About Me

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

Friday, 25 February 2011

What I Really Want To Do is Direct

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

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.

Monday, 21 February 2011

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.

Sunday, 13 February 2011

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.

Wednesday, 2 February 2011

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.

Tuesday, 1 February 2011

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.

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