t5m: Love Personality, Love t5m: Reviews

American: The Bill Hicks Story

Nicholas Deigman — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 14:36:15 +0000

This fine documentary opens with a simple but salient point: who do we pay to talk to us? Politicians? Perhaps. Pastors? Maybe sometimes… The answer is comics. Comedians are the only people to whom we offer our money and say, “please talk to me… make me laugh at myself and the things around me.” In an age of global hostility, fear, and repression of thought and individuality, the voice of the comic is more essential than ever. We need comedians to remind us how farcical life is; and to poke fun at the institutions and zeitgeists that too easily become writ.

Bill Hicks understood the importance of this role from an early age. As a restless teenager – trapped in his Southern Baptist Texan townhouse with his all-American, college-graduate family – Hicks would sneak out and head for the only comedy club within a million miles of his home… the Houston Comix Annex. Hicks quickly became renowned for his clean, ‘high-school-kid’ brand of comedy and was taken under the wing of Steve Epstein’s fast-talking, hard-drinking comedy troupe, ‘The Texas Outlaw Comics’.

By his early twenties Hicks was already a legend on the Texan comedy scene, but he knew that his comedy could reach greater heights and deal with much wider issues than growing up in a Texan Baptist household. He began experimenting with hallucinogenic mushrooms, and would sit by a remote lake with a few trusted friends and explore the infinite possibilities of philosophy, consciousness, and existence.

This might all sound a bit heavy for comedy, and it certainly took Hicks a long time (and an almost fatal battle with alcoholism) before he really learnt how to incorporate his esotericism and staunch criticism of American society into his comedy routines. These routines – which began around 1989 with ‘Sane Man’, when Hicks was at the ripe old age of 28 – should be immortalised and filed away in the library of Congress with the works of Whitman and Hemingway. The raw simplicity, the fervent passion, the searing love for his common man that forced him to criticise society with all the spit and power he could muster, make Bill Hicks one of the most important spokespersons for Reagan’s America.

Hicks was a product of a forgotten generation of Americans, growing up in the 1970s, who couldn’t understand what had happened to the gusto of Johnson’s ‘Great Society’ or the purity of spirit and love that inspired the cultural revolutions of the 1960s. Vietnam had killed the American spirit, and everything that came after it further distorted and twisted the American Dream into a dogmatic society of thoughtless and unquestioning pawns who were free to do whatever they wanted… just so long as they wanted to do what they were told.

But no matter how much energy Hicks threw at his performances, mainstream America was not ready to hear his message. He achieved international fame and was cherished and idolised in Canada and his spiritual home, the UK; but he was criminally unappreciated in his beloved homeland, and was left to perform in the same old clubs on the same old comedy routes that he had been peddling since his teen years.

In 1993, just as he was beginning to achieve the mainstream platform he so desperately desired (not because he wanted fame, but because he wanted people to hear him) Hicks was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and passed away within a year. He spent his final months touring, creating what many consider to be the finest and most passionate stand-up performances in the history of stand-up comedy. His friends could not understand why he had become such an unstoppable force; they didn’t realise it was simply the desperation of a great man to immortalise his message before he was dragged away from this earth.

Hicks’ last performance was, in his own opinion, the finest of his career. He was invited onto the David Letterman show (the only mainstream show to have shown him any support in his career) and delivered an extraordinary rebuke to America, largely based around the recent Waco massacre. The performance was cut from the final broadcast, and the network claimed that Hicks’ views were to ‘dangerous’ for mainstream broadcast.

Throughout his life Hicks was ignored and chastised as anti-American; but in fact, as with so many great insubordinates, it was his deep love for his country that inspired him to fight back against the forces of corruption and lethargy. It was too great a struggle in the 1980s, but in the 15 years since his death, the rise of the internet and a stuttering revival of American liberalism has allowed Hicks’ stock to rise. His fanbase is growing at an unprecedented rate, and DVD and CD sales have mushroomed inline with the growth of youtube and the revelation of previously unseen clips. The culmination of all this groundwork, and arguably the culmination of Hicks’ entire career, is this documentary.

In Hicks’ final days he returned to his family home and forced his mother to sit with him while he took her through his entire collection of photos and VHS recordings. When she asked him why he was doing this, he explained that someday, somebody might want to make a documentary about him.

15 years later, British TV producers Matt Harlock and Paul Thomas have graciously and expertly taken up the mantle. They have created an honest and simple documentary relying solely on the lucid and evocative memories of Hicks’ friends and family, and Hicks mountain of personal photos and video recordings. The Hicks estate have made it clear that this is the only time they will open up their lives to such a far-reaching project, and so this really is the final word on one of the most important men in the history of the American entertainment industry.

The film employs a revolutionary animation technique that allowed the filmmakers to animate old photographs, adding dimensions and colour and movement to them so that the viewer is transported into Bill’s world not just by the absorbing commentary, but also by the visceral images.

The live footage is also expertly blended into the narrative, so that Bill seems to jump out of the film and onto the stage to perform some of the material that has just been explored. This allows viewers to take a completely new perspective on material that may or may not be familiar to them. Hicks’ fans will surely relish becoming entangled in the trials and tribulations of his life while watching him rage against the dying of the American Dream, and they will feel so much closer to this complex and inspiring idol by the end of the film.

It is difficult to tell how this film will perform theatrically, but this critic certainly hopes that it will achieve the success that these filmmakers, and Bill Hicks, deserve. This wonderful film has recorded a life and immortalised a great man, and that is all one can ask of the cinema.

Review: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - Fierce, Frosty and Thrilling

Mark Davison — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 18:08:55 +0000

Considering the difficult commercial prospects of a two and half hour subtitled Swedish movie, the fairly wide release of Niels Arden Oplev’s The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo demonstrates just how popular late author Stieg Larsson’s Millennium series of detective novels are (not to mention the forthcoming releases of parts two and three in the trilogy and a proposed Hollywood remake from David Fincher). And judging by the sophisticated and intelligent yet also gripping tale offered here, it’s not hard to see why the books were so successful. Disgraced investigative journalist Mikael Blomkvist is hired by the wealthy Henrik Vanger to find out what happened to his niece Harriet who disappeared 40 years previously. Relationships between the various members of the Vanger family are strained and Henrik believes that she was murdered by another member of the family. Facing a long period on the their private island struggling to make sense of the case, Mikael is contacted by young security consultant Lisbeth Salander who was originally hired to check into Mikael’s suitability for the case, but has managed to keep a track of his progress (or lack of it) by hacking into the files on his computer. Quickly recruited into the investigation Mikael now has to deal with not only the suspicions of the Vanger clan, but the strange behaviour of his brilliant, yet troubled young sidekick. The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo is interesting for not only featuring an unusual double act who have a great amount of chemistry between them, but for keeping them apart from each other for much of the film with much of Lisbeth’s work on the case being completed from behind the screen of a Macbook. Fortunately the film manages to make the use of technology fascinating to watch, almost to the extent that it starts to feel like an extra character in its own right, not just in the high-tech spying and conversations between Mikael and Lisbeth but also in its use of more antique equipment such as the presentation of the photographic evidence of Harriet’s last day, with the photographs becoming almost animated in an eerily blurred and grainy conversation from the past. It’s interesting that one of Sweden’s other most successful cultural exports of recent years is another crime drama Henning Mankell’s Kurt Wallander series and the subsequent series of TV dramatisations, and it’s fair to say that there are certain similarities between the two. Both take place in the same settings of modern city apartments and the estates of the wealthy out in the remote Swedish countryside and both are filmed in a similar unflashy matter-of-fact style. Really the only concessions The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo makes to being shown in cinemas are its ominous score and a portrayal of violence far more unflinching than anything shown in TV drama. The latter is where the key difference between the two series lies, where Wallander often related its crimes to the social and political conditions that formed them, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo largely eschews politics (aside from a back story based around the Swedish branch of the Nazi party) in favour of more visceral horrific storylines - like most serial killer plotlines the details of the murders seem a little hard to swallow at points, but generally the point of the genre is to take something horrific and make it entertaining and larger than life. In some aspects the film resembles not so much a big screen Wallander, but more a Scandinavian take on The Silence of the Lambs. Although not featuring anything as gaudily grotesque as Hannibal Lector, the hero does find himself relying on a shady, unpredictable and staggeringly intelligent sidekick and the film even (perhaps unintentionally) borrows Lambs’ final shot. More importantly, like the Silence of the Lambs, the film is more willing than most crime dramas to highlight the misogynistic aspects of the genre, despite an early sexual abuse subplot that at first seems rather leery and irresponsible, the violence carried out on women is laudably presented in a stark, uncomfortable manner – perhaps the original Swedish title ‘Men Who Hate Women’ would have been a more fitting choice for the film, although it would have probably lost it some viewers. Although dark, brooding and in some places very tough to watch The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo also offers thrilling entertainment with moments both of black humour and tense action. Although towards the end it does seem that the film doesn’t quite know when to stop, it never feels as long as its running length would suggest and manages to grip for most of its running time, while also raising ethical questions frequently missing from the crime genre.

Highway to the Green Zone

Michael Shelton — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 16:06:20 +0000

Perhaps the Iraq War is still too close in our memories, but Hollywood has yet to make a decent film about the conflict. Even the Hurt Locker deliberately ignored the politics to concentrate on the human side of the story. If anyone could pull it off, it would be Paul Greengrass, the director who made works about Bloody Sunday and September 11th cinematic, while maintaining the verisimilitude. After the invasion of Iraq Warrant Officer Roy Miller (Damon) is tasked with finding the Weapons of Mass Destruction, but after drawing several blanks, he begins to question the intelligence provided by the mysterious source who the Pentagon have locked away. Working with CIA man Brendon Gleeson he goes off reservation to try and discover the truth. When news came out that, the script had been re-written and several scenes had been re-shot (normally a warning sign), it became clear that Greengrass was moulding his vision nicely. With Matt Damon on board, comparisons with the Bourne films are inescapable, except that here Miller has the crap beaten out of him by a man with a handlebar moustache in the first 20 minutes. Without Bourne’s super human abilities to fall back on, Miller’s peril is intensified, especially as he upsets the plans of Pentagon pen pusher Clark Poundstone (Greg Kinnear). Damon excels as a little boy lost who slowly has his eyes opened. Sadly Amy Ryan is underused as the journalist questioning her own exclusives, as is Jason Isaacs - who despite his aforementioned’ tache – is given screen time but little dialogue to work with. Where the film excels is that Greengrass understands it has to be cinematic, rather than simply conveying a message. He crafts a compelling thriller that, although lacking a huge twist, maintains the tension as characters must question their own culpability. From the press, to the government and even Miller himself, no-one gets off scot free. The opulence of life inside the American controlled Green Zone is sharply contrasted with the plight of Iraqi citizens desperate for basic supplies. Khalid Abdalla is sensational as Freddy, playing the voice of the Iraqi people. Even as helps Miller, he admonishes him for thinking that his choice of a future leader is any better than the American favoured puppet. The action has Greengrass’ trademark visceral edge and the last 20 minutes maintain a palpable sense of tension as the protagonists converge in a maze of Baghdad side streets. Entertaining and thought provoking, when was the last time you could say that about a movie?

Review: English National Opera - The Elixir of Love

Mark Davison — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 14:16:22 +0000

Sometimes misfortune can have its upsides. As any self-respecting devotee will tell you many opera plots revolve around the dramatic consequences of single quirks of fate. However, whereas these events normally are restricted to the goings-on on stage, Jonathan Miller's new staging of Gaetano Donizetti's L’Elisir d'Amore has had a fairly dramatic time behind the scenes as well. After opening to generally positive reviews, original lead John Tessier came down with an infection and so was unable to perform, unfortunately so was his understudy, which lead to an interesting dilemma for the company. With it being such short notice and with this being the first staging of a new English adaptation, it wouldn't be possible to find another singer who knew this version of the text or had the time to learn it. The solution they hit upon was to hire a singer who was familiar with the original Italian - Brazilian Tenor Luciano Botelho - and keep the rest of the production in English. And it works surprisingly well. A light, farcical romance telling the tale of Nemorino's pining for beautiful Adina, who refuses to be tied down to one man, that is until her soldier suitor Belcore proposes to her. Nemorino puts his faith in doctor Dulcamara, who provides the Elixir of the title. Veteran director Miller has decided to stage the action in the mid-west of 1950s America, where the action centres around Adina's diner, Nemorino is now a young grease-monkey and Dulcamara is a travelling snake-oil huckster. As lovestruck Nemorino Botelho's character is at odds with the other characters on stage, and so the fact that the intense young loner is singing in a different language to the rest of the cast highlights this further - with this production’s American update it could be possible to read Nemorino as an uneducated immigrant. In some of the group numbers where Botelho is required to sing along with the chorus, the language difference adds another interesting layer of contrast - where Kelley Rourke's new English translation is witty, it is also rather functional, and so Nemorino's romanticised Italian (as well as Botelho's forceful but light and clear voice – perhaps it was a result of end of run fatigue setting in with the rest of the cast, but at this performance his voice was by far the standout) sets his character apart. Although, Botelho isn't the only one to sing in Italian in the production - Andrew Shore's wonderfully hammy Ducamara, invokes a salesman’s faux intimacy in making a sale by conversing with Nemorino in the original language, before reverting to the Amercianisms of Rourke's libretto in his dealings with the other characters. It's perhaps a result of recent opulence in ENO productions (such as Rupert Goold's also eatery-set version of Turnadot) that Isabella Bywater's set seems rather stripped back, despite it featuring a full-sized diner that revolves around to give views of action inside and out. The 1950s setting does provide Miller with a rich seam to mine however, with Adina's diner looking like something out of an Edward Hopper painting, and numerous moments of earthy humour being created such as in Shore evoking the spirit of Elvis in the pre-wedding celebration scene, or a dramatic plot development being delivered as gossip in the queue for the ladies lavatory round back. Despite the production now nearing the end of its run and the fact that Donizetti’s score isn’t the most memorable, The Elixir of Love is worth making the effort to see, especially for those who are curious about opera but haven’t taken the plunge of seeing one yet. Not only is Miller’s production light and accessible, but the cultural mish-mash of English and Italian in these final performances offer the opportunity to see something genuinely unique and unexpectedly rewarding.

WOMADelaide South Australia - March 2010

Michele Nardelli — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 17:01:18 +0000

As people pick through the spaces between rugs and plastic sheets, the sun sets on the last day of WOMADelaide 2010. We settle in our spots and the sun throws up a dash of glorious, almost iridescent, pink across an unusually cloudy sky. The picture is appropriately dazzling. We are all – more than 1000 of us - waiting to see 90-year old Ravi Shankar in what will undoubtedly be his last Australian performance. I am chatting to three young guys next to me. When you sit this close to strangers it is best to start up a conversation. They are friendly as I squash into their space. They’ve travelled the 911 km from Melbourne to catch two days of WOMADelaide and are suitably impressed. Impressed with the crowds; the 34 hectare parkland setting; the incredible huge, fairytale Morton Bay Fig trees and Adelaide’s weather. Melbourne has just suffered a freakish storm, three hours of solid rain and hailstones as big as lemons. Typically, Adelaide has had a few tiny showers which evaporated into the dry atmosphere almost as soon as they descended. I explain to them that often the locals don’t patronize great local events as much as they should and I feel a strange guilt at not being a veteran of all 18 WOMADs . I wonder at my temerity in calling myself a music lover. I have only bought the day ticket but I’m here. It has been three years since my last WOMADelaide (does that require listening to three hours of world music as atonement?) I had forgotten just how chillaxing the whole event is. I have seen a mature Tim Finn perform almost fully acoustic versions of Crowded House classics – he is good, very good. A sea of Gen Xs and Baby Boomer cusps sway in unison appreciatively. There’s a group of talented musos, Arrebato Ensemble playing a cool fusion of Flamenco and Middle Eastern sounds - from guitar to Oud and cello, the blend is beautiful and unexpected. The addition of double base, sometimes played with a bow is a stunner. I had to then to rush off to see a cool brass band someone recommended – exit to stage two. African American brass with a rap beat. Hypnotic Brass Ensemble is funky and bright, with a smooth professionalism that matches their onstage moves. A little girl with Botticelli curls is on her dad’s shoulders in front of me. She has her arm up and is playing the beat in the air, like a Princess rap-fairy, floating in the sounds. I wander over to stage three and am transported to the desert. The haunting clarity of this exotic lament from Algerian singer Kamel el Harachi is contagious. Our shy hips move with the beat and before you know it, on the other side of the crowd a group of women begin to dance, bellies rippling, arms curling, lips smiling, eyes closed, they become the music. On the way over there was a group of military clowns assembling on the stage. People were gathering in numbers as the cheesy percussion began. The “captain clowns” jumped the stage and headed into the pack, they whistled and buffooned about to their matching beat. We were on our way through to the other act, but people kept saying … “don’t miss this…it’s amazing”. So I cut short the desert songs and returned in time to truly make sense of La Compagnie Trasse Express – “Mobile Homme”. And there they were - snare drums tatt-tatting away, up in the sky suspended from a huge crane these little soldiers had become a living mobile. Something so fanciful we wait to see if a huge pram rolls in, so that a baby giant can enjoy its toy. These little athletic Frenchmen don’t miss a beat as they spin through the air to our delighted oohs and aahs. It is another WOMADelaide moment. While not a regular…I do have a memory collection from WOMADs past – seeing the dynamic Yothu Yindi perform Treaty, with my eight year old curled at my feet after a full day in the sun, furiously trying to stay awake to share the beat and soak up the sounds of the didgeridoo. The amazing Mahlathini and the Mahotella Queens, proud, full-voiced and still sexy and sassy well into their 50s and 60s. A Georgian men’s choir, a wall of pure glorious human sound – a special kind of shock and awe. I add the French drummer, soldier, clowns to my collection. At exactly 8.30 pm Anoushka Shankar has now come on to the stage and begins to play. She is remarkable..mesmerising. The sitar gleams black and pearl against her deep purple dress and we are all drawn into its sound as it fingers its way through the crowd. It is as though it lives and you have to remember Anoushka is actually making the music happen. Then Ravi is helped on to the stage and brings his aging mastery to the instrument. He delivers beautiful, bending sounds – complex, intricate. We applaud and cheer and whistle. He bows a gracious Namaste in return…he is still a master, if a little tired now. As am I. A misty rain starts to sprinkle. It won’t last but I have to go to work in the morning so with the sitar’s song stretching out into the night, I wend my way through coloured lights, matching the colourful crowds and vow not to leave it so long to come back to WOMADelaide . Image courtesy of www.fasterlouder.com.au

Mad Men Series 3, Episode 8 - Souvenir: A Review

Mark Davison — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 15:52:46 +0000

It’s fair to say that we’re into Mad Men’s mid-season lull, the quiet few weeks before everything builds up again to a dramatic climax. Not that there wasn’t much to capture the interest in this episode but, like last week’s one it seemed to be a subdued affair. Really this was an episode where the women got the chance to shine, or more accurately their hair-dos did. From the shot early on in the episode where Sally serenely watched Betty combing her hair, through to Betty’s croissant shaped style later on in the episode and Trudy returning from her trip with a head scarf that made her look like a character out of Grey Gardens, so much of the drama was merely conveyed by how the women decided to wear their hair. And, aside from the ridiculous croissant-style, Betty’s hair managed to remain constantly impeccable, even when waking up in the morning or after a long flight. This was very much her episode during which she got a taste of political power, thanks to Henry Francis stepping in to delay the Reservoir real estate sale, although this was lost by the end of the episode, with Francine informing her that the development was going to go ahead anyway. Her reaction to this was to tell Don at the end of the episode that she hated her life – the place where they lived and all of their friends, and while this may seem mean and petulant we were given an insight as to why she feels this way. Embarking on a literally last minute trip to Rome with Don (who was flown out to once again tend to Connie’s needs), Betty got to reveal a talent that she doesn’t get to use back at home as she confidently conversed with the locals in Italian, and went around the city unaccompanied. Which is where the ridiculous croissant-hair came in. Following a trip to the Beauty Salon Betty, supposedly all glammed-up although it was hard to take her new look seriously, entertained herself with a drink until she received some unwanted attention from a couple of sleazy Italian guys. The Italians didn’t come off well in this episode as in addition to their lewd remarks to Betty, they came across as idiots by referring to Don when he arrived as old and ugly – Don may be many things, but he’s definitely neither old or ugly. This did lead to a surprisingly romantic and charming scene (at least by Don and Betty’s standards) of them pretending to not know each other and then hook up, although once again the seriousness of the scene was a little undercut by the sight of Betty in the bedroom, wearing not only her underwear but that croissant-shaped hairdo and vast amount of gold jewellery (I couldn’t help but think of Princess Leia’s gold bikini outfit from Return of the Jedi). Luckily it was all gone by the morning after and Betty was back to looking like her improbably perfect self. As all of this was going on, the kids were left at home with Carla, who once again proved herself to have the patience of a saint by not only agreeing to look after Sally, Bobby and baby Gene at the last minute, but Francine’s kids too. Which lead to another incident of Sally losing her temper – after being caught kissing Francine’s son Ernie in the bathtub, Sally violently went after Bobby until Carla intervened. It was odd to hear Carla threaten to not allow Francine’s kids to come over any more as being just the hired help it’s unlikely that she has the power to follow through on this, although she does spend more time raising the kids than either Don or Betty do, as demonstrated when they returned from their whirlwind trip to Rome. When Carla told Betty that Sally and Bobby missed her she responded ‘I doubt that’ before turning her attention to Gene, who’s far too young to show any sort of negative opinion towards her. Don was even less interested, sensing talk about the kids’ behaviour he excused himself to check on the mail, so we were given the unusual sight of Betty seeming like responsible parent, relatively speaking. Towards the end of the episode Betty finally sat herself down to have a one-to-one chat with Sally which, although it provided useful advice for Sally on how to behave around boys, revealed rather more of Betty’s restless state of mind as it was preceded by her staring longingly at the fainting couch recommended to her by Henry Francis and concluded with the line ‘a first kiss is when you really get to know a guy, and every one after that is just a shadow of the first one’. Although Don tried to surprise her at the end of the episode with a little trinket from the hotel gift shop in Rome, it clearly wasn’t enough to stop her thinking of Henry. Meanwhile at Sterling Cooper Pete and Ken were now also fighting it out in the race to be the most disgusting man in the office, Ken went for the rather direct approach of describing New York in August as ‘all fat girls with hairy armpits soaking their feet in fountain’ (marking an early appearance, and a rather unpleasant one at that, of the women’s hair motif), while Pete’s was, in a perfectly fitting style, more planned out and slimy. Finding himself at a loose end with Trudy away with her parents, Pete soon found himself bored of the lack of responsibilities this brought (a guy can only take so many naps on the sofa and watch so many kids TV shows), until he happened upon the neighbours’ German Au Pair in the hallway. The poor girl, who as the episode progressed retreated further and further into her unflattering bob, was trying to dispose of her boss’ dress which she had managed to ruin and so Pete leapt to the rescue vowing to get her a replacement one. Which is where the most interesting twist in the episode happened, after taking the dress back to the store and demanding to speak with the manager, he was met with Joan – who worked her way up to a management position in the store surprisingly quickly. Despite the friendly chit-chat that followed, in which Joan assured Pete that she had ‘never been better’, it was clear she was lying, her still stylish, but rather deflated hair told us what she was refusing to admit. Of course on giving the replacement dress to the Au Pair, it was inevitable that Pete would force himself on her. What was shocking was that when his neighbour found out, he didn’t have a problem with Pete behaving so callously, but asked if he could take his philandering outside of the building so as to not risk losing an Au Pair that his wife finally got on with. And into this Trudy returned, looking relaxed and stylish from her trip away, although this was soon undone by Pete refusing to talk to her by what he had been up to – by the next scene she had removed her headscarf, a sign that the holiday was well and truly over and she was back to the usual secrecy and resentment of home life. So all in all it was a pretty downbeat episode this week, even if Joan’s reappearance was very welcome. What did you all think of it?

Lips: Party Classics

Mark Pilkington — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 15:17:26 +0000

It’s karaoke at its finest, this. The vast majority of these 40 songs are guaranteed to get people up and singing, and what we have here is a collection of party favourites. The only downside to this game is that it doesn’t come bundled with a microphone – you’ll need to buy it separately – but as far as the choice of songs goes, you can’t really go wrong if you are looking to get your mates all singing together. The track listing is as follows... · What's Up - 4 Non Blondes · Black Velvet - Alannah Myles · Rehab - Amy Winehouse · Doctor Jones - Aqua · Love Shack - The B-52's · Let's Get It Started - Black Eyed Peas · Word Up - Cameo · Tubthumping - Chumbawamba · Rhythm Of The Night - DeBarge · Groove Is In The Heart - Deee-Lite · I Touch Myself - Divinyls · American Pie - Don McLean · Son Of A Preacher Man - Dusty Springfield · I Want To Know What Love Is - Foreigner · I Will Survive - Gloria Gaynor · Laid - James · You're Beautiful - James Blunt · Rock and Roll All Night - KISS · Sweet Home Alabama - Lynyrd Skynyrd · She Will Be Loved - Maroon 5 · To Be With You - Mr. Big · These Boots Are Made for Walking - Nancy Sinatra · True Faith - New Order · Live if Life - Opus · When A Man Loves A Woman - Percy Sledge · Every Rose Had Its Thorn - Poison · Brass in Pocket - The Pretenders · Shiny Happy People - R.E.M · I'm Too Sexy - Right Said Fred · Addicted to Love - Robert Palmer · Kiss Me - Sixpence None The Richer · Wannabe - The Spice Girls · Friday I'm in Love - The Cure · My Sharona - The Knack · Unchained Melody - The Righteous Brothers · I Think We're Alone Now - Tiffany · It's Not Unusual - Tom Jones · Red Red Wine - UB40 · Y.M.C.A. - Village People · Is This Love - Whitesnake

Battlefield: Bad Company 2

Mark Pilkington — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 15:14:33 +0000

The Battlefield series of games have always been about the multiplayer mode. In fact, the first game in the series didn’t even feature a single player campaign. The world of online war-based shooters is an extremely competitive one, and in reality there are only two or three games that you would consider playing. Luckily for us, the Battlefield series is one of them, and it is with a large smile and sore thumbs that I can report that this tradition is carried on richly with Bad Company 2. The multiplayer mode really is a polished product, being both exciting and addictive enough to keep you coming back for more and more. If you thought Modern Warfare 2 was the final word in online shooters, rest assured you haven’t seen nothing yet as the carnage is tripled in this game. However, this is not all Bad Company 2 has to offer – the single player mode is (almost) as addictive. Forget the rather silly back-story and just enjoy the ride, as you get to play in a myriad range of environments, with a stupendous amount of weapons and vehicles at your disposal. One level will have you traipsing along a snowy mountain range, then another will have you firing at enemy soldiers from a helicopter gunship, and yet another will have you steering a tank across a range of fields. All in stunning Technicolor! The graphics here are simply stunning, and are amongst the most realistic I have seen on a console. Honestly, you will want o stop firing at points in this game to just admire the scenery, it’s that beautiful. On the downside, some of the levels are over too quickly, The game features a good use for sound as well, with superb voice-acting and ultra-realistic sound effects. This range from the chirping of birds in trees to the muffled squelches as you trudge through the snow. There is even a good attempt as imagining what your ears would sound like if a real grenade exploded near where you were standing, as they sound falls out and fades back again, ala the beach scene in Saving Private Ryan. It’s very clever and really helps build up the impression you are involved in a real war, as your ears ring from all the destruction around you. The sound is also used to good effect in many other ways as well, as the footsteps of any enemy behind a wall can alert you to their whereabouts, and their distant chatter will let you know when they are nearby. Being a part of a squad of hardened soldiers, in single player mode you soon learn that each one has their own distinctive personalities. If you wait nearby for a few seconds at a quiet point in the game, you will soon hear them start top talk amongst themselves, which is a source of much humour. They ramble on about Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders and discuss the merits of what scene is best in the Predator films. The scripting here is excellent and will have you chuckling away to yourself the first few times you hear it. Of course, war is not something to celebrate really and is not really a funny subject. People die in wars, man. This is certainly not a game for kids – the dialogue features swearwords a-plenty and the blood is there for all to see when you kill an opponent, but then should war games really be for younger players anyway? It is no worse than what you would find in your average war film, but it goes without saying that the level of violence is staggeringly high in this game. A great shooter, one of the best you will ever play online, and well worth every penny. Just make sure you stock up with plenty of cans of Red Bull for all the sleepless nights ahead of you...

Review: Crazy Heart - More Lazy Than Crazy

Mark Davison — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 12:00:07 +0000

Crazy Heart is probably going to be remembered as the film that finally got Jeff Bridges an Oscar (38 years after his first nomination), but does it deserve to be remembered for more than that? It’s hard to imagine that this low-budget, unassuming portrait of a faded country star would find much of an audience outside of country music fans without him (and it’s debatable as to how much star-power Bridges has anyway). Primarily the problem with Crazy Heart is that, unlike what its title suggests, the film is fairly devoid of drama and passion. Unusually the film is more interested in getting the specifics correct – musicians have detailed discussions on their favourite guitars and amps for example – than in providing dramatic interest or character motivation. While there are dramatic happenings they are fairly minor and rather predictable as Crazy Heart fits firmly into the tradition of films where a disillusioned and ageing man is given a new lease of life by finding a young, beautiful woman who loves him. Not that there’s anything wrong with predictability if the characters are strong enough, but as Bridges character Bad Blake is somewhat exasperating company, and the film is even quite reticent to go into the details of what makes him or many of the supporting characters tick, it does mean that Crazy Heart isn’t a particularly rewarding or satisfying experience. As so much of the film revolves around Bridges, it’s good to note that he brings his usual laid-back charm to the film and he manages to perform Blake’s songs (which were also awarded with an Oscar) convincingly, should he decide to turn his back on his acting career it’s not inconceivable that he could pursue a career in music. The role also requires a lack of vanity and self-consciousness from him as he’s clearly had to pile on some pounds for the role, and spend much of the film wandering around with his shirt off acting like a drunkard, and he pulls this off well although it is unlikely that Bad Blake will rival his turns in films such as The Big Lebowski, Starman or The Last Picture Show in his fan’s affections. Elsewhere the performances are all solid if mostly in underwritten parts, Maggie Gyllenhaal in particular tries her best with a role that, despite offering a few witty lines, exists solely to be the level-headed love interest and muse for Blake. Like the script, the shooting style would be best described as functional and with so much of the film taking place on hot, dusty and deserted stretches of highway this end result has a soporific, repetitive quality. While in no respect is it a bad film, Crazy Heart is an unsubstantial one only really given any weight by Jeff Bridges’ presence and an authentic-sounding country music soundtrack.

Live Gig Reviews: Tim Key and Ramona

Joe West — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 15:11:54 +0000

In between going to the cinema I do get a bit of time for other activities. Sometimes I dream about eating crisps with Bruce Willis (true story) and sometimes I have a little walk. But recently I’ve taken in a couple of live gigs. The first is stand up comedy (of a kind) and the second is live music.

Tim Key

Mr Key first came to my attention on Charlie Brooker’s Screen Wipe a couple of years ago, and his hilarious poetry, which on Wikipedia is referred to as ‘deliberately bad’, was refreshing in a market so full of repetitive, observational mainstream acts. Then the short run of the BBC sketch comedy Cowards showcased Key and three other young comics. Most of the show was excellent, and a welcome contrast to the beast that sketch comedy has become, with its otherwise universal reliance on poor impersonations of celebrities to get laughs (see Katy Brand and even, dare I say it, Harry and Paul). Most recently Key has been a much more visible personality, taking the role of question master in BBC4’s We Need Answers, as well as appearing on News Wipe from time to time.

Key’s latest one-man show, which happens to be called The Slutcracker, had a sell-out run at the Soho Theatre in London, and I managed to catch it one evening. Key’s style is not stand up in the traditional sense. There are no jokes, but there are definite punch lines. It’s almost performance art, but with an introspective and self-mocking tone that makes the excessive pretentions seem delightfully silly and very, very funny. Key reads his poems from small notebooks stuffed into the various pockets of his ill-fitting suit, and he uses a conductor’s baton to direct the audio and video elements that punctuate the five or so parts into which the hour long performance is divided. Poems are interspersed with almost stream of consciousness musings, coupled with occasional laddish outbursts that jar intentionally with the rest of his act. Keep an eye on Key, and see him live if you can. He lacks the kind of manner that is gradually turning fellow Cambridge graduate David Mitchell into a staple of the living room, but he is one of the most inventive comedy performers on the circuit today.

Ramona

Having not been to a gig for a while (I saw half of a Propagandhi gig in Sheffield last summer before a fire alarm cut it short) I was fairly excited to shake the cobwebs off my eardrums again. And the Portland Arms in Cambridge was the venue to help me with that task. Before talking about the band, I’d like to praise the venue itself. It is basically a pub, but with a small backroom for gigs. I’ve been to tons of tiny venues in the past, and in terms of atmosphere, and more importantly sound quality, this was one of the best. Every element of the groups on stage was evenly balanced, and even the vocals were not totally eclipsed in the miniature listening environment.

Now Ramona is a band at the beginning of its journey, and you could tell that each member was still in the process of finding their own place in the musical machine. Old pop punk is the driving influence here, and the ghost of Blondie floats over them. Lead singer Karen Anne has an impressive natural presence on the stage, holding herself somewhere between nonchalant cool and energetic emotion at all times, but never being overtaken by either. Her vocal is clean and flawlessly executed in technical terms. Lyrically the songs dwell on the typical teenage topics, though there are flashes of more adult themes that transcend the occasionally angsty but generally up-beat tunes.

Guitar, drums, bass and keys/synths complete the Ramona line-up. There are actually distinct personalities that define each band member, though like Karen Anne there is no overriding/distracting level of showmanship to detract from what is an assured group performance. It will be interesting to see how the band develops, and whether their sound will change over time. I believe an album is in the works at the moment, though you can check out good old Myspace for some previews.

Review: Alice in Wonderland - Frankly Maddening

Mark Davison — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 09:48:59 +0000

When it was announced that Tim Burton was going to turn Alice in Wonderland into a big budget 3D movie for Disney, there was a fair amount of excitement from both critics and the public. Although he has his fair share of detractors, it's impossible to deny that Burton has a distinctive sense of visual style and can create genuinely wondrous moments in his films, plus with the involvement of his acting alter-ego Johnny Depp and wife Helena Bonham Carter, the film was bound to offer interesting performances. However, on its way to the screen various misfortunes fell upon the production leading it to arrive to a rather muted reception for such a major film. Following lengthy legal battles between the UK's cinema chains and Disney that affected the film's pre-release publicity, Alice in Wonderland has been greeted with a fairly unanimous drubbing from critics, and it's a shame to report that they have a point.

Instead of attempting a straight telling of Lewis Carroll's tale, Burton's version of Alice mashes-up elements from both the original book and its sequel Through The Looking-Glass, which in itself isn't that much different from many of the previous film adaptations of Carroll's writings, on top of this however is a new framing plot-line where Alice is now a young adult, having forgot her previous adventures other than in recurring dreams, and is now having to deal with real world problems such as the etiquette of social engagements and unwanted proposals of marriage. Once again she follows the nervy and elusive White Rabbit away from all this and finds herself in Wonderland, or as it's now called 'Underland' whose numerous fantastical denizens hope that she will be able to deliver them from the tyrannical reign of the Red Queen, but before she can she has to remember her previous encounters with them and rediscover her sense of self, or as the Mad Hatter puts it her 'muchness'. That rather convoluted description of the plot highlights the main problem with this adaptation in that it overcomplicates the original story to the extent where much of the fun is sucked out of it. While the original story is essentially just a collection of vignettes strung together, it was charming, compelling and coherent despite this, and other film adaptations have managed to convert this structure with entertaining results, such as in Hayao Miyazaki's Alice-homage Spirited Away, however this version just feels like it is going through the motions to cover all the 'greatest hits' as Alice is forced to in turn meet all the famous characters and have the same expositional discussions with each. Additionally, the turning of Wonderland into the dark, war-ravaged place known as Underland is a major mistake as it means that Burton even has to hold back on his stylistic touches in order to render the place suitably desolate. While it's clear that a lot of money has been thrown at the film to create moments of 3D spectacle – objects are frequently thrown at the screen in order to make the audience feel like they've got their money's worth – it's a shame that the money couldn't have been spent on giving the script extra dimensions instead.

The two central performances are rather problematic as well. Mia Wasikowska makes for a pretty Alice but she doesn't have much presence, remaining quiet and girlish even after Alice rediscovers her muchness, whereas Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter is simply irritating. It was perhaps a bad idea to bump up his character from supporting role to major star anyway as the dark back-story that has been created to do so doesn't sit well with the comedic moments created by his lunatic antics. Added to this is Depp's decision to portray the character as a jumble of comedic accents and tics, which serves as a reminder of how his Jack Sparrow was incredibly fun in the first Pirates of the Caribbean but got subsequently less so with each further film in the series.

However, there are still many parts where the film gets it right. The supporting cast, mostly comprised of familiar British faces, are generally excellent, with Stephen Fry's Cheshire Cat standing out in particular as an always amusing mix of sophistication and mischievousness. The portrayals of the Red and White Queens are also rather inspired. Most reviews have pointed out that Helena Bonham Carter is essentially channelling Miranda Richardson's Queenie from Blackadder II as the Red Queen and Anne Hathaway's serene White Queen was inspired by Domestic Goddess Nigella Lawson (although Lawson never made quite so many gracefully elaborate gesticulations with her arms) and the contrast between Carter's spoilt-child and Hathaway's caring maternal figure is delightful. Whenever Burton is presented with the opportunity to show the more vibrant side of Wonderland the film becomes much more entertaining, such as the ostentatious palace of the Red Queen, with her royal court comprised of amusingly out of place anthropomorphic animals such as frogs, fish and pigs. It's just a shame that these moments are so few and far between.

Simply put this is the Diet Coke version of the story, a pleasant, but artificial and unsubstantial take on an old classic. While there are worse ways to spend an evening at the cinema it feels like a missed opportunity. There are already better versions of the tale on film – even Disney's previous version – which are more worthy of your time than this, as is a re-read of Carroll's still amusing and enchanting books.

Timmy in Wonderland

Uprising — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 18:05:25 +0000

I have to admit am not overly familiar with the original Alice in Wonderland literature, and it has been quite a while since watching the original 1951 Disney cartoon, so my canvas was pretty much blank when entering the cinema to watch Tim Burton’s latest tale. With a screenplay written by Linda Woolverton, whose previous credentials include Beauty and the Beast and The Lion King (the latter possibly being Disney’s finest achievement in recent years), Alice is in more than capable hands. The familiar gothic style associated with Burton is once again present. Once Alice falls down that infamous rabbit hole we are, unsurprisingly, transported to a visually rich world containing all the classic characters: the grinning Cheshire cat (voiced by Stephen Fry), the mad hatter (Johnny Depp in his umpteenth collaboration with Burton), the Red Queen (Helena Bonnam Carter in her umpteenth collaboration with husband Burton), the White Rabbit (voiced by Martin Sheen) and Tweedledum and Tweedledee (who are hilariously modelled to resemble Matt Lucas). Visually Alice is certainly a treat. The ‘wonderland’ in question is a place that alternates brilliantly between a colour enriched kingdom and a gothically dreamlike universe. This is all backed up by Burton-regular Danny Elfman in a brilliantly appropriate score. However this time round the 3D ‘experience’ does not (arguably) add much to the events onscreen, unlike Ferngully-with-Smurfs hit Avatar. I am more than confident that this adventure could be enjoyed just as much in good old fashioned 2D. Newcomer Mia Wasikowska does a fine job as Alice, a girl trapped in a bourgeoisie family and soon to be engaged to a comically upper-class idiot. Her innocence and girl-next door image make her an instantly likeable onscreen presence. Johnny Depp is his usual quirky self as the Mad Hatter (complete with a slightly questionable Scottish-sounding accent). However Helena Bonham Carter steals most of the scenes as the wicked, unremorseful Red Queen. She, without a doubt, swipes the film from right under Mr Johnny Depp’s nose. Clearly an act of revenge following the conclusion of their last film together Sweeney Todd! Some voices are a little surprising on the ears, those who are fans of Eastenders may be shocked to hear Peggy Mitchell (sorry...Barbara Windsor) as a dormouse. Whilst Alice may not have the originality of Edward Scissorhands or The Nightmare before Christmas, it still shows considerable flare and creativity. Certainly an experience that adults are bound to appreciate just as much as children.

24 Day 8 - 1AM-2AM

Uprising — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 17:59:13 +0000

In typical 24 fashion, as the clock ticks into the morning hours we find ourselves no closer to stopping the days events. I say “we” as if the audience are a vital element in finding the nuclear rods that are about to cause mass destruction in New York. Almost as though we’re overseeing the investigation, ready with our cheers of approval for a job well done and with daggers sharpened for just about anyone who isn’t Jack Bauer. Mr Farhad Hassan, a dagger to you sir. As it happens we needn’t bother with any sharp objects for Farhad, when his own stupidity is more than useful in speeding up his own demise. He already has a track record of running away like it’s the last 30 metres of an egg and spoon race whenever the pressure is on. After the failed assassination attempt on his brother, shortly after stabbing a police officer, he ran from the wreckage. Minutes after realising he was no longer in control of today’s events, he clubbed a terrorist with a pipe and seconds after being told to stay still his running days are brought to an end after he is shot in the back while trying to dash from the eyes of pursuers. All this means is that he is now unable to give CTU conformation of the terrorists he was working with.

Bauer is now heading the operation thanks to the deal he made with Hastings for the charges against Renee to be dropped. His plan to draw the terrorists out, is to feed the news false information that the injuries Farhad sustained are not life threatening, in the hope that one of them will come to finish the job. He even gives out the location of the hospital he will be staying in. An iphone application to check on his heart rate is also available but the Facebook mini game “Farhad Hospital Check Up” had to be scrapped because of licensing issues.

If there is anything I have learned about fictional terrorists over the years, it is that they are not subtle. Remember how in the Godfather, they tried to off Vito Corleone while he was in the hospital? Quietly, in the shadows. Not this terrorist group, no thank you. Leave that sneaky creep, creep shadow business to the Italians. To ensure Farhad wont talk, a young recruit is sent with a bomb strapped to his chest to make sure he and the rest of the patients are blown into tiny little pieces.

The young suicide bomber is halted by Chloe, who is able to disable the bomb remotely. Did anyone understand how that was done by the way? Gunshots to the lifeless corpse alongside a perfectly healthy heart rate monitor brings about the realisation that he has been duped. Visibly terrified throughout, he shows his commitment to the cause by evading capture and barricading himself in a chamber of some sort inside the hospital, awaiting instructions on how to set the bomb off manually.

In other, non bomb related news, Cole and Dana have dumped the bodies from last weeks episode about 3 foot deep in a swamp and Presidents Taylor and Hassan have a stand off that only emphases my disappointment at seeing Taylor marginalised so far.

The next hour should be tension filled with Jack and company trying to break into the chamber and stop the bomb from being set off.

Jack Bauer fact for week 6: Los Angeles will never name a street after Jack Bauer because no one will ever cross it.

Notorious - but for all the wrong reasons.

Salty Or Sweet — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 18:35:23 +0000

I love hip hop. I love East Coast hip hop, I love West Coast hip hop. Few of my mornings pass without a soundtrack from the likes of Dead Prez, Mos Def or Lauryn Hill, as well as their UK counterparts - Akala, Foreign Beggars, Skinnyman etc. So, the prospect of a biopic detailing the all to brief life of one Notorious B.I.G (Christopher Wallace) with a healthy serving of Tupac, Lil Kim and Faith Evans thrown in, sounded like a 'gotta see' kinda movie. I am of course talking about Notorious - which has recently made it onto regulation rotation over at Sky Movies. For those of you that don't know, Notorious B.I.G was shot and killed in 1997 at the age of 24 amidst an on going East Vs West coast hip hop feud, which had already claimed the life of fellow rapper, Tupac Shakur. A true rags-to-riches story, Christopher began his life as an overweight kid in Brooklyn's deprived Bedford-Stuyvestant neighbourhood (a role played by Christopher's own son, Christoper Jordan Wallace) and then found himself as a drug dealer, a father, a convict and upon release from prison, a multimillion dollar hip hop recording artist. The stuff movies are made of! Which makes it all a more of a crying shame that this film isn't better. Here is a life time which sums up the highs and lows of hip hop - it demonstrates how it can be used as a tool of escapism and opportunity, but does not ignore the at times dark underbelly that accompanies the scene . Yes, Biggie was a genius and yes, his music was allowing him to channel his street savvy into something meaningful - but he also cheated on the women he loved, dealt drugs and embodied all the braggadocio, machismo and excess that rap stars have been both vilified and celebrated for. Biggie is a fascinating subject - a gift to any film maker - but somehow, Notorious manages to ignore all of this. Firstly, the characterisation. It's clear from the amount of action Christopher packed in to his brief 24 years he was a pretty explosive and complicated character - but instead, he's portrayed as a foul mouthed, lazy and self indulgent pig. He calls women 'bitches', he smokes a lot of weed and picks up some pretty groupies and then brags to his entourage about this lyrical prowess and talent. The film doesn't even try to explain who he is or why he does these things - how did he feel after he got out of prison? How did he deal with fatherhood? Where did he get his inspiration from? All remains unanswered - instead there are just lots of glossy party scenes where he sits dressed in outlandish clothes, surrounded by beautiful women. The same can be said for his supporting cast - Lil Kim - an ambitious 'mall girl' from New York is reduced to an angry 'bitch', his long suffering wife, Faith Evans is simply serene if not downcast, his mother is saintly and apparently unbothered by the at times immorality of her sons behaviour and finally, Tupac is the 'revolutionary' who speaks about three lines in the entire film - one of which is about Malcolm X to reaffirm his 'radical philosophy'. Offensive is not the word. However, don't be fooled into thinking that the energy saved from bothering to develop characters was expended anywhere else. The script is cliche ridden - all 'hood speak' - money, rims and ho's, mixed up with inspirational 'the sky's the limit' misguided optimism. Gritty scenes where Biggie deals crack to a pregnant addict are neatly tidied up when we see the same woman years later doing fine with a healthy kid, and the severity of the cross-country feud is dealt with in about twenty minutes, and really doesn't seem that serious... The film doesn't entirely flinch away from the shortcomings of Biggies life, and of the industry which he inhabited, but it doesn't even attempt to explain why they existed, who it involved, and why we should care. As it continues and we near his death, the sentimentality kicks in. Rather than a quickie with Lil Kim he opts to play with his daughter, he's distraught when his mother tells him she has cancer and the same when he hears of Tupac's death in Las Vegas. Behind all the hard talking and gangsta posturing, a gentle, honourable soul cracks through. To say it's incomprehensible is to be polite. Notorious is a frustrating, fluffy whistlestop tour through the life of Biggie Smalls, and a rose-tinted, shallow look at hip hop and the music industry. Produced by Christopher's mother and Sean 'Diddy' Combs (both come off very well in the film, incidentally), it's my fault for expecting something serious and worthwhile from this story and this film. What I wanted was a new, intimate perspective on the life and times of Notorious BIG, what I got was sentimental, patchy and patronising. I imagine what the pair were going for was a 'sky's the limit' and 'anything is possible' moral for 'hood kids across America, what it actually said was 'get rich, or die trying'. Disappointingly sweet - but with no after taste.

Mad Men Series 3, Episode 7 - Seven Twenty Three: A Review

Mark Davison — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 17:40:24 +0000

It was inevitable that this week’s Mad Men wasn’t going to live up to the explosive lawnmower related fun of the last episode, however, it still felt like a rather subdued affair – which is a bit surprising considering the episode’s director Daisy Von Scherler Meyer is best known for light-weight gaudy fluff like largely-forgotten Jimi Mistry-vehicle The Guru. Although the episode did include one major revelation, being that... Peggy slept with Duck!!! Which was rather surprising to say the least and even a bit sickening, although considering her undervalued presence at Sterling-Cooper it’s not hard to see why she submitted to the first guy who came along and said something positive about her and her work, shame that that guy had to be Duck though. It certainly wasn’t his ‘charms’ that got her into bed, as the chat-up line ‘give you a reach around like you’ve never had’ probably isn’t the sort of thing that girls like to hear, and even the scarf that he bought her as a gift was hideous. Almost as shocking was seeing Don’s tirade at Peggy for asking for work, despite him in many ways being a deeply unpleasant man, he generally manages to do his unpleasant business without breaking his veneer of cool, even sexual assault as we learnt from the Bobbi Barrett incident in season two, so seeing such a strong reaction from him was unusual. Add to that more badgering to keep her mouth shut about Duck from slimy Pete and it’s fairly safe to say that poor Peggy had a bit of a tough time this episode. As the opening scenes with Don, Betty and Peggy all waking up (presumably at 7:23) showed there were two other major storylines going on this week. Well, not so much major in Betty’s case. Although it’s clear that she’s falling for Governor’s advisor Henry Francis – previously spotted in episode 3 – thanks to the Junior League who she’s now volunteering for in Francine’s place (probably just as well considering the only insight Francine brought to the discussion was that ‘Real Estate is scary’) pimping her out for their own ends. The general unimportance of her mission is pretty much summed up by the names of the real estate in question - Cherry Town and Pleasantville Road Reservoir sound more like places from a fairly average children’s story than a hotbed of political intrigue. Still, with Henry returning her interest, as probably best summed up by him returning her calls instantaneously despite supposedly being a very busy man, it’ll be interesting to see where this relationship goes. It was amusing to see the reaction of the interior designer at the end of the episode after Betty had gone against her opinion (and to an extent that of Don even if he offered his only reluctantly at the start of the episode), by buying a massive fainting couch on Henry’s suggestion and shoving it in the worst possible place. Otherwise there were no major developments in the watch on Betty’s parenting skills, although in a reversal to the normal situation she for once told the kids to turn the TV off when she needed time to herself, rather than the other way around. And so that just leaves Don, who as we saw at the start of the episode ended up bloodied and generally the worse for wear, which is probably what he deserved for driving around while drunk (there’s still something oddly amusing and yet also rather horrifying about watching him sophisticatedly sip whisky from a glass while behind the wheel), picking up a young couple of hitchhikers in the middle of the night AND take drugs from them without asking any questions. Still it’s somewhat fitting that his romantic reminiscing as instigated by watching the young couple would be pretty abruptly brought to a halt by their violent reaction to him watching them. At the office he had to deal with the unwanted attentions of everybody straining to get a look at the elusive Conrad ‘Connie’ Hilton, which might explain why he took it all out on Peggy towards the end of the episode. The problem I have with the Connie storyline is that it’s incredibly hard to disassociate the image of him with all that follows – so while he was chastising Don for being a late riser, not much of a family man or a Christian, I couldn’t help but think of the attention seeking antics of his granddaughter Paris and wonder what he would think of them. There was also the matter of Roger’s general malaise to deal with, with the release of Ogilvy’s book making ad-men almost as hated as lawyers (with this and Don’s proto-metrosexual interior decorating expertise, maybe this is the beginning of the end of the hard-drinking, macho cult of the ‘mad men’?). Miss Farrell also proved to be something of a challenge, rather brazenly flaunting her sexuality at a parent-child activity, and coming across over-confident to the point of smugness about her allure. Although she wasn’t entirely mistaken, despite his protestations at the time Don’s definitely into her. This will of course be yet more fodder for Sally and Bobby’s therapists when they grow up, both their parents are more interested in pursuing affairs than raising their children, and now even their teachers are proving to be rather sleazy.

Bioshock 2 review

Mark Pilkington — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 10:58:45 +0000

All you budding deep seas divers may wish to stop reading now. If Bioshock 2 is anything to go by, life under the ocean waves isn’t quite the tranquil and peaceful place you may at first believe it to be. Forget sharks and poisonous jelly fish, they are small fry compared to the dangers that await you in the doomed underwater city of Rapture – a dystopian place that is a product of George Orwell’s worst nightmares. Think of it as a modern day tale of Atlantis, except more with mutants, drugs and violence. The original Bioshock placed you in the role of a survivor of a plane crash in the Atlantic Ocean who, upon discovering the city miles under the surface, sought refuge within its walls. Once there, you found the locals were anything but friendly... consisting mainly of genetically-enhanced humans, ten-year-old girls with sea slugs harvested inside them, and armor-plated goliaths who acted as their bodyguards. An instant classic, the game was widely praised for its atmospheric ambiance and brooding, menacing gameplay. With Bioshock 2, instead of playing the role of a human, instead you take the role of one of the aforementioned goliaths, or Big Daddies are they are known in the game. Known only as Subject Delta, it is your task to reunite yourself with your Little Sister, a girl who you find out is being held captive by her own mother, the tyrannical woman who is Raptures new leader. Whilst it can be argued that by putting you in the boots of one of the original games monsters, in the process the game has lost some of the creepiness and mystery, Rapture as a city is still high on atmosphere and is a fascinating place to explore. Played from a first-person perspective, it is easy to become immersed in the environment, and the concept of Rapture as an underwater city has been executed perfectly. If you have never played Bioshock, you may find yourself scratching your head on more than a few occasions, as the background plot is never fully explained to you. You never really find out the reason as to why you are there, why Rapture as a city has fallen from grace and become the run-down nightmare it is now and you never really understand why you have to find your Little Sister in the first place. Some of this explained in detail in articles that can be called up in the menu system, but they are very long and wordy, and even after reading them you are still left in the dark about a number of issues. One big, niggling problem I had with the plot in particular was why you seemed to be more powerful than any of the other Big Daddies you encountered. For example, you can utilize energy weapons and a wide range of weapons in the game, but none of your other foes seem to be able to do the same. Or those familiar with the first game, you will recognise many of the enemies you encounter, but there are a few new ones to liven proceedings up, including giant man-brutes who look like they have taken one steroid too many. As you progress in the game, you will be given to opportunity to upgrade both your weapons and abilities, power ups that can be achieved by spending the money and ADAM (the life source of Little Sisters) you collect in your travels. You can gain more ADAM by harvesting the Little Sisters once you have defeated their guardian Big Daddies; battles which should be nigh-on impossible to win, but in reality are fairly straightforward and easy. As a whole, the game is far too easy for its own good, and after a good few hours of solid play, you should have this one done and dusted in one player mode. Multiplayer mode adds an extra dimension to proceedings, placing you as a human against other players. This is a much faster game speed than the one used for single player mode, and include variations on games such as Capture the Flag (in this case, it’s Capture the Sister). Having played the first game in the series, Bioshock 2 is not as mysterious and downright creepy as it was when I played the original title. However, just for its atmosphere alone, I have to rate this as one of the best games I have played this year. The city of Rapture is a compelling and disturbing place to be, and I for one cannot wait for the next visit...

Mad Men Series 3, Episode 5 - The Fog: A Review

Mark Davison — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 17:29:35 +0000

In the Draper household even the birth of a child is a gloomy affair. Betty finally had the unwanted offspring from last season’s one-off bit of comfort sex with Don, and nobody – apart from Bobby - seemed that thrilled about it. With this being the third time for them there was definitely a feeling of ‘been there, done that’ right from the moment Betty calmly announced to Don that the baby was on its way and that the kids had been very neatly packed off to Francine’s. At the hospital Don had to deal with an a first-time father who was excited to the point of being manic (I have no idea why he was so insistent when asking Don to witness his speech about becoming a good man for his new-son, or even why he snubbed Don in the hospital corridor the next day but it did seem to get Don out of his jaded reaction to the whole thing), and Lisa Simpson playing a nurse. Whereas Betty had the harder job of actually having to deliver the child, and for once having to show some real emotion in public - something it’s clear that she doesn’t approve of considering her telling Sally off last week for being ‘hysterical’ and the fact that the most animated she’s gotten in the past is allowing herself to have a quiet cry in private. Actually, it was quite distressing seeing Betty lashing out so much at the nurse helping her, so it was something of a relief when they pumped her full of drugs and put her in the foggy state referred to in the title. It’s perhaps a result of Betty’s uninspiring routine (as Gene put it during his dream cameo Betty’s ‘a housecat, you’re very important and have little to do’), that her dream wasn’t that imaginative, apart from featuring her deceased parents – including the first appearance in the series of her tyrannical mother, with an added black man (I’m probably being stupid and the man was somebody very important, but I didn’t pick up on who it was meant to be – your suggestions would be warmly received), it mainly featured her walking down her street, all in gloriously vivid colours though, and the cruelly satisfied smile she gave when crushing the caterpillar in her hand was interesting. And then, somewhat painlessly she came to already clutching the baby in her hands, a baby that she’s now insisting on calling Eugene, despite Don’s polite attempt to veto it. I must say that I’m with Don on this one, in addition to it being a horrible thing to call a child, Sally’s going to resent the baby for taking her Grandpa’s name – she’s already upset about the baby taking his room. Speaking of Sally it was odd to think of her describing one of her classmates as a bruiser, and even more so that Betty and Sally’s teacher also used this description. I don’t think Miss Farrell really is good teacher material, as her hogging the limelight from her kids during episode 2’s May-pole dance demonstrated. On the plus side she did sympathise with Sally over Gene’s death but this did lead to her inappropriately phoning Sally’s dad to flirt with him. There was a definite connection between her and Don in the meeting at the start of the episode, as they both lost a parent at a young age, something Betty - who continues to childishly cling to her only recently deceased parents - couldn’t be a part of. Pete Campbell was the other star of the episode, and he even managed to redeem himself by doing the right thing, albeit for the wrong reasons but he still deserves some points for trying. Spurred on by Ken Cosgrove parading the spoils of his cushy accounts, Pete struggled to increase the sales of the ailing Admiral TVs, and dealt with Duck Philips attempting to woo him over to a rival agency. Although he probably turned Duck down just because Peggy was invited too (which provided the opportunity for Pete to finally address the unresolved tension that’s been between them since he found out about their child at the end of season two, even if it was just with the petulant response of ‘Your decision affects me’), it was good to see him put the newly hipsterish Duck in his place – Duck’s turtleneck was fairly ridiculous, his use of the phrase ‘Have a nosh’ even more so. And it was great seeing Pete struggle with the notion of racial integration as it meant that he could find a way to sell more Admirals – the conversation with Hollis the elevator operator was a near excrutiating case of Pete putting his foot in it, and finally gave Hollis a chance to have more than one line – and Roger Sterling’s angrily refer to Pete as ‘Martin Luther King’ and that he should ‘drop kick him off the roof’ was both amusing and a great way to make Pete seem somewhat sympathetic for a change. Money was the major concern at Sterling-Cooper this week as we got to hear Kinsey blathering on about Marx, and the Brits worrying over the expense of such luxury goods as paperclips and extra sheets of paper. This did have an impact on Sal as he was put on the defensive when questioned about the expenses for the Baltimore trip – why did Don’s bill cost $8 more, and when did he spend it as it seemed they went straight from the airport, to the restaurant and to the hotel, surely he didn’t need to spend the money on seducing the Stewardess he ended up with? It’s hard not to feel bad for Sal who, because of one bit of experimentation and actually having a good time for once, now feels he has protect himself and keep on Don’s good side at all times. Peggy also felt the impact of the monetary clamp-down as her claim for a well-deserved pay-raise was denied to her by Don. Although I should probably have been concentrating more on the plot at the time, I couldn’t help but notice how fantastic Peggy was looking in that blue checked dress, this new professional feminine look definitely suits her. So all in all it wasn’t the best of episodes, but as Lane Pryce put it ‘It’s better to have a bit of Don Draper, than no Don Draper at all.’ What did you all of think of it?

Rubbish Classics Part 2: The 13th Warrior and The Specialist/Assassins

Joe West — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 17:09:31 +0000

Remember VHS tapes? They were those massive black things, as thick as nearly 20 DVDs (trust me, I just did a comparison) that provided grainy pictures and had the fatal flaw of deteriorating over time. This meant that your favourite films would die a slow death whilst rubbish ones sat on the shelf in pristine condition. Remember pausing VHS tapes? You couldn’t see anything for the blur and screen tearing. But the machines made lots of satisfying, mechanical clunks and clicks, which is something that DVD players do less of, sadly.

In the late 90s my family acquired around 50 movies on VHS from a friend’s infirm grandmother, who did nothing but watch incredibly violent films that she ordered from a catalogue. I never met this woman, but I imagine that she was an impressive lady. Amongst the titles available to us were various action movies from the 80s and 90s, mixed in with some softcore porn, which the woman in question must have ordered by mistake after reading the innuendo-laced blurbs. Or at least this is what I choose to believe.

Anyway, in amongst this mix were many films that came to shape my childhood, and probably make me the person that I am today. With that in mind, I present to you my next two selections to add to the (slowly) growing library of rubbish films that are actually really good. If you have a fairly broad understanding of that word.

The 13^th Warrior

Antonio Banderas has gone off the radar a little bit of late, but back in 1999 when The 13^th Warrior was released he was hot property. Kids nowadays will know him as ‘that bloke from Spy Kids’, or worse ‘the voice of Puss in Boots off of Shrek’. He takes the leading role as an Arab chap sent to be an ambassador to the Norse colonies because he angered his superiors. It’s basically the ancient equivalent of an FBI agent getting reassigned to Alaska. Based on a book by Michael ‘Jurassic Park’ Crichton, the plot hangs on factual accounts of ancient times with a bit of Beowulf fantasy thrown in for good measure. And it doesn’t really work. But quite a few of the individual elements are delightful.

One particularly bad bit, which is also brilliant, is the process by which Banderas learns the language of the Norsemen, with whom he embarks on a quest to protect a remote village from an unknown evil.* A short montage of Banderas sitting around the camp fires over the course of the journey to the village, listening to the gradually unfolding conversations and understanding a little more each time, is silly. And his final revelation that he has learnt their language and can understand the insults that they throw at him is sillier, if only because he retains his Hispanic/Arab accent throughout the movie. I get what they were trying to do, but I can’t help but find the result funny.

I also like the bit when Banderas cuts down one of the Norse broadswords to make himself a little scimitar.

The rest of the film is messy, forgettable and anticlimactic, but the violence and action are handled well. Apparently Crichton took on directing duties alongside Die Hard director John McTiernan, and whole thing was way over budget and a bit of a disaster during production. But I don’t care, because Banderas, man, you stole my heart on VHS.

The Specialist/Assassins

I’ve grouped these together because they came on a single VHS, as a kind of double feature of trashy filmmaking. The Specialist features Sylvester Stallone working as a master bomber man, lured by Sharon Stone’s lady of vengeance into a plot to kill some wise guys. This film is made worthy of a watch because of the presence of James Woods as a deranged CIA agent who is also looking for vengeance. There is also an excruciating sex scene followed by an even more gratuitous shower scene featuring the Italian Stallion and... Ms Stone. It’s about as appealing as watching a body builder grappling with a member of Mensa. Which is precisely what happens.

Assassins is similar to The Specialist in that Stallone seems to rely on everyone else to act for him, and in this case it is the hyperactive presence of Antonio Bandera’s rival assassin that brings some much needed energy to an otherwise ponderous opening section. This being a Richard Donner picture, it has some pretty decent bang bang moments, but the whole ‘assassin with a heart of gold’ role that Stallone lumbers along in makes for a film that feels less realistic than Avatar. There is an edge of techno-babble added by Julianne Moore’s appropriately named Electra, who doubles as the love interest, and all of the computing equipment is brilliantly archaic and rubbish by today’s standards. Which is always fun.

The best scene in Assassins occurs early on when Stallone gets assigned to kill a man at a funeral. He turns up in his mourning garb with an impossibly large cast on his arm. Inside the cast is a machine gun. He stands a little way away from the group of mourners, and takes aim with his poorly concealed weapon. But before he can pull the trigger, Antonio Banderas takes out the mark from the opposite side of the cemetery. Banderas is dressed as a janitor, and in his attempt to stroll casually away from the scene is spotted by Stallone, who initiates a pitched battle amongst the tombstones. The pair duke it out for a while, and then the cops come and arrest Banderas but miss out on taking Stallone down town for no apparent reason. Probably because he taped over the hole in the cast where the bullets come out with a plaster.

If you have any suggestions for rubbish classics to add to the list, let me know below.

*SPOILER – it turns out to be people dressed as bears, which is nice.

Princess and The Frog, Ponyo and Percy Jackson - A Half-Term Review Roundup

Mark Davison — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 14:12:33 +0000

With the kids being out of school we’re faced with the usual bombardment of family-friendly films and it can be hard to know what the best choice can be. With the price of cinema admission being so high, and with so many kids films being pretty ropey, it’s probably tempting to think of avoiding the cinema altogether. What follows are a few short reviews of the options for this half term, which might hopefully provide some guidance. The Princess And The Frog A fair amount of fuss has been made about this being the first hand-drawn animation from Disney in almost a decade, and that it sees the return of the writing/directing team of Ron Clement and John Musker, the men behind Aladdin and The Little Mermaid, which were key films in the previous Disney renaissance in the late 80s/early 90s (although they also made the not so fondly remembered Treasure Planet). Additionally, with it being fair to say that the future of traditional animation at Disney rests on the reception of this film, expectations for it are understandably high. So it’s a pleasure to report that the film is pretty much a success, although it doesn’t really rival the output of the late 80s/early 90s in terms of quality, but it is similar in style and makes for a worthy successor to them. It’s actually a delight to have this style of film back - in particular the broad, caricatured style of 2d drawing makes for a refreshing change after numerous increasingly life-like but often charmless CG animations, not including the consistently brilliant work of Pixar of course. The film is keen to remind viewers of past Disney animation’s rich heritage so it includes a lot of nods to past Disney successes, such as Aladdin and The Jungle Book, which long-term fans will delight in trying to spot, and follows many of the conventions of the Disney fairytale style, unfortunately a little too closely in places - the soundtrack, by old-hand Randy Newman, contains the usual couple of good songs and a lot of sappy filler. While mentioning the weak points of the film the central character of Tiana should be included as, although it is great that Disney are breaking new ground by featuring their first black lead, the pressure on the filmmakers to make her inspirational, strong-willed and ultimately inoffensive means that she isn’t that much fun. But the rest of the film’s cast are a pleasure to spend time with including the usual fun animal sidekicks such as the jazz playing Gator Louis (the Cajun fireflies are, to be fair, more love them or hate them characters), Tiana’s spoilt rich friend who is obsessed with finding a Prince of her very own, and the frog of the title who makes for a hilariously slimy (or as he would prefer mucous-y) leading man. The film also gets a delightfully creepy voodoo-practicing villain, in fact he’s so diabolical that some small children might find him a little overwhelming, but the film doesn’t rival Pinocchio or Bambi in the ability to traumatise children and in fact the mild scares will probably make ‘tweens enjoy the film all the more. Ponyo The demise of Disney’s hand-drawn animation wing did have one positive effect which was that the works of Hayao Miyazaki were introduced to a wider audience in order to fill the gap. So it’s interesting that The Princess And The Frog is competing with the latest film by Miyazaki, even more so when considering the fact that he was inspired by Clement and Musker’s The Little Mermaid to make this film, which tells the story of a magical fish who longs to become human after she is rescued by Sosuke, a five-year old boy. Considering the excellence of his body of work, it has to be said that Ponyo is only minor level Miyazaki - it’s not even a Howl’s Moving Castle, let alone a Spirited Away or My Neighbour Totoro. Also the script is rather inelegant as, like many English dubs of Japanese films the dialogue can come across as both a bit unnatural and rushed, and in having to tell such a bizarre story a lot of exposition is needed. However, despite this Ponyo still manages to be a delightful film with much to recommend it. Nobody can rival Miyazaki for capturing the innocent wonder of childhood, and he does it again here, from the opening shots of Plankton onwards the world he creates is incredibly rich and detailed and there are many fantastic artistic touches such as Hokusai’s famous print The Great Wave Off Kanagawa re-imagined as a shoal of gigantic fish. There is also something quite enjoyably old-fashioned about the story - despite a catastrophic environmental threat from beneath the seas, most of the film is very gentle and with the exception of spiky senior Toki (nicely voiced by Lily Tomlin) and the undersea wizard Fumiko, the characters that Sosuke and Ponyo meet along the way are all warm and friendly. This is definitely an excellent choice to take younger children to, although it would be best if you left at the start of the end credits before the chirpy title song is replaced by an ill-advised, and irritating rap remix. Percy Jackson And The Lightning Thief Percy Jackson is the latest in the long line of fantasy books given film adaptations in order to find the new Harry Potter – this one even comes from one of the same producers and has been directed by Chris Columbus, the man behind the first two films in that series. The twist this time is that instead of a very British tale of wizards and jolly fun at a boarding school, here the gods of Ancient Greek myth exist, they live in America and have half-human children. One of whom is Percy, the film’s Harry Potter figure, a typically photogenic and snarky Hollywood-style teenager. Partner him with a stereotypical black sidekick who is meant to be sassy and ‘urban’, which mainly involves making unfunny wisecracks and chasing after women, and a supposedly sexy warrior chick with no personality, and that might give a good indication for just how depressing an experience this film is. Honestly the level of the CGI in the film isn’t an improvement on that found in the first Harry Potter film, and it’s unforgiveable that some of the greatest, most imaginative and iconic creatures in mythology are rendered in such an uninspired manner. To top that off, the only way in which we are meant to be able to tell that the gods are powerful, authoritative beings (apart from in the awful dialogue where every little part of the plot has to be spelled out for the audience) is that they all speak with British accents. The whole film reeks of a sense of ‘will this do’ and quite frankly, no it won’t. The only actor who puts any effort in is Uma Thurman as Medusa who plays the part as an exotic dominatrix, and while there are a handful of amusing updates of the original myths such as Hermes’ winged shoes now being pair of Converse trainers (the product placement in the film is incredibly intrusive, Apple clearly invested heavily in it), and the land of the Lotus-Eaters being rewritten as a Vegas Casino, these are far outnumbered by the amount of missed opportunities. Hopefully the forthcoming Clash Of The Titans remake will manage to portray the Greek gods in a more interesting way than just as an excuse for the lead character’s angst and daddy issues.

Dante’s Inferno

Mark Pilkington — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 13:11:03 +0000

Ah Dante’s Inferno, an epic poem written in the fourteenth century by Dante Alighieri as part of his masterpiece, The Divine Comedy. I wonder what grandiose video game Electronic Arts have created based around this extravagant prose? Hang on a minute. A hack and slash platform game? Something must be wrong here... Well believe it or not, Dante’s Inferno is indeed just that. It’s a bloodthirsty platformer too, with more than its fair share of gore and brutal carnage for you to feast your eyes upon. You play the part of Dante himself, and you have to travel through the nine levels of hell to rescue your sweetheart. And if you happen to be still going through puberty, then you will be pleased to hear that it has plenty of breasts to boot. Breasts here, breasts there, huge heaving breasts everywhere! It’s like every boyhood dream surely? Although visually it seems to have been inspired by a teenage fantasy, the breasts do tend to become slightly mind-numbing after a while. Thankfully, the rest of the graphics are much more pleasing to the eye, and as a journey through hell, the scenery is amazing. Rivers of blood and walls of tortured souls really help top set the scene. Gameplay-wise, if you have ever played God of War, then you will know what to expect. Gigantic bosses are there to be slain, and when I say gigantic, I mean huge sprawling monstrosities. You basically run around killing any demon you happen to come across with a scythe or enchantments, opening chests to replenish your energy or magic and when you come across a wayward soul, you can decide to punish or absolve them. This basically gives you holy or unholy points to spend on weapons upgrades. Not very original, I know, but then the game as a whole is hardly that innovative! The music that plays throughout is great, and lends itself to the setting, sounding as it does as a cross between a church choir and a film score. The noise of tortured souls does begin to grate somewhat after a while, and the battles are stupendously loud. You’ll find yourself reaching for the volume switch after a short while. The game is easy to play, and after a few hours you will have completed it on the easiest difficulty level. And herein lies the main gripe I have with Dante’s Inferno. No, it’s not that it is unoriginal or too easy. Rather, the further you get into the game, the less effort seems to have been made with the levels, graphic and general gameplay. The game starts so strongly, and the level of presentation is incredible, but then it rapidly petters off. It’s almost as if the designers spent all their energy on making the first couple of levels superb, and then just couldn’t be bothered with the rest of it. Take the second level of the game, Lust, as an example. The scenery and demons that inhabit this hellish plane are something to behold, albeit with possibly too many boobs, but after this visual feast, the next levels are a pale shade. Instead of splatter-house shockers to combat, you only have tame wizards and zombies. What happened to all the effort of earlier? Worth a rent, for sure, but prepare to be short-changed if you are thinking about spending your hard-earned money on this one...

Review of The Wolfman

Susannah Lee — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 13:00:51 +0000

I have a girl crush on Emily Blunt. For me she’s right up there with Rachel McAdams and Isla Fisher. So instead of spending Valentine’s Day with McSteamy and McDreamy (if you’re a Grey’s Anatomy fan you’ll understand that reference, if you’re male you probably won’t) I spent it with The Wolfman. I love horror films despite the tired formula’s that are trotted out time and time again. I especially love anything to do with vampires or werewolves (I’m not a huge Twilight fan but I gave my heart to Buffy a long time ago and have since cheated on her with True Blood). Add Emily Blunt, old time England, Anthony Hopkins and a good smatter of gore and I’m sitting very close to the big screen – because I bought the last two tickets. The basic story isn’t particularly original. Shunned son returns to investigate the mysterious death of his brother, falls in love with his brother’s fiancé and her with him, has a lot of tension with his father, gets bitten, becomes a werewolf and scapegoat for previous attacks and the rest I won’t say as it’s worth seeing. What it does have going for it is the jump ratio. You know the kind, when your whole body jolts at something scary and you get the weird frightened tingle right down in your toes – well that happened a lot. The film was also shot beautifully to make for an atmospheric setting of fog and a once grand existence. Benicio Del Torro is brilliantly believable as the tortured werewolf and as the film dips greater into his past he completely holds the audience’s empathy. However, the true stand out is Anthony Hopkins. His complete indifference and lack of emotion seems unnerving at first, if a little wooden and then as the film winds out you realise the absolute genius behind his character as Hopkins gives him depth of so much more than just a neglectful parent. I have to say Blunt isn’t on Devil Wears Prada form but she does have lovely hair in the film. Nice amount of blood and gore too without being gratuitous - watch out for the swamp death. It’s my particular favourite.

Review: The Knife - Tomorrow In A Year

Mark Davison — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 16:43:47 +0000

Around the time of release of her Fever Ray album last year, there was some discussion as to what Karin Dreijer Andersson’s band-mate in The Knife – her brother Olof – had been up to, with reports suggesting that he had been last seen recording bird-song in the Amazon. And, despite it sounding like a wind-up aimed at the press by the publicity shy band, it turns out he really was, finding inspiration for an ‘electro-opera’ to mark the bicentenary of Charles Darwin’s birth. Now, following a handful of performances in Denmark, Switzerland and Germany, the opera has been rearranged into a ‘studio version’ and released to the wider world. Or at least to those brave enough to get past the term ‘electro-opera’. Honestly, the band are doing themselves something of a disservice referring to the piece as an opera. Although the album, and stage show do prominently feature mezzo-soprano Kristina Wahlin, the rest of the vocals are handled by actress Laerke Winther and pop singer Jonathan Johansson (and on the studio version The Knife, and Berlin-based electro acts Mt. Simms and Planningtorock), and as a result it borrows as much from the conventions of electro pop as it does from opera. It would even be fair to describe the show more as a dance piece considering the fact that dancers outnumber singers in the cast two to one, and that much of the first half of the album is taken up with instrumental tracks. Divided – quite cleanly by the break between discs – into two parts, the first dominated by electronic noise and static – not entirely unlike an Aphex Twin record - and featuring rather cold scientific lyrics, the second being effectively a song cycle covering more emotional territory. One of the few things to run through the whole album is the dominant use of heavy, almost menacing percussion, which highlights a problem with this album’s release – although the piece has been reworked by the band for the recording, it’s not hard to get away from the fact that this is music created for a large space and as a result releasing it first as a digital download where most listeners will only experience it through tinny computer speakers or iPod headphones means that it will probably not reach the audience that it deserves. While the description of the work as an opera suggests it’ll be something delicate and pretty, it ideally needs to be listened to in an environment where the sounds have room to reverberate and the drums are felt at a physical, almost primitive level, which is somewhat apt, considering the album’s evolutionary subject matter. In terms of lyrical content, Tomorrow In A Year is more abstract than most opera, indeed there isn't a linear story to follow, rather the songs offer snapshots, presumably the gaps are filled in during the performance. The first disc of the album is based around Darwin’s field expeditions and his observations of the geography and flora and fauna that he comes across, and as such makes a demanding start for listeners. The piece’s heart, and a much better way in on first listen, is in the second disc, which covers similar territory to Creation, the biopic about Darwin that was released last year, although without the religious drama that film fabricated (that the first track on the disc is entitled Annie’s Box indicates that both film and album have taken inspiration from Randal Keynes’ book of the same name). If a comparison is to be made with other operas, then Tomorrow In A Year's closest relative would probably be Philip Glass' Einstein On The Beach. Besides the obvious similarity that both are biographical works about scientists, both approach their subject in an abstract, non-linear manner and often the singers’ voices are regarded more as an instrument than as a method of story-telling, for example the track Upheaved where The Knife have cut up Wahlin's vocals is very reminiscent of Glass’ trick in Einstein On The Beach of using constantly repeating vocal phrases. However, where Einstein was an epic both in terms of running length and (to an extent) cast numbers, Tomorrow In A Year is a much more intimate affair, and perhaps this is a weakness with the piece. The use of more opera singers, even just a single male voice, would have arguably resulted in a richer, warmer listening experience, and judging from the abstract nature of the narrative, some more exposition wouldn't have gone amiss. Although the album is too difficult to find much of an audience, even among fans of The Knife, there is something exhilarating about a band working so far outside of their comfort zone, and attempting to provoke both a mental and a physical response, and the pay off far exceeds the effort needed to be understand the album.

Precious: The final taboo

For Your Consideration — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 17:59:45 +0000

I have to admit that I went to see Precious expecting, and wanting to like it. Maybe not 'like' actually, but enjoy/recommend/understand. With a vague understanding of the plot and the knowledge that Mariah did more than phone in her performance from a 100ft winnebago, any film which captures the female experience of urban poverty, abuse and illiteracy would be fine by me. Telling the story of a black Harlem teenage girl, who has two children by her father as a result of incestuous rape, who is abused emotionally, sexually and physically by her 'welfare mother' and who later discovers she is HIV positive, Precious magnifies the horrors of the 'black grease' (Precious' words) existence of the American underclass on to a big screen, with cut aways to music videos, red carpets and the much coveted 'light skinned boyfriend'. And just to make the whole thing even more unseemingly, Precious is morbidly obese. Not Charlize Theron in Monster obese, but saucepans of sizzling fat, supersize buckets of fried chicken, cartons of cigarettes fat. Oh yes, and there's body hair. Female body hair. Unshaved armpits and thick forests of leg hair. You're not in Hollywood anymore. It probably wouldn't be up for any Oscars if there wasn't a light at the end of this 'tunnel'. The light coming in the form of the hardtalking, cynical social worker played by Mariah Carey, and the improbably beautiful teacher at Precious' alternative school, played by Paula Patton. Together it is these women who gather around Precious, encouraging confessions of the horrors of her homelife, helping her to find out 'what she's really good at' and contributing to the final scene where Precious walks out of a meeting with her mother defiantly taking on the world. There are numerous shocking scenes of brutality - shots of a sweaty, thrusting groin as Precious is raped by her father, a new born baby being thrown to the ground by a jealous mother (Mo'Nique, who deserves ten Oscars, incidentally) and Precious disappearing into her mother's bedroom to 'make mummy feel better'. The language is laden with 'cuss words' and the syntax is non existent. Precious' self loathing is encapsulated in scenes where her reflection becomes a thin white girl, or where a light skinned boy kissing her transpires to be a stray dog. But what maybe is more shocking, is the response the film has received. The New York Times Magazine front cover shouted 'The Audacity of Precious', asking 'Is America ready for a movie about an obese Harlem girl raped and impregnated by her abusive father', the New York Times couldn't believe the film attacked the piety of African-American motherhood and Time magazine intoned it was 'Too powerful for tears'. Powerful words, right? Well, it doesn't deserve this reverence. Even though the standard of acting was incredible and even though the screenwriting seamlessly translated the novel, this film does not deserve these eulogies. And why? Because for all of the risks Lee Daniels has taken, Precious is not a risky film. It seems that to counteract the at times difficult viewing, he's peppered the cast with 'out of their comfort zone' pop stars, and to make the aesthetic easier on the eye, added in a light skinned, professional lesbian couple (they drink wine, have art hanging on their walls etc). There are even light weight comic moments with Precious' classmates. With the film ending on a relative 'happy ever after', all the nasty taboos the audience are forced to watch are counteracted neatly by the end. It's all okay, sigh of relief etc. There's just one taboo which the film doesn't address; Precious' size. Surely the mother of two young children would be encouraged to be healthy? Surely these professionals would notice the way Precious' body functions as both a prison and a sanctuary - the way her relationship with food is as abusive as her parental relationships? Can't Precious be freed from isolation, abuse, illiteracy and obesity? Apparently not. For all the wounds that are healed, for all the problems discussed - Precious can't look like the slim Patton or Carey, she still has to look like a victim. It will be the film which doesn't leave it's heroine trapped that will deserve these accolades.

Mad Men Series 3, Episode 4 - The Arrangements: A Review

Mark Davison — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 18:52:19 +0000

So, farewell Grandpa Gene, we hardly knew ye. Although it was fairly inevitable that he had to die, as it is the way of all senile old men on television, it came surprisingly soon. I was initially expecting the storyline with him and Sally to develop further – there wasn’t much in the way of repercussions from her stealing from him in the last episode - but on further reflection it didn’t really need to. He served his narrative purpose by being the only one in the Draper household to appreciate and encourage Sally, and with him having done that the time was right for him to be written out so the poor girl could be traumatised further. His bonding with Sally was, in the best tradition of much of Mad Men’s lighter moments, both touching and rather worrying – for example it’s hard not to think about health and safety when watching the scene when he happily let her drive the car along a busy street, or when he insisted on getting the kids peaches as they were her favourite despite the fact that it sounds like Bobby’s allergic to them. Speaking of Bobby, and not wishing to insult the actor who plays him as he’s not doing a bad job, but I still find it a shame that they replaced the actor from the last series, as he was adorable, and I can’t quite warm to the new one.

Betty once again gave us a parenting master class – although it seemed extremely cruel at the time, Don and her psychiatrist were probably right to describe her as childlike back in the first series - her shutting the front door on Sally when they found out about Gene’s death was incredibly cold, as was the reappearance of her catchphrase ‘Go watch TV’ when dealing with Sally’s outburst at the end of the episode. She did win some sympathy though as in addition to having to deal with Don’s philandering and secrecy, it sounds like her beloved, late mother was a nightmare too according to Grandpa Gene’s supposedly jovial stories about her contempt of the young Betty for being overweight. Will this passive-aggressive hideousness continue into the next generation when Sally becomes an adult or will Sally manage to break away from her mother’s influence?

And Sally wasn’t the only one having mother problems, as Peggy’s ongoing quest to become more independent hit numerous roadblocks. If it wasn’t the concern of how to afford a place in Manhattan, or the problem of advertising for a room-mate without having her new colleagues in creative, and her old ones in the secretarial pool, there was having to work out how to break the news to her mother. So she and her sister did so with a new television (‘an Admiral’ as their mother admiringly cooed on being presented with it, evoking brilliantly the aspirational quality of brands in the 60s), and despite their mother’s indignant outburst when she found out why she had been bought the TV, that didn’t stop her turning it on before Peggy even left. It was a little surprising seeing Peggy and her sister getting on so well though, as there was a lot of animosity between the two in the second series, which I don’t remember getting resolved.

As a distraction from all this domestic misery, there were a couple of subplots going on at Sterling-Cooper to occupy us. After all the partying last week it was time for all them to get back to work, or in this case eagerly take the cash of a naive rich boy for his hair-brained scheme. I must confess that before seeing this episode I had never even heard of the noble sport of Jai-Alai (not only is Mad Men entertaining, but it’s educational too!), so I think it’s safe to say where this storyline’s heading. It was interesting to see the difference between Don and the younger employees of the agency – despite his callous attitude to his wife, he really does conduct his business with a sense of honour as demonstrated by him consulting the boy’s father to get the go ahead, whereas Pete Campbell was keen to fleece the boy, despite him being an old college friend. I do think that while Mad Men is celebrating the more liberated values sneaking into the workplace at the time, where anyone – well, only women at this point as blacks and gays aren’t included in this – can succeed as long as they’re good at their job, it is also mourning the loss of the honourable and dignified manner of business conducted by the old guard.

While this was going on the Patio campaign reared its head again. Needless to say I thought that the final result was irritatingly shrill, so Sterling-Cooper did a good job of copying the original scene from Bye-Bye Birdie. Sal deserves the credit for this, even though Pepsi rejected the final commercial, as he took the opportunity to branch out beyond illustration into the world of directing and ran with it. As wonderfully heart-warming (and hilarious) it was seeing him finally come to life when acting out the commercial to his wife in bed, the scene managed to flip quickly into poignancy on seeing her heartbroken reaction to the newly animated, and very camp Sal pretending to be a 25 year old woman pretending to be a 14 year old girl (to borrow a Draperism), so it looks like she knows her husband is gay, even if he doesn’t know yet himself. It probably says a lot about Mad Men’s twisted view of family life that their marriage seems to be one of the happier ones in the series, despite their lack of a sex life (I’m not sure Sal’s homosexuality is entirely to blame for this, it would be hard for even the most red-blooded of heterosexual men to find Kitty sexy in that hideous lime-green polyester nightie), they do both genuinely care about each other and enjoy each other’s company which can’t be said for any of the more ‘conventional’ couples in the show.

And Joan, despite only appearing in one scene, was as radiant as ever. I’m almost getting to the rather embarrassing point of composing odes to a fictional character – hopefully I’ll still be able to fight the urge to do so by the end of the series. It was fantastic how she turned something as dull and mundane as Peggy trying to write an ad for a room-mate and turned it into the comedic highpoint of the episode. Although it also served as yet another reminder that Joan’s severely overqualified for her lot in life, her referencing Ibsen suggests she’s well educated, and she outdid Peggy at her own job with the ease with which she came up with the wording for the advert.

Once again, I’m going to say that you’re more than welcome to join in the discussion in the comments below – I’ve enjoyed reading the ones that previous reviews have received and would be happy to hear from other viewers whether regular, casual or new, or even those of you who haven’t been watching it at all if you’re reading this. And of course, the writing of any romantic verse about Joan will be encouraged by me.

Romance can be Deadly

Deadly Movies — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 18:27:48 +0000

This week the cinema will be full to the brim with those 'nice' Valentines movies, the ones that will come out in white DVD boxes with red titles called something like 'Love is Nice'. Of course there is another way. If you prefer your dates atop the Empire State Building while biplanes whistle through your hair firing machine guns indiscriminately in your general direction, then take a look at Deadly Movies favourite alternative Hollywood romances: King Kong (1933): The ultimate beauty and the beast movie (a metaphor not used subtly by the filmmakers). The rather one-sided love affair between the 24 foot gorilla and ultimate damsel in distress Ann Darrow (Fay Wray) became not just a blueprint for creature features but a staple convention of the genre that filmmakers seldom stray from. When it comes to iconic cinema imagery King Kong holding Fay Wray's draped body atop the Empire State Building is perhaps the image of film's first 100 years. And although this romance started life as a kidnapping on a desert island it ended in emotional tragedy with both Anne and audience alike feeling a certain love and affection for the beast, a theme really ramped up in Peter Jackson's 2005 remake. The Bride of Frankenstein (1935): Such is the cultural penetration of 'Frankenstein's Monster' and 'The Bride' that it always comes as a surprise that the two share hardly any screen time together in the 1935 sequel to 'Frankenstein'. Try and get through a Halloween night without seeing a chap with a green flat-top and bolts through his neck, or a girl with lightning striped tower hair and pale skin. 'The Bride of Frankenstein' spends so long luring us into emotional investment in both The Monster and the idea of presenting him with a reanimated partner that when the reunion finally happens it breaks his and our hearts. Presented to The Monster, The Bride is as repulsed by the heart broken creature as the rest of the world. A crushing emotional tragedy that ranks this monster movie right up there with any overly celebrated Oscar porn. Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978): When everything and everyone you know is changing into something maniacal, the one you love becomes even more cherished. Fighting to save humanity from body and mind snatching aliens, Matthew (Donald Sutherland) and Elizabeth (Brook Adams) fight back the every growing threat by running, staying awake, and running again. The problem is this; fall asleep and your body dies. Swiftly you are replaced by your exact alien replica. Poor Matthew has always loved Elizabeth who, as ever, married the wrong man. When all is lost Elizabeth realises that Matthew is the one, only to fall asleep exhausted and weak. Then comes the gut-wrenching moment when Matthew loses the love of his life only for her to resurrect in front him, identical in every way, but where once there was love now there is only an unquenchable desire to end his human life. Tear jerking stuff indeed. The Fly (1986): The beauty and the beast tale is revisited with the ultimate expression of body horror. There's the age old romantic drama device of the love triangle at work in 'The Fly'. Magazine chief John loves reporter (and ex)Veronica, Veronica loves inventor extraordinaire Seth, and Seth loves Veronica..., and infamy (adding another corner to proceedings and making this something of a love square). The conundrum is which one Seth will chose? New love Veronica or the chance to become world famous as the man who invented teleportation? Teleportation, it would seem, is the only woman for Seth. Resulting in some pretty messed up body horror when Seth's DNA is spliced with that of a fly during teleportation. Now a horrible mutation with body parts and appendages dropping off left and right, Seth craves the one thing that reminds him of his humanity.., Veronica. A truly stomach wrenching exploration of the darker side of the beautiful body, child birth, and sex. Misery (1990): A skin crawling warning of the dangers of obsession. Annie's obsession is Paul, a famous author of romance novels. Imagine Annie's luck when Paul's car crashes near her home in an isolated part of Colorado, providing her with the chance to play nurse to the object of her fantasies. Patient soon becomes prisoner and Annie's love for Paul and his work takes on an extreme version of berserk fandom. When Annie's love is rejected by Paul he, or rather his ankles, suffer a particularly brutal consequence. In one of cinema's great scenes of violence, that's delivered with zero gore and minimum visuals, Annie (played by a never more on form Kathy Bates) calmly places a lump of timber between Paul's ankles and, with a nonchalance that puts most masked killers to shame, lifts a sledge hammer high above her head and furiously smashes Paul's ankles. These two take the notion of the odd couple to all new highs in a relationship that twists and turns on a knife edge. So there you have it, tainted love, forbidden love, rejection, and obsession. Staple conventions of any standard Valentines cinema release.., why not try something a little more deadly this year?

Mel out for Justice: Edge of Darkness Review

Uprising — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 17:43:50 +0000

He has chased after his kidnapped son, watched his wife murdered by English soldiers and become one, unstable, half of a cop duo. Now, after seven years absent from the big screen Mel Gibson (or “Mad Mel” as he has been named) returns as cop father Thomas Craven investigating the brutal murder of his young daughter (Bojana Novakovic). Behind the camera is Martin Campbell, responsible for updating James Bond not once but twice (first with Goldeneye, my favourite Bond film, and then again with Casino Royale 11 years later). My admiration for his work in the Bond franchise is one reason I looked forward to this thriller. Campbell also directed the original BBC television series of the same name back in 1985 (a show which I am admittedly too young to remember). Shortly after Craven’s daughter arrives at her father’s home she is gunned down on the doorstep after being violently ill at the dinner table. Was her death a random act or was there something more sinister behind it? It soon becomes clear that the answer is the latter. The story is certainly a gripping one and slickly directed by Campbell. The early murder scene slowly builds itself up and then occurs with shocking effect and efficiency. As Mel uncovers a web of complex lies there is a real sense of mystery regarding what exactly the daughter was involved in. The problems however lie largely in the supporting characters, which often look like they have come straight out of “Spy Thriller” school. Subsequently there is next to no subtlety. For instance when we first see Danny Huston as the shady owner of an organisation (complete with a slick suit), it is impossible not to instantly suspect him. Similarly Ray Winston’s character is another classic example of someone from a Spy Thriller. Meeting on park benches and in car parks at the dead of night is hardly something new. The dialogue is often delivered in a classically melodramatic manner (i.e. whispering very loudly), which, at times, seems clichéd in today’s cinema. Similarly one has to overlook the occasional lapses in creditability. The early discovery of a weapon by Gibson would surely have been discovered by the police beforehand? Couldn’t the sound of a speeding car be heard earlier than demonstrated here? Oh well. The performance by Mel himself is fine, although, like other members he is sometimes guilty of overacting, particularly as his main expression is the tense, serious ‘Mel’ face we have seen many times before. On a side note I do not think I have ever seen Gibson appear so physically short in any other film. Whilst I may sound like I am being overly critical, I have to admit that I was never bored during the film and, despite all the above problems, I still found myself entertained. As a straight forward revenge thriller, whilst not perfect, it does have an enjoyment factor... and Mad Mel is always watchable.

The Wolfman: An unoriginal remake that will have you squirming

Salty Or Sweet — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 11:05:48 +0000

Dir: Joe Johnston Cast: Benicio Del Toro, Emily Blunt, Anthony Hopkins, Hugo Weaving

Universal's spate of horror films in the 1930s are some of the most iconic and memorable films in Hollywood history. But while Hammer recreated Dracula and Frankenstein with more colour and gore in the 1960s; Lon Chaney Jr's Wolf Man was left to languish in black and white... until now.

Universal's remake of their 1941 classic The Wolf Man is not an attempt to 'redefine' horror films; but in the same way that Hammer revamped old films with colour and gore, so Joe Johnston has injected this old story with frenetic editing and gut-churning special effects.

The film follows Lawrence (Del Toro), the estranged son of Sir John Talbot, as he returns to his family's country seat to mourn his murdered brother. The local villagers blame the gypsies for the murder; but when the villagers approach the gypsy camp, a horrific creature attacks them all. Lawrence chases the creature and is bitten.

By the next full moon his wounds have completely healed, and Lawrence accepts that he has become a monster himself. He sends his brother's wife, Gwen (Blunt), to London to spare her a gruesome death; and goes on a murderous rampage that results in his arrest and internment in a well-guarded mental asylum. But the story does not end here... as Lawrence notices inconsistencies in his memories of his childhood and the nature of his mother's death, he begins to suspect that he is not the only 'Wolfman' in his bloodline.

This is a fairly straight 'Creature Feature', and all the real positives are to be found in its homages to early horror films. Hugo Weaving is superb as the moustache-twiddling, Peter Cushing-inspired Scotland Yard detective, who relishes his power in this backwards country village. And the Wolfman himself, once the transformation has occurred, is delightfully camp: he is gangly and awkward, like Lon Chaney Jr. in a hairy suit, and barely scary at all except for the fact that he is ripping people’s limbs off.

But unfortunately there is no way to truly recreate the eeriness of the grainy footage, cheap sets, and camp acting that defined those old horror films. This is a well-manicured hollywood film with a gigantic budget, and there is something far too comforting about that. Even after all the shocks and loud noises, you will feel cheapened by this experience and eager to watch Christopher Lee lurking in his colourful mansion drinking luminous blood out of a ditzy blonde.

The transformations themselves are far too smooth and weightless in that yet-to-be-truly-believable CGI way; but the bone-crunching sound effects and agonising roars really do get you wincing. Joe Johnston clearly has Clive Barker’s respect for the abject horror of the 'transformation'.

Del Toro should have been perfect for the Wolfman, and it is his involvement in the project that attracted most critics to it, but his performance is mostly disappointing. He is mundane as the grieving, troubled prodigal son, and barely even acting as the Wolfman; and it is only in the brief section between being bitten and first transforming that he is at his magnificent, terrifying and brooding best. Del Toro is not to be blamed for this failing though; the film lacks any substance or intrigue, and there was nothing for this extraordinary talent to sink his teeth into (no pun intended). He was also left stranded in a cast of irrelevant actors. Hopkins seems to enjoy playing the menacing and vacant patriarch; but you get the sense that he isn't really trying. And Emily Blunt is just a blank canvas, her role requires little, and she offers up just that.

24 - Day 8 - 8PM-10PM

Uprising — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 10:56:57 +0000

Terri Bauer would be spinning in her rarely visited grave, if she knew how long it has taken me to write this. Her husband bit his way out of a Chinese prison for crying out loud. Quite frankly I'm ashamed of myself. Sailing into the hours when the kids should be in bed, the bad men come out of the woodwork in 24 land. These bad men, with their bad facial hair, bad skin and bad plans make this one of the most uncomfortable double bills in 24’s history. Renee’s past is brought into focus as she submerges herself deep under cover inside a Russian syndicate, with the hope of getting closer to the men responsible for President Hassan’s attempted assassination. A harrowing and turbulent former relationship with the syndicate’s leader gives a clearer indication of Renee’s motivation for reactivating her previous identity. Having set up a meeting with Vladimir (Calum Keith Rennie) she offers him the deal of a lifetime, the chance to buy nuclear weapons material. Having not seen Renee for some five years, Vladimir is understandably suspicious. Not suspicious enough to have a quick glance in her ear for the transmitter she’s using to keep in contact with Jack and the rest of CTU but suspicious enough to ask her a few questions at least. Suddenly a drastic change of mood sees Vlad and his team, drag Renee and her informant to the pier demanding the truth. The syndicate is more vigilant than I give them credit for however, sending a dummy car for Jack to tail, while the important action takes place minutes later, in the opposite direction. The next few minutes shows us the true despair of Renee’s life after having left the FBI. With nothing to lose, the honesty of her pleading with Vladimir to shoot her ends up saving her life. Civil unrest in President Hassan’s homeland, sees the figurehead roll back the years with the sanction of some good old fashioned street beatings. Hassan’s desire to show strength in the face of those who tried to kill him, is an admirable and necessary sign of power in a lawless region but it is also threatening to undermine his efforts for peace at the UN. The poncy British are already getting a bit apprehensive. And people wonder why we’ll never win the World Cup when we can’t even handle a few, state ordered human rights violations. Now that Hassan has proved he isn’t just a big haired softy with an outdated goatee, Dana Walsh is having trouble getting rid of her own poorly bearded ex. As an accessory to murder in a previous life, Walsh is blackmailed into getting Billy Goat a six figure score in order to pay him off. In one of the better series' of 24, at the moment, this storyline seems poorly thought out and forced. My understanding is that Walsh has already served her sentence and was let out as a minor. She might not be invited to a few after work social gatherings like the CTU book club, or the Data Analyst bowling night but she has much more to lose by using her position to aid a robbery. Besides, Hastings still gets away with that stupid walk of his, so I’m sure her criminal past is way down the list of any internal tribunal. The later part of the hour sees two of the most ultimate sacrifices. The Bashev family, responsible for getting nuclear material onto American soil, is torn apart as the two brothers pay the price for disobeying their father. Unwilling to watch his younger brother Oleg die, Josef attempts to get him cured at clinic, discreetly, after hours. His father’s way of ensuring his family cannot be traced by the authorities is by having his men murder a hospital full of staff and then murder his youngest son in front of his disaffected older brother. Renee meanwhile, remains stoic and restrained in the face of Vladimir’s sexual advances, before painfully giving in to a man she so intensely detests, in order to continue the mission. The scene is one of the most uneasy and uncomfortable moments I can remember in 24. Vladimir sends his men to meet Bauer who is acting as Renee’s financer with the intention of stealing his money and then killing him. Jack may have been caught out with the bait and switch of cars earlier but a man who has shot, punched and kicked his way of tight spots before, isn’t about to be a mugged off twice. With Cole positioned nearby as a sniper, all but one of Vladimir’s men are taken out, with a face to face meeting with Bauer to come in the next hour. With any luck, Vladimir will have the stubble ripped right off that chiseled chin of his.

The Lost Art of the Film Poster

For Your Consideration — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 17:42:44 +0000

After I'd seen John Hillcoat's The Road earlier in the week I wandered out into the light to find myself a little dazed and drained, standing in the lobby of The Ritzy in Brixton, London, staring up at Matt Damon's grimacing super-face. A face that sells film. Bourne but not Bourne looks over his shoulder at me, all black and white and grainy. Cluttered all around him are groups of four stars, word's like "Explosive" and "Epic”, multitudes of exclamation marks. The words Green Zone, in some plain, bland, Helvetica-like font are slapped in the darkest corner of the frame.

A large print of Roman Polanski's Chinatown, sits above my fireplace at home. It's boldness, it's style and it's mystery complements the film beautifully. The famous "empty" statement at the climax almost lives in the empty space of it's composition. Faye Dunaway peers out of Gittes' cigarette smoke and a wave of water laps at Nicholson's coat, escaping from frame. In a nut shell the poster hints at the story of the film but, more importantly, uses elements of it to create something that stands apart.

But let's not get too "art-critic".

I flash back to Damon's face. In all of it's you-know-i-could-kick-your-ass-just-by-looking-at-you-ness. I like Damon, I admire Paul Greengrass' breakneck technique (though the editing is far too fast) and I'm looking forward to Green Zone, but, seriously, is this really all we have in the way of poster art to tantalize us into the cinema? Is this really what movie posters have become? Boring unimaginative standard A-lister masturbation?

Film campaigns these days generally come with 3 built in layouts.

1. The “Romantic Comedy Layout” has a large Vince Vaughn type standing back to back with a Sarah Jessica Parker type on a white background. A bubbly colourful tag line above their heads, the pair, perhaps standing on the title.

2. “The Thriller Layout” usually comprises of Jason Statham or Gerard Butler's bucket shaped heads in a cloudy sky above an outline of the city in which the movie is set. Often other smaller faces will accompany them. Usually the character who dies first on the far left.

3. 80% of “The Horror Lay Out” advertising will consist of a grimacing off centre face, peering from behind a shattered door under splatters of blood or an outline of a house in a corn field.

I've seen more creativity in lame cattle.

From the early 1900's to around 1980 the National Screen Service (NSS) was originally responsible for the creation and printing of film posters in America and, I believe, of distribution overseas. A considerable amount of the work would be done by freelance artists, usually a few individuals at a time. Unfortunately after the NSS dissipated during the eighties the studios handled the work themselves and the era of new cinema advertising, as we know it today, was born.

Not only did the cheap studio marketing techniques eradicate the possibility of a new great poster artists working independently but, after Jaws had set the pace for the summer blockbuster and as the mentality in film making itself began to shift to one slanting towards pure advertising, it inadvertently also changed the purpose and vitality of the poster. The dumbing down began...

As is always the case, of course some great artists managed to succeed within the studio in the 70's and 80's. In fact, some of our most iconic and most loved were hand drawn by the likes of illustrators like John Alvin (Blade Runner) Bob Peak (Apocalypse Now), Richard Arnsel (Chinatown) or crafted by the prolific Bill Gold (Dirty Harry).

But again, as film changed, as what was possible in film changed and as Hollywood lulled in storyline, so did a lot of beautiful posters.

Isn't beauty is in the eye of the beholder? I bet you're one of those people who yearn for tube amplifiers , reel to reel recording, film cameras and, whilst reading actual words from a second hand paperback, in an armchair not bought from Ikea, you think about the days when record stores were overflowing with stacks of good vinyl and the cobble stoned streets were filled with rosy cheeked women carrying handkerchiefs that smelled of lavender...

Well... look, I'm not a true technology disser. I'm not saying every film poster made after '90 and built Photoshop isn't even fit for a quick recycle and sent the way of the loo roll, let alone be allowed to adorn your local cinema foyer. Not at all. There are great works out there, I've managed to find some over the course of writing this, but they can't hide the almost savage laziness of bland film marketing or the fact that, rarely, do the best make it into our cinemas.

Take for example this classic poster for Sam Peckinpah's controversial Straw Dogs. An amazing image on any level, only intensified when looked at with even a little knowledge of the film. A vital film, definitely not loved by all but a definite landmark for the boundaries of cinema and an image which holds up even against Peckinpah's savage film making style. So when it finally got a DVD release in the UK in 2002 after being banned since the early 70's what adorned the cover of the DVD?

This complete eyesore.

No offense to whoever out there put this together, after all we all have briefs sometimes.

A few months ago I read an article which looked at the poster campaigns for Lars Von Trier's Antichrist. A film which on paper would seem perfect to design a poster for. It's beautiful to look at, has many interesting, dark and controversial themes and many varied artistic influences such as Hieronymus Bosch, Stephen King and Ingmar Bergman to name but a few. Maybe it was surprising then, maybe it wasn't, to see Antichrist marketed all over London with this blunt and ridiculous piece of type-setting.

"Wow, look how shocking this film is going to be!"

"What's it about?"

"Who cares!"

Things get worse; Have a look at the UK's blunt, blood splattered DVD. You can imagine the conversation in the video store in which some husband tries to convince his wife about cuddling up on the couch to watch a scary movie. "Ooh this looks good... like Saw III". If there's a film out there that isn't going to get you a cuddle fellas its this one. Things might be a different story (at least to begin with) for the same couple in Australia where Jeremy Saunders came up with this similar yet more subtle and far more fitting poster.

So are we forever destined to have films angled for mass sale at the detriment of something once designed so beautifully? After a lot of searching around I was finally happy to find poster artists, bloggers and illustrators from all industries similarly baffled at the situation. There are many wonderfully designed Criterion Edition discs and many fans of the company who, often rather beautifully, produce their own fantasy Criterion releases.

In my hunt I've also completely cemented my love for one countries frequently amazing designs. Poland has seen many of the greatest film artworks ever escape into it's mainstream. Sometimes having little, in regards to theme or mood, to do with the actual feature, the art works instead search for some metaphor within the the film itself and use it's plot ideas to create something entirely different but interestingly linked, none the less. Something inspiring.

The slightest hope that some of these gifted artists can make their way into the studios, where, as we speak, someone is once again placing Bold Helvetica font on Matt Damon's head, really makes me smile. So it's not all doom and gloom... More than anything it's interesting and exciting to have discovered a bubbling independent resurgence of wannabe poster artists and to have found other people who I think have a real appreciation of what once made (and what could make again) some classic poster artworks for our cinemas.

At the very least it would be beautiful to see what they could do to Matt Damon's face.

Thank you for reading. As a film poster fan it would be really interesting to hear from all of you. What is your favorite film poster of all time? Do you believe that film poster art has changed in style but not in a level of creativity? Am I an just an old fashioned romantic? I hope so... - Neil Innes

Aronofsky Steps Up to a New Genre with Black Swan

For Your Consideration — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 17:22:53 +0000

Brooklyn born Darren Aronofsky, one of my all time favourite contemporary filmmaker's is currently filming his newest release Black Swan. The critically acclaimed director of the dark classics Requiem for a Dream and Pi, has written and is now directing a supernatural thriller about a ballerina competing against a rival dancer who may be another version of herself. This intriguing story has the unexpected all star cast of Natalie Portman, Mila Kunis, Winona Ryder, Barbara Hershey and Vincent Cassel. What's more if you are not immediately drawn in by the undoubted promise of Aronofsky's signature intense and beautiful filmmaking, then perhaps you will be tempted by the ecstasy-induced aggressive angry sex scene between Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis. In a recent interview Portman said "I'm trying to find roles that demand more adulthood from me because you can get stuck in a very awful cute cycle as a woman in film”. Well, if you want a director who has the ability to strip you of all your childlike innocence in one swift scene then (as Jennifer Connelly found out in Requiem for a Dream) Aronofsky is your man. Similarly Portman's co-star Kunis is about to take a big step forward out of easily defined Hollywood genre movies, and prove to us that she can pull off dark and edgy and not just cute and funny. Although critics of Black Swan's script say it seems little self-indulgent, with too much 'empty time and space' (meaning it looks like it will feature long shots of not much at all) I think they grossly under-estimate Aronofsky's directing abilities. When you remember back to Pi and Requiem for a Dream they are both slow paced films, often with long shots of walking or a cup of coffee, yet in my opinion these are two of the most epic movies ever made – so what's down on paper doesn't necessarily give anything away! Furthermore, when the words “ballerina” and “dance rivalry” are mentioned Darren Aronofsky is not by any means the first director who would spring to mind. However, when delving into the second part of the synopsis: competing against a dancer who may be another version of herself, it all clicks into place. Aronofsky's perhaps David Lynch-esk take on this classic worn out genre becomes apparent, and I for one can't wait to see where his unpredictable mind will take it. Due for release this year with Fox Searchlight officially behind it, I think Black Swan will definitely be one to watch out for!

Artist spotlight: Caitlin Crosby passionate about helping people

Angelique Moon — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 13:24:37 +0000

Los Angeles-based singer/songwriter Caitlin Crosby is summed up best in the line of one of her own songs: "I'm too colorful to conceal." Not only is the husky-voiced 26-year-old beautiful to look at, she's grabbing the attention of listeners the world over with her lyrics. Her newest video, "Flawz," is a labor of love for her, and it reached No. 1 on YouTube when it debuted a few short weeks ago. People in twenty-one countries -- from Australia and Isreal to South Korea and Ireland -- took notice. Under the "Nonprofits & Activism" category on YouTube, it might seem an unlikely place for a music video. The message she emits with her music and persona, however, proves the video is right where it belongs. It's a song about embracing your flaws. Why? Because your flaws make you uniquely you. In a society where image has become an obsession, songs that don't focus on being center of attention, living the party life or keeping the status quo are rare and often shoved into the indie/folk category musically. But Caitlin's music isn't that obsure. The rock-pop ballads contain catchy beats and lyrics that stick. Actually, they more than stick; they're positive food for thought to much on over and over. The one -- and only -- time I witnessed a music video on the big screen before previews at a movie theater was the first time I heard Caitlin Crosby. The song, "Still Have My Heart," caught my attention because, even then, I perceived a theme of not living life based off others' opinions of what's acceptable. That was just last year, and it also was the beginning of a my love for her music and an admiration for another passion of hers outside of music. She and singer-actress friend Brie Larson set up a Web site called LoveYourFlawz.com that encourages people of all ages, shapes and sizes to love the pieces of themselves they loathe. Anyone can submit pictures and share stories that will inspire others, whether in the form of a blog, poem, video, quote or journal entry. Caitlin may be new to the music scene with the release of Flawz just last year, but she's not new to the image-based scene of Hollywood. Her dad manages actors, and her mom used to be a model-actress, so she grew up in the world where it was common for celebrities to partake in crazy diets, submit to plastic surgery and wear the "in" clothes to fit a mold of the perfect image. Instead of falling prey to this, Caitlin decided to shine as herself; all of these experiences and emotions are captured in her debut album, which is more of an anthem if you will. Her passion for helping others learn to love themselves is so contagious that her Web site has even grabbed the attention of recognizable musicians and actors -- Alyssa Milano, Jenniver Love-Hewitt, Zachary Levi, Jordin Sparks -- who all are featured in the "Flawz" music video holding their own signs about accepting flaws. Intrigued by her uniqueness and caught up by her passion, I talked with the singer-songwriter recently after she trudged her way through the snow of Boston to and from an errand while on tour with fellow singer-songwriter (and former "American Idol" contestant) Jason Castro. Read below for a short Q&A of the conversation that ensued. What was your inspiration for LoveYourFlawz.com? A lot of different things. I used to teach acting to kids and teens, and we had an exercise with "love your flaws" signs. I had so many that I started taking pictures of them, and then I started taking pictures of my friends, random people. (laughs) I did a Danny DeVito movie with Brie Larson, and we had the same issues with the vanity we saw. Did you ever expect the Web site would be as expansive and popular as it is now? Not when we started it. It's bigger than we ever expected it to be. I'd been gathering footage for so long. I'm so passionate about helping people. It's such a huge encouragement and blessing to myself. I want to keep rolling with it. What is your goal with the Web site? The whole goal is to help re-brainwash minds because I feel magazines and the media make people feel they need to fit in a mold of beauty and perfection. People need to refocus their perspective and be constantly positively reinforcing. Since you encourage people to embrace their flaws, what are your own flaws you've learned to love? I had really bad skin. Even now it's not the best. I just put aloe vera on pimples I'd been picking at. My skin was really bad in high school; I was on Accutane a few times. I have footage of my skin without makeup in the "Flawz" video. And I have lots of cellulite. What woman doesn't? (laughs) I'm not the biggest fan of being in a bikini without my shorts or sarong. Then there are other more personal things that made me insecure. It's a challenge to be comfortable in your own skin. I'm dealing with my scars, and I'm grateful for it because it gives me the passion to help people. I notice your Twitter and Myspace pages are littered with comments by people. Do you have time to read through all the stories about how people are inspired by the LoveYourFlawz site? It's so crazy on tour. I look on my phone and see comments, and I wish I had more time to bask in the words. Helping one person is incredible. It's why I was created. I think everyone wonders that -- why they're here -- so it literally means the world to me. I'm so excited, happy and humbled to be used to help people and help them for the good. It's good I went through my own struggles so I could translate them into an art form. I wrote all the songs myself (for Flawz). It's all my emotions coming to the surface. Click here for Caitlin Crosby's artist site, and click here for the LoveYourFlawz Web site. Caitlin's album, Flawz, is available on iTunes.

What’s that coming over the hill - is it a Wolfman?

Michael Shelton — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 12:29:46 +0000

From the director of Jurassic Park 3; Seven words that filled me with utter dread when it was announced that Joe Johnston would be taking over the reins of The Wolfman after initial choice Mark Romanek dropped out. Apparently Johnston was chosen because he was the only one who agreed to complete the film on budget. Hardly an indictment of quality. However, after a rather dull 20 opening minutes, the film transforms into a gruesome gothic gore fest. Lawrence Talbot (Benicio Del Toro -looking creepy even before the transformation) returns home to his ancestral home after the mysterious death of his brother. While investigating on behalf of his widow Gwen (Emily Blunt, delightful but underused), he is attacked by a feral creature and come the next full moon...well you know the rest. Johnston has kept the feel of the film refreshingly old school, harking back to the 1941 original. Shafts of light penetrate each darkened room as Johnston tries (somewhat successfully) to create a climate of fear. The show really kicks off when the beast within Del Toro is unleashed. Make-up maestro Rick Baker does his best work for years to create a human creature that is refreshingly low on CGI. Although no transformation will ever top An American Werewolf in London, they don’t shy away from the pain and show several stages of the process. The best decision Universal have made was not to pare down the deaths for a 12a audience. Heads are lopped off, blood is spilt by the gallon and let’s make it clear that this is gory not gorno. Gross without being sickening. Del Toro is given little time to establish any chemistry with Blunt, which is a shame as they are both excellent actors. It feels as if a whole story arc was left on the cutting room floor. As for Anthony Hopkins, well it seemed as if he was reading his lines in a coma early in the film, but give it time and what emerges is one of his most understated and enjoyable performances for years. A refreshingly irony free, non box office baiting, bit of fun.

Review: Up in the Air - Business Class

Salty Or Sweet — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 17:39:40 +0000

Director: Jason Reitman Starring: George Clooney, Anna Kendrick Like the planes upon which the frequent flyers at its heart so frequently travel, Up in the Air rises and falls, at times reaching great heights but at others descending from its peaks of quality. It is, of course, a romantic comedy, and at times it does fall prey to the clichés and overly contrived emotional choreography which so often blights films within the genre. Yet this is a film which tries to do things slightly better and to offer slightly more and, pleasingly given such admirable intentions, manages to succeed. Not in a feat-of-human-endeavour Concorde manner, but the target destination is ably reached, even if there is some turbulence along the way. Dispensing with the aeronautical similes momentarily, Up in the Air is ostensibly a simple character transformation piece. Ryan Bingham, portrayed with predictable charm by the ever-lovable Clooney, is an employment termination specialist (or some other similarly heartless title), employed by various companies and managers without the requisite stones to dispense with the services of their workers to do the dirty work for them. By espousing platitudes and distributing positivity packets Mr. Bingham attempts to soften the blow felt by the newly unemployed. Or, more accurately, protect the company's liability and stop the more volatile redundants from making a scene. You say potato... The crucial impact of the job, however, is that which it has on the man who inhabits it. In order to can workers in Detroit on Monday, Portland Tuesday, Boston Wednesday - and so on ad nauseum - Ryan spends the majority of his time in the eponymous location. Problematic as this may be for some, our man revels in it. A vagrant of the skies, the lack of attachment and burden is liberating - so much so that he presents seminars extolling the virtues of his 'philosophy'. Such a seemingly selfish and uncaring character would ordinarily be one to whom it was hard to warm. But it's a testament to the roundedness that the character is given by the writing, and the unforeseeable likeability he is given by his inhabitant, that at no point are negative emotions towards him stirred. Although perhaps one might be eager to ask why Ryan subscribes to his particular world view (for no substantial explanation is ever proffered), such opacity actually adds to the integrity of the construction. No attempt is made to boil down life's myriad experiences and their cumulative effect into one poignant monologue or unfortunate back-story, and it is only via a naive and blinkered view of the world that one could thus conclude an unbelievability to Clooney's character. The man himself is, predictably, superb. The decline of the 'movie star' and the lack of 'box office names' in modern cinema is a more than well-trodden path - and a facile enough one to go down in the first place - but, whether or not such monikers can be attached to anyone currently taking their place on the big screen, there are few, if any, more watchable figures in the industry at present. It is perhaps the effortlessness of his performances which end up giving them their gravitas, and this is no exception. Though this is not a poor film made good by its central performance, it is a film whose quality would be greatly diminished were that performance not of such a high standard. Also deserving of mention for the quality of her turn is the confusingly attractive Anna Kendrick (you may not see it at first, but it'll come). As a character who could have so easily slipped into intolerably annoying territory - the precocious and idealistic upstart in Bingham's illusion-shattering industry - Kendrick manages to do a stellar job of rounding out the story's intentions, while lending both comedic moments and a weight of meaning. And again, as with Clooney's character, credit must be given to writer/director Reitman for the well-judged material. There are, though, those moments of descent. Just as the film is amping up the quality and gathering momentum, the brakes of genre convention are applied and things begin to wobble. On two or three occasions the pacing slows jarringly and attempts to tug at the heartstrings are made in a blatant and unnecessary manner, to the detriment of the overall piece. It feels as though concessions are being made regarding the overall intent and execution of the movie, and, given that without these it could have truly flourished, they are deeply unfortunate. At no point is this truer than towards the dénouement, where things take an excruciatingly misguided turn. Yet at some stage during each of these nosedives the controls are righted and a recovery is made - and at no point is this truer than ever so slightly nearer that dénouement. While there undeniably lies within it a parable about the importance of companionship, Up in the Air presents more than that simplistic tale. Issues about a transient existence, self-reliance and comfort, and the nature of life's relationships are all raised. Admittedly the presentation of these things is not profound nor life-altering, but nor does it try to be. Important questions are simply proffered for consideration, but can be easily ignored should one choose to do so. If that unfortunate choice were made though, Up in the Air becomes little more than a middling romantic comedy, lifted by the quality of its performances. And while, due to the moments when it offers nothing more than exactly that, it doesn't elevate itself totally out of sight from such a classification, it undoubtedly does enough to fly closer to the sun.

Review: Youth in Revolt – Michael Cera and Mr Hyde

Joe West — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 17:21:01 +0000

There are some things about Youth in Revolt that makes it feel like a Cohen brothers’ movie. It’s not just that it has Steve Buscemi in it. The whole atmosphere is surreal, the characters are more accurately described as caricatures and the dark, damaged hearts of seemingly straight-laced Americans are always visible just beneath the surface. If you strip away the plinky plonky acoustic soundtrack and the completely unnecessary animated segments, Youth in Revolt feels fresh, and its makers are pleasantly willing to subvert the assumptions you might have about this coming of age tale. But since you can’t separate individual elements out from the film, the overall effect is of a wolf wearing a poorly knitted jumper to blend in with the herd.

As you might have guessed, it is the presence of Michael Cera which makes the film. Though there are cameos from the likes of Ray Liotta and Zach Galifianakis, these are fairly muted. Cera shines, and I for one do not really care that he is constantly landing fairly similar roles. His sense of comic timing, his delivery of occasionally prosaic lines and his physical presence onscreen all mark him out as unique and oddly alluring. People wonder why he always gets the girl when he is clearly playing such a geek. Go and watch Youth in Revolt and see if you can resist his charms.

Cera plays Nick Twisp, a nervous teen virgin searching for physical satisfaction, love and intellectual stimulation. When he takes a brief trip to a trailer park he meets Sheeni Saunders (Portia Doubleday), a temptress with intensely religious parents who leads him into a romance which both seem gagging to consummate. Like any number of teen films, the aim here is to get laid. But this is nothing like American Pie. Cera is returned to his home far from Sheeni, and he realises that the only way to be near to her again is to engineer a situation in which he gets kicked out by his mother and is made to move in with his father. This involves getting into some serious trouble with the law. To force out his dark side, Twisp creates an alter-ego named Francois Dillinger. Whenever a push towards Sheeni is needed, Dillinger is always on hand to intervene. The schizophrenic nature of the two roles is handled well, and is never particularly gimmicky or distracting.

But.

For the first 45 minutes Youth in Revolt clips along nicely, and is undoubtedly funny in a slightly more reserved way than other teen comedies. However, if you don’t like Michael Cera, you will probably want to avoid this one. By the third act things are beginning to feel stilted and bland, with rebellion and meaning obscured by a rush to burn through various disjointed situations towards the films literal and metaphorical climax. The ride is enjoyable, but the execution is inconsistent.

The review is over now, but as a kind of afterthought, or perhaps a little homework assignment, I recommend you go away and watch both Youth in Revolt and the Seth Rogan vehicle Observe and Report. Then let me know if you think the two have anything in common.

Army of Two: The 40th Day

Mark Pilkington — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 15:48:21 +0000

A worthy sequel to the first game in the series, Army of Two: The 40th Day is a gung ho shooter with a smattering of Gears of War about it. Trapped in a besieged city of Shanghai, you will spend the first half of the game just trying to figure out why everyone is shooting at you, and even when you do find out why, it still isn’t very clear. Ropey plot aside, what we have here is an action driven shoot-‘em-up which keeps the adrenaline pumping non-stop from start to finish. Ideally played with a friend, the game puts you in the boots of one half of a mercenary duo who shoot first and ask questions later. For solo players, if you can’t find a mate to play with, then the computer AI takes over and plays along with you instead. For the most part you both have to just concentrate on killing the bad guys with the numerous weapons at your disposal, but the co-operative element comes into its own when you need a hand to overcome obstacles and survive certain situations. These can range from helping your comrade over a wall to rescuing prisoners who have been taken hostage. Morality plays its part in this game too, as at certain points you will be given choices to make that have wide-ranging implications. Depending upon your choice, a comic book glimpse into the future is given showing you how your decision has affected things. Sometime a seemingly good choice has terrible repercussions, and vice versa. On the most part the results of your actions inevitably lead to some bizarre consequence or other. If you get lost during a level, you can simply flick a button and an on-screen GPS display will appear, showing you the best route to take. This is a handy feature to have, as you can get carried away in some scenes and lost your bearings, however it is also quite distracting to have on-screen so you will only want to use it sporadically. The GPS also helps identify enemy soldiers by rank, which is a must if you are looking to rescue hostages as you can only free them if you take out the enemy’s leader. Every single weapon you come across or purchase is fully customisable, so if you are the train-spotter type, you can spend hours adjusting the settings and appearance of your machine gun. Likewise, the uniform and mask that you wear are also customisable, so when playing against others online, you can really make yourself stand out from the crowd. As you play through the game, new weapons will become available to buy along with new parts to upgrade. This all adds to the replayability factor, as you’ll want to keep coming back and trying out different customisations. Although the action can get rather repetitive after a few hours play – after all, there are only so many ways you can shoot someone – Army of Two: The 40th Day is so well presented and fun that you can forgive its shortcoming and just accept it for what it is: A fun third person shooter which is good when playing solo, and great when you have a mate with you. A worthy investment of both your time and money, which is not only entertaining to play but also looks and sounds great to boot.

Album review: Gil Scott-Heron: I’m New Here

Nick Clarke — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 15:40:06 +0000

Gil Scott-Heron, arguably the most influential poet to come out of America in the last fifty years, the master chronicler of American mistrust and arch social provocateur, has released his first album since 1996’s Spirits and twenty-eight years after his last release for Arista Records, Moving Targets. The great pioneer of socially conscious soul and rap has emerged from this extended hiatus, part spent incarcerated on Riker’s Island for cocaine possession, with the searingly brilliant I’m New Here and, if he has taken a step away from the acid-jazz and soul that made him famous a quarter of a century ago, placing him among yet detached from the pantheon of great soul revolutionaries of the era, including Curtis Mayfield, Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder, a new rawness acquired with age makes this album a match for anything that he released at his zenith.

It is an album so sparse, so rare and desolate, set against the simplest electronic and acoustic canvas, that it exploits every nuance and shade of Scott-Heron’s ravaged vocals to the most magnificent, hypnotic effect. Me and the Devil is a cover of Robert Johnson’s blues classic remolded with a dark electronic undercurrent; Bobby Bland’s ambiguous blues appeal, I’ll Take Care of You, is rendered dense with hope and heartache, positively bending under the weight of love’s ambition, impelled by a steady bass drum and lingering beautifully over measured piano chords; Where Did the Night Go is a short, sharp burst of ambient darkness tracing the singer’s unresolved relationship with his own existence and ideologies; while The Crutch mines the similar territory with stripped back and powerful effect. Throughout Scott-Heron displays the most captivating, free-flowing and soulful curiosity and the effect is mesmeric.

I’m New Here is an album that advances Scott-Heron’s reputation as an outstanding poet but one that simultaneously strips away and demystifies all that made him such a powerful revolutionary force in the first place. No one more than the man himself is as acutely aware that his legacy means little across the time that has elapsed and the changes that have occurred in his absence and from this modest, introspective foundation a new, more meditative artist has emerged. It is a hugely charismatic album, soaked in a lifetime’s experience and wisdom; it is bold, beguiling and triumphantly fashioned. I’m New Here might just come to be the album that defines this mighty artist’s career.

Photograph: Terrence Jennings /Retna Ltd./Corbis

New York, Venice, Peckham - it’s the Hannah Barry gallery

Brigitte Istim — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 11:40:14 +0000

“Did you manage to find us without too much trouble?” asks Jamie Byrom, head of sales at the Hannah Barry gallery. The question has a slightly different resonance than if we were standing in, say, Cork Street. But then a gallery in Cork Street probably wouldn’t have the privilege of sharing a huge building with the Holy Order of Cherubim and Seraphim Movement Church. “We get wonderful music and singing to accompany the art every Sunday,” says Jamie. Sited in an old warehouse on a Peckham industrial estate the Hannah Barry gallery is main base for 25-year-old Hannah, an art entrepreneur who must harbour considerable reserves of energy and determination in her slight frame. Since organising her first exhibition in Peckham in 2006 she has built up a group of more than 20 young artists who seem to work in every kind of medium from oil paint to MDF. Jamie leads me into the soaring gallery space – “acres of space for a fraction of the price you’d pay in the West End” – to take a look at the current exhibition of work by Viktor Timofeev. Timofeev is one of those international mavericks whose CV inspires exhaustion in more plodding personalities. Born in Riga, Latvia, he studied in New York and now lives and works in Berlin. Timofeev’s exhibition at Hannah Barry takes its title – LOCAL_AREA_NETWORKS(s) – from a term “describing a cluster of connected computer nodes” and is “influenced by progressive architecture, utopian community and skateboarding ideology”. Being sedate – OK lazy – I’m not sure I’m going to get the skateboarding vibe. One of the things Timofeev does is play with perspective and pattern. Using very simple elements like crosses or Y and V shapes – the fork in the road or tree branch – he creates the kind of patterns which usually form a backdrop to our lives but sometimes spring out and more or less crack us over the head. Strolling along Timofeev’s pattern wall we pass from tyre tracks to a wire link fence, or perhaps a pool of water shattered by a stone, to a herd of black crosses gathered round a white void. Within one step we seem to have gone from the pattern being a mere accessory to a total explanation of a scene – to me at least those crosses and the void are shorthand for death and a whole variety of complicated funeral scenes and rituals. Timofeev’s patterns grow into landscapes, provisional looking collections of skips, metal girders and Portakabins often trapped in and held together by complicated webs of rope that have no beginning and no end. In one image, Trebucht_Smke, a collection of jazzy beach umbrellas blooms near a slab of overgrown concrete – St Tropez meets Detroit. My favourite picture and Jamie’s too goes by the cryptic title LPZG_84 (see above). Our reaction to the teetering arch of Portakabins painted with a rainbow is a nice illustration of the diverse ways in which art ‘gets’ people. Jamie points out how the rainbow’s “golden triangle” draws the eye to the cabin in the foreground, with its interior walls looking as though they’ve been carefully wallpapered. For some strange reason the stacked up cabins remind me of the notorious Victory Arch in Baghdad that was modelled on Saddam Hussein’s forearms. It’s a picture of a place flattened, trying to rebuild itself and not quite sure which dreams to make solid. Having taken the Peckham Pavilion to the Venice Biennale last year Hannah is still fizzing with ideas. London, she thinks, “definitely has space for a major new gallery”. This spring she will show work from a selection of New York artists whilst working on a plan to open a gallery in NY with the aim of examining “how the US sees Europe and how Europe sees the US”. In this post 9/11 world that sounds like a project with interesting artistic and political ramifications. Image: LPZG_84, acrylic on canvas © Viktor Timofeev

Invictus - A worthy Mandela biopic?

Michael Shelton — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 17:48:11 +0000

When Nelson Mandela was asked who should play him in a movie of his life, his unequivocal answer was Morgan Freeman. You can’t get a much better recommendation than that. Invictus deals the portion of Mandela’s life after he takes up the Presidency. Sensing a country still hugely divided, he identifies rugby (formerly a symbol of white hierachical society) as a potential unifying force and approaches the Springbok captain Francois Pienaar (Matt Damon) to help bring the two sides together under one country, one World Cup. Freeman is a very understated actor, able to convey a lifetime of emotion in a single look. He encapsulates the great man brilliantly, capturing his diction and heartwarming smile without attempting a perfect characterization. Presenting who he was and what he represented is more important than what he looks like. Despite his diminutive stature compared to the real man, Damon makes an excellent Pienaar, bulking up, capturing the accent and portraying a man whose sport has taken on a greater significance. Sports movies are always difficult to portray on the screen. Although director Clint Eastwood makes a good stab at capturing the intensity of rugby, keeping the camera at pitch level, if you’re no fan of the sport, nearly half an hour of action may bore you senseless - especially a final match lacking much excitement in the tries department. Eastwood’s dispassionate direction does not help. It occasionally feels like just another movie, which given its truly astounding tale, is a little disappointing. Yet for Freeman’s performance alone this is well worth a watch.

Review: The Magnetic Fields - Realism

Mark Davison — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 14:55:58 +0000

Marking the return of prolific singer, songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Stephin Merritt to the band he is best known for, Realism is the third part of the band's (fairly self-explanatory) 'no synth' trilogy, started with 2004's I. Since the band’s early days as a synth pop outfit, The Magnetic Fields have come to be known for both their literate lyrics and sheer ambition, as best demonstrated on their most-well known record 69 Love Songs, the band’s albums are normally based around some form of concept (whether aesthetic or thematic) and will often hop between numerous genres. And Realism is no exception, Merritt claims it is an attempt to ’explore the sincerity of folk music’ – a genre they’ve briefly flirted with in the past – which, in other words, provides him with an opportunity to pour scorn and mock a whole tradition of music, and he’s in his element. While the band have taken on numerous different personas, from Jesus and Mary Chain inspired noise rockers on previous record Distortion to Cole Porter-esque dandies thanks to Merritt’s witty social observations and his passion for show-tunes, the presence of traditional folk instrumentation sees the band act more as court jesters, hiding barbed jibes in the midst of sweet melodies and vocals delivered in Merritt’s rich baritone or in the girlish tones of co-vocalists Claudia Gonson and Shirley Simms. Kicking off with You Must Be Out of Your Mind, a somewhat twisted sibling of I’s I Don’t Believe You, the first few tracks of the album see the band let loose and have fun (apart from ‘An Interlude’, rather oddly placed as the second track, which is pretty but rather inconsequential). This is particularly true on ‘We’re Having a Hootenanny’, which despite the ridiculous title and subject matter is delivered by the whole band in a manner that is equally joyful and sinister –the hissed delivery of phrases like ‘personality quizzzz’ gives them the air of brainwashed cult members. The humour carries on for the first half of the album up until their attempt at a novelty song Everything Is One Big Christmas Tree, after which, possibly sensing that they couldn’t top the madness of that song’s German sing-along, the proceedings threaten to become sincere and heartfelt, resulting in tracks like Walk a Lonely Road, and Better Things, both rather subdued and even quite romantic, and possibly the highpoints of the album. Despite a turn back towards the wacky late on in the album with penultimate track The Dada Polka, this mood prevails over the rest of the record, ending on the quiet sadness of From a Sinking Boat Although it is a minor work, clocking in at just over half an hour, Realism is still a welcome addition to the Stephen Merritt songbook, offering the familiar mix of warm and cosy with bitter undertones – somewhat like someone offering you a sumptuous meal while mocking you about your weight – and, although it doesn't scale the heights of the best moments of the previous two 'no synth' records – there’s nothing on here to rival I Thought You Were My Boyfriend or even California Girls – it doesn't make as many missteps either and in tracks like You Must Be Out of Your Mind and Seduced and Abandoned, even develops on themes already raised in the trilogy, making all three records into a body of work that is a worthy successor to 69 Love Songs.

Black on White exposes casual racism in Germany

Julia Kollewe — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 12:57:55 +0000

Black on White (Schwarz auf Weiss) exposes casual racism in Germany by showing the difficulties faced by Kwami, a Somali, when he tries to rent an apartment, buy a gold watch or stay at a campsite. The twist: Kwami is actually Günter Wallraff, Germany’s best-known investigative journalist, who blacked up and wore an Afro wig for this film. When I went to the screening at the Centre for Investigative Journalism at City University in London, I thought the film would be very predictable – but found it very disturbing. The everyday racism towards people of a different skin colour was much worse than I expected and ranged from casual disparaging remarks to outright aggression. It won’t come as a big surprise that Kwami does not get the apartment (the landlady says afterwards: “He was so black, like Heidi Klum’s guy, horrible!) and is not welcome at a German campsite (where he is openly told by the attendant that his skin colour is the problem) or on allotments in Berlin (there is a comical scene where he wants to take away an allotment application form but the official in charge won't let him take it home). When he and a (real) black friend want to apply for a hunting licence in Bavaria and offer to show a driving licence rather than a passport as ID, the officials threaten to call the police. And at a city festival, other people move away when he sits down with his beer on the same bench. Kwami doesn’t get any sympathy when he tells the owner of a guard-dog training centre in Cologne that he has already been attacked twice by skinheads and wants his dog to defend him. The owner first tells him the centre is full, then quotes absurdly high joining and membership fees. A little while later, after Kwami has left a white German manages to sign up immediately for a much lower fee. Racism appears to be worse in East Germany where people are less used to seeing black faces, and in conservative Bavaria. The film features a lot of highly prejudiced older people. But younger people can be equally racist, for example a group of football fans, and even in Cologne Kwami can’t get into a nightclub because he is black, and gets thrown out of a local pub at the end. Speaking at the screening, the director, Pagonis Pagonakis, stressed that the film isn’t purely about racism – it’s about the instant rejection of those who look/are different, whether they are black, punks or simply outsiders that don’t seem to fit into the local community. Wallraff, 67, and his team travelled across Germany for over a year to make this film. Black on White was filmed with tiny cameras hidden in Wallraff’s clothing and Pagonakis’ glasses, as well as small HD cameras used by the team from a distance. “People thought we were tourists,” said Pagonakis. “Even when I was standing next to him, because I am white and he is black, they never thought that we could be friends.” Amazingly, most people in the film gave their permission for the footage to be used afterwards – because they thought they’d done nothing wrong. The film sparked a huge debate in Germany and is the most controversial of Wallraff’s films to date. He was criticised by Germany’s black community, including the Berlin Africa Council, who said he can’t claim to be a spokesman for black people and can’t really imagine what it is like to be black in Germany. In the film, casual racism turns into aggression when Kwami is threatened with physical violence on a train with east German football fans but is saved by an 18-year-old policewoman. He narrowly escapes a fight in the opening scene when he is told “White people in Europe, and apes in Africa” and also gets punched in a bar. The only positive moments are when other customers step in to protect him in the bar and in another scene when he and a black mate manage to get work. The reality is even worse: Pagonakis said Wallraff's black friend never goes out alone at night in Berlin for fear of being attacked. Little known over here, Wallraff is a household name in Germany. He made his reputation as an undercover reporter in the 1980s when he posed as a Turkish guest worker in Lowest of the Low (Ganz unten), exposing the poor working conditions faced by immigrants. He was sued by the Axel Springer publishing house after he worked for the right-leaning tabloid Bild for four months in 1977 and wrote two books about the experience, accusing the paper of questionable journalistic methods. In his other recent films, he worked in the callcentre industry and slept rough as a homeless person. Casual racism is by no means restricted to Germany. After the screening, a black woman in the audience said she had experienced similar problems outside London. Holidaying in the Lake District and Devon, she was told on several occasions that a B&B was full when her white friends were able to get a room. And in France, it is very hard to rent an apartment when you have an Arab name.