was that she was five miles across town. Challenge accepted.

It is remarkable how easily one can divide a route across a familiar city without the benefit of maps, and less than half-an-hour later, I arrived at the pub near Stepney Green. Another pint of beer was sunk, very kind and wholly exaggerated words regarding my celestial provenance were bestowed upon receipt of my gifts, and recent news was caught up upon. The route home managed to be considerable quickly than expected, thanks to a split second decision to take the Rotherhithe tunnel home, rather than traversing the Isle of Dogs and the Greenwich pedestrian tunnel. I even surprised myself in being able to cycle up the steep slope at the far end, and in top gear no less.

The week after was a little quieter, with one evening spent wrapping presents, another visiting a comedy night founded by a close relative, which boasted several new and entertaining acts, and one for whom I tried to formulate a strategy in order to approach her, engage her in conversation, possibly buy her a drink and then ask her out. It ought to go without saying that I didn't actually do any of those things, but I couldn't come up with a workable plan either so I didn't feel as pathetic as I might otherwise. Heigh-ho.

I did, however, manage to surprise myself with a run on Monday evening. Having already spent a solid half-hour in the weights room of the gym, attempting to fashion my bulbous frame into something less offensive, I started on the treadmill, decided to keep going until I had to stop - while walking briskly for a minute in every five - and managed to cover three-and-a-quarter miles in less than 29 minutes. That's the furthest I've ever run, and I haven't even nearly managed to replicate the feat since then. Could I have dreamed it?

The Easter weekend was spent with the parents, celebrating Mum's birthday, enjoying the coastal sunshine. A trip to the funfair on Sunday was a bad idea, infested as it was with ugly day-trippers, while the main amusement arcade seems to have turned into an indifferently-run deathtrap in the last five weeks. The milkshake from the in-house Wimpy franchise was refreshing though, more so than the frappaccino I tried in Portsmouth the previous afternoon. It definitely put the turd in Saturday.

Easter Monday was spent back in town, with a trip to see Thor - very disappointing - and a frightening visit to the bathroom scales. I'm now up to 85kg. I appreciate that it is scientifically impossible to get more out than you put in, but this is getting depressing. Any suggestions on how I can curb my appetite? Those who suggest I eat less will get a bullet in the throat.

Something else that I noted was that someone has unfriended me from Facebook. This has happened before, of course - even I have enemies, oh yes - but I can't for the life of me work out what I did that made this person want to do such a thing. Was it something I said? Possibly, albeit inadvertently. I made a jocular comment on my wall to those who did not attend my birthday party, and it may have been taken to heart. Bigmouth strikes again. It isn't as though I will never see this person, as I do encounter them regularly, or at least expect to do so. Maybe I won't anymore? Or maybe I'm just being paranoid and it was an error on their part, or one of the snowballing number of glitches added by Zuckerberg's development, so they have an excuse to continually tinker with the site. I've stopped fretting about it now, but I'm still curious..

That seems to be it for now, but if something else should happen, I'll be sure to keep you posted.

Best wishes,

the Phantom of the Opera.

Anthology of Interest

The diary format isn't working as well as it used to, possibly because less seems to be happening to me at the moment, so instead here's a collection of things I've experienced recently that were worth noting:

- Wandering into a Harry Potter signing by mistake. No, Harry, Ron and Hermione weren't there. No, I couldn't see those who were.

- A woman asking me for directions while I was on my bike waiting at a traffic light. My response was of only a few syllables.

- A housemate giving me a bottle of gin, on the grounds that he had plenty, and another housemate holding two leaving parties on consecutive nights without either informing or inviting her soon-to-be ex-cohabiters.

- An argument with a bus driver (I was right; you don't pull over the line at a pelican crossing, let alone obliterate the cyclists' stopping area) where he seemed simply to repeat everything back at me. Perhaps this is how they learn rudimentary language skills.

-Standing on a rickety stool at the posh corporate bar of a post-production company, attempting to pitch myself as a writer to a room of barely interested media types. My spiel was derailed in seconds into explaining why I was afraid of horses. I'm not.

- Realising that with a fourth Scream film coming out this week, this series of films has been in existence for half my life.

- Finishing my book group book nearly three days early, and only having to read the last 14 pages in bed. This is a record.

- Staying up until after 4am on Monday morning, patiently trying to sync my computer with my phone.

- Having my annual appraisal at the office with no notice at all, then managing to wing my way through the feedback section that made it look like I knew this was coming. Nothing to worry about, but it pays to look like you know what you're doing.

- Seeing my name in print again, and being commissioned to write another article.

Sunday 17 April 2011

Looks Like that Maths Degree is Paying Off After All

This is pretty much a companion piece to my rambling last week about my pile of unread books. I also happen to have a MOUNTAIN of unwatched DVDs and recordings.

Despite having a minimum social life and few enriching hobbies, I seem to acquire DVDs at a much faster rate than I am capable of watching them. Like the books, I still have presents from the last Christmas but one that I haven't watched, not to mention stuff that I've bought on a whim.

On top of that, the stuff I've been recording onto my lovely hard-disc recorder (with built-in Freeview turner and multiregion DVD player-recorder - wave goodbye to your friends upon purchase) has been accumulating since I bought it three years ago. It has a capacity of 160GB, and I have to watch almost everything I record as I record it to avoid running out of space. My long-term plan is to replace all that is on there with lovely DVDs, but I still have to get through the pile that I have now. You can imagine how this might vex me.

This is where my logician's training kick in. I have to approach this problem with an organisational mind, and start drawing up a plan. No, better yet - an algorithm.

First, divide everything into separate groups. OK, done. Now criteria for what goes when. OK, that's done too. Let's start with the hard drive.

Everything on there divides into two categories: stuff to watch and stuff to keep. To make sure there's a minimum of space, make sure that there's enough room for all recordings up to the end of tomorrow. That's the priority. Now we've got our first line.

1 Is there enough space on the hard drive for everything up to the end of tomorrow? If no, watch until there is. If yes, go to 2.

This bit's a bit trickier (nice broad vocabulary there). The majority of DVDs split into two piles. One is for replacements of recordings or completion of series I've started, and the other is for other gifts and things I've bought on the spur of the moment. At the top of the first pile are Doctor Who DVDs, because obviously they have priority. My idea was to watch an episodes every day over breakfast, but I'm a bit behind. This goes next.

2 Are you behind with the Doctor Who Original Series DVDs? If yes, watch until you aren't. If no, go to 3.

The other stuff from the first pile I save for non-work nights - Friday and Saturday, unless there's a bank holiday. I'll watch films in one go, but if it's a series I might break off. So this should come next.

3. Are you partway through something from the rest of the pile? If yes, finish that. If no, go to 4.

Next the stuff I record to keep. But this is dependent on the day of the week.

4. Is it a work night? If yes, go to 5. If no, go to 6.

5. Is there anything recorded to keep and unwatched? If yes, watch that. If no, go to 7.

Now, here's the part where I start to get really arbitrary. My main pile of discs is stacked next to my stereo, and it's an age-old rule that I'm only allowed to buy new discs from the "replacing stuff" list when the top of pile is lower than the top of the tape deck. But there's also the question of the New Series Doctor Who stuff - which for the sake of convenience includes Torchwood and The Sarah Jane Adventures, and which I'm also behind with. Let's have that on weeknights.

Then there's the question of the other pile. That divides rather neatly into films and TV series. Let's have the TV series on weeknights and the films at weekends. There's also the limit of one film a night at weekends. I need my sleep in order to dream up bizarre choose-your-own-adventure algorithms.

6. Is the top of the pile below the level of the tape deck? If no, watch the next disc on that pile. If yes, watch the next disc from the other pile. Then go to 8.

7. Are there any New Series Doctor Who DVDs on the main pile? If yes, watch the next episodes. If no, watch the next episodes of the series on the other pile. Then go to 8.

I remember this... It's called...
something like... "outdoors".
Of course, I like to pay full attention to what I'm watching if it's a proper release, so if I've got all the way through that and it still isn't bedtime or I'm off sick or just plain lonely, there's a small pile of "other" discs, either freebies or odd, unsolicited gifts - including an Austrian coming-of-age film sent to by my mother's Bavarian penpal. So those come last.

8. Anything in the slush pile? If yes, watch that. If no, go outside and get some fresh air for Christ's sake.

Hmm, I really need a girlfriend, don't I?

Tuesday 12 April 2011

The Late Fee is a Punch in the Face

No!
My bedroom is like a library. It really is starting to worry me about whether one morning I'll be woken by a fragrant old dear looking for the next Catherine Cookson. Because books and DVDs are ideal given for a media junkie whore like myself, I tend to acquire a lot. Then I have to find somewhere to put them while I work through the backlog.

There's a special shelf on one of my bookcases where all the "To Be Read" books are kept, neatly separated into fiction and non-fiction and then by author. However, there are so many crammed in that it's getting hard to work out not only where to put the next one on the pile but also what the next one out should be. Those tall books that don't fit are squeezed in elsewhere, and there's even overspill to my bedside table, where unread copies of Empire and Sight & Sound join, for some reason, three issues of the Beano, a Walkman, a pair of sunglasses and an alarm clock with no batteries.

This region, which I have started referring to as "Basingstoke", does supply a vital function. It acts as the home for my toilet books. If ever I need to make an extended visit, or pick something up to read in bed while my brain goes into standby mode, that is where I reach. Having torn through the magazines, I'm left with the comics - which I'm saving for the next time I take the tube to work in my suit - and Running Through Corridors.

...and available through this very link
This fine tome, which I cannot recommend too highly, is the first part of a three-volume saga in which Robert Shearman - award-winning author, playwright and Doctor Who scriptwriter - and his chum Toby Hadoke - actor, comedian and originator of award-winning one-man show Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf - watch the revered sci-fi series in its entirety in the course of a single year, a Sisyphean task which entails watching two episodes a day before sharing their thoughts via email, with these correspondences forming the text. It's a revelation, forcing the seasoned fan to rethink their attitudes and acting as a helpful accompaniment to a Not-We seeing the episodes for the first time. Superb.

The books I'm actually reading stay on the special shelf until they are needed, leaving a space when they venture out. At the moment I'm stumbling through Dickens's Barnaby Rudge - a historical novel even when it was written - and the first volume of J.G. Ballard's collected short stories. Fascinating, both. The rest of the shelf has a schizophrenic selection of books, including birthday and Christmas gifts stretching back almost 18 months, miraculous rare finds from Notting Hill and the pickings of a friend's pre-move clearout. Kurt Wallander and James Bond have three representatives each, while a shop-soiled copy of Olaf Stapledon's epochal Star Maker sits next to a mint condition novelisation of Dawn of the Dead, found for a pittance on the Charing Cross Road. There's even a manual for bicycle maintenance, which I really ought to look at rather than go to the Man to have my inner tube replaced, as I did at the weekend - I had run over a 5mm long piece of wire.

"You couldn't film it. You couldn't lift it." - Kubrick's producer,
remembering when the first draft of Lolita was handed in.
The stuff that won't fit on the special shelf is even more intimidating. Two unread Doctor Who annuals - What? I like to do the wordsearches - are but nought compared to the Stanley Kubrick Archives. A 300-page hardback colossus seemingly bound in concrete and lead, I used to keep it in my bed, since the sheer effort in supporting it and turning the pages during 10 minutes' read was enough to put me spark out. It now sits at the bottom of another set of shelves, sharing space with my Christmas Radio Timeses.

Although I don't for a moment regret joining my book group and the resulting enhancement of my social life, the plurality of print infesting the corners of my room do make me wonder sometimes whether or not I'd be able to bluff my way through the meetings, never reading the book at all and instead frenziedly devouring, say, Greg Bear's Eon, The Greatest Sci-Fi Movies Never Made or The Timewaster Diaries in a desperate bid to clear some damn space.

Tuesday 5 April 2011

There Are Many Like It But This One Is Mine

I have now owned my bike for more than half my life. That's some kind of achievement, isn't it? It's been something of a constant companion over the years, some kind of glasnost-era Tamagotchi. Now it's sitting downstairs, waiting patiently for me to take it out for a run again.

It was my 15th birthday present from my parents, and I got to go to Halfords in Cardiff to pick it out for myself. It proved handy to travel around the village and air base where we lived at the time. In the summer, I would go onto the base on my own, waving my pass at the guard, to visit the base cinema for the Thursday night show, before coming home well into the evening while it was still light.

When we moved to another base in Oxfordshire, it was my first means of commuter transport, getting me to work on the base as a dogsbody for a landscape maintaince firm in under 10 minutes. I started to feel like a grown-up, going out to work for the first time, popping home again for a quick lunch, even if I spent most of the day picking up fag ends and using an outdoor hoover.

After I moved to London, it only got an intermittent airing from my parents' garden shed until I decided to bring it up to help keep fit and save money. My initial plan was to take it back after Christmas, since I'd be travelling back in the daytime and had never had any lights, but with the amount of luggage I'd have on my back I was talked out of it. Eventually, I brought it back on a Sunday evening after Midsummer's weekend. There was a five-mile journey to the railway station and a furthe two miles through Central London at the other end, the whole thing racing against the sunset, like an episode of Top Gear at the end of the series when they've run out of money. I made it, of course, but my complaints on Facebook about the state of my arse drew some raised eyebrows.

I started off going for a circuit of the surrounding area a few times a week, but was eventually persuaded by a colleague to commute. This started, naturally, in mid-winter - the best time to start anything. Wary of the major routes, I worked out a path through backalleys and residential streets which increased my journey time by nearly a third. With practice, I became more confident and took the A-route, hiding in the bus lane. I even started using it for general journeys, saving my Oyster card for poor weather, poor health or laziness.

I've had a few accidents on it, sure, but the cyclist ploughing into me on the zebra crossing and the pedestrian shoving me over were hardly my fault. Stopping at a traffic light and missing the kerb with foot managed to be more serious than either, creating challenges out of lying down and breathing. But you'll still see me, helmet on, reflectors gleaming, lights sputtering in the dark. I've been lucky enough to find a shop that does cheap repairs, since Decathlon managed not to notice some fraying brake cabling the last time I visited. Much of the bike is still as it was on the shopfloor, with only the rear tyre, inner tubes and brake cabling wearing out.

I've stated to think of my bike as a low-maintenance pet. It goes where I go. It does what I need it to, as long as I look after it. If I'm careful with it, it'll carry on lasting me far into the future. It leaves stains on the living room floor. Even though parts of it are starting to show its age, like some sagging marmalade cloth cat, I wouldn't want it any other way. I love my old bike.

However, I haven't taken the final step into anthropomorphosis. I'm not talking about that guy who was arrested for an indiscretion - did the bike phone the police? How did they know? - but that, unlike some faithful old vehicles, my bike doesn't have a name. So here's a challenge.

Suggest a name for my bike, either by comment or email, by 10pm next Tuesday. The best suggestion will win a prize. Yes, a REAL prize. Thinking trousers on.

Wednesday 30 March 2011

Maybe the Umbrella's Unlucky


Me with my two oldest and closest friends. Yes, women
like me. The stain, by the way, is soda water, which I
spilt on myself when I drank it from my martini
glass, unaware that it was just to chill the glass and
wasn't the actual drink I'd ordered, although the huge
overflowing pile of ice in the glass ought to be a giveaway.
 Well, I'm back. And I'm old. Last week I turned 30, and it gave me an opportunity not only to reflect on having failed to pass certain milestones others of my generation manage before they leave school, but also to have a bit of a party, as the photograph on the right indicates. That's me in the middle.

The interesting part of the evening, apart from failing to put on an "I am 30" badge and deciding not to bother as I thought it would undermine my authority with the bar staff, was the suit I was wearing. I have not idea where it came from, but I do remember the last time I wore that particular outfit. Pin-stripe dark grey suit, red shirt open at the neck, black shoes, indeterminate socks and underpants, although I think I wore orange socks on Saturday in a feeble attempt at co-ordination.

I say remember. That's about half of it.

The last time, and the first for that matter, was last year's works Christmas party, held on the last Thursday of the working year. I'd spruced myself up a bit, left the requisite bottle of water and packet of ibuprofen on my pillow in case I came back in a poor state and left the house.

My first mistake was forgetting the mouthful of milk. This is, apparently, a trick to being able to drink without getting horribly drunk - a big mouthful of milk at the start of the evening, and the world is yours. I shrugged when I remembered, and decided not to bother. That was my second mistake.


Big Brother is Watching You Embarrassing Yourself.
 The evening was held in some of kind of post-Orwellian nightclub, housed in an industrial shed just south of London Bridge. There was a bar at one end and a huge, three-storey metal structure in the middle of the floor. The installation was the size of a house and covered in external metal staircases, up and down which trooped figures dressed like riot police. I might need to remind you, this was a Christmas party.

The structure turned out to be some kind of performance art feature, with a ball-fighting room at the top - a gantry around a central covered well, with the plastic ball you get in creche ball-pits around the edge - a karaoke room in the middle and at the bottom, visible through the transparent floor, an area divided between a group of people playing cards and a fat man in a sauna. I don't know what this represented. Advent, probably.

The food was barbecued outside, and drinks were lined up and handed out inside. I was having a good time, singing a few songs, chatting to a few colleagues and throwing plastic balls at people's heads, when suddenly at around 11.30pm I turned arou






...the next thing I know is that I'm at home. I'm in bed, in my usual sleeping attire. I'm alone, as usual. Daylight shines in through the window. It has woken me up. It's Friday. My alarm should have woken me up. I look at my watch. It's 9.45am. Oh, fuck.

First things first. I sit up. That was my third mistake. As the room spins around more axes that have yet been named, I stumble to my phone and call in sick. Appreciating that saying I have a hangover is not a good idea, I instead said that I must have picked up a bug after coming home in the snow. Highly credible. My reserves of energy spent, I returned to bed.

I woke a little after lunchtime. It is the only time I can remember having a meal in reverse. No, not that. A trip to the toilet and a bundling of the mat to allow a better kneeling position later, I went back to bed. I woke again in the early evening, and returned to the bathroom to use the toilet's more traditional function. Partway through, however, I needed the other.

This presents an interesting conundrum. Picture the scene. I'm sitting on the toilet, taking a pretty large but not uncomfortable shit. I can feel the bile rising in my throat, as I'm sure you can. Many bathrooms have the safety valve of the sink being close enough to the toilet to allow you to use both. Mine doesn't. In fact, there isn't anything within easy reach of the toilet. Before my landlord had it refurbished, I could have simply leaned over and vomited into the bath. But it was not to be.

As my struggling brain failed to arrive at a solution, only one option was left. I clenched, pinched off what I could, and launched myself at the sink with a squat-thrust that would make my personal trainer proud. As the last drops of unabsorbed water dribbled into the sink from my gaping maw, and I continued to dry heave on an empty stomach with half a turd hanging out of my arse, I felt the last vestiges of dignity leave my body. Now at my lowest ebb, there was only one thing to do. I cleaned myself and went downstairs to watch The One Show.

After a nap, I finally managed to force down some scrambled eggs at around midnight before getting to sleep at around 1am. The following day, I made my expedition to Wandsworth for the only screening of TRON: Legacy in Central London, negotiating the slippery roads and snow-covered pavements with a lot more care than normal.

It was at this point that I started to piece together what might have happened. Firstly, all my clothes had travelled with me. Even the umbrella I left at the coat-check was by the door, its raffle ticket still taped on. One of my first actions after calling in sick was checking that I was still... intact. I remained like a shredded wheat. Nothing had been added or taken away. When I told my father about this later, it was the first thing he asked; with a smile on his face if you please. I weighed myself on the Saturday morning, and found that I had, in two days, lost 5.5kg. That's a lot.

I didn't even have that much to drink. A couple of beers, maybe three-quarters of a glass of wine and a rum and coke - but that's only what I remember having. The barbecued food might not have helped, being cooked from raw outdoors, but it's not likely. I suspect that someone might have dropped something in a wine glass as a prank. No-one remembers me leaving the party, or any behaviour that stood out. Someone else mooned some of the guests, so that would have taken away the focus from any minor transgression. Blacking out like that has never happened to me before or since, and it took a fair bit of explaining when I had my Return to Work interview at 9.15am on 5th January.

So you may have understood my superstitious mind being a little concerned about putting the suit on again for another evening out. The thing is, it just looks that good on me.

Wednesday 16 March 2011

Worth Waiting For

I've been a bit down recently, mainly due to my difficulties in getting the weight off, as well as a couple of minor things at the back of my mind. Nothing to worry about and all in hand now, but not too pleasant at the time.

I've been watching a lot of DVDs and recordings, and over the weekend watched Ice Cold in Alex, and it was that that gave me the undoubted lift I needed. It's based on a true story from the North African theatre of WWII, when an ambulance fleeing the German advance becomes trapped behind the lines, and a captain, his sergeant, two nurses and a lost Afrikaner try to reach Alexandria across hundreds of miles of desert before it falls to the Afrikakorps, struggling against the lack of supplies, each other, and the merciless Sahara.

It's a great story and genuinely inspiring for treating its characters with respect. The Captain, played by John Mills, has been suffering from severe battle fatigue and is descending into alcoholism, but a mistake on route costs the life of one of their party. He vows that he won't touch another drop until they get to Alex. He knows a little bar there where they serve the best lager in the Middle East. The glasses are so cold that dew forms on them, and the beer is the most perfect you'll ever taste. When they get there, not if but when, he'll buy the first round.

The final obstacle the team encounter is simply a steep hill, too steep to drive up. Despairing, the team seem sunk, until the mechanically-minded sergeant suggests backing the ambulance against the hill, putting it into reverse, taking out the plugs and turning the starting handle. This will turn the wheels very slowly, allowing it climb even that steep gradient.

The men take turns and are almost at the top when this happens (go from about three minutes in):


No blame, no recriminations. Knowing you've failed is punishment enough. Just learn from your mistakes and start again.

They make it.

The ambulance makes it to Alex - just - and arrives at the bar. What follows is the most famous glass of beer in cinema history. Probably.


Don't give up. Remember that it's possible, and that you can do it.
Don't be too hard on yourself if you fall. Just pick yourself up and start again, that little bit wiser.

Most importantly, remember that when you've done it, when you've achieved something of which to be really proud, you can think about that feeling of triumph, and know that it was worth waiting for.

Tuesday 1 March 2011

Live from a tip-top Trip Hop Chip Shop

As previously promised, here's a run down of my 10 choices as the films of 2010:

10. Inception.
From my Oscar blog post:

Don’t get me wrong. I was delighted that a blockbuster action movie on this scale should demand such a high level of intellectual engagement from its audience and be an enormous global hit – fourth highest-grossing film of the year, and the number one out of those with original scripts. But it’s still an action movie. For all the film’s ideas and switching between different levels of perception and reality, there is never any emotional engagement, and this is a serious weakness in Christopher Nolan’s writing.
His debut film, the little-seen Following, was a straightforward noir story set in contemporary London, but it’s gimmick was its achronic script. Once that was removed, the rest of the story was tedious in the extreme, even with some unexpected twists and a 69-minute running time. The sudden swerve in the last five minutes should have been a “Whaaatttt???” moment. Instead it was “...Oh”.
Inception is the first film since then he’s written alone, and dazzling though it may be, challenging though it’s audience may find it, it’s just an exercise in mind games that many have played before in other media, most prominently Philip K. Dick’s novel “Ubik”, which has a near-identical premise, albeit a different plot. In short, Nolan can send me to Limbo, but he can’t make me care.
9. I Love You Philip Morris.


A bizarre but fascinating character study from the writers of Bad Santa, which struggled to find a release date in the United States. Jim Carrey plays Russell, a life-long law abiding citizen, who comes to a moment of self-actualisation after a car crash and leaves his wife and family to embrace his true identity as a flamboyant gay man. However, he finds the gay lifestyle prohibitively expensive, and after plying his trade as a conman, is caught and imprisoned, whereupon he falls in love with his cellmate, played by Ewan McGregor.

What unfolds from here is a surreal mixture of prison break drama, sensitive romance and black farce, with Carrey's typically physical performance matched to an equally eccentric character, meaning that it never feels too hammy. McGregor, in contrast, plays Philip with deadpan sweetness, bowled over by the attention of the outgoing and devoted Russell. Their relationship is truly tested when Philip is released, leaving Russell to concoct increasingly surreal escape plans.

The film saw its release repeatedly postponed in the US due, allegedly, to the explicit sex scenes - the reveal that Russell is gay is offered in the most in-your-face manner currently legal in British cinemas, and the film rarely misses a moment to attack the audience's preconceptions. But if you can look past that, or aren't too bothered by it, there is a charming, funny story of star-cross'd lovers - which happens to be true.

8. The King's Speech.

From the blog:

It’s a good film, and one that deserves the rounds of applause that have been greeting in British screenings. But it’s still a schematic, formulaic picture, filled with the kinds of elements that appeal to awards voters, especially American ones. The British monarchy is regarded with fond affection by many of our cousins; one of those funny quirks that separates us, apart from three thousand miles of brine. Films about them always go down well in the US, as do stories of overcoming adversity, beating disability and standing up for what needs to be done. One could view the film as a Merchant-Ivory take on High Noon.

It’s the performances that make the film stand out, and the only thing that will stop Colin Firth collecting the award for Best Actor is a sudden fatal heart attack.  He adds a convincing emotional frailty to a story that needs an unpredictable element, and it neatly counters Geoffrey Rush staying just the right side of the ham counter. If The King’s Speech wins the top prize, even if it sweeps the board, I won’t be too miffed.  Like I said, it’s an enjoyable film, slickly produced and telling an engaging story neatly without resorting to obvious manipulative tactics.
7. 127 Hours.
How does one follow a global smash which had something to say to every culture in the world? You make a film about one man in one place. You tell his story, and let the viewers respond for themselves. And then mount a production of Frankenstein.
Aron Rolston's story of survival by force of will is another on this list that is so strange it could only be true, as he finds himself trapped in the middle of nowhere, his right arm jammed under a boulder. His psychological and spiritual journey takes the place of any physical movement, and the result is a refreshingly honest portrait of a man brought low by nature, unable to use what civilisation has given him to escape.
As the days drag towards a full week, he sees his store of food and water run low and starts to mentally shift away from the gully. He slides into his own memories, has visions of a possible future and slips into a dream state with its own Hollywood ending, before snapping back to the harsh reality. James Franco is on screen for every second of the film, slowly peeling away Aron's layers to reveal a man fuelled by his own sense of pride and self-satisfaction, whose dwindling stock forces him to take a final, drastic decision.
Franco's performance is remarkable, a fully-rounded picture of a man in crisis, and is supported by a thoughtful script and Danny Boyle's restless, probing camera. It's an impressive achievement.
6. True Grit.
What is there to say about the Coen Brothers that has not been said before? The last remake they attempted, The Ladykillers, was widely reviled for despoiling an Ealing classic, although I rather enjoyed the cheerily morbid Southern Gothic approach, seasoned with some ripe dialogue and a return to comedy for the much-missed Tom Hanks, chewing the scenery as a hybrid of Colonel Sanders and Krusty the Clown.
True Grit is an altogether different proposition, offering a dark story o enforced adulthood as 14-year-old Mattie Ross hires a booze-soaked US Marshal and ex-gunfighter to track down the man who killed her father. Jeff Bridges mines "Rooster" Cogburn for all the character can offer, imperceptibly shifting from a broken-down smart aleck to a vengeful crusader and unlikely mentor. The Coens' finely tuned ear raises its wordy head with some rich, flavoursome dialogue that rolls around the mouth, but the show belongs to Hailee Steinfeld.
Making her film debut, she immediately commands the attention of the audience and the respect of her elders by brokering the horses her father left for money and negotiating for cheaper funeral arrangements. By the time she encounters Cogburn, we are wondering in what form she will leave him after chewing him out. A coming of age story of a peculiar style, authentic in tone and colour.
5. The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans.

Werner Herzog does like his obsessive characters, and few are more haunted than Nicholas Cage's cop on a Bayou beat. Addicted to pain medication after he rescued a crook during Katrina, he spends his time scoring hits, shaking down lowlifes, making time with his escort girlfriend and occasionally doing some police work as his existence lurches further and further off the rails.
When it was released I described this as a merger of Requiem for a Dream and The Naked Gun, and I stand by this assessment. The former's woozy, junky's-eye view of the world is merged with a taste for the ridiculous, as Cage hallucinates lizards on a coffee table during a stake-out and attempts to make good by taking down a drug lord with the aid of his lucky crack pipe.
The film contrives to inspire laughter with Cage, a cheerily amoral centre to the story, itself an exploration of living with fear of consequences and riddled with surreal images like a break-dancing ghost or Cage emerging from behind a door, in the middle of shaving, to menace an elderly informant while looking like a strung-out vampire.
The film's conclusion is remarkably efficient, with myriad plot threads being closed off in post-modern fashion("Great news!") and Cage ultimately back where he started., proof if proof be need be that lessons are rarely learned.
4. The Joneses.

This was, seemingly, a tough sell, not helped by the sparse and poorly-rendered advertising campaign, but this masked an interesting, unexpected gem.
A new couple has moved into a picturesque suburban neighbourhood. They have two teenage children, all the latest mod cons and seem to have the perfect life. Soon, they're hobnobbing with the local glitterati and showing off the material fruits of their lifestyle. The audience, however, suspects somethings up when we see Steve Jones sleeping alone - and his daughter climb into his bed. Because they're not a family. They are salespeople by stealth, employed by an agency to get America spending.
A sharp, witty and acidic view on the West's obsession with possessions and visible status, and the corrosive effect on human relationships, this was the overlooked film of the year. Demi Moore as the buttoned-down corporate stooge shows the steel that got her back into the limelight, while David Duchovny is simply the character we've come to enjoy from Californication and the less serious episodes of The X Files, the louche and occasionally-successful ladies man with a conscience - a conscience that starts to prickle as the Joneses' exhortations to their new-found friends starts to conflict with the economic downturn.
Certainly worth your time, if not your undivided attention, and benefiting from an excellent supporting turn from Michael McKean as a man who simply can't say no. Ever.
3. Toy Story 3.
From the blog:

Toy Story 3 is a new high-water mark for Pixar and the best Second Sequel of all time. I honestly don’t know of anyone who has seen the film and not loved it. It’s a phenomenal piece of work with a multitude of layers, offering children another fun adventure with the gang, teenagers a chance to reflect on their lost childhoods and adults to see a metaphor for death and the afterlife, but without ever becoming heavy-handed or bogged down in subtext. It’s characters who have always come first at Pixar – this, by the way, is the reason they are so successful – and no scene in the company’s catalogue proves this better than one particular moment in this film. Those who have seen it know the one I mean. Everything is expressed with simple gestures, without a word being spoken. It’s incredibly powerful, and only reinforces my opinion that there is nothing beyond Pixar’s reach. Not even infinity itself.
2. The Social Network.
A recent survey found that the average age of the voting members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences – the people who decide who gets what – is 57. 57. There’s been some concern that a hip, youthful film like The Social Network would struggle to engage with older viewers, but the film’s greatest strength is that you only need to understand the most fundamental basics of Facebook to appreciate the story of its creation.
It’s a classic tale of flawed genius, pride, greed, friendship and betrayal, told against a backdrop that has only existed for a few years. Another commentator (What? I can call myself a commentator if I like. I can call myself Susan If I want, but it might attract a different clientele) noted that it was the first major film that could not have existed before the 21st century. I’d say that you could have made this story about the inventors of the Penny Post, but it would not have the immediacy, vitality and relevance that are endowed in it by Aaron Sorkin’s engaging script and David Fincher’s masterful direction. Fincher was previously nominated for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, a heartstring-tugging crowdpleaser and the worst film of his career – yes, including Alien3 – so it’s a pleasure to see him getting recognition for a piece of work worthy of his ability and talent. The prize is his.
So, the best film of 2010. Desk-slapping drumroll please...
1. Four Lions.
Only Chris Morris, the most provocative and fearless satirist of the last few decades, would find a group of suicide bombers to be an appropriate source of comedy. Only Chris Morris, arguably the most skilled and inventive comedy writer since colour television, would make such an idea work so well.
Morris has stated in interviews that he saw the same kind of dynamic in terrorist cells as in five-a-side football teams, and this form of traditional character conflict forms an access point to the story, as four men from Sheffield attempt to wage jihad against the forces of Western imperialism, Toploader and high street pharmacists. The brilliance of Morris's writing, in collaboration with Sam Bain and Jesse Armstrong - themselves experts in the dark humour of the male psyche after seven series of Peep Show - is to show the men's absolute devotion to a cause and their struggle to relate it real life. Barry, a white convert, suggests bombing a mosque to radicalise moderate Muslims, and this plan is compared to punching oneself in the face. Barry quickly shows how serious he is, and winds up with a nosebleed.
Omar, the group's leader, attempts to explain his struggle to his young son by using The Lion King as an analogy. Not only does the boy accept his father's patient and encouraging explanation, he embraces the philosophy wholeheartedly, becoming excited about his father entering heaven "before his head hits the ceiling". The film repeatedly overturns cliches and stereotypes, with Omar the most Westernised of the group, chatting to his wife on equal terms and visiting her at her work, while his brother, a much more traditional Muslim, advocates peaceful interaction with other faiths, but still finds himself targeted by the police.
The film's climax, ostensibly set at the London Marathon, underlines the futility of all sides, with Omar attempting to talk down dimwitted cell member Waz, who's simply to trusting and easily-led, while police snipers argue about whether or not the Honey Monster is a Wookiee. Comedy starts to look more out-of-place than ever as Morris shows, in microcosm, how the relationship between cultural spheres has decayed. One senior figure, played by a cameoing Benedict Cumberbatch, confirms that the authorities are just as hopeless as the would-be bombers, a group that continually tries and fails to understand who they're fighting for, what they're fighting, or why they're fighting at all.

Friday 25 February 2011

What I Really Want To Do is Direct

In case you hadn’t heard, it’s the Oscars on Sunday night. Last year was a bit of a mess for prestige pictures, with the British contingent in particular not finding their designated runner until late in the year. Never Let Me Go was an early favourite, but that fell by the wayside, possibly because the premise is identical to Michael Bay’s The Island, which was in turn the subject of a plagiarism lawsuit. Made in Dagenham failed to catch on, not helped by the producer throwing a strop over the BBFC rating. Four Lions was acclaimed on both sides of the Atlantic, but was too edgy for mainstream awards.
Finally, The King’s Speech showed up, and immediately became the front-runner. It’s a good film, and one that deserves the rounds of applause that have been greeting in British screenings. But it’s still a schematic, formulaic picture, filled with the kinds of elements that appeal to awards voters, especially American ones. The British monarchy is regarded with fond affection by many of our cousins; one of those funny quirks that separates us, apart from three thousand miles of brine. Films about them always go down well in the US, as do stories of overcoming adversity, beating disability and standing up for what needs to be done. One could view the film as a Merchant-Ivory take on High Noon.
It’s the performances that make the film stand out, and the only thing that will stop Colin Firth collecting the award for Best Actor is a sudden fatal heart attack.  He adds a convincing emotional frailty to a story that needs an unpredictable element, and it neatly counters Geoffrey Rush staying just the right side of the ham counter. If The King’s Speech wins the top prize, even if it sweeps the board, I won’t be too miffed.  Like I said, it’s an enjoyable film, slickly produced and telling an engaging story neatly without resorting to obvious manipulative tactics.
And then there’s Inception.
Don’t get me wrong. I was delighted that a blockbuster action movie on this scale should demand such a high level of intellectual engagement from its audience and be an enormous global hit – fourth highest-grossing film of the year, and the number one out of those with original scripts. But it’s still an action movie. For all the film’s ideas and switching between different levels of perception and reality, there is never any emotional engagement, and this is a serious weakness in Christopher Nolan’s writing.
His debut film, the little-seen Following, was a straightforward noir story set in contemporary London, but it’s gimmick was its achronic script. Once that was removed, the rest of the story was tedious in the extreme, even with some unexpected twists and a 69-minute running time. The sudden swerve in the last five minutes should have been a “Whaaatttt???” moment. Instead it was “...Oh”.
Inception is the first film since then he’s written alone, and dazzling though it may be, challenging though it’s audience may find it, it’s just an exercise in mind games that many have played before in other media, most prominently Philip K. Dick’s novel “Ubik”, which has a near-identical premise, albeit a different plot. In short, Nolan can send me to Limbo, but he can’t make me care.
So who’s my money on? I’m not normally a betting man – I worry about having an addictive personality, especially since I always finish bottles of wine the evening I open them and constantly insist to myself that I’ll just have one more go: the reason I don’t have a games console – but I were, my money would be on The Social Network.
A recent survey found that the average age of the voting members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences – the people who decide who gets what – is 57. 57. There’s been some concern that a hip, youthful film like The Social Network would struggle to engage with older viewers, but the film’s greatest strength is that you only need to understand the most fundamental basics of Facebook to appreciate the story of its creation.
It’s a classic tale of flawed genius, pride, greed, friendship and betrayal, told against a backdrop that has only existed for a few years. Another commentator (What? I can call myself a commentator if I like. I can call myself Susan If I want, but it might attract a different clientele) noted that it was the first major film that could not have existed before the 21st century. I’d say that you could have made this story about the inventors of the Penny Post, but it would not have the immediacy, vitality and relevance that are endowed in it by Aaron Sorkin’s engaging script and David Fincher’s masterful direction. Fincher was previously nominated for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, a heartstring-tugging crowdpleaser and the worst film of his career – yes, including Alien3 – so it’s a pleasure to see him getting recognition for a piece of work worthy of his ability and talent. The prize is his.
What about the other Best Picture nominees? My thoughts on Black Swan have been previously aired, and were less than complimentary. Or polite. I missed both The Kids Are All Right and Winter’s Bone, since both looked uninteresting, and I don’t regret not seeing them. That leaves four.
Toy Story 3 is a new high-water mark for Pixar and the best Second Sequel of all time. I honestly don’t know of anyone who has seen the film and not loved it. It’s a phenomenal piece of work with a multitude of layers, offering children another fun adventure with the gang, teenagers a chance to reflect on their lost childhoods and adults to see a metaphor for death and the afterlife, but without ever becoming heavy-handed or bogged down in subtext. It’s characters who have always come first at Pixar – this, by the way, is the reason they are so successful – and no scene in the company’s catalogue proves this better than one particular moment in this film. Those who have seen it know the one I mean. Everything is expressed with simple gestures, without a word being spoken. It’s incredibly powerful, and only reinforces my opinion that there is nothing beyond Pixar’s reach. Not even infinity itself.
More people should see this film.
True Grit, The Fighter and 127 Hours all share the thread of men with something to prove, and all are strong films, but all have something lacking. None are the best works of their directors, since the Coens and Danny Boyle already have astonishing filmographies already, and David O. Russell will probably never match I Huckabees for its sheer wit and invention, finding a way of posing a philosophical argument in the form of a screwball comedy. They are fine, solid pieces of work. But they probably shouldn’t be on the ballot paper.
As for what should be on the ballot paper, I will be presenting my own list on Sunday. Probably. Possibly.