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.

Monday 24 January 2011

Pithy: The One Word Film Review Compendium

For nearly two years, I have been posting one word film reviews on Twitter. Here are all of them to date, collected for your edification and for complaining about how I never like anything good.

"Shite"
The A-Team: Fine.
Aliens Vs. Predator: Requiem: Shite.
American Gigolo: Bashing.
Angels & Demons: Gobbledegood.
Antichrist: Proto-Lynchian.
Anvil! The Story of Anvil: 4real.
Arthur 2: On the Rocks: Mellow.
Avatar: Game-Over.
The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans: Crack-Up.
Bandslam: Unexpected.
Basic Instinct 2: Genre-Defined.
Believe: The Eddie Izzard Story: Ego-Driven.
Beerfest: Paralytic.
The BFG: bLA(H)nD.
Black Swan: Mental.
The Black Windmill: Plain.
Blood Work: Congealed.
Bruno: Togethergeslapped.
Buried: Throttled.
Carry On Abroad: Three-Star.
Carry On Again Doctor: Routine.
Carry On Jack: CRIBBINS.
Carry On Matron: Chucklesome.
Cat Ballou: Overrated.
Clash of the Titans (1981): Charmless.
City of God: Flashy.
Coraline: Grim(m)
The Crazies (2010): Survivable.
Crazy Heart : A-A-B-A.
Control: Gloom.
The Cove: Arresting.
Day of the Dead (2008): Stupifying.
Devil: Brisk.
District 9: Hectic.
District 13: Fleet-Footed.
"Abhorrent"
Domino: Turd.
Double Take (2009): Somnambulant.
Due Date: Non-Hughes.
Edge of Darkness: Abhorrent.
An Education: Conformist.
Enchanted: Adorable.
Encounters at the End of the World: Warm.
The Escapist review: Schematic.
Evan Almighty: JE-sus!
Four Lions: Uncompromised.
French Connection II: Hackmanly.
Gallipoli: Poorly-Scored.
The Ghost: Paranoiac.
The Girl Who Played with Fire: Tepid.
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo: Character-Led.
Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson: Appropriate.
Gorillas in the Mist: Chest-Beating.
Grave of the Fireflies: Removed
The Green Hornet: Muddled.
Green Zone: Line-Walking. Gregory's Girl: Wistful.
Grey Gardens (1975): Poke-Poke-Pokey.
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner: Well-Intentioned.
The Hangover : Matey.
Happy Gilmore: Caddyshit.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1: Darkest.
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: Accelerating...
Herbie: Fully Loaded: Limited.
High Society: Swellegant.
Highwaymen: Economical.
Home (2008): Remote.
The Hurt Locker: So?
I Love You Philip Morris: Cheeky
Ice Station Zebra: Glacial.
Idiocracy: Smart.
The Illusionist (2006): Enchanting.
The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus: Salvage.
In Which We Serve: BLIGHTY.
Inception: Disappointing.
The Informant!: Breezy.
The Informers: Spare.
Inglourious Basterds: Grate.
Inside Man: Slick.
Invictus: Rousing.
Invincible (2001): Mesmeric.
Iron Man 2: Mercurial.
The Jacket: Loose-Fitting.
JCVD: Ass-Kicking.
Jersey Girl: Familiar.
Jesus Christ Superstar: Hip.
"Hypnotic"
John Carpenter's The Ward: Classical.
The Joneses: Consuming.
Kick-Ass: see title.
Kingdom of Heaven: Director's Cut: Completed.
The King's Speech: Quaint.
Kontroll: Victorius.
La Antena: Hypnotic.
The Lady from Shanghai: Necessity.
Lady in White: King-Lite.
Letters from Iwo Jima: Daso-Botu.
Local Hero: Stellar.
Looking for Eric: Wrong-footed.
The Lovely Bones: Unsentimental.
The Matador: High-Calibre.
The Men Who Stare at Goats: De-factualised.
Miller's Crossing: Attention-Grabbing.
Mirror: Introverted.
The Mission: Pointless.
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington: Simpering.
Moon: Pseudo-Dickian.
The Muppets Take Manhattan: Fuzzy.
Murder By Death: Terminal.
Music and Lyrics: Cuddly.
Ned Kelly (2003): Unconvincing.
Nicholas and Alexandra: Stately.
Nil By Mouth: Self-Help.
North Sea Hijack: Moore-ish
Not Quite Hollywood: Bonzer.
Notorious (1946): Dull.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest: Soulful.
One Missed Call (2004): Ringu-Ringu.
127 Hours: Deficient.
The Other Guys: Efficient.
Paranormal Activity: Brown-Trouser.
Paranormal Activity 2: Repossessed.
Passport to Pimlico: Plucky.
Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire: Near-Hysterical.
Predators: Succulent.
Prick Up Your Ears: Well-observed.
Police Academy: Mission to Moscow: HALT.
The Proposition: Stark.
The Rainmaker (1997): Sustained.
Rat Race: Antic.
"Claustrophilia"
[Rec]2 review: Slack.
Red: Reliable.
Reversal of Fortune: Ambiguous
Right At Your Door: Claustrophilia.
The Right Stuff: Expansive.
Risky Business: Anti-"Graduate".
The Road: Hope-Full.
A Room with a View: Formal.
Salt: Stillbourne.
Scary Movie 4: Unbelievable.
A Serious Man: Willful.
Sherlock Holmes (2009): Rip-Roaring.
She's Having a Baby: Personalised.
Shutter Island: B-Plus.
Silent Hill: What?
A Single Man: Stylis-Tic.
Skyline: Patchy.
Solaris (1972): Glutinous.
Son of Paleface: Happy-Go-Lucky.
The Social Network: Like.
Speed 2: Cruise Control: Relentful.
The Spiral Staircase: Linear.
Star Trek: Odd-numbered.
Star Trek: The Motion Picture - Director's Edition: Slow-Motion.
Stardust (2007): Dulled.
Sunshine Cleaning: Agreeable.
Suspicion: Innocuous.
Synecdoche, New York: Depre/Absor/Depre/Absor/Depre/Absor/Depre/bing/ssive/bing/ssive/bing/ssive/bing
Terminator Salvation: Mechanically-recovered.
The 39 Steps (1959): Hitchcock-Up.
Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines, or How I Flew From London to Paris in 25 Hours 11 Minutes: Bouncy.
Thunderbolt and Lightfoot: Butch'n'Clyde.
Timecrimes: Darkeaux.
Toy Story 3: Human.
Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen: Pitiful.
Treasure Planet: Worthless
TRON: Legacy: Unsurprising.
True Crime: Well-Worn.
Up: Unstuck.
Up in the Air review: Grounded.
Vegas Vacation: Double-zero.
Waitress: Sweet.
What's Up, Doc?: Sterile.
Where the Wild Things Are: Stunning.
White Hunter Black Heart: Grey.
The Wrong Man: Procedural.
The Yes Men: Positive.
The Yes Men Fix the World: Daring.
Zombieland: Indie-Bay.

There have also been a few that I haven't been able to finish...

Anastasia: It's an animated musical about the Russian Revolution, in which Rasputin is an immortal wizard brought back from the dead by his sidekick, a talking bat. I gave it 30 minutes and then stopped.
Elektra: Predictable, formulaic, melodramatic crap.
Eraser: It felt like a spoof by Charlie Brooker, but without being funny or entertaining.
My Big Fat Greek Wedding: For a comedy it's severly lacking in jokes. Or human characters.
Oliver!: It's just in appalling taste. I lasted 25 minutes.
Nine: Superficial and inconsequential with stagy numbers and dull music. I gave this one a full hour.
Pearl Harbour: Absurdly po-faced, laughably inane and just unbelievably terrible.
Public Enemies: Boring. I left after 50 minutes.
Say Anything...: A poor quality recording, but it's also unfunny, directionless, sub-Hughes noodling. 45 minutes.

Tuesday 18 January 2011

Diary

OK, so I made a few rash promises in my last diary post about what I got up to at the weekend, so I suppose I ought to make good on them.

Firstly, Alarm Clock Britain. As far as I can tell this is Nick "Judas" Clegg's latest buzzword, used to refer to people who have to get up in the morning. Ironically, it's the exact same demographic that would like to see him baked into a pie made from his own shit, studded with 30 pieces of silver as part of a Christmassy punishment. Anyway, that's neither here nor there.

My plan for Saturday was to get up at a sensible time, cycle to the cinema via the Greenwich Tunnel and see my first 3D film. After that I'd head into town for a look around the shops before heading home for a much-deserved nice dinner. My mobile phone had other ideas.

My alarm decided, in fact, that it wouldn't go off at all. I woke at about 1pm, after the film had already started, and slunk grumblingly towards the shower. My annoyance was compounded later, when I set off in good time to get to the cinema for the next showing - only to find Greenwich tunnel closed due to a broken lift. I very quickly cycled almost all the way home, locked my bike outside the tube station and jumped on a train for the single stop journey under the river. Picking up some lunch on the way, I ran to the cinema and only missed the very start of The Green Hornet. It was pretty enjoyable and refreshingly lighthearted, but the 3D barely worked. Not impressive. One-word review in the Twitter add-on on the right.

By the time the film finished it was nearly six, and most of the shops had shut. I lounged in Starbucks with a coffee for a while before going home, stopping at the supermarket on the way for a pizza, two of my housemates later teased me for eating. I'm allowed one day off from the diet.

Roast, boil or fry?
Give me a try!
The parsnip obsession derives partially from their being delicious, and also from being able to roast them to have with the meat I'm supposed to have for dinner most nights. Eventually, I shall find another means of cooking them.

Sunday was another day of getting up very late for no apparent reason. This reason I actually managed to identify that morning, namely that when I'd taken the battery out of the phone a few days earlier and had to reset the date, I hadn't set the year. My phone thought it was a weekday. Nice one, genius.

That was another lazy day, as was yesterday - although I did do a bit of writing in the evening - and tonight was mainly occupied with chatting to a friend on the phone and writing the article immediately below. It doesn't take Schopenhauer to get a measure of the life I lead.

Tomorrow looks like another voyage into the depths of normalcy. Oh, and I'm going to see The King's Speech in the evening. I thought about doing something about the BAFTA nominations, but they were so pedestrian that it can wait until they announce the ones for the Oscars next Tuesday. Yeah, that'll be good.

There will also be my own five best films of 2010. As soon as I've seen them.

Just a Trim, Thanks

Yeah, a serious one this time. I'm not just here for the fun things in life, you know.

During my copious spare time in the office, I recently pondered upon a story I had seen in one of the many newspapers we receive. The story was about a man who had recently moved in with his girlfriend, and converted to her religion to appease her and her family, only for them to split up some time later. The nub, if that word can be used, of the situation was that said conversion included being circumcised. Our poor protagonist is thus left bereft, without that which he holds most dear, etc. But it started my excuse for a mind working on this whole subject.

I'm not the world's biggest fan of religion. A person's personal faith is business for them and them alone, but as soon as religion starts to appear, one has to refine one's faith so that it matches with those of others in the group. I've been adamant for some time that religion thus exists separate from faith, and then largely as a means of control. Somewhat embarrassingly, I drew this conclusion after reading The Da Vinci Code. It may be a poorly-researched Choose Your Own Adventure for commuters, but it certainly doesn't shy away from the big questions.

This lead me back to the story of the lad under the knife. A great innovation in that area has been the vasectomy, the nuclear option for contraceptives. However, these can be reversed. Short of saving the off-cuts in a pickle jar, one won't get one's foreskin back. He must have been very certain that she was the one, this was the one that was going to stick. So sure, that he would have part of himself removed to signify the importance of their union.

But this is not the whole matter. Fred the Convert was switching to another team solely to appease his girlfriend and her family. Not because he truly felt in his heart that this was the Truth, but because it was a condition of living under the same roof. One could see it as being equal to taking your shoes off in the hall, or using a coaster when you put a beer bottle on the living room table. It has no purpose, and certainly no meaning, beyond that. As I said, this is one example of why I consider organised religion to be a means of control. The family doesn't want to welcome a new convert to the flock. They want to bring another tick in their column for Judgement Day. Because a conversion of faith solely to move in with someone can never be a sincere act, and unless they are engaging in a staggering case of Double-Think, they know this.

The unfortunate implication of this is that these devoutly religious people do not want someone from outside their creed setting up a home with one of their own. This seems like little more than prejudice. Is he not good enough as he is? Does he have to go under the knife and make a pledge that all the participants know to be a lie in order to satisfy them? It seems so.

One could argue, of course, that if our protagonist truly loves his girlfriend, he would go through with it to be with her and to make her happy. Under most circumstances this would be a fair compromise, but compromise has to cut both ways. Surely she loves him for who he is, not for what his potential could be? Again, this leads back to the question of sincerity. In what way is he different, when before he is outside her faith and honest, and after is one of the congregation and mouthing words he does not believe? If I were given this kind of ultimatum, my reaction would be one of shock and bafflement. Is it truly so important to you that I share your faith that you want me to lie about it and undergo unnecessary and irreversible cosmetic surgery? Why do you even want me to believe the same as you? Are you that insecure? Do you think that those outside your faith are beneath you? What about my feelings? I'm happy to live with someone with your faith; why can't you live with my beliefs? Are they less important than yours? Are you only concerned that they are different?

Questions he probably should have thought of in the waiting room. Along with wondering whether or not he'd be able to call in sick for work the following day.

I Remember Ritz Video

Here's a few things that have crossed my path in the last few days. Hope you like.

First, something from Funny or Die. If we had Party Political Broadcasts like this, we wouldn't be in such a pickle.

http://FunnyOrDie.com/m/3oem

Next, something I noticed while watching a US feed of the Golden Globes. This is a real commercial.


Yeah, remember to ask about the risks first. They may have forgotten a few.

Just to raise the cultural tone, how about some folk music?


Finally, something to remind you how creative fans can be when they want to. Seriously, George, why weren't you doing this?


Makes Barney Stinson look like Lenny Henry.

Sunday 16 January 2011

Diary

A busy week. I managed to start it by annoying a friend by inadvertently claiming, thanks to some poorly-chosen words and an over-enthusiastic continuation of a long-expired private joke, that I was passing off my opinions as hers. Always a good plan for a Monday. Really takes the sting out of the rest of the week.

Monday also saw another networking event for aspiring film people. Don't get me wrong, I know these can serve a terrific purpose and the organisers do their level best to have them run smoothly, but by Christ I hate them. I dread having to walk up to total strangers, introduce myself and then launch into a sales pitch about how great I am. It's like trying to chat someone up, but using the medium of public speaking and knowing you definitely aren't having sex later.

On the plus side however, I did meet a few people who found me interesting - possibly because of the ragged state of my trousers - and I got an email a few days from an agent who asked me for some writing samples. So that's nice.

Tuesday was to have been a work evening. Instead I did bugger all.

Wednesday was film quiz night. We won, yet again, but a miscount with the points meant that we wound up third. As a result, our prize was doubled to 24 bottles of beer to be split between five people. Weirdly, this almost degenerated into an argument between myself and another teammate, who happens to be The Most Famous Person I Know, because I wouldn't take any. You can't put beer into the hands of a man trying to lose weight. You may as well shove a white baguette down my gullet.

The novelty wears off quickly.
An interesting occurrence a little earlier. The cinema nearby has a little 3D demonstration booth set up nearby, with a Blu-ray player running trailer clips on a loop and a couple of polarised glasses on poles.

I have an astigmatic left eye, which simply means that the muscles are not as strong as they should be. My right eye tends to dominate, therefore, which is why I have poor depth perception - hence my excuse for being rubbish at most sports, since I can't tell how far away the ball is - and have never seen a Magic Eye picture.

I had assumed that I wouldn't be able to see polarised 3D either, since I thought the eyes would need to be of equal strength. I had a look through the glasses, and it turns out they don't. I'm a bit late to catch Tron: Legacy again, so it's going to have to be The Green Hornet tomorrow as my first experience of a 3D movie. Let's hope it doesn't put me off, eh?

Even more amusing was the fire drill at work that afternoon. As a fire marshal, I outrank everyone once the alarm sounds, so I was a little surprised to find a colleague still sitting in the kitchen, supping at a cuppa and browsing through the Metro. A little interrogation revealed that he thought it was fine to ignore the alarm, that it didn't apply to him and was probably a drill.  I attempted to hustle him out of the building, to no avail, and then the building supervisor turned up.

I was forced to suppress a smile, as he casually told the transgressor that he would be reported to his HR department and took my name to act as witness at any resulting disciplinary hearing. Looking rather sheepish, the asbestoid twit departed through the nearest fire exit.

Thursday was book group day, and this seems to be attracting fewer and fewer attendees each month. The subject of discussion was Small Gods by Terry Pratchett, which everyone seemed to enjoy, thus rendering any serious debate a little redundant. Nevertheless, an enjoyable evening was had.

"I could grow to love this place."
Only "could"?
Friday evening was another exercise in work avoidance. Instead of matching up my highlighted notes from the "how to write" book with the screenplay I had actually written, I decided to watch Local Hero instead, thus eroding my huge, teetering pile of unwatched DVDs by the tune of one. It's a beautiful film, a sheer miracle. If you haven't seen it, it's available for peanuts from Play.
Soon there will be more here, about my first 3D movie, why I'm not a member of Alarm Clock Britain and my worrying parsnip obsession. But that's all for now.

Friday 14 January 2011

The Bear Wore Braces

Ferris Bueller meets Derren Brown.
One of the less practical ideas I've had as a writer, apart from that story about the collapse of the universe, was one that involved breaking copyright on a Fort Knox scale and smearing a group of characters beloved by several generations of schoolchildren. That's why it should be done.

As a little 'un, I was a Beano reader. No Spider-Man or Roy of the Rovers for me. Oh no, not when I could learn about how to bully effeminate classmates or speak like a Native American. As I grew up, my tastes started to change, and by the time I had turned 27 the comic was starting to pall as a source of regular laughs. I'm kidding, I was 16. I still get the Christmas issue in my stocking every year, and a few gags still catch me unawares, especially when aimed at a slightly more mature readership.

A treasured example from around 2004 was a crossover story involving all the major characters, who have forgotten to send their letters to Father Christmas. Frantically brainstorming methods of letting him know what they want, Dennis the Menace and Minnie the Minx has this priceless exchange:

"How about we stow away on a plane to the North Pole?"
"Yeah, 'cos they're really relaxed about airport security these days, aren't they?"

Post-9/11 gags in a children's comic. Beautiful.

Anyway, less of the old-man-reminiscences. My idea is simple. It's Beanotown - the home of all the characters - 10 years later. The zany, mischievous kids we adored are now adults. And the place has turned into Sin City.

Why so serious?
The quaint, timeless British town you remember from your childhood has been scoured by gang warfare and a pitiless crime wave. It makes Gotham City look like Salisbury. The underworld is ruled by Dennis the Menace, once a spiky-haired tearaway, now a feared gangster with an army of followers and a dynasty of mutated attack dogs at his command.

He stands almost unopposed, having struck deals with his greatest rival, Minnie the Minx, the leader of her own all-girl syndicate, as well as the infamous Bash Street Gang, whose viciousness has made even Dennis wary of crossing them.

But what of Dennis's eternal victim, Walter the Softy? This is the cross that Dennis has to bear. He has menaced him to the point of insanity. Softy Walter now resides in a special hospital, the victim of one practical joke too many. Perhaps one day, he will escape to exact his revenge.

Minnie and her second-in-command, Ivy the Terrible, use their feminine ways to get what they want. When the tide started to turn in Beanotown, and the kids realised they could run the place without the adults, they were the first to take the initiative while Dennis was still being counselled in caution by his dog, whom he claims can speak to him. The Perils, as they have become known, are feared by the adults for their viciousness and cruelty. It is said that Korky the Cat was kidnapped from Dandytown purely as a show of strength. He is now kept in a cage, overhanging the sewers of the city.

He will kill again.
Bash Street marks the dividing line between Dennis and Minnie's territories, and those who try to cross will soon encounter the Gang. The turning point was reached when the class took a trip to the sausage factory. Good-natured simpleton Smiffy misunderstood one of Teacher's commands and pushed him into the machinery.

Since then, the rest of the Gang has protected him, telling him that Teacher went to Dandytown for a long rest, and that they help people to cross the road when they are running a brutal shakedown on passers-by Thanks to the deals struck with Dennis and Minnie, they have no interest in expanding their territory, but have become known for their harassment of all forms of authority. Even traffic wardens are not safe.

Their means of torture are simple. They drag you, kicking and screaming, into the broom cupboard of Bash Street School. After 10 minutes alone in the darkness, the door opens and Plug steps inside. Time has not been kind to the ugliest child at Bash Street, and he has grown more monstrous still, his features a grotesque parody of the human form. He apologies humbly to the victim, assures him that no-one will lay a finger on him and that he will be released shortly.

I am not an animal!
I am a human being!
Then he pulls the bag from over his head. This is how Walter gets new cellmates.

The other residents of Beanotown, the human ones that is, live in constant fear of the syndicate controlling the town. As they get older and start to become more aware of what they are capable of doing, surely things will only get worse?

Other residents we may recognise include Billy Whizz, now confined to a wheelchair after he ran so fast his shoes caught fire and inflicted third-degree burns to his feet. Surrounded by reminders of his past glories, bitterness wells up him like pus from a wound.

Lord Snooty and His Pals have at least the benefit of a castle into which they have retreated, determined to shut out the world and pretend they are still living in the past; an era when the aristocracy meant something. Ball Boy was lucky enough to get headhunted by Melchester Rovers, leaving his home town for good at a young age.

Calamity James is not yet fully aware of his potential. His ability to attract bad luck would make him the perfect killing machine, needing him to only be near his victim for them to suffer a bizarre and gruesome death. No contact and no weapon. It will not be long before Dennis and Minnie realise this - and try to use him on each other...

Can any stand against this approaching tide of violence? Surely the adults of the town still have power? Only that which they are allowed. They live in terror of what could happen if the word "no" were uttered. The local police do little more than pick up litter, but there is someone who might be able to make a difference. A young man on the force, gifting with a remarkable talent for manipulating human behaviour, an almost uncanny skill at convincing people to do his bidding and making them believe they thought of it. He used to have a nickname, but now he just uses the one his late father gave him. Roger.

This is for you, Dad. For what they did to you.
There are stories that Beanotown used to be home to talking animals. No one has been able to prove this, but there is corner of the disused, rotting zoo that is home to a group of strange creatures. A lemming that can read. A family of grizzly bears that scratch an existence from the dump. A three-legged pig, once a close friend of a powerful man. And a black bear, a wretch that can remember his life as an equal of men. A bear that wears braces.

Now, I appreciate that this is quite a long pitch, but you've got to agree - you would definitely read this, wouldn't you? Interested parties, make yourselves known. The bidding starts at £5.

Sunday 9 January 2011

You Must Think My Head Zips Up the Back

"Oh look, a Christmas monster!"
I'm horribly behind with the Doctor Who DVDs at the moment, so much so that I've only just got round to watching Image of the Fendahl, released in May 2009. Obviously, I've seen it before a few times and enjoyed it, broadly agreeing with its reputation that it's a solid but unspectacular yarn and the last gasp of the "horror" style the series had been following for the previous few years. I hadn't realised in the past, however, what a shaggy mess it is.

Broadcast in the autumn of 1977, it was intended as a technological ghost story, in which the use of an experimental time scanner has allowed the discovery of an apparently human skull, albeit 12 million years old. Further tests at the scientists' base at a remote country house make little progress, but strange forces are afoot, forces that shaped the human race and could equally destroy it.

The most obvious problem with the story is the parallel that can be drawn to Quatermass and the Pit. Originally produced as a smash hit BBC serial in 1958 and remade as a film in 1967, it too tells the story of the discovery of an unnaturally-old human skull that points to alien intervention in human development. While Quatermass develops further in other directions, another television script by the same writer picks up the slack. The Stone Tape, shown on Christmas Night 1972, sees a group of scientists working at a remote country house on experimental technology and awakening an ancient evil force. Said writer, Nigel Kneale, might have been a little miffed to find this out, especially since he had refused an offer to work on Doctor Who, dismissing it as a children's programme.

Michael Bryant in The Stone Tape, preparing
to join the audience in soiling himself.
Now that the basic elements of the story are in place, it's only left to add a few extra elements to tie them together. Except they do nothing of the kind. The Doctor and companion Leela are drawn to the area by the use of the time scanner, which can cause serious damage with long-term use. After this, the scanner is effectively irrelevant to the story until the climax, when it provides the means of blowing up the building. The first person they meet is a shifty local, who in a cut scene fiddles with a charm around his neck. So, a suspicious yokel type then.

This connects later to the action in the house, where the characters are drawn from stock. If you were to meet someone called "Maximilian Stael", you'd think "What a great name for a villain". So when a character with that name appears, suspense evaporates like hydrogen on a hot day. The project's chief is one Doctor Fendelman, supposedly one of the world's richest men, whose name is referred to as odd in two scenes, but not developed further. Meanwhile, it takes little imagination to work out that "Adam Colby" is the heroic type, or will at least survive the longest, while "Thea Ransome" probably won't. Incidentally, Thea was to be played by Wanda Ventham with her natural blonde hair. BBC executives decreed that she wear a wig, as no one would take a blonde female scientist seriously.

Stael is somehow involved with a local cult, which is in turn connected to white witch Ma Tyler. Ma has psychic powers, which the Doctor comments are due to living next to the time fissure in the nearby wood all her life. The time fissure and the time scanner are supposed to be connected, one imagines, but yet again, this never goes any further, and neither do references to local legends of hauntings. If the hauntings are connected to the fissure, then fine. But if that's supposed to be a red herring for what's really going on, it doesn't make sense since the skull was found in Africa and only brought back recently.

The Fendahl Core. Very disco.
Back to Stael's cult. It is never stated, in any way, exactly what they plan to do. At first, they seem intent on reviving the Fendahl, a gestalt being that evolved on the long-destroyed Fifth Planet of the solar system and consumed life energy itself, effectively making it Death incarnate. The Time Lords destroyed the planet to prevent the Fendahl escaping, but it was able to project itself astrally to Earth and influence Man's development until we reached a point where we could bring it back to life. So Stael drugs Thea, intending that she will be the Fendahl Core, while the other members of the sect put on robes and get chanting. Then the Core starts turning them into Fendahleen, of which 13 are needed to make the creature complete, and Stael starts freaking out. What was he expecting? The embodiment of death to not kill everyone?

Fendelman, having been tied up for no reason, gets shot by Stael after realising that all his ancestors have lived only to bring the Fendahl back. I didn't realise surnames lasting 12 million years with that little consonantal drift. Colby gets tied up too, but then freed, while the Doctor hands a despairing Stael a loaded gun so he can blow his brains out.

Yes. Let me say that again. The Doctor helps someone commit suicide. It could be regarded as euthanasia, under the circumstances - Stael is starting to transform into a Fendahleen himself - but it's a huge ethical minefield that seems to be glossed over rather quickly.

Meanwhile, rock salt turns out to be the way to hold off the Fendahleen - hence the superstition of throwing salt over your shoulder, again something that has survived 12 million years - and the Doctor and Colby rig the time scanner to self-destruct, imploding the house and taking the Fendahl with it. The skull, locked in a lead-lined box will be dropped off in a supernova, ensuring its destruction.

This seems like a pretty fun story, and the individual elements are tried and trusted. But they don't fit together. Even with the above summary, they are still gaping holes in the story. The Doctor gets locked up as soon as he arrives in the house, but escapes with the door swings open, apparently of its own accord. The question of who frees him appears insoluble as all the characters are either busy or elsewhere. Terrance Dicks's novel adaptation corrects this by having the lock shatter when the Doctor kicks the door out of sheer frustration.

Some padding.
In Part Three, Leela and the Doctor take a trip to the Fifth Planet to look for a way to defeat the menace, only to find that it's not there anymore. Still, it fills on a few more minutes of plot. In the final episode, there's a brief, unscripted shot of the Core itself turning into a Fendahleen, but it later appears as the Core again, without any explanation as to what's going on. Even then, the final episode barely runs for 20 minutes.

Although superficially entertaining, Image of the Fendahl is really a dog's breakfast of a story, with elements added to a script because either no other means can be thought of for connecting A to B - Stael's cult - or because they simply ought to be in this sort of story - Colby, who one fan writer referred to as "Johnny Squarejaw", and Fendelman having a German accent for no apparent reason. Maybe watched as disposable television, with one episode a week, these flaws aren't noticeable. But if the standard of writing were higher, they wouldn't be there in the first place.

Diary

The sum total of my life over the last few days is not entirely thrilling. The jollity of work continues, though I've finally got on top of things, while my evenings remain busy. Thursday was the monthly anarchic Doctor Who fan meet in Central London, where I was pleased to meet with a few friends for a nice chat and a couple of drinks, as well as welcome a new fellow turning up for the first time.

He gravitated towards us by my name-dropping of elder statesman script writer Terrance Dicks, and stuck with us for the rest of the evening, amused by our slagging people off behind their backs. It's fun to be a fan.

A bit of rereading on Friday, after I decided to go back to the "How to Write a Script" book I won at a pitching event a couple of years ago for help in sprucing up my work. Three-quarters of an hour and judicious use of a highlighter later, I felt satisfied that I'd done something.

The weekend has been very lazy, with a lot of sleeping in and staying up late. I was invited to the 30th of an old school friend on Saturday night, so I got plenty of exercise thanks to the 85-minute round trip by bike. Attempting to run over urban pedestrians on two wheels put me in mind of GTA: Canterbury. The party was good fun, and afforded the opportunity to catch up with some welcome old faces, as well as resist one well-lubricated lady trying to make me dance. I don't dance.

Plans for today including squeezing in an hour's reading before getting out of bed, cycling into town, running at the gym and taking some lunch in to see The King's Speech. I did none of these. Instead I got up late, took the tube, had lunch in Eat and mooched around HMV, since the film isn't showing in Central London. How dare they.

Saturday 8 January 2011

Heard You Were Dead

The greatest film director of all time is Stanley Kubrick. I shall brook no argument on the matter. But the greatest living director is John Carpenter.

It's been 10 long years since his last film, Ghosts of Mars - the interregnum is perfect subject matter for a future post, along with a dissection of Image of the Fendahl, so remind me next week - but now he's back in the much-anticipated The Ward. Imagine my surprise when I was flicking through the new Empire in Tesco a couple of days ago when not only was there a broadly-positive review of the film, but mention of its release date - IN TWO WEEKS. I let out a little yelp.

Here's the trailer. Isn't it marvellous to see a master at work?

Take Away the Number You First Thought of

[I'm a bit busy at the moment, so here's something I wrote five years ago which has never been published]

This does look awesome, doesn't it?
I find a continuing source of interest in how little Warner Brothers exploit their vast archives. For a studio which has been in existence since the Great War, it appears odd that the commercial releases of the company’s back catalogue are so, well, commercial. With a wealth of background material at its disposal, I see little obvious reason for the failure of its DVD releases to be totalling comprehensive. It has taken over five years, for example, and a new instalment grossing $360 million to finally push forward “proper” versions of the four Batman films made from 1989 to 1997. The impression was given with the original issues that they were simply VHS re-releases on a new-fangled medium, rather than have them include elementary items such as trailers. Batman wasn’t even in widescreen. Equally, the vanilla [1] release of Superman II does nothing to trade on the film’s popularity or chequered history, with multiple reshoots, rewrites and directors to its name.

On the other hand, I have heard very few other than myself complain about the lack of a full-length edition of The Avengers. Putting my own opinions to one side, this is not especially surprising. This film enjoys an almost unmatched reputation for being terrible. My two siblings, both fans of co-stars Sean Connery and Eddie Izzard, refuse to watch it, despite my repeated exhortations. I even asked a friend to rent and see the film so that I could gather his thoughts as someone coming to the production without preconceptions. His first words to me on the film were, “Isn’t that supposed to be rubbish?”

Simultaneously released in the UK and the USA on 14th August 1998, The Avengers [2] had been in various stages of semi-active development for over a decade, when producer Jerry Weintraub bought the rights in 1987. No solid progress on the production was made until 1993, when screenwriter and Avengers fan Don Macpherson was engaged to write the screenplay. Despite rumours of the likes of Mel Gibson and Nicole Kidman taking on the roles of John Steed and Emma Peel, Oscar nominees Ralph Fiennes and Uma Thurman were cast, with Sean Connery playing the requisite diabolical mastermind [3] for director Jeremiah Chechik. Apart from a fire destroying one of the sets, shooting was apparently uneventful, and the film was completed on schedule for its release in June 1998.

Not that you'll be seeing this on the DVD.
Post-production was the point when problems began to bite. A test screening was arranged in Phoenix, Arizona, to gauge the audience’s reaction to the film, and thus tailor it to for a standard audience. One only needs to think about this concept for a moment to realise how flawed it is. Attempting to focus-group The Avengers, either the TV series or the film, is ridiculous, as it is a concept that in itself should not work. The series, which emphasised humour as well as style over minimal substance, was still able to convey a sense of danger without either of the lead characters seeming concerned by their death-defying antics. The reaction in Phoenix was overwhelmingly poor, and the film was returned to the cutting room with a view to “saving” it. This resulted in a two-month delay in release, and its June slot was occupied, in the USA at least, by A Perfect Murder, the remake of Dial M for Murder starring Michael Douglas and Gwyneth Paltrow.

Examining the film’s edits in detail fails to yield an obvious solution why these scenes were cut [4]. My original assumption was that scenes of exposition or of another static nature had been excised to bring the action sequences closer together, but deeper scrutiny disproves this. The climactic fight between Steed and Sir August is trimmed, but most obviously, the entire pre-credits sequence, which runs for eight pages in the published script [5], and is heavily featured in the film’s pre-release trailer. A simpler solution has since arisen, namely that the 90 minute running time [6] was what was wanted, not necessarily a “rescued” film. The Avengers was cut not to make it better, but shorter, and more able to make money.

The film opens with a title sequence that could charitably be described as Bondian, though in fact, it is hard to imagine the designers, a group called Imaginary Forces, not deliberately aping Maurice Binder’s iconic 60s style. Rather more surprising are the matching descriptions Macpherson affords the credits in both the official screenplay and an early draft from 1995. The TV series aimed for simpler style, varying between the leads sharing a glass of champagne and capering about in a field of suits of armour. However, this is not how the script begins.

Panning down from a perfect blue sky to an empty airstrip, we see the only object in sight is a red phone box. An E-type Jaguar speeds towards it, and after coming to smooth stop, disgorges a leather-clad Uma Thurman. Uttering “how now brown cow”, in the phone’s receiver, she is transported to an underground base, in which experiments into the weather are being conducted. Seeing off a few guards along the way, Dr. Emma Peel sets the critical systems into overdrive and escapes, as bolts of lightning strike the requisite antenna and the base explodes. A quick cut later, we are introduced the villain, Sir August de Wynter, played by a tartan-clad Connery [7], hammering away at his enormous organ. As he continues to play, a few tracking shots show him to be of enormous wealth, passionate about the weather, and totally barking, before the camera settles on a romantic painting of Emma dominating the room, and de Wynter gazing at it, rapt with adoration. The importance of the sequence is crucial to the rest of the film – setting up a large part of the plot, and introducing de Wynter as early as possible. The deferment of the latter and the vagueness of the former, which results in characters describing events to one another rather than letting the audience see them for themselves, serve only to damage the story as a whole, and make it look poorly-structured.

Another noteworthy aspect of the trailer is the presence in its concluding “credit block” of Michael Kamen [8] as the composer of the film’s score. An interviewer later that year asked him why he had departed the film. His somewhat evasive answer was that he had “worked on the movie for eight-and-a-half months, it still wasn’t finished, and I had to do Lethal Weapon 4.” [9] It has been speculated elsewhere that the unfinished aspect was the film’s visual effects, though no reason is given why Kamen could not have begun work using existing footage and script pages for reference. It should also be noted that, like The Avengers, Lethal Weapon 4 was a Warner Bros. production, but also a sure-fire hit. In any case, Joel McNeely stepped in to what became the biggest job of his career, and since then his highest profile composing gig was Warners’ science-fiction misfire Soldier.

Has Uma Thurman been in a film were
she hasn't handed someone their arse?
Further sequences were removed from the early section of the film, including the real Mrs. Peel infiltrating a gentlemen’s club to meet a Mr. John Steed (an obstructive porter is thrown down a flight of stairs, rather simply vanishing), and Steed and Emma being briefed by the former’s boss “Mother”, a scruffy-looking man in both late middle age and a wheelchair. A number of agents have been killed in unusual, weather-related circumstances – beaten to death by fish rain, frozen in ice etc. – and security footage from the Prospero Programme shows Mrs. Peel as the only lead. One problem not solved in the script or the novelisation is the readiness of Mother to trust Mrs Peel with assisting the investigation into herself, though one could take the attitude that as Emma is so obviously the culprit, she couldn’t possibly be guilty.

As Steed and Mrs. Peel venture forth, much to the disapproval of Father, Mother’s second-in-command [10], another cut scene shows Sir August torturing a Prospero scientist for information. The scientist is, according to the script book, played by one Christopher Rozycki, although he is not credited on the finished product. Another major flaw occurs, where Steed, seemingly from the air, pulls Sir August’s name as worth investigating, and strikingly, Emma does not appear to know who he is. This is despite the later elaboration that he was in fact the original head of Prospero, before being relieved of office due to his affiliation with BROLLY, an organisation of scientists attempting to protect the Earth’s weather from aliens. That Emma would not have heard of him from that is unlikely, but that they have never met is downright unbelievable. Dialogue either cut or unused from later in the film implies that there was some kind of connection between Sir August and Emma’s missing-presumed-dead husband Peter. The final film states that, as with the series, Peter Peel was a test pilot whose plane was lost over the Amazon, but the original version of the script has him instead portrayed as a colleague at Prospero, headed by his brother, Dr. Valentine Peel. The latter engineers the project’s destruction, which also kills his sibling.

The pair’s visit to the “eccentric” meteorologist, ends when a snooping Steed is shot by Emma’s double – he is saved by a bullet-proof waistcoat – and as he recovers in his partner’s flat, Emma shows him the next piece of the puzzle. A snowglobe labelled “Wonderland Weather” takes the spies to a firm which can deliver personalised weather through a phone line [11]. At the firm’s offices, Sir August addresses a BROLLY meeting, at which all the attendees are dressed as oversized teddy bears. This typically Avengerish touch, which looks marvellous, is not explained, to the detriment of the film’s credibility. During his speech, in which he offers members a chance to leave his scheme without prejudice, he offers any with cold feet a remuneration of $1 million. This is, of course, unless you lip-read, in which case he tenders a more generous £1 million.

I suppose you're wondering why I
called you here. Among other things...
This is not the only example of altered dialogue in The Avengers. After the meeting breaks up less two members, and Steed and Emma pursue one teddy each, the former finds himself in a brawl with Sir August’s henchmen, Bailey, and his men. The script gives the bullyboy, modelled on Malcolm McDowell’s Alex from A Clockwork Orange and played by Izzard, a few lines in which he compares Steed’s immaculate suit to a tailor’s dummy, but this is missing along with almost all his other dialogue. I clearly recall the critic Mark Kermode referring to Izzard’s only line as being unfunny when he reviewed the film at the time of its release, but similarly, it was not until I viewed the DVD that I observed Bailey as having any dialogue at all, namely the film’s single use of the f-word when he meets his demise: a line which, naturally, does not appear in either script or novel.

Steed bests the gang, and pursues Emma in her fight with her quarry, but the teddy is revealed to be another Emma, and she escapes. At a debriefing, Steed is informed that the World Council of Ministers [12] is due to meet on St. Swithin’s Day – the patron saint of weather [13]. The leap to the next sequence of note, as a clearly treacherous Father plays croquet with Sir August, is jarring due to the way in which the scene is presented as though confirming earlier suspicions on the part of the audience. The only previous indication of Father’s double-sidedness is her dressing in black, which given that she is blind may not be deliberate.

Steed and Mrs. Peel attempt to return to Sir August’s home of Hallucinogen Hall (named in stage directions and novel, but not on screen), but what should be a picnic is hampered by a swarm of robot bees directed by Bailey and armed with machine guns. They are quickly dispatched, but not before one holes the tank of Emma’s E-type, and another burning specimen lands in the resulting trail of petrol. Except all this is absent, rendering the explosion of the Jag, once the pair meet elderly agent Alice and set off across the Hall’s grounds, a non-sequiter, while Alice’s comments about Emma being a Gemini provide another example. Trying to reach the house through a hedge maze, Emma drops down a rabbit hole while Steed meets and duels with Sir August, before being knocked unconscious by Bad Emma. This marks a crucial departure from the ‘95 script, in which Steed enticed to kiss her, unaware that her lipstick is poisonous, though clearly not fatal. This places the actual kiss between Steed and Emma in better context, and lends logic to Steed’s less-than-convincing claim that he needed proof that she was the real Mrs. Peel.

Pretty much the barn scene in Goldfinger, except now
he's the villain and allowed to do that sort of thing.
Emma, meanwhile, has also been drugged, and is on the verge of being used by Sir August as an intimate plaything, but makes a woozy getaway when Alice provides a distraction. The sequence of her lost in the recursive and Escher-inspired rooms of the Hall is again baffling without knowledge of its name, or the novel, which describes Bad Emma toying with her counterpart, while dreaming of having her mad master for herself. She manages to make her escape, and in a reversal of earlier, is taken by Steed to his home, where, on the verge of closeness, they are interrupted by Father. The blind spymistress has seized power from her superior, and locks Emma in a padded cell to await interrogation.

As heavy snow begins to fall, Steed manages to talk his way into the Ministry archives, and with the help of Colonel I. “Invislble” Jones [14], uncovers the Gemini cloning project, run by Sir August and Father years earlier, and the existence of a former Ministry facility under the Serpentine, sold off long ago to Wonderland Weather. Though the script rushes the sequence somewhat, it is clear that BROLLY is an umbrella organisation, covertly encompassing Sir August’s interests. Father, however, attempts to make a get-away with both Emmas, but the original fights back, and the hot-air balloon they are travelling in crashes with the villains inside. Steed finds the fallen Emma embedded in a snowdrift, and they experience their afore-mentioned kiss.

Heading for a show-down, the agents venture across the Serpentine to an island at its centre, Emma now clad in the familiar black leather catsuit on which her clone had previously had the monopoly. The conclusion of the film is badly cut, with Sir August’s taunting of Emma and the discovery of the remaining dead teddies removed, though there is still time for the series’ only true catchphrase to make a slightly modified appearance: “Mrs. Peel, you’re needed!” Venturing into the inevitable underground base, Steed engages Sir August in a further duel, while Emma sees off Bailey and attempts to deactivate the villain’s equipment. Impaled on his own staff, De Wynter is struck by lightning and killed, and Steed and Mrs. Peel make good their escape before the whole place explodes and they enjoy a well-deserved glass of champagne with Mother.

The script is surprisingly rich in cultural references, with obvious overtones of The Tempest and Shakespeare in general – Sir August is ultimately, and literally, hoist by his own petard – and the diabolical mastermind’s name recalls Daphne DuMaurier’s story Rebecca, in which Maxim de Winter appears obsessed with his first wife. Blade Runner [15] provides an unlikely source of inspiration, with the line “Time to die” being used by a foe just before the speaker’s death, and the use of clones which are not quite human and not quite robotic. Another unfortunate parallel is the heavy recutting Blade Runner underwent after poor previews, though a Special Edition has been personally prepared by director Ridley Scott for future DVD release [16]. Perhaps strangely, there appear to be few overt references to the original series itself, though a villainous type becoming dangerously and zealously consumed with Mrs. Peel was a recurring storyline.

Both Chechik and Macpherson have publicly expressed their dissatisfaction with the truncated version of The Avengers. The director referred to the audiences that made the decision to recut the film as the “lowest common denominator”, and said that “the filmmakers’ views…are secondary to the audiences’”. His collaborator flatly stated that it was “certainly not the movie that was in the script” [17]. For such a daring venture as transferring an iconic show like The Avengers to the cinema screen, it is worth applauding the makers for succeeding in getting the project even released. Perhaps spending a mere 86 minutes in the film’s company could persuade an open-minded viewer that their efforts were not in vain after all.

tl;dr
[1] Like the ice cream, this is the most basic type of DVD, with no extra features whatsoever.
2 A little background. The Avengers TV series first aired in the UK in 1961, and starred Ian Hendry as a doctor whose wife is murdered by heroin smugglers, and is assisted in avenging (hence the title) her death by a shadowy secret agent named John Steed, played by Patrick MacNee. Hendry and MacNee would face other criminal type throughout the first season, before the former decided to leave the show. His replacement was one Honor Blackman as Cathy Gale, and with time the series moved away from its darker roots and embraced a more freewheeling, almost surrealistic approach to crime-fighting. The villains became more outlandish, their plots more bizarre, the episodes more laced with a terribly English wit, and, by the time Blackman left to be replaced by Diana Rigg as Emma Peel, the show was a global hit. Megalomaniacal cat lovers, seven-foot robot murderers and the like became commonplace. Linda Thorson had taken over from Rigg by the time the series reached 1969, and the series drew to a close after 161 episodes. In the mid 70s, it was revived as The New Avengers, an Anglo-French co-production, with MacNee, whose portrayal of Steed had as time passed became less Humphrey Bogart and more Roger Moore, joined by Gareth Hunt and Joanna Lumley. It was not a great success, and only completed its 26 episodes thanks to additional funding from Canada.
3 There is a pleasing symmetry in Connery starring in an Avengers movie, as both Blackman and Rigg left the TV series to play Bond girls, in Goldfinger and On Her Majesty’s Secret Service respectively.
4 Reports vary over the preview length of the film. Separate sources have cited lengths of 150 and 115 minutes, though this disparity by may be the result of one figure being misheard as another. The released version runs almost exactly 90 minutes, with the commercial home release running at 86, due to the standard difference in frame rates between film and video.
5 The Avengers Original Movie Screenplay by Don Macpherson, Titan Books, 1998.
6 A little mathematics. With the addition of advertisements and trailers, the usual cinema programme for a 90 minute film will run for around 110 minutes. Another ten for the last audience to the leave and the next to enter will yield two hours between performances. If screenings start at 11am, six could be pressed into a single day, with the last ending at 10:50pm. Another five minutes on the running time would delay the last show’s finish to 11:20pm, even assuming the early start. In short, a 90 minute film allows more showings per day than a 95 minute film would.
7 Possibly in case we forget he’s Scottish. There are overt nods to the actor’s background throughout. He is always in tartan, and wears full highland dress when speaking to the World Council of Ministers. He also tees off with a globe, in certain acknowledgement of his love of golf. The filmmakers seem eager to play up the Scottish angle as, although Connery’s character is never seen eating a haggis or drinking malt whisky, he is twice observed starting a fight.
8 Kamen was a prolific composer for both film and television, with credits including Licence to Kill, X-Men and Edge of Darkness, as well as the entire Die Hard and Lethal Weapon series. He died in 2003.
10 An interesting comment on the famously modernised gender politics of the series, that as well as Steed and Emma being equally capable, a wheelchair-bound Mother is superior to a blind Father.
11 Requires broadband.
12 A non-copyright UN.
13 This information, combined with the sight of a tax disc on Steed’s Bentley set to expire in December 1999, places the film’s timescale as July of that year, leading up to the 15th. This is notably out of style with the series, which strove to achieve a 60s-inflected timelessness. The Avengers might seem less fantastic if one can remember what one was doing as Steed and Mrs. Peel thwarted another villainous plan. The novel foreshadows St. Swithin’s Day as important, with a password to leave the Prospero complex being a traditional rhyme: “St. Swithin’s Day, if thou dost rain, for forty days it will remain”.
14 A voice-only cameo by Patrick MacNee. Dame Diana Rigg was apparently offered the role of Alice, but declined.
15 Another Warner production, interestingly.
16 This release, which would also have included the 1982 original and the 1992 “director’s cut”, was shelved due to a legal dispute with one of the film’s bond guarantors over a budget overrun during shooting. See en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blade_runner#versions for details.
17 Both quotes taken from an article in EON magazine, cited at www.animus-web.demon.co.uk/elan/toaug2498.htm

Wednesday 5 January 2011

Diary

Dear me, back to the grindstone.

I was caught taking Female Portuguese Housemate's clothes out of the washing machine on Monday. What did she worry I would do? Try them on?

The return to the office was as fun-packed as might be expected, especially with the news that the person who was supposed to be covering for me over Christmas was too busy to do anything of the kind. I have literally spent the last two days doing nothing else, while the accounts department hassles me to finish up the special spreadsheet for the end of the year. Not only is this a bit rich coming from people who've kept me waiting with worse excuses in the past, but it seems that even the real pen-pushers are trying to push me around. Apparently they got a bollocking for it, though. Serves them right, big meanies.

The other delightful aspect of leaving the cozy comfort of the Christmas holidays for the harsh psychological beating of January is getting back into a keep fit habit. In my case, I start this by having scrambled eggs on toast for breakfast. Only following orders.

My personal trainer - yes, I have a personal trainer - advised this for the combination of protein and carbs. It seems to be protein all round, since I managed to lose a fair bit of weight before Christmas while having steak and chops for dinner. I am also now capable of press-ups.

I know you want to eat me.
The routine I have to get back into is not too tough. After washing down the eggs with orange juice, I can have a yoghurt mid-morning, soup for lunch - with my own choice of flavours. Today, Chicken! - and some fruit mid-afternoon. A sensible dinner, lots of water and the occasional filter coffee without sweetener, and I'm well on the way to being a miserable sack of undefined flesh. Which is where the daily hour of exercise comes in. Running during lunch or after work, cycling around the place and press-ups and stomach crunches before getting in the shower all add up to making my grey bulbous body even more odd-looking. But apparently I'll live longer than you, so I get dibs on your stuff.

The other routine to back into is working on my scripts and attempting to interest people in them. I've started re-reading and redrafting I.T.D., the first of the magnum opi, but hit a slight snag last night when I dozed off after page 8. That I managed to bore myself is criticism that I shall ignore.

Now for a bit more, then tea, then off to see 127 Hours. I may report back.

Monday 3 January 2011

Clu Dough

I can see Michael Sheen's acting from here.
Told you I'd remember.

I was really looking forward to TRON Legacy, though unsure exactly why. I never had any great love for the first film. It was never some kind of milestone in my development, and I've never been a big fan of video games. Even so, the surprise announcement in 2008 that the project would actually happen was enough to get me excited about the potential for a sequel. Returning to a digital world that was so revolutionary in 1982, aided by 28 years of technological advance, was a journey I was ready to take.

It doesn't help, of course, that I wasn't seeing the film under the best circumstances. Being partially-sighted due to an astigmatic left eye, I can't see 3D pictures, so i had to seek out the one flat showing in Central London. This was in Wandsworth, an hour's journey from my house. On top of that, there was still heavy snow on the ground, making the walk from the station to the cinema a bit dicey, as I was still recovering from food poisoning/a spiked drink/a horrible hangover and blacking out after the office Christmas party two days earlier. More of that another time.

First things first. The film is dazzling. The original had a pretty stunning palette to play with, but this is clearly something else. Director Jospeh Kosinski started out, somewhat improbably, as an architect specialising in 3D modelling, which probably came in handy. As a result, the design work and the direction is a triumph, effortlessly creating a world that feels solid and immersive, while still strangely alien.

This is complimented beautifully by the sound design and Daft Punk's score. Combining their signature propulsive electronica with a theme-laded orchestral sound reminiscent of Hans Zimmer's work in Inception, it has bought the pair a richly-deserved level of mainstream praise. I for one am looking forward to seeing two robots in the audience at the Oscars.

There is a problem with the film, however. It's a big one. It's even the same one as Avatar had. The script has been assembled - and I do mean assembled - without even an iota of the same degree of imagination as has been employed in the visuals.

Absent Father Reunion Scenario No. 14B.
 Such is the lack of care being displayed by the writers, I would often forget that the film is supposed to be set in a digital world. The set-up for Sam Flynn's character arc is thuddingly obvious from the first scene, where Young Sam is told about the Grid by his unconvincingly-youthful father. A line drop about "playing on the same team", later, we zip to the present day, where Sam's dad has been missing for years and he's filled his time with extreme sports such as motorbike street-racing - and probably Ultimate Frisbee - to fill the void left by his father's absence.

Imagine my surprise when all his hobbies turn out to be incredibly useful, once he's projected into the digital world. Soon, he's throwing identity discs around like he's been doing it his whole life, and manages to defeat villainous henchman Rinzler, the finest Disc Wars player on the Grid, on the first try.

I'm not going to go through the entire story, listing the hurricane of cliches the script runs on, but by the end, as the characters journey to Mordor the portal while trying to outpace Voldemort Clu and a major character who definitely isn't Jesus Aslan a Messiah archetype sacrifices themselves to save the day, you start to realise how hackneyed and dull the story is. Which is a real shame because it didn't have to be like that.


Hitler in a neon jumpsuit.
 Ideas are frequently raised that offer shreds of intellectual interest. The notion that Kevin Flynn and Clu, while being hero and villain, are both discrete aspects of the same person is never looked at in any depth. Neither is a major MacGuffin within the film's fiction, that intelligent life has spontaneously evolved within the Grid itself. Clu sees this as an imperfection to be eliminated, but the ideas behind this are never anything more than a plot device. There is so much that could be so done, and so little effort being made to expand the TRON universe.

A truly surprising aspect is how strong the performances are. Jeff Bridges is typically effortless in his dual role, and Michael Sheen hams it up in a fashion that's entirely appropriate. Garret Hedlund - a menace to spellcheckers everywhere - acquits himself well despite the limitations of his character, but the real pleasure is in watching Olivia Wilde. No, I don't mean that. Well, no solely that. She takes a very generic character - that of the Amazonian warrior who falls for the hero - and injects some much-needed humanity into her performance. There is an unexpected strength in the writing, in that the love story between Quorra and Flynn seems to be drawn entirely from the performances. There is no expository dialogue and no cathartic kiss at the climax. If such deftness was possible here, why not elsewhere?

The success of the film, and the already commissioned animated series, means that a sequel is likely. Hopefully this would expand on the strengths of the concept, picking up threads such as Cillian Murphy's cameo as the son of David Warner's villain from the first film - the second Murphy performance this year as a the son of an amoral executive - the evolution of the Grid and consequences of the film's climax. There is so much potential for matching jaw-dropping spectacle with brain-tingling ideas. If only they'd done it the first time.