deadbeat inc.

Attempted Film Review - The Other Guys [2010]

2011-11-29T05:05:00.001-08:00

Before leaving the house this morning to see Will Ferrell’s 403^rd high-concept comedy this century, I quickly glanced at today’s Guardian, the film and music section to be more precise, where the esteemed film critic Peter Bradshaw gave The Other Guys an unprecedented 5 stars. Gosh. Being as I want to be just like Peter Bradshaw (P-Braddy) when I does grow up, I figured I’d have to give it 5 stars too, no matter what I actually thought of the film.

In fact, I don’t think a naive, young critic such as myself can possibly do this complicated and brilliant film true justice, so instead of me reviewing it, I’m just going to copy and paste Mr. Bradshaw’s review right here for you now. (Please note that for space I’ve had to edit the review down from its 9000 word original, but hopefully what remains will still give you a flavour of his intention.) Enjoy!

WHAT A MASTERPIECE! A triumph for the mind, ears and eyes! Such wonders! Such performances! And oh the mise-en-scene! This is cinema at its purest: joyful, engaging and utterly captivating.

The story is complex yet delectably satisfying; choosing to stay true to the bones of Emile Zola’s original novel, yet not afraid to go off on wildly imaginative yet contextually relevant tangents of its own. The Other Guys concerns two brushed aside NYPD detectives who finally come to the fore when superstar cops, Highsmith and Danson (delicious cameos from notable black person Samuel L. Jackson and a Rock), are killed in the line of duty.

Inexperienced detectives Hoitz and Gamble find themselves way out of their league, immersed in a deadly game of cat and mouse, involving murder, corporate espionage and high-level corruption, all whilst battling their darkest personal demons. This is adult stuff indeed, played deftly with the graceful comic hand of criminally underrated director, Adam McKay (Talledega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby).

Like Jean Renoir before him, McKay is at his finest dealing with multiple narratives and an ensemble cast of confident old hands and bright, shining new stars. Never has this been more obvious than during the rightfully classic ‘very discreet brawl during a wake’ scene. A segment that not only sums up The Other Guys as a whole, but also McKay’s entire career itself; A discreet brawl during a wake. THOUGHT PROVOKING!

Mark Wahlberg is a revelation as the damaged and heartbreakingly vulnerable Detective Hoitz. Will Ferrell has never EVER been more charming and creative as Detective Gamble, the troubled yet stoic ex-accountant having to work a beat against his will. The legendary Michael Keaton FINALLY returns after a long absence with a powerhouse performance that exudes masterfulness from every pour. Here are the roles these actors were all BORN TO PLAY! Everything they have achieved in their respectively excellent bodies of work has been leading up to this moment. The Other Guys is Ferrel’s, Wahlberg’s AND Keaton’s Xanadu.

Also do watch out for Damon Wayans Jr, he has finally stepped out from under his father’s vast and intimidating shadow by commanding well deserved attention as the antagonistic and debonair Detective Fosse. It’s a subtle yet memorable performance to make his father proud.

Of particularly daring note is the film’s anti corporate message. Subtlely laced, beneath the laughter, throughout the film’s labyrinthine narrative, then brought to the fore over the final credits in a sumptuously rendered power-point style presentation, where the audience is smashed in the face with some stone cold facts of real life capitalist corruption, all to the tune of Rage Against the Machine’s inspired cover of Dylan’s anti-capitalist masterpiece ‘Maggie’s Farm’.

Some people may say that this is a superficial co-opting of a popular message without any true value or understanding of its meaning, and that it’s rather hypocritical for the producers of a $90 million Will Ferrell comedy to decry the greed of the non-Hollywood business world, but those people are just missing the point and can just fuck off.

Make no mistake, film fans, this is a refreshing blast of modern film making genius that will change the face of comedy forever.

*Dusts off hands, closes laptop lid, crosses arms, stares self-satisfied into the middle distance for nine whole minutes*

Attempted Film Review - Piranha 3D [2010]

2011-11-29T05:03:00.000-08:00

Piranha 3D is a film that truly wears it’s commerciality on its sleeve. Not like Transformers or GI Joe who despite having the snigger inducing opening credit for each: ‘Based on a Hasbro toy’, they still pretend to be legitimate film making enterprises rather than lavishly expensive adverts by hiding within multiple layers of confusing narrative and unearned pathos. Not Piranha 3D though. Oh no.

Pirahna 3D doesn’t have time for pretention. Piranha 3D doesn’t care for such Hollywood gimmicks like story and characterisation. Piranha 3D knows what sells tickets, and Piranha 3D delivers in gore-splattered, boob-shaped spades of grue and matter.

And oh Christ does it deliver. In the watching of Piranha 3D, you will truly know the meaning of the word fodder.

Set on Lake Victoria, a notorious Spring Break hotspot, (If you’re unaware of the importance of Spring Break to the psyche of American youth then you clearly have a proper job and watch very little daytime MTV. Congratulations) it is here that we are the shameful witnesses to the slaughter of hundreds upon hundreds of (sometimes) bikini’d teenage girls, and ham-headed jocks with hundred percent date-rape potential. (A jock is an American sporty man.)

In every conceivable way there is death. In an overly populated, tiny bay, that swiftly turns into a vicious feeding pool, hundreds of these gormless douchebags (another common American parlance, I hear) are bait to millions of newly unearthed (there was an earthquake, don’t ask), pre-historic (again, don’t ask), super ugly, super hungry, bitey killers.

In any possible outcome that involves the mathematical equation: Moron x 10,000 + piranhas + water + electrical equipment + booze + speedboats, there is all death, any death, all the time, all day long.

Everything you could imagine happening involving any of the above hypotheses happens here. In fact half the extraordinarily stomach-turning deaths aren’t even caused by the fucking fish. Piranha 3D is exactly like the first thirty minutes of Saving Private Ryan, only its longer, a bit funnier and has fecking great big killer Nemos instead of Nazis.

Death, death, death, death, death, death, death.

And tits.

So many tits.

Tits and killing. That’s all there is. If you asked a fifteen year old boy what their ideal film would be, this would be it. Plot? Nah, you won’t care. There is one, but who gives a flying hellfish.

Piranha 3D is also the only film in existence to prefigure its final twist with the unlikely line ‘the piranha’s sexual organs have yet to mature’. Nobody is taking this film seriously, not the actors, not the film-makers, not even the boy behind the concession stand when I asked ‘one ticket to see Piranha 3D, back-row please’. But in the end, all this sardonic glee is its greatest strength.

It’s refreshingly nihilistic, almost courageous in its extremeness and utterly unrelenting; never once dropping its guard or sense of absurdity. It also has a unapologetically high nostalgia factor, not just in its setting and the blatant harking back to a video-nasty era of eighties film-making, but it’s also home to a bizarrely placed Back To The Future reunion between Elisabeth Shue and Christopher Lloyd.

And then there’s Richard Dreyfuss.

There’s actually a heart warming story about why the rarely seen Richard Dreyfuss agreed to make his fleeting cameo appearance as the first victim to the titular toothy bastards; it’s because Bob Weinstein offered him a ton of money.

Oh.

Piranha 3D may be sticking its toe in the sleazy end of the feeding pool, but it does manage to bait and drown a few deserving victims along with it. Particularly the oily, smut merchant Joe Francis, producer of the Girls Gone Wild franchise of grumble videos.

Jerry O’Connell plays the professional scumbag with acute loathing, and you can see how much he and the film makers enjoy punishing this vile exploiter of the young & self-esteemless throughout the course of the film, right up until (ineffectual spoiler alert) he gets killed by some fish. And for that end alone, this is an oddly admirable film

To conclude, Piranha 3D is an efficient, grotesque and heavily streamlined little fright machine that although you should respect, you probably shouldn’t go anywhere near.

Wait, that’s just like the piranhas in the movie themselves.

HA HA YES! I am excellent at writing film reviews!!!*

*Please ignore the fact that in spite of having the whole of the internet to hand, I didn’t bother to find out whether the plural for piranha is in fact piranha or piranhas. I frequently used both in this review**.

**It should also be noted that although I frequently wrote the term 3D in this review, what with it being in the title and all, I didn’t actually once talk about the 3D. The 3D was shit. END OF REVIEW!

Attempted Film Review - Gainsbourg [2010]

2011-11-29T05:02:00.000-08:00

As I sit back in the surprisingly comfortable chair of my local cinema, I realise there’s nobody else in the theatre. I’m drinking a glass of red wine (it’s one of those cinemas), I’m occasionally throwing handfuls of Wasabi Peas into my mouth (definitely one of those cinemas), and I’m about to watch the new biopic of serial-shagger, Serge Gainsbourg. Things are gonna get pretty self-romantic and fast if another audience member doesn’t get ushered in soon.

Thankfully one does, a Pee Wee Herman moment is narrowly avoided, and I can instead concentrate on ‘critically appraising’ the film. Disappointing.

Serge Gainsbourg, for all the mono-lingual, Franco-suspicious, Jeremy Clarkson loving philistines who may not know, was the song-writer, artist and nymphet corrupter extraordinaire, whose’ brilliant, experimental pop music spanned four turbulent and lustful decades.

Joann Sfar’s directorial debut, Gainsbourg, tells the rambunctious tale of this seductive man. Based on his own graphic novel, the film takes an uncommonly magical realist slant on the man’s life, which is by no means meant to represent a true document. In fact the film itself misses vital information that necessitates a post-cinema google session. But Gainsbourg isn’t about detail, it’s about tone, emotion, character and art.

The possibly divisive elements that truly set Gainsbourg apart from your standard music biopic, such as Ray or Walk The Line, is the the utterly winning inclusion of the physical manifestation of Serge’s deepest id, called self-deprecatingly, The Mug.

The Mug (played by Doug Jones who you may know better as Abe Sapien from Hellboy 2, or as the Paedo monster from Pan’s Labyrinth. Nerds.) is a grotesque caricature of Serge, with disproportionate facial features, towering height and creepy long fingers. He is Gainsbourg’s arrogance, greed, self confidence and sexuality personified. He glides around Serge like a ballerina, sometimes imagined, sometimes interacting with the other characters; the interplay between him and Serge is disarmingly charming.

And unlike the aforementioned Hollywood biopics, Gainsbourg doesn’t seek to manipulate or melodramatise. The story is told with humour and grace. It focuses on the personal, the familial. We don’t need to know how many millions of records the man sold; all we need to know is how he managed to live his life so richly. A life that goes a little something like this:

Smoke, shag, carouse, knock out the odd genre-defying mega-hit, smoke, flippantly break a woman’s heart or four, smoke, drink, have a heart attack, drink, smoke, father yet another child with yet another woman, shag, write, drink, adopt ill-advised late-period reggae phase, drink, smoke, die.

Brilliant, it’s just like Mesrine, only it’s about sex and music rather than killing and robbing. Both are primarily about smoking a shitload though. Who could ask for a better life? Fuck, only making friends with an eternally generous leprechaun would make his a more charmed existence.

Eric Elmosnino puts in a deeply satisfying performance as Gainsbourg, showing a full range of 40 years worth of life, from clumsy struggling naïf to smooth, successful seducer to drunken, raving malcontent. It’s a masterful piece of acting, and although the one major complaint of the film is that it dribbles towards a rather unsatisfying ending, much like the real Gainsbourg himself, Elmosnino is never less than hypnotic throughout.

Modern French cinema has a very flat, stately yet rudimentary quality to it. Sure the drama, acting and storytelling are always top rate, but there is very little to get excited about in the visual stakes. Gainsbourg blows that theory wide open. It’s a rich, playful, luxurious experience, deeply indebted to its subject, and best of all a fitting and honest tribute.

Surprisingly little rufty though. So ultimately a bit of a disappointment.

Attempted Film Review - The Killer Inside Me [2010]

2011-11-29T05:00:00.000-08:00

Stepping out into the broad daylight of a summer’s afternoon after watching The Killer Inside Me, Michael Winterbottom’s entry into the Film Noir canon, proves a grotesquely incongruous affair. The joy has gone from my life now. I hate the birds. I hate the bees. I want to kill them with my bare hands and a rictus grin on my face. The sun; I’m going to frame that yellow prick for murder; an auto erotic asphyxiation death pact between the flowers and the trees. Child’s balloons I shall defile. Ice cream I shall befoul. New born lambs I shall consume in one gulp, while laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing, all with the full knowledge that I am now dead inside thanks to this film.

Casey Affleck plays Deputy Sheriff Lou Ford, an outwardly pleasant yet largely facile sociopath, a soulless husk of a man who wanders from trivial encounter to sexually violent atrocity with the same thousand yard stare and inane platituding as an impotent civil servant.

Affleck is a genius, and anything negative this review may say later about the film itself, shouldn’t take away from the fact that for Affleck’s performance alone, The Killer Inside Me is worth every penny of the ticket price (or an entire year’s worth of unwatched Lovefilm discs).

Sheriff Ford attempts to run Jessica Alba’s prostitute, Joyce, out of town, but instead embarks on an oddly tender sadomasochistic affair with her. Together they plot revenge on the man who supposedly murdered Ford’s brother, construction magnate Chester Conway (Ned Beatty! Where have you been?) Things take a cruel turn for the worst when Ford turns on Joyce by viciously beating her to death, then murdering Conway’s son in order to frame them both for homicide. As suspicion mounts, Ford has to cover his tracks with even more murders and lies, until eventually his mask of sanity completely slips away.

To be honest that’s a far more straightforward recounting of the plot than the film itself deigns to provide you with. Whilst watching The Killer Inside Me, following the plot becomes futile, frustrating and ultimately boring. As in all classic Noir, the logic of the narrative takes a back seat; a series of Macguffins strung together in order to exemplify characters, tone and mood.

In an apocryphal tale from 1940’s Hollywood, Billy Wilder once rang Raymond Chandler, whilst adapting his novel The Big Sleep for the screen, to ask him where on Earth an extra dead body came from in the narrative. Chandler dryly replied that he didn’t know and that it didn’t matter anyway.

It’s best to let the plot unfold and just enjoy the drama. But perhaps that’s only true in much stronger films. The pace here is languid. In fact it actually fiddles under the skirt of tedium far too often; such is the old fashioned structure of the film.

This soporific pace however is punctuated two extreme examples of brutal violence, both of which meted out by Sheriff Ford towards the women who love him; women who are complicit in the violence and ultimately forgive him for it.

At its worst The Killer Inside Me is fiercely misogynistic, at its best it’s merely ignorant of the existence of women. But have I made a classic mistake in confusing the film itself with the character of Lou Ford? We are supposedly in the psyche of Ford, where women are nothing but a cipher to the man. A symbol and personification of the demons he so willingly faces every day.

People who think this is a violent and immoral film are not necessarily seeing the whole picture. Yes it’s violent, but there is a huge difference between immoral violence and uncompromising violence. The Killer Inside Me holds up a mirror to Noir and truly exposes the misogyny that has been inherent in the genre from its conception.

But is extreme violence really necessary to make these points? Also is it necessary that the only three women featured in this film are so compliant and forgiving of the crimes against them?

Michael Winterbottom chooses to show them enjoying the rough, sadomasochistic aspects of Fords sexuality, which is a very modern and progressive attitude to have. But Winterbottom (and indeed original author Jim Thompson, who also wrote hardboiled classics The Getaway and The Grifters) later implies that this sexuality is a gateway to deadlier brutal violence.

Joyce and Amy (Kate Hudson) invite their own demise by allowing Ford to act out his fantasies on them in the first place. This is an unhealthy and irresponsible attitude to display in filmmaking, as is the implication that this entire fault belongs to the mysterious woman in Ford’s flashbacks. Ford is not once held accountable for his own crimes; it’s the women’s fault. They gave him the sickness. They nurtured it and they allowed it to destroy them.

It’s then very difficult to separate the rest of the film from these two key scenes of horror. Winterbottom doesn’t seem to do himself any favours either, appearing aloof and reticent in interviews as if he’s equal parts surprised and bored at our reaction towards the film.

Filmically the tone is all over the place and takes far too many cues from other more successful modern stabs at noir. From the blackly comic depiction of the horror hidden beneath a small town’s suburban life in The History Of Violence, to the dusty trip through the backwater psyche of law enforcement in No Country For Old Men, The Killer Inside Me has little visually or thematically to add to a popular and difficult to truly balls up genre.

There are also far too many redundant characters that only add to the confusion, and the bizarre fiddle music that punctuates certain scenes keeps the film arch and highly self aware, in a way that the Coens are far more successful at doing.

I like Michael Winterbottom, and have admired him greatly. Highly prolific, erudite, and unchallenged by genre, resources or budget, the man makes the movies he wants to make. But this does make him somewhat of a tourist. Never really leaving a signature or stamp of any meaning in any genre he’s holidayed in. Can you name a Michael Winterbottom masterpiece?

This difficult, unenjoyable, yet thoroughly appreciatable film won’t do him any favours. But then again he probably doesn’t care anyway.

Bunnies! I forgot about the bunnies. Fine, they can live. For now.

Attempted Film Review - Rec 2 [2010]

2011-11-29T04:58:00.000-08:00

With equal measures of exhilaration and irritation, your enjoyment of [Rec] 2 will most likely depend on how comfortable you are watching a nauseatingly paced videogame at the cinema. Kids today love that shit though, and you want to be down with the kids too, right? Yeah, you’ll love this shit.

[Rec] was an effective and modestly budgeted Spanish chiller, with some superior shocks and a neat line in dour nihilism. It also pretended to be a zombie film.

According to [Rec] 2 however this was not the case at all. [Rec] 2 turns the original premise completely on its head. That sneaky bastard.

Launching straight into action from the first frame (for heaven’s sake, do not watch this film unless you’ve seen the first one) we follow a heavily armed SWAT team, led by a Rutger Hauer-esque health official, into the quarantined apartment where they immediately encounter the voracious, bleedy-eyed monsters from the first film. Like, duh.

SPOILER ALERT:

However when one of the attacking ‘zombies’ is placated by a religious incantation from the health inspector; the true nature of the virus is revealed.

So there you go. Straight away all your questions from the first film are answered and explained; the virus is a demonic possession, spread by the bizarre gangly creature locked in the attic.

Not just zombies then. Zombies need no introduction; we’ve met them many times before. “Hello, how do you do? You’re looking a little unwell. Oh no, my brains.”

The first reaction to this is a knee-jerk one of utter disappointment. Mostly that the filmmakers felt it necessary to provide us with all this unfettered and frivolous backstory.

This reaction is based on decades of poor sequels to brilliant horror movies, where the only narrative place left to visit in the following chapter is to clinically explain the mysteries of the original. Forgetting that the ambiguity of the original film was what made it so brilliant in the first place. Just see the sequels to Ring, Blair Witch Project or... uh... yeah, there’s probably more, and you’ll see what I mean.

In [Rec] 2 however this full disclosure shockingly seems to work in its favour. The conceit is genuinely interesting, and you’re given such scant but teasing information in the first film, that any further enquiry here is more than welcome. The frenetic pace also helps to hurriedly gloss over any immediate feelings of frustration.

In fact the sheer balls-out pace of the film hides a whole zombie filled whorehouse full of cinema sins. There is ZERO character development. You won’t know, care or even recognise anyone from scene to scene (apart from one guy called Larra who just serves to distractingly remind you of Cilla Black); they are just pure fodder.

Sure, there are some nasty, brutal deaths, but most of them would resonate much better with the audience if you reacted a bit deeper than ‘oh no, High-vis-coat-guy got shot in the face, he looked like he could have been nice in those fleeting 65 seconds of screen time he had’. But then again, that’s missing the point entirely. The threat is bigger than the characters.

Equally disappointing is the stock trope of a sequel sending in the heavies to deal with the unspecified menace from the original. A device we’ve seen a thousand times before from Aliens to Hills Have Eyes to... Uh... yeah, there’s probably more. When you’re protagonists have body armour and massive guns it’s just not scary for us anymore no matter how evil or drooling the beastie is. Stop doing that.

In a more positive twist, the camerawork (and cameraman) is given a more central and ultimately useful role than in the first film. Using the high-def cameras fitted into the SWAT teams’ helmets, you are given a first-person shooter perspective of all the action. A nice switch up from the shaky TV camera footage of the first film, [Rec] 2 is the Gears of War 2 to [Rec]’s Metroid Prime.

(Those are both games right? I managed to confuse myself horrendously in that last sentence, so I’ve no idea how you coped? As a further digression, I really enjoy using those blocky, square parentheses that [Rec] uses in its title. Much better than these stupid, girly, curvy ones surrounding this paragraph, those are the fannies of punctuation. Not like these manly, tough guys: [] Oh yeah.)

Essentially this is the film Doom wished it was. Grim, gory, sweary and depressing, with unrelenting religious overtones, and no Karl Urban in sight.

I’m not sure if that makes it a better film or not. It probably does. Three stars then. A solid three stars.

Attempted Film Review (Ugly/Hate filled) - GENTLEMEN BRONCOS [2009]

2010-04-30T08:58:00.000-07:00

In which director, Jared Hess, reveals himself to be the one-trick, Wes Anderson obsessive we always feared he might be. (He also may be a racist, but I’ll discuss that later in a carefully non-litigious manner.)
Strap yourself in, kids, this is gonna get scathing.

Michael Angarano is Benjamin, a charisma lacking husk of a young man, home-schooled from a young age by his mother Jennifer Coolidge, who plays the role the only way she knows how; at full-speed eccentricity. At summer camp Benjamin meets his hero; science fiction author, Ronald Chevalier, an arrogant, talentless hack who proceeds to steal the boy’s own sci-fi manuscript and pass it off as his own work.

At the same time, Benjamin sells the rights of his manuscript to a local no-budget film company who end up interpreting his work in a risible and frankly hideous fashion. Although you’d be hard pressed to understand why the original manuscript deserves a better adaptation, it being a repetitive collection of childish, testicle obsessed, fantasy clichés.

Gentlemen Broncos was unceremoniously yanked from American cinemas early last year, but it’s entirely plausible to believe that the Napoleon Dynamite director’s third feature was just misunderstood. It all sounds good on paper, if a little too in debt to Kurt Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions, but that’s no bad thing. Perhaps it’s a future modern classic in the making, like other overlooked comedy gems of the past? Well it’s not: It’s balls. I HATED this film.

In fact it’s not just hate; I also feel a crushing sense of malaise. It’s during the watching of Gentlemen Broncos that I officially became completely and unequivocally bored of all supposedly indie films funded by major studios and featuring the odd mega-star cameo. I would now like to call a moratorium on all movies stuffed full of forced idiosyncrasies, wacky unlikeable characters, tasteless middle-American decor and self-consciously bizarre dialogue. This film has done an incredible thing in making me retroactively hate films I previously adored; Juno, Junebug, Little Miss Sunshine, Eagle Vs Shark, Thumbsucker and, yes, even Napoleon Dynamite. I hate you all now. Especially you, Miranda July.

What’s out next week? *scans through cinema listings* A Miley Cyrus film! Great I’m there. This is what you’ve done to me, Gentlemen Broncos.
Well I suppose I should back up my bucket of scorn with some cold-hard evidence. It’s what a good reviewer would do.

The protagonist, Benjamin, is an underwritten role, played with vapid gormlessness which barely figures as a performance. He comes from a long line of depressed male teens that we struggle to sympathise with, and who we’ve seen enough of in this type of film.

The dialogue is purposefully weird, heavy with non-sequiturs and irony. It gets tiring, fast. The more accessible attempts at humour splash down heavily in the toilet area; vomiting while kissing, diarrhoeic snakes, dog-poo darts. There’s not a single genuine laugh to be had.

The cinematography is flat but bright. Its intention is to draw your attention to the art direction, which although highly detailed, owes such a huge debt to Wes Anderson, who in turn owes a huge debt to John Waters; you’d think it would collapse under the sheer weight of incest. The trailer invites you to witness ‘another unique view of the world’. The irony is not lost.

Gentlemen Broncos contains some stunningly unoriginal musical cues, most of which you’ve heard before in better films, including the Kansas classic Carry on My Wayward Son. Yes, we’ve seen Anchorman, thank you very much, now I would highly recommend against reminding us of that infinitely funnier film while the credits are still rolling. It also contains one of the single most boring and pointless montages ever committed to film.

The major problem with Gentlemen Broncos is that it relies heavily on how hilarious the audience finds cheap, home-made cinema. There’s a lot of time devoted to what is essentially a one joke premise, and surely we’ve already had our fill of no-budget Star Wars remakes on Youtube. There really is only so much crappy amateur cinema you can sit through and be amused by. Ha ha ha, that actor’s terrible, ho ho ho, that set is made of cardboard, hee hee hee, that CGI was made on an Atari... THAT’S ENOUGH NOW!

The irony is that the bigger budgeted parallel story of Benjamin’s manuscript that plays out in his imagination, re-enacting his beloved manuscript, isn’t any better. In fact it’s painfully embarrassing on all levels. Sam Rockwell, bow your head in shame.

And finally, the worst crime of all, perpetrated throughout the entire canon of Mr. Jared Hess; the use of ethnic actors to play grotesque, feckless stereotypes that are purely there for us to be either amused or horrified by. This is not cool. Not cool at all. Sure, Pedro was funny, but at what cost to the Hispanic community. Maybe I’m being a little too liberal minded for my own good, but seriously, if you see Gentlemen Broncos please question why the character of Lonnie Donaho has been included. Mexicans should definitely boycott all future Hess movies.

If only they weren’t so lazy.

Man, why’s it so easy to be racist about Mexicans? Oh well, back to my The Shield box sets.

Okay, so there is one saving grace. And it is a major one:
Flight Of The Conchords’ Jermaine Clement gives a focussed, studied and brilliantly restrained performance as sci-fi author, Ronald Chevalier. He’s an utter pleasure to watch, from his unbelievable Michael York mimicking accent to his blue-tooth headset and Native American clothing. His role screams ‘please build the whole film around me’ and Oh God, how I wish the director had.

I’m finished. You can relax, I can relax. We can all go about our daily lives now. However, do not be complacent; be constantly aware that at any time of day you could accidentally see this movie. I know it sounds ridiculous and rather time consuming on your part, but people you have to be vigilant. After all, the price of everlasting peace is eternal vigilance.

Sparkles The Pretty Unicorn's Best Tweets.

2010-04-27T08:49:00.000-07:00

Keep up to date with the bipolar, magical unicorn who just LUVS Justin Bieber, right here on Twitter: Unicorns4eva These are his best tweets so far:

Thinking of changing my name to Jeffrey...

Nah... Jeffrey's a shitty name for a unicorn.

Daydreaming of @justinbieber taking me for long gallop through Grendle Woods... He would be a masterful yet gentle little jockey

@justinbieber why won't you reply to any of my tweets? That was a secret family recipe I gave you!

@justinbieber did you even get the collage I sent?

@justinbieber I am going to stab you with my unicorn horn.

@justinbieber I can only apologise for yesterday's behaviour. I've sent you a cake. Eat the cake.

Some might wonder how I can use twitter because I'm a unicorn. IT'S BECAUSE I'M A FUCKING UNICORN! #unicorns

Realising the true potential of my unicorn horn: rotisserie

I got the idea from the KFC BBQ Rods box meal...

Plus I've developed a taste for cats

Stroll through park ruined by impromptu ring-toss game

@pegasus thinks he's so cool, just because he has wings. Prick.

Me and @narwhal are gonna go round to @pegasus's stable and show him exactly how awesome our horns are

Apparently that last tweet awoke something in @pegasus, so me and @narwhal are taking round some pink champagne and Cluedo

@narwhal @pegasus Magical night, guys. Hit the elf wine pretty hard...

Vomited a rainbow this morning; shouldn't have had those last few kittens

@narwhal @pegasus WHICH ONE OF YOU FUCKS STOLE MY HORN!?

Oh without my horn I'm just a crappy horse

@pegasus YOU SOLD MY HORN TO A SPANIEL!?!?

Currently bartering with a spaniel for my own horn back: Cocky bastard

Had to trade him my x-ray vision: Worst unicorn hangover ever

Secret Unicorn Fact #1: I pee glitter

Not sure if it's normal or if there's something medically wrong with me, but it's flipping majestic, especially during a woodland sunset.

My Non-Aspirational Pornographic Fantasies

2010-04-13T14:08:00.000-07:00

#173 Threesome
My long-term partner, Becky, suggests we have a threesome. Without a single moment’s thought, I agree. Thomas, a friend from her gymnasium, arrives at our house within the hour and we immediately get down to business. To begin with Becky lets me watch her slowly pleasure Thomas with her mouth. I am incredibly turned on by the sight of my one true love taking the heavy, muscular man between her lips. Thomas then proceeds to grab Becky by the hair, turn her around and pound her hard from behind. After ten minutes of this I have ejaculated in my own hand and am becoming increasingly bored. Becky moans in pleasure. I decide to take our dog, Rascal, for a walk. Thomas continues to drill Becky hard as waves of pleasure crash through her body. I walk into our local corner shop. Becky straddles Thomas and embarks on her third orgasm. I purchase some milk. It is reasonably priced.

#255 The Office
At work I really fancy my boss, Amanda. Today she is wearing a grey, pleated skirt and black stockings. A tight white shirt strains across her ample chest. It’s a hot day, so a thin layer of perspiration forms across the nape of her neck. As I stare at Amanda from my desk, it becomes too much to bear. I rush to the gents. There’s only one cubicle in the bathroom and the lock’s broken. I decide to take a risk. Inside the cubicle I undo my belt, pull down my trousers and stroke myself to the thought of Amanda’s voluptuous form. There is a noise from outside the cubicle. I freeze in terror. Suddenly I reach for the cubicle handle so I can hold the door closed. I’m too slow. The door swings open to reveal my boss, wide-eyed at the sight of me with my erection in hand, but not at all surprised. Amanda looks me up and down, her full red lips forming a wicked smile. I smile back. She then sets me to the task of cleaning all the toilets in the office building, before dismissing me at the end of the day.

#787 Doctor’s Surgery
I have a routine check-up at the doctor’s. Doctor Grant is an incredibly gorgeous woman, and as she checks my blood pressure there is a tangible attraction between us. We flirt unashamedly with one another. Once again Doctor Grant is a very attractive woman. Unfortunately she suddenly has to rush away to an emergency call; however she says she’ll ensure the attending nurse will take extra special care of me. Doctor Grant whispers in my ear, rather unprofessionally, that the nurse is just as sexy as she is and will be unable to resist my charms. Doctor Grant leaves. The replacement nurse enters. His name is Stephen; he is a 28 year-old father of two. I’ve met him before at football practice. I’m not entirely sure he’s attracted to me; he refuses to look me in the eye during the remaining procedures. I think if I made any sexual advances towards him I’m confident he’d respond favourably. I choose not to.

#922 Sexy Car Wash
I drive my sports car along a lonely deserted road. I come across a car wash in the middle of the desert. I pull in. I am overjoyed to find the car wash is manned by twelve sex-starved, scantily clad women. They excitedly rush over to my car with buckets of soapy water. The girls sponge down my car, and each other, in the hot midday sun. Their young bodies writhe in pleasure as the soapy liquid splashes across their nubile curves, while their barely contained breasts press against the windscreen. My anticipation of what’s to follow reaches a fever pitch. Once they’ve finished with the car, I get out to inspect their handiwork. The girls have marked the bonnet with small surface scratches and the rear windows have gone all streaky. I leave in disgust.

Attempted Film Review (Willfully pretentious/Falling out of love with film) - DOUBLE TAKE [2010]

2010-04-11T05:29:00.001-07:00

Double Take is a collage of four distinct narrative strands, some real, some imagined, but all supposedly interlinked with one another.

It’s probably easier to unpick these strands first, in order to figure out what the heck they’re all meant to be doing here together:

Number One: Authentic footage of Alfred Hitchcock, mostly taken from the knowingly hilarious trailers for his films, and the wry introductions to his own television programme, Alfred Hitchcock Presents.

Brilliant, there is no other director worth studying more than Hitchcock and none more charismatic. I could happily watch hours of footage of this great man at work. He was a genius in every genuine sense: crowd-pleasing yet artful, a gluttonous cineaste that never took himself too seriously. The man and his craft are both fascinating in equal measure.

The footage is edited in a particularly satirical manner, through careful montage these scenes ironically comment on the remaining strands:

Number Two: Documentary and news-reel footage retelling the history of the Cold War, in particular the relationship between opposing world leaders Nikita Khrushchev & Richard Nixon. It also takes in the arms race, the space race and touches briefly on the Cuban Missile crisis.

Okay. Everyone needs a good history lesson from time to time, especially on one of the most extendedly frightening periods of recent history. These events still resonate in our current political climate and it should never be underestimated how close the world came to destruction. It should also be noted that the last vital age of Hollywood played out during the Cold War years, and Hitchcock himself made his greatest films in this period: particularly North By Northwest, Psycho, Vertigo and The Birds.

Initially these two threads seem indistinctly related, the only tangible connection being that Hitchcock made works containing tremendous suspense and his films commented directly on the human condition under extreme threat, during a time when humanity itself was threatened with extinction by a hitherto unknown force, communism, and a terrifying weapon, the nuclear bomb.

However to further complicate matters is the following:

Number Three: A fictional dramatisation of a seemingly impossible meeting between two Hitchcocks; one from the future (1980, the year of his death) and one from the present (1962, on the set of The Birds).

Great, this is fascinating stuff. Like the novel 54 by Wu Ming which sees a fictional Cary Grant hired by the MI6 to thwart communism, it uses the vaguely sci-fi backdrop of an alternate secret history, and plays a tale of straight Hitchcockian intrigue starring the master himself. Espionage, alternate histories, real life legends of Hollywood: I’m in film nerd heaven.

Although I am now losing the point of the first two narrative threads, so perhaps the fourth will shed some light:

Number Four: Contemporary footage of Ron Burrage, famed Alfred Hitchcock lookalike, interviewed by the director and attending various Hitchcock themed events and commercial shoots.

Right, okay, fine. We’re peering behind the curtain now. Much like Hitchcock in his trailers, Grimonprez is treating us to glimpses behind the camera and at the artifice of film-making. How the false can be made legitimate through the careful positioning of a camera lens. The use of Burrage legitimises the fictional plot, humanises the legendary figure of Hitchcock, and proves how an audience can be skilfully manipulated.

This is getting really complicated, but at least the theme of duality is becoming clear. Past Hitchcock meeting Future Hitchcock is the equivalent of two superpowers meeting on the world stage. Both stubborn, both unwilling to back down. They both know that, to paraphrase Hitchcock, in order to survive one must destroy the other. However in doing so, this will lead to one’s own self-destruction. In the USA and USSR’s case this would mean the mutually assured destruction of nuclear war. In the Hitchcocks’ case this would lead to a Back To The Future style rip in the space/time continuum, meaning that neither could exist without the other, and I would get a headache from thinking about it any longer.

Sounds great right? Entertaining, complex and intriguing? Well no, not really, it actually ends up being none of these things.

Hitchcock was a largely apolitical film maker who offered escape. The history of two super powers playing a deadly game of brinkmanship has little to do with the director. Grimonprez often forgets that Hitchcock is the main subject of his film, especially towards the end, getting lost in the rambling and rather patronising history lesson, which is clearly where the directors true interests’ lie. The fictional story of Hitchcock’s double is given short-shrift and too often feels underwritten. This is a major disappointment for Hitchcock fans, who surely make up the core audience.

Regular tongue-in-cheek advert breaks prove to be an annoyance, constantly hampering the suspense; however this does prove to be the point. Hitchcock often decried the evils of advertising during his television show, and here they’re used to compare the threat of Communism on the west to the threat of television on cinema.

The film’s major flaw is that it thinks its way more intelligent than it really is. Ultimately nothing really gels. There are four very interesting films here, but together they form an incoherent, painfully repetitive and unsatisfying mess.

On the plus side you do get to see Alfred Hitchcock do that twiddly-fingers thing that Homer Simpson does, which earns it an immediate extra star.

Attempted Film Review (Nostalgic/Bored of Nostalgia) - THE HOUSE OF THE DEVIL [2010]

2010-03-25T04:16:00.001-07:00

1983 is a strange year to set your retro love-letter to horror in. Gore nostalgia fans will note that the slasher hey-day was a few years previous. 1983 saw a slew of misfiring sequels to previously popular franchises; Halloween III, Jaws 3D, Psycho II and some tacky Stephen King adaptations. Horror was becoming brasher and more garish; the following year would see the release of Nightmare On Elm Street. The House Of The Devil is a purposeful step backwards. Like a lost Dario Argento film, although somewhat watered down for an American audience, it aims to claw back the genre from the day-glo razor-fingers of snark and irony.

The film sets out its intent right from the start; as germophobic college student, Samantha, takes a job as a babysitter for an aging couple in a remote mansion, we are treated to some of our favourite eighties filmic devices – slow zooms (eschewing the more familiar push-in camera techniques), groovy seventies title font, Goblin-esque score, freeze-frames, big hair, large clunky technology – This film WAS made in 1983, in the same way that The Blair Witch Project IS a genuine student film gone wrong. Throw in some leg warmers and roller boots and I’d be lost in my own private fantasia for quite some time. (Someone once recommended a film called Xanadu to me, but I daren’t believe such a mythical wonder could really exist.)

Back in those days you could spend five minutes watching a character walk from one place to another with little else happening. We just weren’t in that much of a hurry in the early-eighties. And that’s the film’s biggest strength: pace. The House Of The Devil has a terrifically slow pace, it takes its sweet time getting anywhere and that’s how you build dread. That’s how you instil fear. Let your audience get fidgety and impatient. They know something horrible is eventually going to happen, so why satisfy them with the relief of it happening early? This is the slowcore lover’s horror movie, and a lesson that should be learnt by every modern genre film-maker.

Happily for its wonderful first hour The House Of The Devil sticks to this formula rigidly. We’re two-thirds of the way in, and all Samantha has achieved plot-wise is order a pizza, but the tension builds palpably in her seemingly innocuous actions. She wanders the corridors of the vast mansion, exploring each room like a naive child. The camera searches around her, leaving awkward spaces of ambiguousness in the frame, and the constant use of low angles draw your eyes into these dark recesses against their will. In one excruciating scene, she dons her walkman headphones and embarks on a lengthy dance around the mansion to some loud and extraordinarily unfashionable music completely unaware that not only is this lethal behaviour in a horror movie but also entirely unacceptable in a real-life babysitting situation. It’s her blasé manner in the face of unknown terror that causes our suspense and frustration.

A largely unknown cast work incredibly well with the material, delivering entirely natural and rather mundane dialogue in a befittingly stilted and awkward manner. The casting highlight is once again getting to see Tom Noonan play the creepy bastard he was always born to play. (Tom Noonan was The Tooth Fairy in Manhunter. Tom Noonan is brills.)

Unfortunately after an incredibly pleasing first couple of acts, at one point involving a scene with a brilliant double-bluff scare moment that turns into a highly unnerving adult shock, the film falls apart.

The House Of The Devil tries to exist in a world without irony, but for that to truly work it also needs an audience that lacks irony; one that hasn’t been bludgeoned around the face with over two decades of post-modernism, cultural dissection and hundreds of moronic remakes. So when the pay-off comes, our desensitised selves can only be disappointed. Nothing is shocking about the finale, it’s rather hackneyed and not particularly scary. Also its biggest crime is that it happens far too quickly. Key facts and plot revelations are thrown at you in a nonsensical manner, characters behave in the most unlikely way possible, and the villains are despatched in a swift and bizarrely easy way, it’s like they’re not even trying.

Further reflection reveals a plot that actually holds very little purchase in the real world, and ultimately you’re left with nothing but a flawed experiment, especially when you then realise that Rosemary’s Baby already exists.

Phrases that I have read or heard at the self service check-out in Sainsbury’s that sound vaguely dirty

2010-03-19T05:16:00.000-07:00

Unexpected item in bagging area

Please try again

How many of your own bags will you be using?

Stand back and await assistance

Insert cash now

Are you collecting Nectar points?

(This isn’t going nearly as well as I imagined)

Put your penis in me

(I’ve resorted to inventing them now)

Unexpected item in bagging area

(YEAH! Totally worth it for that one)

10 Movies and 10 Sincere Apologies to the People I Dragged to See Them

2010-03-11T05:15:00.000-08:00

Baise Moi – Jo Farncombe, London - 2000

Ah, the summer of 2000. What a heady few months they were. Two best friends from a tiny rural town in Shropshire; living and working in London for the first time.
So innocent, so pure, so ‘Jo and Christopher’.
We were in love with film and we greedily devoured every cinematic gift that came our way, and for that one gorgeous summer, my friend, we were in the perfect place to receive those treasures.
On a hot, late-August afternoon, you and I went to the Curzon in Soho to see Baise Moi.

You squirmed. I squirmed. We witnessed fully explicit vaginal penetration on screen for the first time and far larger than anyone really needs to see it. I became aroused, then so very afraid.
I dare not speak for what was happening on your side of the cup holder...

We left the cinema in the early evening, changed. The sun still beamed down on us but it made no difference. It felt altered somehow. Everything felt altered now. We felt altered.
We could have blamed the big city. We could have blamed the film. Instead we blamed each other.

I never saw you again.

Paranormal Activity – Alexia Smith, Cambridge - 2009

My long-term girlfriend, Alexia, things are now hanging by a tiny thread. In fact I realise I can draw a distinct line straight back through to last December...

You said: ‘I know it’s your birthday, but I just don’t like horror films’.
I ignored you. We saw Paranormal Activity. Now you won’t go upstairs anymore.

Upstairs is where our bedroom is. In our bedroom is where the attic is. Therefore you won’t go in the bedroom.
That is where our best stuff is.

You refuse to have sex in the kitchen.

I have made so many mistakes.

The Orphic Trilogy - Jack Gocher, Chester - 2006

There are those who say you can’t mix weighty film-criticism with babysitting one’s 4 year-old nephew. Those people may just be right.

Oh Jack, your tiny infant mind struggled with the complex themes of artistic obsession, poeticism and the power of metaphor. And although you could probably fathom that these three masterpieces (running time totalling 225 minutes) were decadent and playfully subversive, I feel the larger meta-textual layers were beyond you.
You held a vacant stare for weeks afterwards that no amount of Spongebob Squarepants could erase.

And your suggestions for my Film International editorial piece were largely amateurish.

Look Who’s Talking Too – Mr. and Mrs. Ratcliff, Shrewsbury - 1990

In fact any film I saw on any given birthday with my Mum and Dad throughout the late eighties/early nineties... Ghostbusters 2, Home Alone 2, Never Ending Story 2, Teen Wolf Too, Karate Kid 2... Sigh.
During that period of time my father’s favourite films included A Clockwork Orange and Bladerunner. This must have been a heavily traumatic experience for him. But then I suppose that’s the ultimate sacrifice a person makes when they have a child: taste.

Look Who’s Talking Too is most notable for having a title that makes you picture a very wacky gentleman saying the title whilst pointing and shaking his head in disbelief. This is what a prick looks like.

The second sequel included a dog. We saw that one too.
For fuck’s sake.

Speed – Sarah Butters, Wrexham - 1994

My high school crush. You loved Keanu Reeves. I loved you. I invited you to see Speed with me. Unbelievably you accepted.

I thought that Keanu Reeves’ heroism and vacant yet chiselled handsomeness would somehow reflect on to me. Instead you fell in love with Keanu Reeves even harder.
I had to sit through Speed. I had failed to win your heart.

I left you at the retail park without a lift home.

Monsters VS. Aliens – Rob Booker, Leeds - 2009

My occasional colleague and full-time friend, Robert Arthur Raymond Booker, last year I took you to see your first modern-day 3D film and I am afraid that it has ruined you.

I had already seen the mind-blowing My Bloody Valentine and then spent the following month gushing to you about this 3rd revolution in cinema. I constantly shouted propagandist phrases at you like ‘3D is the 3rd revolution in cinema’. Subsequently you came to see Monsters Vs Aliens with me and sceptically paid the extra two pounds for the glasses. Now you refuse to see any films that aren’t in glorious 3D, and also refuse to take off those stupid glasses.

Here’s a list of films you’ve since missed in 2009 – A Serious Man, The Hangover, The Hurt Locker, Let the Right One In, In the Loop, Fish Tank, Moon.

Here’s a list of films you have seen – The Final Destination.

I think you put it best when you said ‘Well if they wanted me to watch An Education they should have made it in 3D’.

Honest – Charles Ratcliff snr, Shrewsbury - 2000

The Appleton sisters getting their boobs out does not a good film make. I remember nothing about this film. I don’t even remember how their boobs looked. In fact I don’t even remember who the Appleton sisters were or are. I really should’ve rented this on my own and been true to my own perviness instead of dragging my innocent granddad to see this feckless hatchet job.

I have learnt to forgive myself over the stroke you suffered soon afterwards. My Grandparents however have not.

Happiness – Martin, Richard, Thomas & Mark, Manchester – 1999.

At university I mostly lived with Sports Science or Business Studies students. I studied film. For an evening’s entertainment that the whole flat could enjoy I suggested we go see the latest art-house smash Happiness.

That night I couldn’t possibly have sunk into my chair any lower.

You know when you inexplicably go to a multiplex in the centre of a large city on a Saturday evening and there’s a substantial group of teenagers sat a couple of rows in front of you, texting, sneering and loudly commentating on every little thing purely out of sheer boredom because they’re clearly just there to waste time before they hit ‘date-rape’ hot-spot Tiger Tiger?

Well that’s who I took to the cinema with me that night.

Four weeks later I would drop out of university and my flatmates would purposefully only go see $200 million+ budget films from then on in just to spite me.

Although they would’ve had a glimmer of weird recognition when Seymour Hoffman turned up in Mission Impossible 3. Which is nice.

Star Wars: Episode III Revenge of the Sith – Kelly, Pete, Rob, Huddersfield - 2005

Come on, you sat through the other two with me... Guys!

Guys!

Guys?

GUYS!!

*Guys have long wandered away*

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Friday 13th, The Omen, The Hills Have Eyes, Black Christmas, Halloween, The Amytiville Horror, Prom Night, The Fog, House of Wax – Christopher I Ratcliff esq, All over the UK – 2003-2009

I’m taking a long hard look at myself right now and thinking about what I have done.

But I’m also thinking I will probably go see A Nightmare on Elm Street [2010].

Attempted Film Review (Scathing/Point possibly lost) - CHLOE [2010]

2010-03-08T04:13:00.000-08:00

Chloe opens with a breathy voiceover, red nail varnish, a healthy amount of side-boob and the rolling down of suspenders in an indistinct soft-focus boudoir. Boom, suddenly I’m a newly pubescent teenager and furtively renting Bruce Willis erotic embarrassment Colour of Night. A film that even at that tender age of 14 (I developed late) I knew was crap. All I wanted was some porny thrills, not the shattering realisation that it was possible NOT to enjoy a film. This revelation was up right up there with finding out there’s no Santa. (Thanks a lot Gremlins... Again, I developed late.)
So we’re thrust back into the world of early nineties Erotic Thrillers. Fatal Attraction has a lot to answer for; look at the mini-genre you have spawned, Fatal Attraction. Look at it. LOOK AT IT! It’s your fault that I now, over two decades later, have to watch this lumpy, depressing erotic thriller that is neither thrilling nor particularly erotic. I hate you, Fatal Attraction.

Anyway, back to Chloe. Here’s some plot: Dr. Catherine Stewart (Julianne Moore) suspects her husband, David Stewart (Liam Neeson, or possibly one half of Eurythmics, I forget which) of cheating on her with one of his many unrealistically attractive students. Catherine hires prostitute, Chloe (played by the gigantic eyed Amanda Seyfried, who may have found enormous fame in Mamma Mia but she’ll always be Veronica Mars’ dead friend to me) to entrap the supposedly philandering husband. Lives proceed to unravel in a thoroughly unbelievable and self-prophesising sort of way.

Director Atom Egoyan has a long history of brilliant film-making, The Sweet Hereafter and Exotica are truly two of the most underrated dramas of the nineties, but this is a serious misfire. There are many possible outside reasons for this: Chloe is Egoyan’s first time working from a script he had no hand in writing, his first time working with Hollywood producers (Chloe is a Reitman father/son double team effort), and his first remake (of the much superior Nathalie starring Emmanuelle Beart, although it probably just seems superior because it’s French). All these factors do not invoke much confidence however they cannot be blamed for flat, unimaginative direction and a feeble script that Egoyan should have polished much brighter.

Chloe comprises long scenes of dialogue, mainly involving Seyfried describing in detail to Moore her husband’s transgressions. One of the few strengths of the film is the bizarre sexual connection that develops between the two women. Catherine begins to live vicariously through her husband by engaging in her own affair with the prostitute, thus experiencing the desire she no longer feels from him, and in a larger sense also connecting with David through Chloe. However these scenes ultimately fail due to some wincingly mediocre dialogue that strives to be enigmatic, but comes across as laughable. My favourite exchange: On Chloe meeting Catherine's teenage son "You're Dr. Stewart's son", to which he replies "My mother is your gynaecologist", she then immediately walks away. Hilarious in a Lynch film, not quite so much here. This is the film’s worst crime; believing it’s far more profound than it really is. Not only in the dialogue, but frequently in a score that forces drama where there is a definite lack of drama, and some overly portentous camera-work.

Characters too often opt for the most ludicrous decisions possible, therefore rendering them entirely unsympathetic. Your difficulty in caring for them also isn’t helped by the fact they exist in a smug world of opulent dining, piano recitals, unthinkably well-attended opera tutorials and homes straight from the ‘I went on Grand Designs and spunked a tiny portion of my annual wage, which is more money than you will ever rub on your naked body, on designing and building my own house because, even though I have no formal training, I think I’m an architect and it’d be wonderful to live in a building that looks like a gigantic ass. Now to have some unsatisfying sex with my hate-filled wife’ school of architecture.

Despite all of this, Julianne Moore is superb. She is genuinely the only person emotionally invested in the entire film. However she’s also been just as superb in much better movies. See them instead. See Boogie Nights for instance. Man, I wish I was watching Boogie Nights right now. That would make everything alright. Amanda Seyfried does competent work with the material she’s given but suffers from bad direction. In a long close-up of Seyfried, just after being spurned by Moore, you can actually see the evil thoughts gather in her brain as the music swells and the shot becomes more intense. This is criminally unsubtle, immediately sign-posts the hokey resolution and unfairly reveals Seyfried to be a relatively amateurish actor.

And then suddenly it ends. You’d think it might continue in its long, drawn-out, oddly passive aggressive way, but no, it shoe-horns in the most unearned and tonally dubious finale, straight out of Esterhaz’s ‘meh’ folder of quick-fix ideas. On the plus side you can now leave the cinema, watch Boogie Nights, and be glad you have the life you have. At its heart Chloe is a very slight and tender story ruined by monkey-fingered idiots.

I apologise for using the phrase ‘father/son double team effort’.

The Greatest High-Five I Have Ever Done.

2010-02-17T09:45:00.000-08:00

So this is a story of the greatest high-five I have ever done.

It was late last Saturday night, me and my friend, Peter Boyd, were sat on opposite sides of the room, both with cats happily slumbering on our laps.

Peter said something very witty and undoubtedly clever (the details of which I forget; possible Simpsons quote related and/or attractiveness of television female discussed & scaled.)
All the same, I was impressed. Typically I would reward my friend with a satisfying high-five but this would prove an impossible feat at this moment in time: We were both very comfortable and the cats had laid claim to our upper legs. Once we had extricated ourselves from our own physical & feline entanglements and were finally both ready to indulge in a beautiful moment of high-fivery, there was the strong chance that the moment would have passed. It’s the ultimate fear.

All was lost.

Or was it?

I screamed at the very top of my vocal range – CAT HIGH FIVE. (Capital letters from here on denote screaming at the very top of one’s vocal range)

Peter raised an eyebrow, and nodded slowly (seductively) in agreement.

CAT HIGH FIVE it was to be.

We launched our cats in the air. They flew majestically towards each other. Strong. Noble. Free.

Who could tell what would happen when they finally collided slightly to the left of a particularly tasteful Habitat lampshade?

There is only one answer - Two cats combine. Lightning bolts unleash across the ceiling. An almighty, god-killing clap of thunder is heard across the whole city of Huddersfield.
MECHA CAT is born. An unholy union of cat and other cat.

MECHA CAT crashes back to the ground hard.
Then rises slowly, proudly, erect on its hind legs. The mist of a thousand Scottish winters emanates from the small crater that was formed when MECHA CAT impacted on the rug.

MECHA CAT has a third eye in the middle of its head and a bitchin’ Flying-V guitar. The third eye shoots a laser. MECHA CAT plays a hot guitar solo. The guitar shoots lightning.

This goes on for upwards of forty-five minutes.

I look at Peter.
“Hey Peter, that was the greatest high-five we have ever done.”

Peter agreed.

Epilogue –
MECHA CAT now travels from town to town, fighting injustice, uniting separated families and filling in for lead guitarist Dave Amato when REO Speedwagon tours Western Europe, all while evading the reporter Jack McGee.

Ways in Which I Could Appear Less Misanthropic.

2010-02-05T05:10:00.000-08:00

Build Xanadu style cavernous mansion in the remotest part of Scotland. Choose not to live there.

Consider removal of swastika tattoo on forehead.

Perhaps choose 'pass and play' option instead of 'versus computer', when playing Scrabble on iPhone while lying in bed next to 'loved one'.

Abandon plans for personal missile defence shield.

Make token gesture towards checking up on elderly lady next door by removing mountain of post blocking up her letter box.

Reconsider self-imposed moratorium on hugging family.

Pretend Glee is better than it really actually is.

Less murderous thoughts while riding bus after 9pm. More ideas on where to hang posters of kittens.

Deny previous denial of holocaust.

Krispy Kreme donuts for everybody!

deadbeat (the fun-size sitcom edition) #1 - Scott and Robbie Meet a Celebrity.

2010-02-02T04:02:00.000-08:00

As a tease, and as we figure out how the hell we're going to make some more episodes of deadbeat, here's a little taste of what's to come -

INT. BAR - DAY

Scott and Robbie lounge opposite each other on the leather sofas in a reasonably sophisticated but quiet bar.

Robbie has noticed someone familiar across the room.

ROBBIE
That’s that kid.

SCOTT
Who?

ROBBIE
The kid from Skins.

SCOTT
I don’t recognise him.

ROBBIE
You should.

SCOTT
I don’t watch Skins.

ROBBIE
You should.

SCOTT
You shouldn’t be watching Skins.

ROBBIE
What?

SCOTT
You’re at least fifteen years clear of its demographic.

ROBBIE
Don’t say that.

SCOTT
It’s pretty creepy. A thirty-year old man watching a series full of fifteen-year olds getting off with each other.

ROBBIE
You’re not a middle-aged lesbian but I’ve said nothing about your ‘L’ Word box sets. In fact I’ve actively encouraged that collection.
(beat)
I might go say hello.

SCOTT
Why?

ROBBIE
To let him know that I know who he is.

SCOTT
What precisely would that achieve?

ROBBIE
Uh...

SCOTT
That somehow his youth and edginess will reflect on to you?

ROBBIE
Hmmm...
(thinks)
I’ll just take a picture of him with my camera phone.

Robbie turns his body to look over the back of the sofa. He takes his camera phone and slyly points it towards the young actor. Robbie’s tongue is sticking out of the side of his mouth ever so slightly.

SCOTT
This is embarrassing.

ROBBIE
Hush.

Robbie takes the photo. The noise from the camera flash echoes around the quiet bar.

ROBBIE
Bugger.

The young actor looks at Robbie.

ACTOR
Perv.

ROBBIE
I watch Skins.

ACTOR
Fucking perv.

Robbie slumps back down in the sofa. He throws his phone at Scott.

SCOTT
Why do you feel it necessary to unfairly lash out at me when it’s completely your own fault?

ROBBIE
It’s probably the same reason I’m not allowed to own a kitten.

Attempted Film Review (Experimental/Pointless) - MOON [2009]

2010-02-02T03:58:00.000-08:00

The Challenge:
Go see Duncan Jones’ complicated Solaris [1972] aping mind-fuck fest Moon, directly after five sleepless and debauched days at a music festival and see if I can still truly understand it.

The Results:
Initially a complete success; I smugly sat through the whole film confident in the knowledge that I was fully comprehending the intricacies of Sam’s plight. Brilliant! Not even exhaustion can dull the senses of this exceptional cine-literate brain of mine. However after half an hour of post-cinema discussion, it soon became clear to me and my friends that this was very much not the case. Vast swathes of the film that I found deliberately confusing, were in fact nothing of the slightest. The plot was clear. The writing: clever, subtle and fully developed. My brain: enfeebled, lame and faintly retarded. My cries of ‘but I’m good at films, I get films’, were met with thoroughly deserved superciliousness and patronisation. I was tired. I had failed.
I had gone into the cinema expecting an intangible mess of confusion and obtuseness, in part thanks to the marketing team’s 2001: A Space Odyssey [1968] and Solaris mimicking trailer, so I suspended the part of my brain that seeks logic and coherence and decided not to bother finding it. The last thing I expected was that Moon would be a very solvable and satisfying puzzle.

As a film reviewer I learnt some valuable lessons today.
(Some earlier lessons learnt include – Don’t go to the cinema drunk. No good films are centred on a wedding. Patrick Dempsey is a cunt... Actually I've now realised that all these lessons were learnt from watching the same movie.)

The plot aside, where Moon truly succeeds is in its surprising narrative idiosyncrasies; the pacing is somewhat off-kilter, removing the audience of a traditional build-up of suspense. Sam’s reactions to his situation are rarely expected or predictable. The Kevin Spacey voiced robot, Gerty, defies all science-fiction convention. The art design is deliberately drab and functional, so totally immersing you into the mundane reality of the film. Moon is a playful, intelligent and rather beautiful little enigma.

On a scale of Mercury to Neptune (Mercury being closest to the sun therefore the hottest, and Neptune being the furthest away, therefore the coldest) I’m going award Moon a rating of Mars.

Although it should be noted that some, or possibly all, of this review can be disregarded as most of the film was witnessed as a semi-conscious fever-dream.

Attempted Film Review (Seriousness attempted, jettisoned) - THE DARK KNIGHT [2008]

2010-02-02T03:38:00.000-08:00

I was asked by a friend before attending the opening night showing of The Dark Knight how excited I was on a scale of 1-10 (it should be noted that this particular friend is an idiot). To my idiot friend’s surprise I answered 5, or 6 at a push. ‘But you’re rushing to see it on opening night, and it’s a Batman film for heaven’s sake, surely you must be higher than a 5 or 6?’ To this I replied a casually arrogant ‘meh’. He did have a point though. I was 11 years old when I saw the first Tim Burton Batman [1989] at the cinema and it excited and terrified me in equal measure. But a lot has happened in the intervening couple of decades. The sequels steadily, and then disastrously, got worse and worse, and more importantly... I grew up.

So here I sit in the theatre with my excitement level of 5 or 6 awaiting the return of my once favourite hero, not really knowing where my eagerness had vanished over the last twenty years. And then there’s a trailer for the new Mummy sequel and I am now at a firm 3. I sink into my chair.

It begins. By God the first scene is good. I mean that in true terms of cinema... the pace, the editing, the photography, the writing, the acting; it’s a masterclass in setting up a brilliant thriller. The Joker’s initial bank heist looks like a French Connection [1971] era cop drama crossed with Michael Mann at his very best. Then eventually Batman shows up and he looks ridiculous. The winged man-beast just doesn’t seem to quite fit into the tone of the picture. I also can’t see how anyone else in the audience can possibly take Bale’s Batman growl seriously.

And so for the next... bloody hell... 2 AND A HALF HOURS, we are treated to long drawn-out scenes of overly scored, lack-lustre drama punctuated with a few brilliantly executed set-pieces.
There are a lot of strong themes explored in the film; vigilantism, duality, the definition of hero and villain, but all are hit on the head far too hard. Had the script gone through another draft or two we could have seen a lot more subtlety brought to the fore, and perhaps a good half an hour of overly complicated plotting happily thrown away. The intent of Christopher Nolan seems to be to ground the bat in a realistic setting, free from the camp and extravagance of previous adventures, thus turning Bruce Wayne’s tale into that of a human drama tied in to the genre of police procedural. There is a sense of James Ellroy or Ed McBain within the complex writing, and that can only be applauded. But for heaven’s sake I’m watching a man dressed as a bat smacking two shades of crap out of a clown, you just can’t take yourself too seriously when you’re presenting those kinds of images.

Ironically, The Dark Knight contains some of the best performances you will see this year. Bale cuts an arrogant, dislikeable public persona in his Bruce Wayne, but the torture behind the smugness is subtly visible. For the first time in Batman history, this is Bruce Wayne’s film. He takes centre-stage and also, for the first time in Batman history, he actually deserves it thanks to Christian Bale. Ledger plays an oddly sympathetic Joker, which cries out for more screen time. In fact it’s very telling that when The Dark Knight starts to drag, you realise that The Joker hasn’t been around for a while. Eckhart brings solidness and maturity to his Harvey Dent, a character that can so easily be played as a one-note ham. And Maggie Gyllenhal gives a nuanced performance as the painfully typical female love-interest. Her final moments in this film are some of the bravest and startling pieces of film-making contained in a summer block-buster.

The film also provides some of the most breathtaking moments of hardcore pacing with satisfying pay-offs ever committed to film. In particular two-thirds in there is a long segment of sustained suspense involving the kidnapping of Harvey Dent, and the escape of The Joker, which the audience can barely breathe through. It climaxes with The Joker’s head hanging out of a stolen police-car’s window basking in the freedom of the city air. The soundtrack pulsates, the audience finally exhales, and we are with him in that car for every single breath. This is beautiful, intelligent and devilishly surprising cinema.

Oh yeah, and the upended juggernaut bit is pretty fucking cool too.

And this is where my own duality lies. The fan-boy from twenty years ago is left thoroughly unsatisfied. In front of me is the greatest Batman that ever was sharing screen time with the greatest Joker there ever was, but they’re just not interacting in a meaningful way. Their psychological and physical battles just don’t quite pay off as they ought too. However; performance and cinematography wise this is superlative film-making. And it’s a very courageous road that Nolan is taking the superhero franchise down. Many other films in this subgenre should sit up and take note (I’m looking at you Spiderman). In many ways I am the perfect audience for this film; white male in his twenties, life-long Batman fan, lover of intelligent cinema, but why didn’t I love The Dark Knight? You may just have to decide for yourself how grown up you want to be when you watch it, because ultimately that will dictate how much you actually enjoy it.

Attempted Stand-Up Routine (Later Aborted/Rejected) #1

2010-01-28T03:30:00.000-08:00

I’d like to talk to you about trains.

I think it was Alan De Botton who wrote that the train is the only method of transport entirely conducive to philosophical thought. Maybe it’s because of its laconic speed, large comfortable seats or even the certain romantic values we associate with the railway; trains encourage you to sit back and ruminate over a lengthy period of time.

Cars are too fast, busses too depressing, planes too frightening, boats too silly. Also due to the speed of the train and the certain distance between the landscape and the railway track itself, your imagination is fuelled by brief little snatches of British life:

The rural labour of the sun-kissed farmer.

The washing lines of the families that form the back-bone of Britain’s workforce.

The stolen romantic dalliances between parting lovers rushing between stations.

Mini vignettes that help the creative part of the brain ascribe narratives to these short snatches of time.

When I sat on the train for a couple of hours yesterday I saw a man fingering a pony.

But of course it takes all sorts to make a country great, our whole is but a sum of its parts.

When a foreign politician or leader, President Obama for example, visits Britain and addresses this great nation, he is addressing every single one of us individually. Me, you, the labourer, the mother, the celebrity, the poor man, the rich man, the athlete, the conservative, the liberal, the plumber, that man that fingered that pony in that field yesterday...

Alan De Botton was quite correct in his assertion that a train ride is the perfect way to unlock the philosophical part of the mind. After witnessing that terrible act I couldn’t help but reflect on how the last shred of my innocence, desperately clung to since my youth, had finally been eradicated.

And not just my innocence; every man, woman and child on that train lost a piece of their soul too. In a way, we passengers were the real victims of that crime.

To speak nothing of the pony.

The Christian Bale Backlash Reversal Method

2010-01-21T12:09:00.000-08:00

If Christian Bale cared at all about his public image he would be wise to follow these simple steps to recapture our hearts.

Fall in non-romantic love with a pretty pony.

Self-finance new and more satisfying Star Wars prequels.

Invent and tirelessly promote new dance craze.

Constantly wear sweater with a unicorn on it. Underneath the unicorn it says ‘unicorns are horny’. Gaze constantly at own sweater during interviews and chuckle to self.

Purchase Toyota Prius, or other Hybrid vehicle.

Travel to ancient village, slay dragon, peasants rejoice, word spreads to Hollywood.

Reveal that he was trying to bring down McG from the inside all along.

Audition for Everybody Loves Raymond. Portray wacky neighbour.

Punch mother less.

Solely concentrate on championing an Obama backlash reversal.

An Interview with Lars Von Trier

2010-01-18T15:45:00.001-08:00

As open-minded as I am, I found Lars Von Trier’s Anti-Christ (2009) a deeply troubling experience. Rather than try to deal with my conflicting thoughts through the medium of a rather glib and amateurish film review, I took the opportunity to invite Mr. Von Trier to the deadbeat office and question him in person. Needless to say Mr. Von Trier was delighted to accept the invitation, and thought nothing of immediately flying to the UK at his own considerable expense.

What follows is an eye-opening examination of a truly modern auteur.

CHRISTOPHER RATCLIFF: Welcome to England, Mr. Von Trier, it’s an honour to meet you.

LARS VON TRIER: Of course it is.

CR: There are so many complicated themes and symbols throughout Antichrist, so I’ll begin at a very simple...

LVT: [Interrupts] You found Antichrist complicated?

CR: Uh... yes, but I don’t think that’s a particularly controversial point of view. Obviously I don’t mean the plot, I’m referring to the thematic elements contained...

LVT: Antichrist is my simplest film yet. The symbolism is embarrassingly broad and unsubtle. A child of 9 could understand the significance of the woods, the grindstone, the forest creatures. I wouldn’t think much of you as an intellectual if you struggled with such trifling ciphers.

CR: Okay, fine. Well I’ll ask you about something in Antichrist that I’m definitely struggling with; the treatment of She [Charlotte Gainsbourg]. I can’t help but feel there’s a viscous streak of misogyny running throughout the film. On a basic technique level; why are we as an audience spared the sight of He’s [Willem Dafoe] genital mutilation, yet we witness She’s in explicit, almost celebratory, close-up? On a narrative level you present us with an incredibly complex female protagonist, who is eventually revealed to be a self-detesting and self-destroying torturer of her own child and husband. She believes women-kind is inherently wicked and deserves to be destroyed. Nature itself is stirred to warn He of her cruelty, but cannot overcome She itself; it has to rely on the strength of He. He is then treated as a hero of liberation; engulfed in an entire history’s worth of mistreated women who couldn’t have possibly freed themselves from She’s curse. I was aware of this criticism against you before seeing the film, but as an artist working in the twenty-first century I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. Am I right in assuming that I‘m missing a deeper layer of context or even satire and that your apparent misogyny isn’t quite as blatant as it seems?

LVT: Yes you are.

CR: Right. Will you elaborate on that?

LVT: No.

CR: Do you hate women?

LVT: I love women. I write challenging and complex roles for talented and very grateful female actors; Emily [Watson], Nicole [Kidman], Bryce [Dallas Howard], Bjork [Dalrymple]. They love and respect me, and in turn they earn my acknowledgment. Bjork wrote a song about me.

CR: Denmark Film Cunt?

LVT: Denmark Film Cunt.

CR: Okay. Let’s move on to another topic. I have a question from my colleague, Joachim, who is very sorry not to be here in person to meet you. I feel this question may help to place Antichrist in perspective of your career as a whole. [Reads from card] Dear Lars, I am a great admirer of you work, particularly throughout the eighties where you were a vital and significant figure within the industry. However I feel that you reached a creative spike with Master of Puppets (1986). The drop-off in quality since then is overwhelmingly evident, especially around the Load (1996) era. What can you account for this? Is it that you became too self-conscious, or had you just run out of ideas? [Stops reading from card]. I’m very sorry, Mr. Von Trier, I didn’t realise this was such an impolite question, and that Jo has clearly confused yourself with the drummer off of Metallica. I’m so sorry.

[Lars Von Trier has been staring blankly out of the window for the entire time.]

CR: I’ll move quickly on.

LVT: It’s a common critical acknowledgement that they reached a peak with their self-titled album Metallica (1991).

CR: They undoubtedly reached their commercial peak. But their most inventive work was behind them.

LVT: Perhaps.

CR: In the opening sequence you show in super slow-motion and extreme high definition the intimate details of a very brief moment. In this, and in any given moment where sex is involved, the act of penetration is overwhelmingly always the most significant detail. Therefore I feel the arguably explicit shot of penetration is entirely justified in its context. Is this your reasoning too? Do you in turn also feel a duty to desensitize us an audience?

LVT: I just wanted to see Willem Dafoe’s balls massive on screen.

CR: To conclude then: On the ‘woodland beast’ rating, (a fiendish badger being the lowest, the noble stag being the highest), where would you place Antichrist?

LVT: [Thinks] Cunning fox.

CR: Mr. Von Trier, thank you very much for meeting me today. It’s been a pleasure.

LVT: Burn in hell. [Leaves]