23 October 2003
Movie review: Finding Nemo
The start of Finding Nemo is like some barbarian epic: Marlin is sitting around, enjoying life as a clown fish, when his family are attacked and his wife and two hundred children are slaughtered. Only one child remains: the weak and feeble Nemo. If this were a barbarian epic, Nemo would grow into a great warrior - trained by his father Marlin-sensei, and set out in the world to avenge the death of his siblings. However it's actually just a Disney movie, so nothing more is said about it.
So several years after the attack, Nemo is kidnapped by a dentist called P. Sherman, who lives at 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney. The movie follows Marlin's desperate search for his son throughout the ocean, which is made easier (both for Marlin and the audience) when he meets the sassy-but-stupid Dorey. The rest of the movie is just a crazy underwater road trip, albeit one spectacularly rendered (indeed, the number of names in the credits demonstrate that Pixar aren't doing CGI just because its easier). And so ultimately they find and save Nemo, and the audience goes home and flushes their fish down the toilet. And in amongst all of this, Ellen DeGeneres does a great impression of a dorey doing an impression of a whale.
It's not as funny or as charming or as dark or as intelligent or as brilliant as Lilo & Stitch, but it will do for now.
Aside: One thing above all worried me above this movie: Nemo's withered left fin. If we look back through history we see a dark army of withered left limbs: Richard III had a withered left arm and murdered and assassinated his way to the throne of England; Wilhelm II had a withered left arm and led Europe into the first world war; Stalin had a withered left arm and murdered millions of children and women; Jeremy Beadle has a withered left arm and conceived "Beadle's About". Perhaps in ten years we'll look back at Finding Nemo and - contemplating his destruction of the oceans - ruefully wish that he had indeed been shaken to death by the dentist's sadistic niece.
The start of Finding Nemo is like some barbarian epic: Marlin is sitting around, enjoying life as a clown fish, when his family are attacked and his wife and two hundred children are slaughtered. Only one child remains: the weak and feeble Nemo. If this were a barbarian epic, Nemo would grow into a great warrior - trained by his father Marlin-sensei, and set out in the world to avenge the death of his siblings. However it's actually just a Disney movie, so nothing more is said about it.
So several years after the attack, Nemo is kidnapped by a dentist called P. Sherman, who lives at 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney. The movie follows Marlin's desperate search for his son throughout the ocean, which is made easier (both for Marlin and the audience) when he meets the sassy-but-stupid Dorey. The rest of the movie is just a crazy underwater road trip, albeit one spectacularly rendered (indeed, the number of names in the credits demonstrate that Pixar aren't doing CGI just because its easier). And so ultimately they find and save Nemo, and the audience goes home and flushes their fish down the toilet. And in amongst all of this, Ellen DeGeneres does a great impression of a dorey doing an impression of a whale.
It's not as funny or as charming or as dark or as intelligent or as brilliant as Lilo & Stitch, but it will do for now.
Aside: One thing above all worried me above this movie: Nemo's withered left fin. If we look back through history we see a dark army of withered left limbs: Richard III had a withered left arm and murdered and assassinated his way to the throne of England; Wilhelm II had a withered left arm and led Europe into the first world war; Stalin had a withered left arm and murdered millions of children and women; Jeremy Beadle has a withered left arm and conceived "Beadle's About". Perhaps in ten years we'll look back at Finding Nemo and - contemplating his destruction of the oceans - ruefully wish that he had indeed been shaken to death by the dentist's sadistic niece.
Historical note: Space weapons
How gloriously futuristic the distant past sounds. Trawling through some press articles from 1984 I came across one reporting that Mikhail Gorbachev was visiting London to warn the govenment not to construct "space weapons". Mr Gorbachev warned that if the Prime Minister did not ban such gunships in outer space the USSR would further pursue nuclear armament.
Space weapons?! Jesus, the Soviets must have been picking up Star Trek on their spy monitors. I doubt we could build reliable space weapons now, never mind back in the mid-1980s when computers were the size of dog kennels and still crashed when the more complicated levels of Manic Miner cropped up.
The phrase "nuclear armament" contrasts wonderfully with our times too. I much prefer the Alqaeda rabble of desert warriors to the vast wealth and nuclear threat of the Red Menace.
How gloriously futuristic the distant past sounds. Trawling through some press articles from 1984 I came across one reporting that Mikhail Gorbachev was visiting London to warn the govenment not to construct "space weapons". Mr Gorbachev warned that if the Prime Minister did not ban such gunships in outer space the USSR would further pursue nuclear armament.
Space weapons?! Jesus, the Soviets must have been picking up Star Trek on their spy monitors. I doubt we could build reliable space weapons now, never mind back in the mid-1980s when computers were the size of dog kennels and still crashed when the more complicated levels of Manic Miner cropped up.
The phrase "nuclear armament" contrasts wonderfully with our times too. I much prefer the Alqaeda rabble of desert warriors to the vast wealth and nuclear threat of the Red Menace.
22 October 2003
Book review: The Art of Falling Apart
I only read this book because it was written by a friend of a friend, and I'm curious to know what friends of friends write about (drugs, rock music and murder, it turns out).
The book follows the story of Dystopia - a band populated by drug-abusing, self-obsessed, over the top rock god cliches. We follow their success from the early days touring the UK in a van that stinks of piss to the debut performance of their US tour, where things get a little violent.
Although the second half of The Art of Falling Apart (incidentally, one of the best book titles ever) reads like a good Brett Easton Ellis novel, not many readers will ever get that far since the first half reads like really rotten rock fanfiction. In particular, the author spends so much time showing off his vast knowledge of drugs and their various effects that at times I forgot I wasn't just in some pub talking to a wasted buffoon.
The author's follow up (Subpoena Colada - incidentally, one of the worst titles ever) touches on identical ground, although it manages to wrestle out a uniform fanfiction style. I suspect that if the author were to write about something less personal - no rock music, no lawyers, no drugs and no fucked up girlfriends - it would be quite good. For the time being, however, the only reason for reading this book is that your friend slept with the author.
I only read this book because it was written by a friend of a friend, and I'm curious to know what friends of friends write about (drugs, rock music and murder, it turns out).
The book follows the story of Dystopia - a band populated by drug-abusing, self-obsessed, over the top rock god cliches. We follow their success from the early days touring the UK in a van that stinks of piss to the debut performance of their US tour, where things get a little violent.
Although the second half of The Art of Falling Apart (incidentally, one of the best book titles ever) reads like a good Brett Easton Ellis novel, not many readers will ever get that far since the first half reads like really rotten rock fanfiction. In particular, the author spends so much time showing off his vast knowledge of drugs and their various effects that at times I forgot I wasn't just in some pub talking to a wasted buffoon.
The author's follow up (Subpoena Colada - incidentally, one of the worst titles ever) touches on identical ground, although it manages to wrestle out a uniform fanfiction style. I suspect that if the author were to write about something less personal - no rock music, no lawyers, no drugs and no fucked up girlfriends - it would be quite good. For the time being, however, the only reason for reading this book is that your friend slept with the author.
20 October 2003
Film review: Kill Bill Vol. 1
An Uma-centric series of outlandishly fun kung-fu stories. Tarantino cuts between scenes with no regard for time or location, enabling him to focus on the action and ignore anything mundane. Uma just finished stabbing a woman? Fine, Tarantino thinks to himself, chewing directorially on a celery stalk, Let's cut back two weeks and see her kill some other people.
The overall effect is (at times literally) charming cartoonish. Who cares where Uma gets her money? Why wouldn't they let her take a Samurai sword on the plane? We don't need explanations or sub-plots, just some more decapitations and perhaps a fountain of blood.
Grotesque, stylish and very very funny. And that's just Lucy Liu.
An Uma-centric series of outlandishly fun kung-fu stories. Tarantino cuts between scenes with no regard for time or location, enabling him to focus on the action and ignore anything mundane. Uma just finished stabbing a woman? Fine, Tarantino thinks to himself, chewing directorially on a celery stalk, Let's cut back two weeks and see her kill some other people.
The overall effect is (at times literally) charming cartoonish. Who cares where Uma gets her money? Why wouldn't they let her take a Samurai sword on the plane? We don't need explanations or sub-plots, just some more decapitations and perhaps a fountain of blood.
Grotesque, stylish and very very funny. And that's just Lucy Liu.
Concert review: Tom Paxton with Cathy & Marcy
In 1999, Tim, Jay and I went to see folk legend Tom Paxton play his guitar at the Cafe Royal, and the experience was so awful we made a pledge never to see the man again.
It remains a mystery of nature that mental wounds can heal so thoroughly that within just four years the three of us found ourselves again in the presence of Mr Paxton, with Phil providing additional ballast. No doubt baffled and confused by our presence, Paxton worked harder at assaulting our ears and drafted in some big guns - the utterly appalling Cathy and Marcy, "folk singers and grammee nominees".
Cathy and Marcy sang a series of earnest and cheerful songs about joy, love, the joy of love, and child abuse. A typical example is the chorus "Sugar from the sugar cane, water from the fountain / Honey from the honey comb, wild rose on the mountain". Each song, Cathy and Marcy would urge the audience to join in on the chorus. I am proud to say the audience remained silently aloof.
Paxton's own "topical" songs had passed their sell by date in the 1970s, and many were clumsily re-introduced as nostalgia. It wasn't until the very end that he sang a half decent song, a moving piece about the day the World Trade Center fell over, however by then the four of us were so tanked up on Guinness that it pretty much went over our heads.
So, same time in 2007, then.
In 1999, Tim, Jay and I went to see folk legend Tom Paxton play his guitar at the Cafe Royal, and the experience was so awful we made a pledge never to see the man again.
It remains a mystery of nature that mental wounds can heal so thoroughly that within just four years the three of us found ourselves again in the presence of Mr Paxton, with Phil providing additional ballast. No doubt baffled and confused by our presence, Paxton worked harder at assaulting our ears and drafted in some big guns - the utterly appalling Cathy and Marcy, "folk singers and grammee nominees".
Cathy and Marcy sang a series of earnest and cheerful songs about joy, love, the joy of love, and child abuse. A typical example is the chorus "Sugar from the sugar cane, water from the fountain / Honey from the honey comb, wild rose on the mountain". Each song, Cathy and Marcy would urge the audience to join in on the chorus. I am proud to say the audience remained silently aloof.
Paxton's own "topical" songs had passed their sell by date in the 1970s, and many were clumsily re-introduced as nostalgia. It wasn't until the very end that he sang a half decent song, a moving piece about the day the World Trade Center fell over, however by then the four of us were so tanked up on Guinness that it pretty much went over our heads.
So, same time in 2007, then.
17 October 2003
News note: Waterloo
The EU has complained that the first word the French see as they step off the Eurostar in England is "WATERLOO", a name synonymous with British victory over the French.
The BBC news had a vox pop with a French man, who remarked "It disgusting! It remind me every day of my nation's failure. It not like you take the Eurostar to France and see... and see... the... the name of some great French victory over the English."
There is a simple reason why the French have no trace of victory over the English...
The EU has complained that the first word the French see as they step off the Eurostar in England is "WATERLOO", a name synonymous with British victory over the French.
The BBC news had a vox pop with a French man, who remarked "It disgusting! It remind me every day of my nation's failure. It not like you take the Eurostar to France and see... and see... the... the name of some great French victory over the English."
There is a simple reason why the French have no trace of victory over the English...
Book review: Frozen Assets
"PG Wodehouse pulls it off again"[1] may sound like an unusually literate subject line from the Hotmail junk filter, however this is indeed what PGW has done. Or did do, in the 1960s... Cor lummee, whilst everyone else was having the sexual revolution, PGW was writing about the trials and tribulations of boxer dogs, glamorous secretaries and Parisian ambassadors. God bless his dedication.
[1] Or, I suppose, "PG W0deh0u$e pu11s 1t 0ff aga1n".
"PG Wodehouse pulls it off again"[1] may sound like an unusually literate subject line from the Hotmail junk filter, however this is indeed what PGW has done. Or did do, in the 1960s... Cor lummee, whilst everyone else was having the sexual revolution, PGW was writing about the trials and tribulations of boxer dogs, glamorous secretaries and Parisian ambassadors. God bless his dedication.
[1] Or, I suppose, "PG W0deh0u$e pu11s 1t 0ff aga1n".
Movie review: Lawn Dogs
I'm beginning to suspect I identify well with misanthropic outsiders, as this is developing as the common theme in movies I really enjoy. Lawn Dogs especially so - a bored and friendless ten year old befriends a bored and friendless twenty one year old. They get on well, steal some chickens, and then he runs over a dog and gets beaten to shit by the girl's father. I'm told that Lawn Dogs vividly depicts the animosity of class warfare and the sad plight of those who dare to take a stand against conformity, but really its just poking fun at middle class ideals whilst having fun with stealing chickens.
I'm beginning to suspect I identify well with misanthropic outsiders, as this is developing as the common theme in movies I really enjoy. Lawn Dogs especially so - a bored and friendless ten year old befriends a bored and friendless twenty one year old. They get on well, steal some chickens, and then he runs over a dog and gets beaten to shit by the girl's father. I'm told that Lawn Dogs vividly depicts the animosity of class warfare and the sad plight of those who dare to take a stand against conformity, but really its just poking fun at middle class ideals whilst having fun with stealing chickens.
16 October 2003
Book review: Artemis Fowl: The Eternity Code
Badly written narrative is mixed with awkward dialogue, and the result peppered with very poor jokes. Result: the Eternity Code slips neatly into the rest of the Artemis Fowl series. Whenever I start reading these books I wonder why on earth I bother, but then the plot takes over and - oh Boy - the writer's strong on plot. I guess he had to be good at something.
Badly written narrative is mixed with awkward dialogue, and the result peppered with very poor jokes. Result: the Eternity Code slips neatly into the rest of the Artemis Fowl series. Whenever I start reading these books I wonder why on earth I bother, but then the plot takes over and - oh Boy - the writer's strong on plot. I guess he had to be good at something.
Film review: Spellbound
In 1999, documentary makers followed eight 11-13 year olds as they prepared for and then attended the National US Spelling Bee (I suspect, or at least hope, Spelling Bees are a purely American phenomenon). Although I would have baulked at the idea of watching a Spelling Bee on ESPN, watching a documentary about a Spelling Bee being on ESPN was fascinating.
The film starts by setting all eight characters up. About halfway through this process I began to feel a bit tired - okay, I thought, so we've got the rich happy white kid, the poor but happy Hispanic kid, the poor and unhappy black kid, the rich but unhappy Indian kid... who else could there be? And then entered a hyperactive musical robot. How many documentaries have a hyperactive musical robot?! Fergal squealed like a stuck piglet.
Once each kid had been introduced, and their family background explored (highlights included a woman's leg being licked by a dog, a man who can't speak English because he spent his adult life with cows, and a woman who painfully over-explained a series of bee-related puns) the kids were shipped to Washington for the national finals. Joining 240 other kids on stage, each was asked to spell increasingly obscure words and had to leave the competition if they failed. Inevitably we watched our heroes get knocked out one by one (and we usually guessed incorrectly whether or not they'd got the words right, thanks to our weak state education). By now the audience was so fond of these kids we were holding our breath as they spelled, cheering when they won and - increasingly - sighing as they lost.
Fascinating, amusing, dramatic and at times very stupid, I loved this movie. As a better compliment yet, it made me want to go out and make my own documentaries. Probably not about Spelling Bees, though, and if I did, I'd be sure to explain why it was called a "Bee".
In 1999, documentary makers followed eight 11-13 year olds as they prepared for and then attended the National US Spelling Bee (I suspect, or at least hope, Spelling Bees are a purely American phenomenon). Although I would have baulked at the idea of watching a Spelling Bee on ESPN, watching a documentary about a Spelling Bee being on ESPN was fascinating.
The film starts by setting all eight characters up. About halfway through this process I began to feel a bit tired - okay, I thought, so we've got the rich happy white kid, the poor but happy Hispanic kid, the poor and unhappy black kid, the rich but unhappy Indian kid... who else could there be? And then entered a hyperactive musical robot. How many documentaries have a hyperactive musical robot?! Fergal squealed like a stuck piglet.
Once each kid had been introduced, and their family background explored (highlights included a woman's leg being licked by a dog, a man who can't speak English because he spent his adult life with cows, and a woman who painfully over-explained a series of bee-related puns) the kids were shipped to Washington for the national finals. Joining 240 other kids on stage, each was asked to spell increasingly obscure words and had to leave the competition if they failed. Inevitably we watched our heroes get knocked out one by one (and we usually guessed incorrectly whether or not they'd got the words right, thanks to our weak state education). By now the audience was so fond of these kids we were holding our breath as they spelled, cheering when they won and - increasingly - sighing as they lost.
Fascinating, amusing, dramatic and at times very stupid, I loved this movie. As a better compliment yet, it made me want to go out and make my own documentaries. Probably not about Spelling Bees, though, and if I did, I'd be sure to explain why it was called a "Bee".
Advert rant: Roy Scheider's bigger boat
Okay, so the "Noir" in "Film Noir" refers to the darkness of the characters and plot and has nothing to do with being in black and white. I don't recall the violins screeching and the camera zooming towards David Lynch when the idea of shooting Blue Velvet in "Film Couleur" was first put on the table. One might also wonder how come LA Confidential, Memento, Mulholland Drive and Seven were all filmed in colour.
Also, a man who claims that "a little integrity" is so vital in his movie would not be shooting a police drama set in the late 1970s in which the use of blatantly anachronistic Orange photo messaging services features as "the hero". In fact, one might also question whether any degree of integrity was important to a man who has been in Red Serpent, SeaQuest DSV or Dracula III: Legacy.
I wouldn't get angry about this if I hadn't had to sit through that dumb Orange cinema advert over twenty times now. God - please - bring back Carrie Fisher.
Okay, so the "Noir" in "Film Noir" refers to the darkness of the characters and plot and has nothing to do with being in black and white. I don't recall the violins screeching and the camera zooming towards David Lynch when the idea of shooting Blue Velvet in "Film Couleur" was first put on the table. One might also wonder how come LA Confidential, Memento, Mulholland Drive and Seven were all filmed in colour.
Also, a man who claims that "a little integrity" is so vital in his movie would not be shooting a police drama set in the late 1970s in which the use of blatantly anachronistic Orange photo messaging services features as "the hero". In fact, one might also question whether any degree of integrity was important to a man who has been in Red Serpent, SeaQuest DSV or Dracula III: Legacy.
I wouldn't get angry about this if I hadn't had to sit through that dumb Orange cinema advert over twenty times now. God - please - bring back Carrie Fisher.
13 October 2003
Movie review: Assassins
I wouldn't normally mention a movie I just happened to catch on Channel Five, however 'Assassins' is different. Back in the old days, when my job was so slow I'd go for months without any work, I used to entertain myself by reading movie scripts on the internet. This is how, within one week, I developed an encyclopaedic knowledge of the first three seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It is also how I ended up reading the original script for the movie Assassins.
It's a seriously brilliant script - by the Wachowski brothers, no less, and without any of their usual pseudo-religious hocus-pocus too. For the past five years I've been really admiring the film. However, as I discovered last night, the actual movie really sucks.
I am yet to discover the appeal of casting Sylvester Stallone in a lead role. He is Ryvita to Edward Norton's Hovis. He is Bacardi Breezer to Brad Pitt's Guiness. If he agreed to never made a movie again I am certain he would win the Academy Award for Services to Quality Cinema. I don't want him to die - I'm not a monster! - but perhaps he could suffer some crippling injury?
I wouldn't normally mention a movie I just happened to catch on Channel Five, however 'Assassins' is different. Back in the old days, when my job was so slow I'd go for months without any work, I used to entertain myself by reading movie scripts on the internet. This is how, within one week, I developed an encyclopaedic knowledge of the first three seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It is also how I ended up reading the original script for the movie Assassins.
It's a seriously brilliant script - by the Wachowski brothers, no less, and without any of their usual pseudo-religious hocus-pocus too. For the past five years I've been really admiring the film. However, as I discovered last night, the actual movie really sucks.
I am yet to discover the appeal of casting Sylvester Stallone in a lead role. He is Ryvita to Edward Norton's Hovis. He is Bacardi Breezer to Brad Pitt's Guiness. If he agreed to never made a movie again I am certain he would win the Academy Award for Services to Quality Cinema. I don't want him to die - I'm not a monster! - but perhaps he could suffer some crippling injury?
Life note: Mela 2003
When I was seventeen my dad drove me to Cambridge University for my entrace interviews. He had taken the day off work on the pretext of going to an exhibition in Birmingham, and so around lunchtime we stopped off to visit the Birmingham International Air Conditioning (and Associated Engineered Units) Exhibition 1993. We spent an hour traipsing around stalls piled high with what I presume were engineered units. My brain soon emptied itself of any understanding of pleasure or happiness.
Ten years later I found myself having an unnervingly similar experience with Fergal and Deepa at Mela 2003. Although theoretically a gathering of Indian folk and a celebration of their culture, there seemed to be very little to celebrate. As we traipsed around the hall we ate the blandest Indian food I have ever tasted, saw a man mix rose syrup and lychee juice, watched the unremarkable Karisma Kapor fondle a salmon sausage, inspected a cancer-ridden pingle, and kept out of the far end of the hall, where a group of youths was making an awful racket.
A greater celebration of Indian culture can be found all year round on the doorstep of the exhibition hall, where a host of fantastic Indian restaurants await to serve a feast of Indian foods. To revive our spirits we ordered six dishes and a bottle of their finest white wine, and the day was redeemed.
When I was seventeen my dad drove me to Cambridge University for my entrace interviews. He had taken the day off work on the pretext of going to an exhibition in Birmingham, and so around lunchtime we stopped off to visit the Birmingham International Air Conditioning (and Associated Engineered Units) Exhibition 1993. We spent an hour traipsing around stalls piled high with what I presume were engineered units. My brain soon emptied itself of any understanding of pleasure or happiness.
Ten years later I found myself having an unnervingly similar experience with Fergal and Deepa at Mela 2003. Although theoretically a gathering of Indian folk and a celebration of their culture, there seemed to be very little to celebrate. As we traipsed around the hall we ate the blandest Indian food I have ever tasted, saw a man mix rose syrup and lychee juice, watched the unremarkable Karisma Kapor fondle a salmon sausage, inspected a cancer-ridden pingle, and kept out of the far end of the hall, where a group of youths was making an awful racket.
A greater celebration of Indian culture can be found all year round on the doorstep of the exhibition hall, where a host of fantastic Indian restaurants await to serve a feast of Indian foods. To revive our spirits we ordered six dishes and a bottle of their finest white wine, and the day was redeemed.
Historical note: Belgium and monkeys
As I discovered to my cost on Saturday evening, it is a truth rarely acknowledged that Belgian bar tenders despise the mating call of the macaque monkey.
They also seem to hate people breaking ash trays, moving chairs and ordering more beer.
It is notable that the Germans invaded Belgium not to control it, but as a sneaky means of getting into France. It is not a stretch of the imagination to suppose that the Belgians survive as an independent race, despite the feeble size of their country, purely because no one has the least interest in controlling a country where the mating call of the rhesus macaque is treated with such disdain.
As I discovered to my cost on Saturday evening, it is a truth rarely acknowledged that Belgian bar tenders despise the mating call of the macaque monkey.
They also seem to hate people breaking ash trays, moving chairs and ordering more beer.
It is notable that the Germans invaded Belgium not to control it, but as a sneaky means of getting into France. It is not a stretch of the imagination to suppose that the Belgians survive as an independent race, despite the feeble size of their country, purely because no one has the least interest in controlling a country where the mating call of the rhesus macaque is treated with such disdain.
Life note: South London: an epic journey
On Saturday morning I cycled to West Penge to buy a new door. The journey to West Penge takes about fifteen minutes, which explains why after forty five minutes I began to suspect I was lost. I should also have suspected my brakes were broken, given they hung limp and in several pieces, however it was not until I was charging down a hill that this thought occurred to me.
South-east London all looks the same. Lots of roads, lots of buildings, and lots of place names I've never heard of. A feeble effort to navigate by the sun soon backfired when it transpired that, although I now knew which way was west and which way east, I was lost and therefore had no idea if I needed to go west or east. Life would be much easier if the sun rose above Select-a-Door.
At one point in my journey I discovered a gigantic Sainsbury's SavaCenter hypermarket. I felt somewhat like Hernando Cortez must have felt upon discovering the Aztec city of Queztepec deep in the Mexican jungle, however it was something of a shallow discovery since I did not need Aztec gold - I needed a new front door.
About an hour and a half after my journey began, I limped into West Penge and found Select-a-Door. To make the journey more worthwile I ordered not one but four new doors. Hernando would have been so proud.
On Saturday morning I cycled to West Penge to buy a new door. The journey to West Penge takes about fifteen minutes, which explains why after forty five minutes I began to suspect I was lost. I should also have suspected my brakes were broken, given they hung limp and in several pieces, however it was not until I was charging down a hill that this thought occurred to me.
South-east London all looks the same. Lots of roads, lots of buildings, and lots of place names I've never heard of. A feeble effort to navigate by the sun soon backfired when it transpired that, although I now knew which way was west and which way east, I was lost and therefore had no idea if I needed to go west or east. Life would be much easier if the sun rose above Select-a-Door.
At one point in my journey I discovered a gigantic Sainsbury's SavaCenter hypermarket. I felt somewhat like Hernando Cortez must have felt upon discovering the Aztec city of Queztepec deep in the Mexican jungle, however it was something of a shallow discovery since I did not need Aztec gold - I needed a new front door.
About an hour and a half after my journey began, I limped into West Penge and found Select-a-Door. To make the journey more worthwile I ordered not one but four new doors. Hernando would have been so proud.
09 October 2003
Movie review: Matchstick Men
I went to see Matchstick Men because it was the only film showing at the 2.99 cinema in Peckham, and I didn't want to go home because there is nothing to do there but eat french toast. Otherwise it would probably have passed me straight by since there has been absolutely no hype or even word of mouth about this movie.
Yet, to have missed this film would have been a tragedy, since it is by far my favourite movie so far this year. I loved it from the first shot through until the brilliant ending. I won't reveal any plot, since that would ruin it for you, but I think the moral is something like "Don't go teaching your daughter to steal $80k from a Cayman businessmen, and especially don't buy any chihuahua-shaped ash trays with the profits".
I went to see Matchstick Men because it was the only film showing at the 2.99 cinema in Peckham, and I didn't want to go home because there is nothing to do there but eat french toast. Otherwise it would probably have passed me straight by since there has been absolutely no hype or even word of mouth about this movie.
Yet, to have missed this film would have been a tragedy, since it is by far my favourite movie so far this year. I loved it from the first shot through until the brilliant ending. I won't reveal any plot, since that would ruin it for you, but I think the moral is something like "Don't go teaching your daughter to steal $80k from a Cayman businessmen, and especially don't buy any chihuahua-shaped ash trays with the profits".
07 October 2003
Book review: Less Than Zero
I'm working my way through Bret Easton Ellis' novels with some trepidation: The Rules of Attraction was one of the funniest books I read this year, but American Psycho was - as is indisputable fact - complete shite. Sadly, Less Than Zero pretty much makes the score two to one against Easton Ellis.
To his credit, Easton Ellis wrote this in 1984 when he was just 23 years old - apparently he had to dictate it to Picador from inside his mother's womb. Still, it's really just an endless fictional account of drugs taken, people slept with, coyotes run over, and more drugs taken - as intriguing as a grocer's stock take. The lead character has nothing to say or think about, and just drifts absently as though this were a Douglas Coupland novel with the humour drained out. Right at the end of the book the author tacks on a moral, which was something like "You really shouldn't become a rent boy. You won't like it." Despite the claims in the blurb on the back of the book, this isn't a "coming of age" story. It's more just a "messing around and learning nothing" story.
But seriously, don't become a rent boy. You won't like it at all.
I'm working my way through Bret Easton Ellis' novels with some trepidation: The Rules of Attraction was one of the funniest books I read this year, but American Psycho was - as is indisputable fact - complete shite. Sadly, Less Than Zero pretty much makes the score two to one against Easton Ellis.
To his credit, Easton Ellis wrote this in 1984 when he was just 23 years old - apparently he had to dictate it to Picador from inside his mother's womb. Still, it's really just an endless fictional account of drugs taken, people slept with, coyotes run over, and more drugs taken - as intriguing as a grocer's stock take. The lead character has nothing to say or think about, and just drifts absently as though this were a Douglas Coupland novel with the humour drained out. Right at the end of the book the author tacks on a moral, which was something like "You really shouldn't become a rent boy. You won't like it." Despite the claims in the blurb on the back of the book, this isn't a "coming of age" story. It's more just a "messing around and learning nothing" story.
But seriously, don't become a rent boy. You won't like it at all.
06 October 2003
Joke thing: Metaphors
There is a joke mail going around at the moment claiming to be "metaphors from real GCSE essays". My favourites are:
o Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
o Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the centre
o He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
o John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
o "Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 31p-a-pint night.
o Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
o She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
o She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
There is a joke mail going around at the moment claiming to be "metaphors from real GCSE essays". My favourites are:
o Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
o Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the centre
o He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
o John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
o "Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 31p-a-pint night.
o Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
o She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
o She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
Life note: Mad house
I am increasingly concerned that the house they are building at the end of my road - now three storeys high - continues to have no actual doors or doorways, nor any actual stairs, nor any room for stairs. I can only imagine the builders are either very absent minded, or are relying on teleportation technology being developed in the forthcoming months.
I am increasingly concerned that the house they are building at the end of my road - now three storeys high - continues to have no actual doors or doorways, nor any actual stairs, nor any room for stairs. I can only imagine the builders are either very absent minded, or are relying on teleportation technology being developed in the forthcoming months.
Life note: Winter blues
All summer it has been my morning habit to sweep into the office, pull open all the ventian blinds, and let the sun stream into the office. Today the process was abandoned half way through when I realised the sky was the same bland, grey colour as the blinds. What-ho, winter time!
All summer it has been my morning habit to sweep into the office, pull open all the ventian blinds, and let the sun stream into the office. Today the process was abandoned half way through when I realised the sky was the same bland, grey colour as the blinds. What-ho, winter time!
Movie review: Bright Young Things
I've never been so frigidly bored in my entire life. Wonderful movie. Absolutely bloody.
What? Oh so. Stephen Fry populates his 1930s world with characters so convincing I can't imagine any of the actors being any other way (and yet the absurdly fey and polished Miles was also the devilish and dirty Lucian in Underworld). The plot sprawls elegantly like some drunken flapper, and although Stephen Fry wasn't able to totally eliminate the dark ending of Waugh's original novel, he gives it a damn good bash. Being institutionalised never looked so much fun.
I've never been so frigidly bored in my entire life. Wonderful movie. Absolutely bloody.
What? Oh so. Stephen Fry populates his 1930s world with characters so convincing I can't imagine any of the actors being any other way (and yet the absurdly fey and polished Miles was also the devilish and dirty Lucian in Underworld). The plot sprawls elegantly like some drunken flapper, and although Stephen Fry wasn't able to totally eliminate the dark ending of Waugh's original novel, he gives it a damn good bash. Being institutionalised never looked so much fun.
Urinal update
Today I met the mystery woman who picks the pubic hairs out of the urinal and arranges the wee-tablets symmetrically around the drain (see my poignant September 11th edit). She is a large and jovial lady. I entered the toilet and she was there, bent on her knees, scrubbing the urinal. I apologised and made to leave. "No, no!" she insisted, "use it, please". Despite her insistence I decided to bide my time. As I left the toilet she was still crying out "No, please! Use it!"
I returned twenty minutes later after a chat about Derren Brown. Eduard came out of one of the stalls and seemed almost out of breath, sighing wearily. God knows what terrible, epic challenge he had faced.
Oh - am I documenting my life too closely now?
Today I met the mystery woman who picks the pubic hairs out of the urinal and arranges the wee-tablets symmetrically around the drain (see my poignant September 11th edit). She is a large and jovial lady. I entered the toilet and she was there, bent on her knees, scrubbing the urinal. I apologised and made to leave. "No, no!" she insisted, "use it, please". Despite her insistence I decided to bide my time. As I left the toilet she was still crying out "No, please! Use it!"
I returned twenty minutes later after a chat about Derren Brown. Eduard came out of one of the stalls and seemed almost out of breath, sighing wearily. God knows what terrible, epic challenge he had faced.
Oh - am I documenting my life too closely now?
Life note: Mass media
The internet has made celebrities out of us all - on Friday I got stupidly drunk, and ended up being slightly rude to a waitress (I maintain justifiably so). By the next morning at least three friends had written the event up in their on-line diaries, and by Saturday evening word was out among everyone else. Having forgotten most of what happened in a haze of white wine, I was disturbed to find that people who were not there knew more about what I did the night before than I did.
Detox Update: although my detox week ended literally on Sunday, it died spiritually last Thursday, was briefly aroused on Saturday, and was kicked back down with a last minute bottle of sake. I still celebrated Sunday's literal end of the detox week with lots of red wine, and now feel ready to start emergency detox all over again.
Sara tells me she has a beautiful friend who thinks I'm good looking and funny, however she doesn't want to introduce us to each other since we're both so screwed up she's frightened we'll "fuck each other around". The pun is left as an exercise for the reader.
The internet has made celebrities out of us all - on Friday I got stupidly drunk, and ended up being slightly rude to a waitress (I maintain justifiably so). By the next morning at least three friends had written the event up in their on-line diaries, and by Saturday evening word was out among everyone else. Having forgotten most of what happened in a haze of white wine, I was disturbed to find that people who were not there knew more about what I did the night before than I did.
Detox Update: although my detox week ended literally on Sunday, it died spiritually last Thursday, was briefly aroused on Saturday, and was kicked back down with a last minute bottle of sake. I still celebrated Sunday's literal end of the detox week with lots of red wine, and now feel ready to start emergency detox all over again.
Sara tells me she has a beautiful friend who thinks I'm good looking and funny, however she doesn't want to introduce us to each other since we're both so screwed up she's frightened we'll "fuck each other around". The pun is left as an exercise for the reader.
03 October 2003
Film review: Underworld
The Peckham Premiere cinema now charges just £2.99 for any movie at any time. This, coupled with my need to find entertainment other than drinking during my detox week, explains why I ended up seeing 'Underworld', despite bad word of mouth.
Underworld is essentially 'Romeo & Juliet' with vampires and werewolves - although academics familiar with both tales will note that in Shakespeare's version Romeo doesn't turn into a navy-blue mutant and Juliet doesn't end up decapitating Friar Laurence. Actually, Shakespeare glossed over that whole sub-plot about the diurnal werewolf slaves. Anyway, the movie had the potential to be excellent fun, but fell down on a number of important points:
1. There wasn't a single joke or funny quip in the entire 121 turgid minutes. A beautiful hero with big brown eyes? Fine. A beautiful hero with big brown eyes and not an ounce of a sense of humour? Fuck that.
2. The complex and alien world of vampires and werewolves was so well conceived and delivered that it left absolutely no room for empathy. I didn't fit into their world in any way at all. A brief scene at the beginning introduced a human character, and I thought we might get to see the world through his eyes, but he turned into a wolf within five minutes and empathy evaporated.
3. The plot twisted and turned with many good surprises - but it blended the characters' morality and motivations so well that there was no longer a good guy or a bad guy. The big finale became a moral quagmire in which I had no interest who won or who lost. Way to ruin a movie, dude. (If dude you be).
Oh, should I stress now that I don't go in for spoiler warnings?
The Peckham Premiere cinema now charges just £2.99 for any movie at any time. This, coupled with my need to find entertainment other than drinking during my detox week, explains why I ended up seeing 'Underworld', despite bad word of mouth.
Underworld is essentially 'Romeo & Juliet' with vampires and werewolves - although academics familiar with both tales will note that in Shakespeare's version Romeo doesn't turn into a navy-blue mutant and Juliet doesn't end up decapitating Friar Laurence. Actually, Shakespeare glossed over that whole sub-plot about the diurnal werewolf slaves. Anyway, the movie had the potential to be excellent fun, but fell down on a number of important points:
1. There wasn't a single joke or funny quip in the entire 121 turgid minutes. A beautiful hero with big brown eyes? Fine. A beautiful hero with big brown eyes and not an ounce of a sense of humour? Fuck that.
2. The complex and alien world of vampires and werewolves was so well conceived and delivered that it left absolutely no room for empathy. I didn't fit into their world in any way at all. A brief scene at the beginning introduced a human character, and I thought we might get to see the world through his eyes, but he turned into a wolf within five minutes and empathy evaporated.
3. The plot twisted and turned with many good surprises - but it blended the characters' morality and motivations so well that there was no longer a good guy or a bad guy. The big finale became a moral quagmire in which I had no interest who won or who lost. Way to ruin a movie, dude. (If dude you be).
Oh, should I stress now that I don't go in for spoiler warnings?
Life note: Mandy Ho!
Mandy Ho!, Emily's friend from Texas, came out for a meal with us all last night, so Emily decided to surprise her by arranging to have a birthday cake brought out at the end of the meal, during which we would raucously sing 'Happy Birthday'. The surprise was compounded by the fact that it was not Mandy Ho!'s birthday, nor did it seem her birthday was especially soon.
When the waitress came over to discuss the finer details with Emily, Mandy Ho! began to get suspicious and demanded to know what was going on. Em quickly explained that the waitress had complained we were making too much noise, and that we had to keep our voices down. Although this was good quick thinking, the excuse backfired when the cake came out and - wary of the waitress' wrath - we all mumbled the 'Happy Birthday' song as quietly as church mice. I expect it was the least heart-warming rendition of the song Mandy Ho! had ever experienced, but since it wasn't even her birthday I guess she should be grateful for what little she got.
Mandy Ho!, Emily's friend from Texas, came out for a meal with us all last night, so Emily decided to surprise her by arranging to have a birthday cake brought out at the end of the meal, during which we would raucously sing 'Happy Birthday'. The surprise was compounded by the fact that it was not Mandy Ho!'s birthday, nor did it seem her birthday was especially soon.
When the waitress came over to discuss the finer details with Emily, Mandy Ho! began to get suspicious and demanded to know what was going on. Em quickly explained that the waitress had complained we were making too much noise, and that we had to keep our voices down. Although this was good quick thinking, the excuse backfired when the cake came out and - wary of the waitress' wrath - we all mumbled the 'Happy Birthday' song as quietly as church mice. I expect it was the least heart-warming rendition of the song Mandy Ho! had ever experienced, but since it wasn't even her birthday I guess she should be grateful for what little she got.
Life note: Train journey
My train sat outside the station for twenty minutes this morning, without explanation. After about fifteen minutes, the tannoy whined into life.
"Hello?" the driver's voice said, meekly.
Everyone in the carriage chimed in "HELLO!"
There was a pause from the driver. "Hello." he said, decisively.
Five minutes later the train started moving.
My train sat outside the station for twenty minutes this morning, without explanation. After about fifteen minutes, the tannoy whined into life.
"Hello?" the driver's voice said, meekly.
Everyone in the carriage chimed in "HELLO!"
There was a pause from the driver. "Hello." he said, decisively.
Five minutes later the train started moving.
Film review: Bubble Boy
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to spend your life in a germ free hermetically-sealed dome, with only two ultra-christian parents for company, and flimsy habitrail tunnels for exercise? No, nor me. But, according to this film, if you did, it would probably turn out to be one big fun adventure, full of laughs, and with a gloriously happy ending.
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to spend your life in a germ free hermetically-sealed dome, with only two ultra-christian parents for company, and flimsy habitrail tunnels for exercise? No, nor me. But, according to this film, if you did, it would probably turn out to be one big fun adventure, full of laughs, and with a gloriously happy ending.
01 October 2003
Life note: Zoltan
My gym bag went to Budapest, on Sunday morning. My big rucksack went to Zimbabwe last year, and my satchel pack has been travelling to and from Cambridge for months now. Jesus - my luggage is better travelled than I am.
My gym bag went to Budapest, on Sunday morning. My big rucksack went to Zimbabwe last year, and my satchel pack has been travelling to and from Cambridge for months now. Jesus - my luggage is better travelled than I am.
Book review: Hey Nostradamus!
The book begins with one of the those massacres which are so popular in American schools, and ends with an elderly father discovering redemption through the abandonment of god. Somewhere along the line we meet a gay chatshow giraffe, a psychic who gets her messages from a crib sheet, a school friend blugeoned to death in Vegas, and a Russian mobster called Yorgo.
I am a huge fan of Douglas Coupland, however I'm disturbed that all his books reinforce the view that it is impossible to be happy. In Coupland's world, the poor are failures because they have achieved nothing with their lives, and the rich are failures because they can do nothing good with their wealth. In fact, the only successful people in a Douglas Coupland book are children - although they are portrayed as innocents yet to be destroyed - and the dead. Why on earth do people like to read about people who fucked-up worse than they did? God alone knows, but Coupland's going to mine this seam for all its worth. A splendid book.
The book begins with one of the those massacres which are so popular in American schools, and ends with an elderly father discovering redemption through the abandonment of god. Somewhere along the line we meet a gay chatshow giraffe, a psychic who gets her messages from a crib sheet, a school friend blugeoned to death in Vegas, and a Russian mobster called Yorgo.
I am a huge fan of Douglas Coupland, however I'm disturbed that all his books reinforce the view that it is impossible to be happy. In Coupland's world, the poor are failures because they have achieved nothing with their lives, and the rich are failures because they can do nothing good with their wealth. In fact, the only successful people in a Douglas Coupland book are children - although they are portrayed as innocents yet to be destroyed - and the dead. Why on earth do people like to read about people who fucked-up worse than they did? God alone knows, but Coupland's going to mine this seam for all its worth. A splendid book.
