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 21^st 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.

Diary

Work, gym, writing, sleep. Life’s just been one long carnival ride for the last week, with all my social fixtures crammed into the next few weeks. The only spot of interest has been tearing through three seasons of Mad Men in as many weeks. I’ve been on the verge of putting Brylcreem in my hair before going to the office and then sipping whisky at my desk.  I wonder if anyone would notice.

I’m also being tougher on myself regarding my weight loss. It’s 75kg by 18 March – when I break up for my birthday week – or I don’t get a new phone. Tough but fair, unlike my meals. Heavy water isn’t just for nuclear reactors; it’s a serving suggestion.

It’s also led me to use the sauna at my gym for the first time. How long are you supposed to stay in there anyway? And why is it so dark? Are they actively trying to create a sleazy atmosphere? According to a friend, it appears to be working.

Binary Fears

Yes, I know, nothing for the last week, but I've been busy, and I have got some stuff lined up, including an extremely potted review of the year in film/preview of the Oscars, plus a couple of other ideas.

In the meantime, there's a video of the main event of last week, where I took to the stage at Karaoke Circus and sang West End Girls in front of an audience of 150 people, accompanied by a live band. Nervewracking is an understatement.

Unfortunately, the video was recorded by someone else whom I haven't heard from since then, so you'll just have to imagine a white bloke rapping in front of a bemused crowd until then.

Also, keep your support for the old weight loss coming in. I seem to have temporarily plateaued at 82.6kg. Not good enough.

Finally, a fun link I found today - fun for me at least - "BroaDWcast", a guide to foreign screenings of Doctor Who. Everyone loves trivia, don't they?

http://www.broadwcast.org/

See you in the future.

Diary

Apologies for the lack of an update, but it's a struggle to actually think of things that really happen to me and are worth writing about.

After last week's news, there was the usual monthly meet of Doctor Who fans and associated types at the Fitzroy Tavern - all good fun and no bones broken - while Friday saw me taking a little nap after dinner at 8.30pm and, apart from a few moment of lucidity, not waking up until 9.45am the following day. I can no longer remember anything of interest I did last weekend, although I have very kindly been given the lend of Mad Men seasons two and three by a work colleague, since I've only seen season one and BBC2 is showing season four before the rights expire and are snapped up by that avaricious goblin in charge of Sky. More on that when I get round to it. I've started working my way through the episodes, and they are starting to form a continuous experience, like a window that happens to face onto Sterling Cooper's offices.

Two networking events were on the cards for the week, but one on Monday clashed with another elsewhere. The last time this happened, attendance was very low, and there was a good chance that certain people may be present whom I have no wish to speak to, someone who basically dicked me about for a year, promising to get a film made, while doing nothing of the kind. She's still touting her own crappy project around. Serve her right.

The other one, on Tuesday, would have gone better had I managed my time better. Turning up late having had to stop for tea and working out that I'd only be able to stay for an hour in order to get home in time for a pre-arranged phone call meant that I met few people of interest, several who struggled to make themselves understood, and one bloke dressed like Magnum who gave me a CD of bland video game music his client had composed.

The film quiz on Wednesday was a turn-up for the books. I had decided to eshew my usual teammates - the captain of whom said he doesn't read this blog, making this the perfect opportunity for me to brag - in order to finish the book for the the following night's book group meet. I filled out my quiz sheet, waded through the end of The Year of the Flood by Margaret Attwood - bloody awful - and came third. My old team didn't even place. I believe this is called "nerdenfreude".

The actual book group meet was a very civil affair, with an even split of people who liked and disliked the book, and the group's leader egging me on to tear into it. It was hard to summon much enthusiasm for a volume that tedious and uninspired, especially since I was one of the last in the circle to give their opinion, and much of what I wanted to say had been better phrased by others. Still, there was a pleasant, cordial atmosphere, and unlike last month, there weren't any drug addicts trying to steal my bike.

The third prize from the quiz came in handy as a late Christmas present for one of my closet friends when I saw her on Saturday. Since she moved to Brighton last summer, I don't get to see her as much as I'd like, but it was enjoyable to catch up in the flesh as the rest of her martial arts club watched the rugby on the pub's big screen and we clapped - more out of ritual than support - whenever England scored. I hope she enjoys that six-pack of Corona as much as she said she would. I'll have to take her out and get her something she'd actually like as the other two-thirds of her gift.

I also got my watch repaired and bought two new pairs of trousers to replace the two that have had holes worn in them by rubbing against my bicycle saddle, as well as starting to research places to hold my 30th birthday party. It's quite enjoyable to find that they often look nothing like the pictures on the website, or even more confusingly are closed at weekends.

If anyone has any suggestions for places that don't charge for renting space/a room between, oh let's say, Greenwich and Soho, let me know. Yes, Kirstie, that means you. I know you're reading this. That's me tapping at the window. Hello!

Operation Brainmess

Who's seen Brighton Rock? No, the new one. Go on, put your hands up. Really? That few? Hmpf, kids today, I don't know.

Okay, so did you watch the credits? Any names on the crew leap out at you? How about Rowan Joffe? No, not the Orange guy. Yes, I'm sure he does know when he's been Tango'd. Go and sit in the corner.

Joffe has a bit of a pedigree, as he's been producing interesting work for film and television for the last decade or so. He wrote and directed the "recovering paedophile" drama Secret Life for Channel 4, co-wrote 28 Weeks Later and adapted the novel A Very Private Gentleman as The American for George Clooney. The interesting part is that he seems, according to Wikipedia, to have appeared on the scene almost spontaneously in 2000 - something that ties into his heritage.

His real pedigree lies in his parentage. His father is Roland Joffe, a successful BBC television director in 1970s who broke in film in the middle of the following decade. He achieved the impressive feat of landing Best Director nominations at the Oscars for both his first two films, The Killing Fields and The Mission, but things have sagged for him since then. He was the original director of Super Mario Bros, before being separated from his job,and his follow-up was a remake of The Scarlet Letter with Demi Moore in the lead. It was laughed out of cinemas. His last respectable film was Vatel in... 2000.

From the Oscar-nominated
director of "The Mission"

My theory is somewhat radical, I'll admit, but it does fit the facts. It seems fairly obvious that Joffe Sr. transplanted his mind into that of his son at the turn of the millennium, possibly in accordance with some pre-existing prophecy. His career since then has been beyond embarrassment. A US-Russian torture porn flick called Captivity, which had its billboards removed in Los Angeles for being offensive, and leading Joss Whedon to accuse the producers of mysogyny. Another Russian film about phoney lesbians T.a.T.u. starring paparazzoid nobody Mischa Barton, which has struggled to get a release in its home country. Most startlingly, a film about the founder of weirdo Catholic sect Opus Dei - produced by members of Opus Dei.

Short of some horrible blackmail plot, there seems to be no reason for Joffe Sr. to be making these films - unless he is doing so without a controlling intelligence. With his son's body as his puppet - and who is to say that it really is his son, it could just be some unfortunate street youth - he can create a new career, safe from the stains of his previous work, while his name is used to produce weapons-grade bollocks. Yes, I have seen Captivity. No, you don't what to see a film where someone is force-fed their own liquidised foot.

But surely, the ultimate proof is this - Can you prove it didn't happen?

You can go back to your seat now.

Diary

The last week has been surprisingly uneventful. Most of my evenings have been taken up with going to the gym, rewriting a script and watching TV - Five USA is finally repeating season 2 of Breaking Bad, hooray - along with a trip to the parents' homestead at the weekend. I rented Sherlock Holmes for us to watch on Saturday night. Dad was a little nonplussed by Robert Downey Jr., but they both seemed to enjoy it. The week before, however...

Being stopped by the police is one of those rare occurrences that may have happened to someone you know. It happened to me as I was cycling through the City on Thursday night. Yes, cycling. Apparently, laddo decided that my lights weren't bright enough, but he'd let me off the £30 fine if I didn't go out with them after I'd reached my destination. A later discussion birthed the knowledge that he was talking through his helmet, that brightness would be entirely subjective, and that he'd probably tried arresting Mervyn King for not having a tax disc, hence being put on traffic duty in a cabin on Fenchurch Street in rush hour.

The fun part was when I was on my way home, and my brakes felt a little spongy. Once I got in, I got out my tools to tighten them up when - TWANG - the cable snapped. I found a little old man who fixed it in a couple of hours on Saturday, but also imagined what might have happened had they gone while I was descending the steep hill past London Bridge station, which has a pedestrian crossing at the bottom. Carnage.

Having got the bike fixed on Saturday, I embarked on a round London trip, heading from my corner of SE16 across Lambeth and Kensington to Notting Hill, then down Oxford Street and along the embankment for home. I had resolved to make a healthy dinner of my own Prawn Green Curry when I got home, but decided, upon entering the supermarket after 8pm, that I simply couldn't be arsed. I had Chicken Kiev, and am still paying for it.

The reason for the Notting Hill trip was to cash in some old book I had stacking up, mostly of book groups past, and see what the second-hand bookshop there would give me. The answer was, "not much", but my eye was drawn by two things. Firstly, a cut-out of a Cyberman in the window. Secondly, a display case containing some rare Doctor Who novels missing from my collection, with the promise of more in the back.

It's quite hard to describe the feeling of looking through seemingly endless shelves of desirable sci-fi novels. You could call it a mixture of child-like awe and wonderment, with some excitement mixed in. Although I had almost all of them anyway, the urge to grab an armful and take them to the till was hard to resist. Instead, I sauntered up to the cashier bloke and politely asked for the copies of Lungbarrow and Cold Fusion behind him. Those of you in the know, or willing to check on eBay, will realise the improbability of being able to buy both in the same transaction. Suffice to say the price was substantial, but far from unaffordable. I didn't really need those extra teeth anyway.

Friday night was the night of excitement, as far as I was concerned, since this meant the long-awaited release of The Ward. I settled down into my seat at the Empire Leicester Square, having bought a £13 ticket and stocked up on snacks from the tube station, even though I supposed to be losing weight. It was especially nice of the lady at the box office to seat me almost directly in front on someone else, even though the cinema was nearly deserted. As for the film itself, I need only copy my comments from Facebook:

"The film, incidentally, is pretty good. A return to form after the dire Masters of Horror episodes, and with a screenplay that is a lot more sophisticated than it appears. It's still some distance from the glory days of Halloween and The Fog, but it stands comfortably along his later second-string efforts such as In the Mouth of Madness and Prince of Darkness. Recommended."

I also dozed off part of the way through, possibly a symptom of treating sleep as a luxury to be rationed, and often not putting out the light until 3am. An awful habit, I know. There was another trip to the pictures on Saturday while my bike was being fixed. This time: Black Swan. Again, cross-posting:

"It states the obvious at great length ("Did you know that ballerinas have a tough time and are worried about getting old?" Yes, I did, thanks) and mercilessly rips off The Red Shoes and Polanski's Repulsion, adding nothing original. That it has received more BAFTA nominations that The Social Network and Four Lions put together is an embarrassment."

I seem to be in a minority of the sane for calling it "bloody awful". People will be saying Dario Argento is a decent director next.

There's also been a new article for a friend's Doctor Who-based fanzine, which I shall plug when I get confident that people reading this haven't seen me do so elsewhere. I don't want to spoil it, but it mentions dragons, the Foreign Legion and heroin. Combined with a ludicrous workload in the office, where my potential productivity has been catastrophically overestimated, that is largely it.

Except for one thing. My weight.

I've been trying to lose weight for around a year, having rejoined a gym, gone for a run most days, hired a personal trainer and changed my eating habits. But it's very hard. My willpower is pathetic, virtually nil. Last night, the night before I start a new food diary, I had the following for dinner:

Two cheese and onion rolls (like sausage rolls).
Sausage and egg sandwich.
Four rolls with extra light cheese spread.
Two pieces of breaded cod.
A tin of sweetcorn.
Mullerrice.
Two large bottles of beer.

I really shouldn't have been surprised when I tipped the scales at 84.2 kilos this morning, a full kilo off Monday and some margin from my target of 75. Superhuman effort in resistance and a hard 20 minute run has managed to cut it back to 83.2 kilos as of after dinner this evening, but if I'm going to get this weight thing licked, I'm going to need help.

Which is where you come in. All I ask is for a bit of encouragement. A kind word when the number goes down. A mean one - but not too mean, I bruise easily - when it goes up. No cash, no sponsorship, just a few keystrokes when you can spare the time.

Thanks in advance, so you'll feel guilty if you next see me wearing a smock like Dom DeLuise.

My plan is to get the weight off by my 30th birthday - late next month - and reward myself with a HTC Desire, my first posh phone. If you see me still using my ancient slip-top one, remember to ask me what the scales said that morning.

"No coach parties, please."

Anyway, that's enough misery. Let's finish with a song.

I Still Exist

I'm currently watching Night of the Demon, and there's a scene where a dead man's diary reveals a curse placed upon him - and the person reading the diary.

This has reminded me to update the blog. Give me 24 hours.