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.
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.
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.
