Caro asked me to download an album by hip-hop duo Macklemore & Ryan Lewis after seeing them perform their song “Same Love” on The Colbert Report. I have been listening to them all week. Their song “Can’t Hold Us” is brilliant for walking to. It has this stomping beat that propels me along at top speed and can get me into work in just 20 minutes. Although I do have to have a soothing cup of tea and a sit-down after.
I suppose that sums up my problem with modern music. I may like it but suspect I am no longer built for it. Am I even allowed to like it? Will this ruin it for the young people it is really aimed at? Am I rubbish by even saying I like a Macklemore & Lewis “song” or should I say, “My goodness! Macklemore & Lewis certainly did drop some sick beats on me this morning! They are so dope I have to have a cup of tea, yo.”
I remember my parents telling me they liked Blondie and The Police. And, though I am ashamed of saying this, it put me off Debbie Harry and Sting a little bit. Things your parents like can’t possibly be cool. I suspect we have all been through this. I am still emotionally scarred by my mum’s 40th birthday party when all my parents' mates got down to “I Should Have Known Better” by Jim Diamond which was number one at the time. To this DAY I can’t hear that song without picturing a rowdy gang of parents singing “I yi-yi-yi, yi-yi-yi, looooooooooOOOOOOve yooooooo!!” SCARRED, I say.
So I hope my nieces aren’t too traumatised by the fact that I have discovered Pink.
It is not my fault. It is the fault of tv show “The Voice US”, wherein judge Usher KEEPS CHOOSING PINK SONGS for groovy little Michelle Chamuel to sing. And I’ll hear one and I’ll think, “That’s a lovely tune that is. A real foot-tapper. Something you can really hum.” And when I go to download it, and it turns out to be yet another song written by Pink. Do I have the musical taste of a 13 year old girl?
It seems selfish of me to have even the slightest interest in modern music. It is much more fair if I back away from it and let the young people have their own language and their own culture. To leave me clueless on the sidelines, while they roll their eyes and laugh at me and feel superior. I think you need that when you’re younger, because you’ve got sod all else for yourselves – especially now that my generation has stuffed up the economy. Sorry about that. Hope you don’t mind making a contribution to my pension in 20 years time ha ha ha. No, but seriously.
So from now on, I’ll keep my musical taste to myself. And if I ever find myself tapping my foot along to the Black Eyed Peas, I’ll pretend it’s just wind or early-onset dementia or something. For official purposes, if anyone wants to know my favourite singers, they are “Max Bygraves” and “Des O’Connor”. Never heard of them, young people? Good.
From here on I promise that I will neverbe neverbe anything but wrong in all the right ways. Maybe.
Sunday, 29 June 2014
REVIEW: MAD MAX 2 - THE ROAD WARRIOR
The world was always about to end in the 80's. I was certain we'd be nuked by The Warsaw Pact* and was very bitter because I'd never had sex. Thankfully, such unpleasantness was avoided. (The nuclear holocaust, cheeky.)
In "Mad Max" Mel Gibson is a lone vigilante who emerges after such a holocaust to go after an Australian motorbike gang (the same as a regular motorbike gang, only more of them have appeared in "Neighbours"). In MM2 he comes across an oil refinery under siege by the remnants of Sigue Sigue Sputnik who are led by a chap in a hockey mask called "The Humongous". (Humongous What is never made clear, but he's awfully popular.)
Max helps the oil refinery dudes by leading a convoy to escape, hotly pursued by maniacal hordes on trucks, cars, motorbikes, pogo sticks, a milk float and a man playing the Benny Hill Chase music on a trombone. Actually I made that up, but the chase is edge of the seat stuff as the baddies launch themselves at Max's Big Rig which is kitted out like a mobile fortress. Up there with "The Terminator" and "Blade Runner" in terms of influence, this hasn't dated at all badly.
* For those too young to remember, "The Warsaw Pact" were a synthesiser band who had hits with "We Are Motionless Germans", "We Are Still Motionless Germans" and "Actually I Think That One At the End Might Be Dead".
In "Mad Max" Mel Gibson is a lone vigilante who emerges after such a holocaust to go after an Australian motorbike gang (the same as a regular motorbike gang, only more of them have appeared in "Neighbours"). In MM2 he comes across an oil refinery under siege by the remnants of Sigue Sigue Sputnik who are led by a chap in a hockey mask called "The Humongous". (Humongous What is never made clear, but he's awfully popular.)
Max helps the oil refinery dudes by leading a convoy to escape, hotly pursued by maniacal hordes on trucks, cars, motorbikes, pogo sticks, a milk float and a man playing the Benny Hill Chase music on a trombone. Actually I made that up, but the chase is edge of the seat stuff as the baddies launch themselves at Max's Big Rig which is kitted out like a mobile fortress. Up there with "The Terminator" and "Blade Runner" in terms of influence, this hasn't dated at all badly.
* For those too young to remember, "The Warsaw Pact" were a synthesiser band who had hits with "We Are Motionless Germans", "We Are Still Motionless Germans" and "Actually I Think That One At the End Might Be Dead".
Thursday, 26 June 2014
REVIEW: HER
In "Her" a guy named Theodore (Joaquin Phoenix) falls in love with OS1, his operating system (voiced by Scarlett Johanssen). To be fair to him, it is a very advanced system, the setup for which involves answering questions like "How are you feeling?" and "Describe your relationship with your mother".
"Sam" (OS1 names itself) is intuitive, funny and caring, and she appears to share Theodore's feelings. So before long the two are going on dates and having fun together.
Look. I know. I was dubious too. But I found that I really liked this film. While you could look at the film as a satire on how quickly and how completely we've become dependent upon technology for our relationships, I liked it for the questions it asks about regular people stuff. Like, "what does it really mean to love" and "how can you ever be sure of what the other person feels"*.
The film seems to be saying that love is actually just moments of sharing. Like the time you both got drunk and danced around the kitchen to "Sympathy for the Devil" or when you both thought it was really funny that Ed Milliband looks and sounds like a potato, or just recollecting the place you went and did that thing that time. You don't even still need to be with that person to feel that love, it will always be with you even in times of loneliness. Thinking about this made me feel better and Films As Therapy are fine with me.
So I loved it, and overlooked the fact that while Joaquin was appropriately cast as an Everyman they managed to set him up with a "dowdy" neighbour in Amy Adams. Don't get me wrong, I like Amy and she does her best to dress down by not wearing makeup and having adorably ruffled hair. But still. IT IS AMY ADAMS. It is like popping to ScotMid to find that the checkout woman has been replaced by Jessica Alba, or your Aunt Molly's Bingo mates are now all played by Beyonce.
"Her" is not for everyone. It's a Woody-Allen-ish inward-looking film about people who are often depressed, plus the humour in it is mildly twisted (I actually laughed out loud at the "choke me with the dead cat" scene which shows how effed-up I am). But if you liked "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" and "The Truman Show" you'll find yourself mentally filing this film alongside them.
* By reading their secret journal and having them FOLLOWED, if you didn't know.
"Sam" (OS1 names itself) is intuitive, funny and caring, and she appears to share Theodore's feelings. So before long the two are going on dates and having fun together.
Look. I know. I was dubious too. But I found that I really liked this film. While you could look at the film as a satire on how quickly and how completely we've become dependent upon technology for our relationships, I liked it for the questions it asks about regular people stuff. Like, "what does it really mean to love" and "how can you ever be sure of what the other person feels"*.
The film seems to be saying that love is actually just moments of sharing. Like the time you both got drunk and danced around the kitchen to "Sympathy for the Devil" or when you both thought it was really funny that Ed Milliband looks and sounds like a potato, or just recollecting the place you went and did that thing that time. You don't even still need to be with that person to feel that love, it will always be with you even in times of loneliness. Thinking about this made me feel better and Films As Therapy are fine with me.
So I loved it, and overlooked the fact that while Joaquin was appropriately cast as an Everyman they managed to set him up with a "dowdy" neighbour in Amy Adams. Don't get me wrong, I like Amy and she does her best to dress down by not wearing makeup and having adorably ruffled hair. But still. IT IS AMY ADAMS. It is like popping to ScotMid to find that the checkout woman has been replaced by Jessica Alba, or your Aunt Molly's Bingo mates are now all played by Beyonce.
"Her" is not for everyone. It's a Woody-Allen-ish inward-looking film about people who are often depressed, plus the humour in it is mildly twisted (I actually laughed out loud at the "choke me with the dead cat" scene which shows how effed-up I am). But if you liked "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" and "The Truman Show" you'll find yourself mentally filing this film alongside them.
* By reading their secret journal and having them FOLLOWED, if you didn't know.
Wednesday, 25 June 2014
REVIEW: DOOMSDAY
If you are the sort of person who dislikes plotholes in films, it is possible that 'Doomsday' is not for you. I am not saying that the film has a few. It is more accurate to say that Doomsday is one GIANT plothole. I spent the first 20 minutes trying to figure out what was going on, then I realised, 'Oh, it's STUPID' then sat back and enjoyed the rest of the film.
How, exactly does walling up Scotland stop a deadly plague? Let's not worry about it. Why aren't you allowed to fly except when you are? Ahhh... it's not important. Why are there KNIGHTS in 21st century Scotland? Don't ask stupid questions. All you need to know is, 'Him very bad man, we make things go boom.' It suffices.
Because 'Doomsday' is good fun. It is like director Neil Marshall just stickytaped lots of bits of his favourite films together - starting with Escape From New York, moving on to Mad Max, Monty Python and the Holy Grail and then back to Mad Max again. It even has a terrific 80's score including cannibalism to Bad Manners, a rally to Kings of the Wild Frontier and a rousing car chase to Two Tribes.
The film is lacking in only one area - neither Bruce Campbell or Kurt Russell is the hero, and our heroine is a bit lacking in the charisma-stakes. That apart, 'Doomsday' is high-octane, full-speed-ahead nonsense. While it may well be the most incoherent film I've ever seen, it's still recommended if you enjoy films like Planet Terror. Having said that, Planet Terror is a great deal more plausible. And there's a sentence I never thought I'd find myself typing.
'If you're hungry, try a slice of your friend.'
How, exactly does walling up Scotland stop a deadly plague? Let's not worry about it. Why aren't you allowed to fly except when you are? Ahhh... it's not important. Why are there KNIGHTS in 21st century Scotland? Don't ask stupid questions. All you need to know is, 'Him very bad man, we make things go boom.' It suffices.
Because 'Doomsday' is good fun. It is like director Neil Marshall just stickytaped lots of bits of his favourite films together - starting with Escape From New York, moving on to Mad Max, Monty Python and the Holy Grail and then back to Mad Max again. It even has a terrific 80's score including cannibalism to Bad Manners, a rally to Kings of the Wild Frontier and a rousing car chase to Two Tribes.
The film is lacking in only one area - neither Bruce Campbell or Kurt Russell is the hero, and our heroine is a bit lacking in the charisma-stakes. That apart, 'Doomsday' is high-octane, full-speed-ahead nonsense. While it may well be the most incoherent film I've ever seen, it's still recommended if you enjoy films like Planet Terror. Having said that, Planet Terror is a great deal more plausible. And there's a sentence I never thought I'd find myself typing.
'If you're hungry, try a slice of your friend.'
REVIEW: BODY HEAT
In "Body Heat" William Hurt plays Nick Racine, an attorney who notices glamorous Matty Walker (Kathleen Turner) as she stands outside a bar in Florida. In the sultry windless heat, her flimsy blouse clings to her body as she cools her neck with an ice-cube. Talk quickly turns to MALARKY.
MATTY: I have a husband - he's out of town.
NICK: My favourite kind.
MATTY: He's away on business a great deal.
NICK: I'm liking him better and better.
The two of them end up going home together where they engage in a passionate affair. They become physically obsessed with each other, spending all their time locked together, in an uncontrollable frenzy of hot, quivering, passionate, throbbing...
CARO: Is anything going to happen in this film? All they've done so far is shag.
ME: Yes, yes. Be patient. This is called, "Establishing Motivation".
CARO: This is called "William Hurt Walking Around With His Arse Cheeks Out", more like.
Yes, there's a fair amount of how's-yer-father scenes in the first half of the film. But they are the sort of cinema-legovers you only get in films that feature lazy saxophones on the soundtrack. Waves pound on beaches, curtains waft lazily in the night air, women gasp and men clench bedsheets. And they never accidentally twang a contraceptive across the room, or are interrupted by the cat wanting to know what's going on.
Anyhow. When Matty's husband (played by Richard "We need you back in 'Nam, John" Crenna) reappears from business, talk turns to divorce. But he's a rich and powerful man with dangerous friends, who will stop at nothing to keep his wife. There's only one option left - MURDER....
"Body Heat" was made in 1981 and is one of those 80's glamour sex thrillers like "Jagged Edge" or "Fatal Attraction". It is rather well done even if it is a little slow to get going. It helps that William Hurt and Kathleen Turner are good actors. It also helps that there's an intriguing plot and a witty script ("You're not too bright - I like that in a man"). I'd say the whole James M. Cain atmosphere is laid on a bit thick, but you could do a lot worse.
MATTY: I have a husband - he's out of town.
NICK: My favourite kind.
MATTY: He's away on business a great deal.
NICK: I'm liking him better and better.
The two of them end up going home together where they engage in a passionate affair. They become physically obsessed with each other, spending all their time locked together, in an uncontrollable frenzy of hot, quivering, passionate, throbbing...
CARO: Is anything going to happen in this film? All they've done so far is shag.
ME: Yes, yes. Be patient. This is called, "Establishing Motivation".
CARO: This is called "William Hurt Walking Around With His Arse Cheeks Out", more like.
Yes, there's a fair amount of how's-yer-father scenes in the first half of the film. But they are the sort of cinema-legovers you only get in films that feature lazy saxophones on the soundtrack. Waves pound on beaches, curtains waft lazily in the night air, women gasp and men clench bedsheets. And they never accidentally twang a contraceptive across the room, or are interrupted by the cat wanting to know what's going on.
Anyhow. When Matty's husband (played by Richard "We need you back in 'Nam, John" Crenna) reappears from business, talk turns to divorce. But he's a rich and powerful man with dangerous friends, who will stop at nothing to keep his wife. There's only one option left - MURDER....
"Body Heat" was made in 1981 and is one of those 80's glamour sex thrillers like "Jagged Edge" or "Fatal Attraction". It is rather well done even if it is a little slow to get going. It helps that William Hurt and Kathleen Turner are good actors. It also helps that there's an intriguing plot and a witty script ("You're not too bright - I like that in a man"). I'd say the whole James M. Cain atmosphere is laid on a bit thick, but you could do a lot worse.
REVIEW: A FACE IN THE CROWD
When you say "Elia Kazan" to most people they think "On The Waterfront" or "A Streetcar Named Desire". Well, unless you're a tuxedo magician and you say it like this - "ELIAKAZANNNNN!!!" and then produce flowers from your elbow. But that would be stupid.
Kazan was a theatre director who made the leap to films in the 50's. He was a proponent of 'method' acting. I'm not always a fan of this, especially in 50's films when I think some actors got it into their heads that 'method' meant the same as 'incoherent'. Here I am thinking primarily of Montgomery Clift who, in my opinion, was a spectacularly bad actor whose every performance looks like he really really really needed a wee. But that's the downside. Some 50's method actors were really good. Which brings me to "A Face in the Crowd".
It's a lesser-known Kazan movie that tells of Larry 'Lonesome' Rhodes (Andy Griffith). Rhodes is a drifter who is discovered by a small radio station where his folksy storytelling style makes him an immediate star in Memphis. Despite his misgivings he's soon on national tv where stories about his momma, his grandpappy and a multitude of uncles turn him into the new media sensation.
But there's something disturbing about Lonesome. He's a womaniser and a drinker. While he gains popularity poking fun at city folk and running charity drives, his motives hint at something bitter, angry and dark. He uses his credibility to sell 'Vitagex' - a vitamin supplement with no positive effects whatsoever. And as his influence over his viewers increases, his contempt for that audience manifests itself in wilful manipulation and a ruthless desire for power. Then he launches his own debate show ("Lonesome Rhodes' Cracker Barrel") in order to sell politicians the same way he does vitamins ("I'm a influencer! A shaper of opinion! A force!")
Produced in 1957, "A Face in the Crowd" mixes the satirical bite of "Network" with quite uncanny prophecy. Rhodes' "aw shucks" manner is straight out of the George W Bush playbook. It's got a witty script ("Well, he's certainly got the courage of his own ignorance") and some terrific performances from Walter Matthau and Lee Remick. As for Andy Griffith, he's amazing as Rhodes - the irony being that he went on to become a huge tv star in the US playing exactly the sort of country boy character he satirises here.
I'm surprised this film isn't better known - I'd say it's better than either Waterfront or Streetcar.
RHODES: (To his audience) If this lady's tragic story don't touch your pickled ole city hearts, then I'll just up and pack mah one shirt and the Bible mah daddy gave me and leave town.
MARCIA: It's true about the one shirt. But I've yet to see the Bible.
Kazan was a theatre director who made the leap to films in the 50's. He was a proponent of 'method' acting. I'm not always a fan of this, especially in 50's films when I think some actors got it into their heads that 'method' meant the same as 'incoherent'. Here I am thinking primarily of Montgomery Clift who, in my opinion, was a spectacularly bad actor whose every performance looks like he really really really needed a wee. But that's the downside. Some 50's method actors were really good. Which brings me to "A Face in the Crowd".
It's a lesser-known Kazan movie that tells of Larry 'Lonesome' Rhodes (Andy Griffith). Rhodes is a drifter who is discovered by a small radio station where his folksy storytelling style makes him an immediate star in Memphis. Despite his misgivings he's soon on national tv where stories about his momma, his grandpappy and a multitude of uncles turn him into the new media sensation.
But there's something disturbing about Lonesome. He's a womaniser and a drinker. While he gains popularity poking fun at city folk and running charity drives, his motives hint at something bitter, angry and dark. He uses his credibility to sell 'Vitagex' - a vitamin supplement with no positive effects whatsoever. And as his influence over his viewers increases, his contempt for that audience manifests itself in wilful manipulation and a ruthless desire for power. Then he launches his own debate show ("Lonesome Rhodes' Cracker Barrel") in order to sell politicians the same way he does vitamins ("I'm a influencer! A shaper of opinion! A force!")
Produced in 1957, "A Face in the Crowd" mixes the satirical bite of "Network" with quite uncanny prophecy. Rhodes' "aw shucks" manner is straight out of the George W Bush playbook. It's got a witty script ("Well, he's certainly got the courage of his own ignorance") and some terrific performances from Walter Matthau and Lee Remick. As for Andy Griffith, he's amazing as Rhodes - the irony being that he went on to become a huge tv star in the US playing exactly the sort of country boy character he satirises here.
I'm surprised this film isn't better known - I'd say it's better than either Waterfront or Streetcar.
RHODES: (To his audience) If this lady's tragic story don't touch your pickled ole city hearts, then I'll just up and pack mah one shirt and the Bible mah daddy gave me and leave town.
MARCIA: It's true about the one shirt. But I've yet to see the Bible.
RANDOM STUFF: A SLICE OF LEMON
I always knew Charlize Theron was an attractive woman, but it was in sort of an abstract way. The same way you might appreciate a painting or a happy dog. You can say, "That's a happy dog," but feel no reason to pet him. Is what I am saying.
It was not until Charlize tried to rip out Kirsten Stewart's heart and eat it in "Snow White & The Hunter" that I really began to appreciate her charms. It has always been this way with me. I go for the bad girls, but it was just embarrassing that I should be into The Wicked Queen just like Woody Allen in that film that time. I was the same with Glenn Close. She did nothing for me in The Big Chill where she was sort of mumsy, but I loved her in Dangerous Liaisons as a sexy pre-Revolutionary vamp.
I think it started with Lemon. Lemon was a teddy bear I had when I was little. For a start, she was a she, which was kind of odd. Also, she was a raggy, badly-sewn thing whose mouth was on crooked. This gave her kind of a bemused sneer. An attitude of superiority over the other teddy bears who simpered in their ribbons. Lemon did not take this sort of crap and I loved her and took her everywhere, because she had attitude.
Over the years, I have come to realise I do not have a physical type I am attracted to, but I do have a personality type that intrigues me, which I shall call "Lemonish". Caro fit the bill perfectly. When I met her she had spiky hair, a nose-ring, she smoked (not necessarily tobacco, wink wink) and she wore combat pants. I loved those combat pants. I think they were just a comfort thing, but to me it meant Caro was dangerous, and therefore INTRIGUING.
Caro's style has evolved over the years. Now she does not do the combat pants thing any more. Her badness has evolved kind of into a Dynasty-era Joan Collins, "I have control of Denver-Carrington and you are all FIRED" sort of groove.
But a few years ago, Caro and I went to my mother's funeral. Unbeknownst to me, my sister had placed an "In Memorium" ad on my behalf from me "and Lemon" because she thought it was cute. It had the unfortunate effect that everyone at the funeral thought Lemon was my girlfriend. "Oh you must be Lemon," they said, introducing themselves. "What an unusual name! Still, I expect you all have funny names in New Zealand."
"Who the flip is this fudging Lemon? And why does everyone keep calling me that?" asked Caro, only she did not use those precise words.
I explained who Lemon was, and that she needn't worry, I had explained the situation and no-one thought she was my Lemon any more.
But I couldn't resist it, "Although... maybe you ARE," I said.
"Oh fudge off you flipping idiot," she replied, using Very Bad Girl Language. It just made me love her all the more.
It was not until Charlize tried to rip out Kirsten Stewart's heart and eat it in "Snow White & The Hunter" that I really began to appreciate her charms. It has always been this way with me. I go for the bad girls, but it was just embarrassing that I should be into The Wicked Queen just like Woody Allen in that film that time. I was the same with Glenn Close. She did nothing for me in The Big Chill where she was sort of mumsy, but I loved her in Dangerous Liaisons as a sexy pre-Revolutionary vamp.
I think it started with Lemon. Lemon was a teddy bear I had when I was little. For a start, she was a she, which was kind of odd. Also, she was a raggy, badly-sewn thing whose mouth was on crooked. This gave her kind of a bemused sneer. An attitude of superiority over the other teddy bears who simpered in their ribbons. Lemon did not take this sort of crap and I loved her and took her everywhere, because she had attitude.
Over the years, I have come to realise I do not have a physical type I am attracted to, but I do have a personality type that intrigues me, which I shall call "Lemonish". Caro fit the bill perfectly. When I met her she had spiky hair, a nose-ring, she smoked (not necessarily tobacco, wink wink) and she wore combat pants. I loved those combat pants. I think they were just a comfort thing, but to me it meant Caro was dangerous, and therefore INTRIGUING.
Caro's style has evolved over the years. Now she does not do the combat pants thing any more. Her badness has evolved kind of into a Dynasty-era Joan Collins, "I have control of Denver-Carrington and you are all FIRED" sort of groove.
But a few years ago, Caro and I went to my mother's funeral. Unbeknownst to me, my sister had placed an "In Memorium" ad on my behalf from me "and Lemon" because she thought it was cute. It had the unfortunate effect that everyone at the funeral thought Lemon was my girlfriend. "Oh you must be Lemon," they said, introducing themselves. "What an unusual name! Still, I expect you all have funny names in New Zealand."
"Who the flip is this fudging Lemon? And why does everyone keep calling me that?" asked Caro, only she did not use those precise words.
I explained who Lemon was, and that she needn't worry, I had explained the situation and no-one thought she was my Lemon any more.
But I couldn't resist it, "Although... maybe you ARE," I said.
"Oh fudge off you flipping idiot," she replied, using Very Bad Girl Language. It just made me love her all the more.
Monday, 23 June 2014
REVIEW: THE AWFUL TRUTH
In "The Awful Truth" Cary Grant and Irene Dunne decide to divorce because they can't trust each other. Probably with very good reason - the film opens with Cary concocting an alibi, and Irene making weak excuses for being with a Frenchman.
IRENE: Could you explain things to my husband? Convince him that everything I said was true?
FRENCHMAN: Of course. It would be my pleasure. Does he carry a gun?
The two separate and Irene hooks up with an oil millionaire from Oklahoma. Cary is naturally jealous, but equally naturally refuses to say this. Instead he lands himself a rich society girl and the scene is set for both partners to attempt to sabotage their respective new relationships and get back together before the decree comes through. Will Cary realise his new girl is a snob? Will Irene tire of a man who actually goes around singing "Home On The Range"? You'll have to watch to find out.
This is good fun 1930's fun, by which I mean that Cary and Irene rattle out their lines with the speed of a touch-typist with a weasel up her bum. The innuendos come thick and fast, sentences start with, "Say! What's the big idea?" and Irene delivers her performance like Katharine Hepburn's naughty younger sister.
I thoroughly enjoyed this and wish Americans still talked like that. They could deliver Hamlet's soliloquy in about 30 seconds flat.
IRENE: Could you explain things to my husband? Convince him that everything I said was true?
FRENCHMAN: Of course. It would be my pleasure. Does he carry a gun?
The two separate and Irene hooks up with an oil millionaire from Oklahoma. Cary is naturally jealous, but equally naturally refuses to say this. Instead he lands himself a rich society girl and the scene is set for both partners to attempt to sabotage their respective new relationships and get back together before the decree comes through. Will Cary realise his new girl is a snob? Will Irene tire of a man who actually goes around singing "Home On The Range"? You'll have to watch to find out.
This is good fun 1930's fun, by which I mean that Cary and Irene rattle out their lines with the speed of a touch-typist with a weasel up her bum. The innuendos come thick and fast, sentences start with, "Say! What's the big idea?" and Irene delivers her performance like Katharine Hepburn's naughty younger sister.
I thoroughly enjoyed this and wish Americans still talked like that. They could deliver Hamlet's soliloquy in about 30 seconds flat.
REVIEW: HANNIBAL RISING
Things in the shadows are scary. Anyone who has ever been a child in a darkened bedroom at 2am knows this. Unspeakable creatures lurk in the corners of the room - growling, creeping, snapping things with many teeth and red eyes... That is, until you shine a torch on them.
7 YEAR OLD ME: Wait a minute! You're not a monster at all! You're just a pile of underpants!
UNDERPANTS: We've been rumbled! Abort! Abort!
What I'm trying to say is that when you bring scary things into the light, they inevitably become less scary. Which is why "Silence of the Lambs" was such a scary film, while "Hannibal Rising" is just a pile of underpants. I don't know about you, but hearing Hannibal's reasons for being a demented cannibal robs him of his mystique. Where he was once pure evil, he's now just a mixed-up chap, reliving unpleasant events from his past. Also, he's been rewritten as some sort of psycho avenger who targets only baddies, not the arbitrary monster he was in Manhunter who went after nice chap Will Graham and his family just for larfs. Which is sort of cheating I feel.
Hannibal Rising is stylishly done and does its best to appear well-written. But it's a movie that makes you think, "What was the point of that, then?" Other than to add zeroes to Thomas Harris' bank balance, that is.
7 YEAR OLD ME: Wait a minute! You're not a monster at all! You're just a pile of underpants!
UNDERPANTS: We've been rumbled! Abort! Abort!
What I'm trying to say is that when you bring scary things into the light, they inevitably become less scary. Which is why "Silence of the Lambs" was such a scary film, while "Hannibal Rising" is just a pile of underpants. I don't know about you, but hearing Hannibal's reasons for being a demented cannibal robs him of his mystique. Where he was once pure evil, he's now just a mixed-up chap, reliving unpleasant events from his past. Also, he's been rewritten as some sort of psycho avenger who targets only baddies, not the arbitrary monster he was in Manhunter who went after nice chap Will Graham and his family just for larfs. Which is sort of cheating I feel.
Hannibal Rising is stylishly done and does its best to appear well-written. But it's a movie that makes you think, "What was the point of that, then?" Other than to add zeroes to Thomas Harris' bank balance, that is.
UNDERPANTS: This is red leader to Y-front-one. The socks have stolen his torch! Repeat, the socks have obtained the
torch! Attack formation! Tora!
Tora! Tora!
RANDOM STUFF: TIM GUNN SAVED MY MARRIAGE
If you have ever been in a chick's fashion shop you will have noticed, I am sure, the bored assistants, the crap music and the groups of embarrassed looking men in the corner of the store. They look around, they look at the ceiling, they play with their mobile phones and check their watches. I have been one of those men. I have exchanged tight-lipped, eyebrows-raised smiles with them and nodded at them as if to say, “We’d better be getting a BJ for this later”.
Ah ha ha ha ha! I am kidding! Joking! As if we’d expect our wives/girlfriends to trade sexual favours for such things! Moving on.
But the horror does not end there. As if it is not bad enough being dumped into what is essentially the “Soft Play” area for adult males in a clothes shop, we are then asked for our opinion.
I used to dread it, but thanks to Tim Gunn of “Project Runway”, I now have a secret evil stratagem. I have learned and stored and saved some KEY PHRASES which I am willing to share with you boys. Chicks, look away –
So, okay, they’re gone. Here’s the first thing you must learn. When asked the question, “What do you think?” NEVER NEVER ANSWER RIGHT AWAY. It shows disinterest! And disinterest = later chick phrases like “Fine then” and “Thanks for the lovely day out”. (Hint: Neither of these should be taken literally because chicks are kind of weird like that).
So when asked for your opinion, adopt the thinking pose. Like you are viewing a piece of abstract art or trying to remember where you left your slippers. One hand to the chin. Rub the chin. Take the other hand and put it on your elbow. Look to the ceiling then cock your head to one side. Are you doing all that? Good, that’s enough thinking time. Now say one of the following –
“That’s a lot of look” –
Holy crap. You look like "Into The Groove" era Madonna.
“Hmmm... I’m not responding to this piece” –
I’ve just blanked and have no idea what to say.
“It looks inexpensive,” –
IMPORTANT NOTE. You might THINK this is a good thing but it is NOT.
“It’s a little boxy” –
Makes you look like a dude.
“That’s very fashion-forward,” –
I wonder what is on tv right now?
“I see what you’re going for, but it’s a little avant-garde for my taste,” –
You look like Jackie Stallone.
“This confuses me,” –
Should be used with a wave of the hand. To be aimed at the most expensive element of the outfit.
“That’s got a great silhouette!” –
Cleavage! Woohoo!
“That’s very complimentary to your figure,” –
Cleavage and bum! You should buy this. I will even pay.
“What shoes would you wear with that?” –
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED. If the answer is, “those cute kitten-heels I bought last week” then encourage the purchase. If it is, “I don’t know” then buying this dress will TRIGGER SHOE-BUYING, AOOOOGAH! AOOOOOGAH!
“Hmmm… I'm getting a bridesmaid feel from this,” –
This is the one to use for frocks so expensive they require a 2nd mortgage. It is a powerful phrase that will cause wife/girlfriend to drop the dress like it just threw up on her. Use it sparingly, my friend.
“That's a strong look for you, sophisticated and confident.” –
I have been in this ****ing shop for forty-five minutes. I cease to care. Buy the ****ing thing.
Men, I hope you found that helpful.
Women, you realise I just saved your marriage, right? You’re welcome.
Ah ha ha ha ha! I am kidding! Joking! As if we’d expect our wives/girlfriends to trade sexual favours for such things! Moving on.
But the horror does not end there. As if it is not bad enough being dumped into what is essentially the “Soft Play” area for adult males in a clothes shop, we are then asked for our opinion.
I used to dread it, but thanks to Tim Gunn of “Project Runway”, I now have a secret evil stratagem. I have learned and stored and saved some KEY PHRASES which I am willing to share with you boys. Chicks, look away –
So, okay, they’re gone. Here’s the first thing you must learn. When asked the question, “What do you think?” NEVER NEVER ANSWER RIGHT AWAY. It shows disinterest! And disinterest = later chick phrases like “Fine then” and “Thanks for the lovely day out”. (Hint: Neither of these should be taken literally because chicks are kind of weird like that).
So when asked for your opinion, adopt the thinking pose. Like you are viewing a piece of abstract art or trying to remember where you left your slippers. One hand to the chin. Rub the chin. Take the other hand and put it on your elbow. Look to the ceiling then cock your head to one side. Are you doing all that? Good, that’s enough thinking time. Now say one of the following –
“That’s a lot of look” –
Holy crap. You look like "Into The Groove" era Madonna.
“Hmmm... I’m not responding to this piece” –
I’ve just blanked and have no idea what to say.
“It looks inexpensive,” –
IMPORTANT NOTE. You might THINK this is a good thing but it is NOT.
“It’s a little boxy” –
Makes you look like a dude.
“That’s very fashion-forward,” –
I wonder what is on tv right now?
“I see what you’re going for, but it’s a little avant-garde for my taste,” –
You look like Jackie Stallone.
“This confuses me,” –
Should be used with a wave of the hand. To be aimed at the most expensive element of the outfit.
“That’s got a great silhouette!” –
Cleavage! Woohoo!
“That’s very complimentary to your figure,” –
Cleavage and bum! You should buy this. I will even pay.
“What shoes would you wear with that?” –
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED. If the answer is, “those cute kitten-heels I bought last week” then encourage the purchase. If it is, “I don’t know” then buying this dress will TRIGGER SHOE-BUYING, AOOOOGAH! AOOOOOGAH!
“Hmmm… I'm getting a bridesmaid feel from this,” –
This is the one to use for frocks so expensive they require a 2nd mortgage. It is a powerful phrase that will cause wife/girlfriend to drop the dress like it just threw up on her. Use it sparingly, my friend.
“That's a strong look for you, sophisticated and confident.” –
I have been in this ****ing shop for forty-five minutes. I cease to care. Buy the ****ing thing.
Men, I hope you found that helpful.
Women, you realise I just saved your marriage, right? You’re welcome.
Sunday, 22 June 2014
REVIEW: THE SWEENEY
First of all, no-one ever says, "Get the shooters, George".
Second, although they did have the theme to "The Sweeney" at the very end, it was a cr&p version for young people who are stupid. Seriously, the original theme was so COOL it made you want to kick down a door and shout "You're NICKED!" resulting in your mum banning you from watching telly for a week. Or so I've heard.
Thirdly, the screenplay. It is like someone got "The Big Book of Cop Movie Cliches" for Xmas and couldn't wait to turn it into a screenplay. We have:
The maverick cop who doesn't play by the rules!
The smarmy pencil-pusher desk-jockey determined to shut Maverick Cop down!
The bit of dialogue about how the desk-jockey doesn't UNDERSTAND, because he's not ON THE STREETS. DOING WHAT HAS TO BE DONE. Etc.
The Sacrificial Lamb! Now it's PERSONAL!
The requisite "You're FINISHED Stone Sinclair! Hand over your badge & gun!" scene.
Desk-jockey even gets to say, "You're a dinosaur!" At which point I expected Actor to turn to the camera and say, "Look, I didn't write this. They made me say it."
You could maybe get away with all of the above if it is done tongue in cheek. But this brings me to my fourth issue with the film - the humour. I don't think there is any, which is weird because the TV show could be quite funny. Eric & Ernie even showed up in one episode.
Finally, Ben Drew has an accent which makes him sound stupid. Since I have been gifted with a Yorkshire accent I realise I am hardly one to talk, but then I am not trying to sound big & important in a film. Ben's accent makes it impossible to take him seriously. A bit like "Business Steph" from the BBC Breakfast News with all her talk about "the staaaait of the 'igh street". I'm sure she is really very clever but she sounds like she is reading from an autocue written in crayon.
What was I talking about? Oh yes, "The Sweeney". It ruined my memories of a once-fine series and I hope those involved fall into a pit of angry squirrels armed with guns. Get the shooters, Tufty.
Second, although they did have the theme to "The Sweeney" at the very end, it was a cr&p version for young people who are stupid. Seriously, the original theme was so COOL it made you want to kick down a door and shout "You're NICKED!" resulting in your mum banning you from watching telly for a week. Or so I've heard.
Thirdly, the screenplay. It is like someone got "The Big Book of Cop Movie Cliches" for Xmas and couldn't wait to turn it into a screenplay. We have:
The maverick cop who doesn't play by the rules!
The smarmy pencil-pusher desk-jockey determined to shut Maverick Cop down!
The bit of dialogue about how the desk-jockey doesn't UNDERSTAND, because he's not ON THE STREETS. DOING WHAT HAS TO BE DONE. Etc.
The Sacrificial Lamb! Now it's PERSONAL!
The requisite "You're FINISHED Stone Sinclair! Hand over your badge & gun!" scene.
Desk-jockey even gets to say, "You're a dinosaur!" At which point I expected Actor to turn to the camera and say, "Look, I didn't write this. They made me say it."
You could maybe get away with all of the above if it is done tongue in cheek. But this brings me to my fourth issue with the film - the humour. I don't think there is any, which is weird because the TV show could be quite funny. Eric & Ernie even showed up in one episode.
Finally, Ben Drew has an accent which makes him sound stupid. Since I have been gifted with a Yorkshire accent I realise I am hardly one to talk, but then I am not trying to sound big & important in a film. Ben's accent makes it impossible to take him seriously. A bit like "Business Steph" from the BBC Breakfast News with all her talk about "the staaaait of the 'igh street". I'm sure she is really very clever but she sounds like she is reading from an autocue written in crayon.
What was I talking about? Oh yes, "The Sweeney". It ruined my memories of a once-fine series and I hope those involved fall into a pit of angry squirrels armed with guns. Get the shooters, Tufty.
Thursday, 19 June 2014
REVIEW: DRACULA, PRINCE OF DARKNESS
Hammer's "Dracula" ends with Peter Cushing crumbling Christopher Lee to dust by pulling down the curtains. It's a good thing my mum didn't catch him or she would have boxed his ears, ("I don't care WHO started it Professor Van Helsing! Now stand in the corner and think about what you've done!")
That leaves a problem for this sequel. As a pile of dust there's not much Dracula can do except grit your driveway. Fortunately some tourists arrive at his castle where they are welcomed by butler Clove who gives them tea and sends them to bed. The tourists are impressed by this hospitality until Clove strings one of them up and slits his throat, at which point they threaten to write a strongly worded letter to the Romanian Tourist Board.
The tourist-blood revives Dracula, although he now has an inexplicable urge to wear a knotted hankie and buy ashtrays made of seashells. He fangs one of the women, who reacts by letting down her hair and discovering she's had cleavage all along. A monk saves the remaining tourists and takes them to his monastery not realising that they are Club 18-30 members until they get drunk and let off all the monastic fire extinguishers.
"You are safe here," the monk assures them, "vampires cannot defile a house with their presence unless they are invited in. Like double glazing salesmen."
However, Dracula is intent on slaking his vile lust and there's an exciting denouement. I really enjoyed this, it reminded me of being scared as a kid watching Friday Night Horror on ITV. It still has scary moments, black humour and the best Dracula ever in Christopher Lee, although Peter Cushing is sorely missed.
That leaves a problem for this sequel. As a pile of dust there's not much Dracula can do except grit your driveway. Fortunately some tourists arrive at his castle where they are welcomed by butler Clove who gives them tea and sends them to bed. The tourists are impressed by this hospitality until Clove strings one of them up and slits his throat, at which point they threaten to write a strongly worded letter to the Romanian Tourist Board.
The tourist-blood revives Dracula, although he now has an inexplicable urge to wear a knotted hankie and buy ashtrays made of seashells. He fangs one of the women, who reacts by letting down her hair and discovering she's had cleavage all along. A monk saves the remaining tourists and takes them to his monastery not realising that they are Club 18-30 members until they get drunk and let off all the monastic fire extinguishers.
"You are safe here," the monk assures them, "vampires cannot defile a house with their presence unless they are invited in. Like double glazing salesmen."
However, Dracula is intent on slaking his vile lust and there's an exciting denouement. I really enjoyed this, it reminded me of being scared as a kid watching Friday Night Horror on ITV. It still has scary moments, black humour and the best Dracula ever in Christopher Lee, although Peter Cushing is sorely missed.
Wednesday, 18 June 2014
RANDOM STUFF: LOVE & LOW STANDARDS
I have had conversations with women lately regarding pressure to be:
a) Skinny
b) Young
c) Pretty
d) Skinny
e) Reeeeeally effing skinny
As a man, there is not this pressure. We are allowed to be bald and have actual stomachs without people pointing at us in the street. Well, I take that back. There is a pressure to be tall. But since one cannot lose short by going to the gym or not eating Doritos, I try not to let that one bother me*.
Then there is all the female grooming, which I am going to blame on marketing. Because seriously, I have seen the adverts and they seem to be based on the premise that women are just ICK. Or to put it another way, the underlying message seems to be that unless you shave it, dye it, cover it up with makeup and then scrub it off again with expensive exfoliant NO ONE WILL LOVE YOU.
This is patently untrue, by the way. Ask yourself a question. Would any man ever refuse to have relations with his wife because she had forgotten to shave her legs?
MAN: Yeeeeeek! Get them off me! Get them off meeeeeeee!!!
The answer is no. Although as a man, can I just say that if you (woman) are at the “stubbly re-growth” stage do be aware that you may be inadvertently sandpapering your husband’s private areas. Not that he will complain if he knows what is good for him.
Nevertheless, leg-shaving is something that most women seem to feel is necessary. But as a male dude who is not a lady, I am curious. What occasions warrant leg-shaving anyway?
a) Doctor appointment
b) Wedding anniversary
c) Husband suffers extreme allergic reaction
d) Dust-bunnies sticking to legs
Of course, marketers continue to be evil and lately there seems to be a concerted effort to convince men that they also need to primp, pluck and wax to achieve attractiveness. I suspect the young chaps may go for it, but not my generation whose farty motto seems to have been “Wooooo!! Get a load of that one!”
My point is this. Men’s standards are by necessity low because otherwise we really couldn’t stand to be in the room with ourselves. If you (woman) are having difficulty choosing what clothes to wear, bear this in mind; most men choose their outfits based on the criteria of “what doesn’t have stains on the front or a hole in the rear”. And vice-versa.
So women who are even now considering applying some balm or potion to themselves should rest assured that the ridiculous pressures applied to you by your horrid magazines are irrelevant to men. Really. Your imperfections are a part of you and we love them as much as you love ours. All we want is for you to be happy and to for god’s sake GET OUT OF THE EFFING BATHROOM in under an hour in the morning. Do that, and we will love you forever.
* You cannot tell but I am standing on a box while typing this.
a) Skinny
b) Young
c) Pretty
d) Skinny
e) Reeeeeally effing skinny
As a man, there is not this pressure. We are allowed to be bald and have actual stomachs without people pointing at us in the street. Well, I take that back. There is a pressure to be tall. But since one cannot lose short by going to the gym or not eating Doritos, I try not to let that one bother me*.
Then there is all the female grooming, which I am going to blame on marketing. Because seriously, I have seen the adverts and they seem to be based on the premise that women are just ICK. Or to put it another way, the underlying message seems to be that unless you shave it, dye it, cover it up with makeup and then scrub it off again with expensive exfoliant NO ONE WILL LOVE YOU.
This is patently untrue, by the way. Ask yourself a question. Would any man ever refuse to have relations with his wife because she had forgotten to shave her legs?
MAN: Yeeeeeek! Get them off me! Get them off meeeeeeee!!!
The answer is no. Although as a man, can I just say that if you (woman) are at the “stubbly re-growth” stage do be aware that you may be inadvertently sandpapering your husband’s private areas. Not that he will complain if he knows what is good for him.
Nevertheless, leg-shaving is something that most women seem to feel is necessary. But as a male dude who is not a lady, I am curious. What occasions warrant leg-shaving anyway?
a) Doctor appointment
b) Wedding anniversary
c) Husband suffers extreme allergic reaction
d) Dust-bunnies sticking to legs
Of course, marketers continue to be evil and lately there seems to be a concerted effort to convince men that they also need to primp, pluck and wax to achieve attractiveness. I suspect the young chaps may go for it, but not my generation whose farty motto seems to have been “Wooooo!! Get a load of that one!”
My point is this. Men’s standards are by necessity low because otherwise we really couldn’t stand to be in the room with ourselves. If you (woman) are having difficulty choosing what clothes to wear, bear this in mind; most men choose their outfits based on the criteria of “what doesn’t have stains on the front or a hole in the rear”. And vice-versa.
So women who are even now considering applying some balm or potion to themselves should rest assured that the ridiculous pressures applied to you by your horrid magazines are irrelevant to men. Really. Your imperfections are a part of you and we love them as much as you love ours. All we want is for you to be happy and to for god’s sake GET OUT OF THE EFFING BATHROOM in under an hour in the morning. Do that, and we will love you forever.
* You cannot tell but I am standing on a box while typing this.
Sunday, 15 June 2014
RANDOM STUFF: THE ONLY BLOG ENTRY ABOUT SCROFULA YOU ARE LIKELY TO READ TODAY
Today I was listening to a history lecture about Henry I, the king after the more memorable William the Conqueror. Well, follow-ups are never as good are they?
The thing that stuck in my head was "Touching The King's Evil" because it sounds a bit rude. However it is actually the legend, started in Henry I's time, that the king could cure scrofula, which is a swelling of the neck glands, just by touching them. This was his divine power, given to him by God. Or so he claimed.
It's a bit bloody random, isn't it? If you're going to claim divine power, you'd think you'd pick something other than "can cure fairly obscure disease". I would have claimed I could see the future and talk to lizards, like David Icke that time.
It is like if Superman, instead of having the power to fly and deflect bullets had been given random superpowers like the ability to outstare cats or know when there are Mormons at the front door. And why just scrofula?
MAN: Excuse me, I've got a bit of a sore throat.
HENRY: I'm sorry. I only do scrofula.
MAN: Well, it might turn into scrofula. Go on, give it a go.
HENRY: Oh all right. I hereby touch thee, prod prod.
MAN: Nothing! You're USELESS Henry the First!
HENRY: Well I did say...
MAN 2: Excuse me, I've got piles...
HENRY: And YOU can sod right off.
It turns out that this whole curing disease thing was just another way for a slightly dodgy king to justify taking the throne. Which is why Mr. Boots The Chemist should actually be ruling England now instead of Queen Elizabeth. I know I wouldn't want her touching MY evil.
The thing that stuck in my head was "Touching The King's Evil" because it sounds a bit rude. However it is actually the legend, started in Henry I's time, that the king could cure scrofula, which is a swelling of the neck glands, just by touching them. This was his divine power, given to him by God. Or so he claimed.
It's a bit bloody random, isn't it? If you're going to claim divine power, you'd think you'd pick something other than "can cure fairly obscure disease". I would have claimed I could see the future and talk to lizards, like David Icke that time.
It is like if Superman, instead of having the power to fly and deflect bullets had been given random superpowers like the ability to outstare cats or know when there are Mormons at the front door. And why just scrofula?
MAN: Excuse me, I've got a bit of a sore throat.
HENRY: I'm sorry. I only do scrofula.
MAN: Well, it might turn into scrofula. Go on, give it a go.
HENRY: Oh all right. I hereby touch thee, prod prod.
MAN: Nothing! You're USELESS Henry the First!
HENRY: Well I did say...
MAN 2: Excuse me, I've got piles...
HENRY: And YOU can sod right off.
It turns out that this whole curing disease thing was just another way for a slightly dodgy king to justify taking the throne. Which is why Mr. Boots The Chemist should actually be ruling England now instead of Queen Elizabeth. I know I wouldn't want her touching MY evil.
RANDOM STUFF: A BOOB IN THE FACE
I used to go to a barber. It was one of those places with the red & white spinning sign outside, and he also sold random stuff in there, like slippers and rhubarb. It was run by this little Turkish dude with a cut-throat razor which he would STROP STROP STROP behind my back and he would use it to cut the hair on the back of my neck short. It REALLY hurt. I didn't care until the end when he would spin me round in the chair and stand there with his hand out. "Teeep?" he would say. Bloody cheek.
I kept this up until I met Caro, back in '99. "You need to go to a stylist," she told me. I asked her why.
"The only difference is that they offer you coffees and make you read Elle magazine," I seem to remember saying. But Caro had a good comeback.
"You get a boob in the face," she said. "Those stylists lean right over you." She made it sound like a socially acceptable form of lapdance.
And she was right! I totally got boob in the face first time out. And sometimes you get a head massage from some young glamour chick who would otherwise never touch an old fellow.
Mind you, sometimes you get a dude. Disturbingly, you still get the head massage and that close, intimate, personal contact. I do not think I am haircut-gay, but I am certainly haircut-curious. Some of those young men are VERY talented.
Lately, I have been seeing Natasha. She's not too bad with the chat, and more importantly Caro likes her work. She probably charges ten times what that Turkish dude asked AND she always gets a teeep. I miss that rhubarb though.
I kept this up until I met Caro, back in '99. "You need to go to a stylist," she told me. I asked her why.
"The only difference is that they offer you coffees and make you read Elle magazine," I seem to remember saying. But Caro had a good comeback.
"You get a boob in the face," she said. "Those stylists lean right over you." She made it sound like a socially acceptable form of lapdance.
And she was right! I totally got boob in the face first time out. And sometimes you get a head massage from some young glamour chick who would otherwise never touch an old fellow.
Mind you, sometimes you get a dude. Disturbingly, you still get the head massage and that close, intimate, personal contact. I do not think I am haircut-gay, but I am certainly haircut-curious. Some of those young men are VERY talented.
Lately, I have been seeing Natasha. She's not too bad with the chat, and more importantly Caro likes her work. She probably charges ten times what that Turkish dude asked AND she always gets a teeep. I miss that rhubarb though.
REVIEW: REAR WINDOW
"Rear Window" is not as complex as Vertigo, but it's a whole lot more fun, with sparkling cynical dialogue, an ingenious set-up and the lovely Grace Kelly. It also has Thelma Ritter who, while not "lovely" nearly always steals the scene from any star she's positioned alongside. In Rear Window, Thelma is nurse to LB Jeffries (Jimmy Stewart) who is just a terrible patient. He is a freelance photographer with his leg up in plaster due to an accident at a car race, leaving him feeling a bit of a grand prix. Ha ha ha!! Geddit??? Oh please yourselves.
During the course of his convalescence, he keeps a close eye on neighbours. They become his entertainment as he sits there over the hot summer, fiddling with his tripod. Gradually he becomes aware that there's something not quite right in the apartment of Lars Thorwald (Raymond Burr). Where's his argumentative wife? She was there one day, gone the next. She appears to have been replaced by a very large trunk.
Uh-oh.
Gradually Jimmy wears down both Grace and Thelma, convincing them that nefarious doings are afoot. But how will they prove that Mrs. Thorwald has been murdered (and packed)?
That's it for the plot. What's great fun is the glee with which the three amateur sleuths analyse every move of the unsuspecting Thorwald. Unsuspecting, that is, until Grace gets too close for comfort...
Rear Window is a terrific film with all concerned doing a great job. If you can be bothered, you can find a more serious message about voyeurism, and some sly digs at the audiences for films like this ("Aren't we ghouls? We're disappointed that he didn't murder his wife!") But quite honestly the real reason for watching this film is for its inventive scenario, witty script and Grace Kelly in her nightie.
During the course of his convalescence, he keeps a close eye on neighbours. They become his entertainment as he sits there over the hot summer, fiddling with his tripod. Gradually he becomes aware that there's something not quite right in the apartment of Lars Thorwald (Raymond Burr). Where's his argumentative wife? She was there one day, gone the next. She appears to have been replaced by a very large trunk.
Uh-oh.
Gradually Jimmy wears down both Grace and Thelma, convincing them that nefarious doings are afoot. But how will they prove that Mrs. Thorwald has been murdered (and packed)?
That's it for the plot. What's great fun is the glee with which the three amateur sleuths analyse every move of the unsuspecting Thorwald. Unsuspecting, that is, until Grace gets too close for comfort...
Rear Window is a terrific film with all concerned doing a great job. If you can be bothered, you can find a more serious message about voyeurism, and some sly digs at the audiences for films like this ("Aren't we ghouls? We're disappointed that he didn't murder his wife!") But quite honestly the real reason for watching this film is for its inventive scenario, witty script and Grace Kelly in her nightie.
REVIEW: VERTIGO
There is something odd about the film Vertigo. Even while watching it, you're aware that it's not quite right. It looks and feels like a glossy 1950's private eye story, but it's just - wrong. Unsettling. Like coffee made with soya milk, or a warm toilet seat, or that friendly tone phone marketers use when they want you to think they are your BEST FRIEND and not some random bugger out to sell you crap.
Now I don't ordinarily mention composers because writing about music is hard for someone with my limited range of description. I say things like, "That bit where it goes doo-doo-DOO-DOOO-doo is great". But, trust me, the score by Bernard Hermann (Psycho, Taxi Driver) is brilliant. Especially the bit where it goes doo doo doo. Sinister yet seductive, it creates an atmosphere of unease that runs throughout the film, as the title animation shows a man falling into a series of unending spirals.
But then it's into the movie! And what a start it is, as good old Jimmy Stewart chases a criminal over rooftops. Then he loses his step, falls, and causes another cop to plunge to his death. Jimmy is pensioned out of the force with a guilt complex and no head for heights at all. It's at this point he's hired by an old pal who is concerned about his wife's sanity. She's obsessed with a relative who died in a suicidal fall from a old mission tower some decades earlier. So Jimmy begins to follow the wife, who spends her days drifting about in a depressed manner. When she attempts suicide at San Francisco bay, Jimmy has to intervene and the two of them fall in love.
So far, it seems like a pretty straightforward romance/mystery right? But then Jimmy's obsession deepens (evidenced by a bizarre animated nightmare sequence). The eerie, dreamlike direction is incredible, and leaves you with a feeling of vertigo all of your own. There's a curious colour scheme to the film, with blood-red scenery seen through deathly green tint, while the camera spirals and swirls around the actors. In this film the camera really is like another actor, altering your perception of what's going on.
Hitchcock described Vertigo as being about necrophilia, which is typical of the man. I think what he meant was that it's about an unwillingness to let go of the dead and the effect that can have on the living. By the end of the film, Stewart has become obsessed with recreating the past as a way of fixing it. What he doesn't realise is that the past is unchangeable - by recreating events he's condemned to relive them, like do-it-yourself Groundhog Day.
Jimmy - who you can normally rely on to play Mr. Level-Headed and Reasonable - gives an incredibly brave performance as the unhinged Scotty. There has to be some of Hitchcock in Jimmy's performance - especially in the way Hitch would "re-model" all his actresses. (Hitchcock's relationships with his leading ladies is quite disturbing - especially poor old Tippi Hedren). Vertigo is a surreal, intense movie - standing alongside Night of the Hunter and Blue Velvet as films that melt the divide between audience and author and take you into the mind of the film-maker for a couple of hours. Perhaps not a place you want to be, but fascinating anyway.
Now I don't ordinarily mention composers because writing about music is hard for someone with my limited range of description. I say things like, "That bit where it goes doo-doo-DOO-DOOO-doo is great". But, trust me, the score by Bernard Hermann (Psycho, Taxi Driver) is brilliant. Especially the bit where it goes doo doo doo. Sinister yet seductive, it creates an atmosphere of unease that runs throughout the film, as the title animation shows a man falling into a series of unending spirals.
But then it's into the movie! And what a start it is, as good old Jimmy Stewart chases a criminal over rooftops. Then he loses his step, falls, and causes another cop to plunge to his death. Jimmy is pensioned out of the force with a guilt complex and no head for heights at all. It's at this point he's hired by an old pal who is concerned about his wife's sanity. She's obsessed with a relative who died in a suicidal fall from a old mission tower some decades earlier. So Jimmy begins to follow the wife, who spends her days drifting about in a depressed manner. When she attempts suicide at San Francisco bay, Jimmy has to intervene and the two of them fall in love.
So far, it seems like a pretty straightforward romance/mystery right? But then Jimmy's obsession deepens (evidenced by a bizarre animated nightmare sequence). The eerie, dreamlike direction is incredible, and leaves you with a feeling of vertigo all of your own. There's a curious colour scheme to the film, with blood-red scenery seen through deathly green tint, while the camera spirals and swirls around the actors. In this film the camera really is like another actor, altering your perception of what's going on.
Hitchcock described Vertigo as being about necrophilia, which is typical of the man. I think what he meant was that it's about an unwillingness to let go of the dead and the effect that can have on the living. By the end of the film, Stewart has become obsessed with recreating the past as a way of fixing it. What he doesn't realise is that the past is unchangeable - by recreating events he's condemned to relive them, like do-it-yourself Groundhog Day.
Jimmy - who you can normally rely on to play Mr. Level-Headed and Reasonable - gives an incredibly brave performance as the unhinged Scotty. There has to be some of Hitchcock in Jimmy's performance - especially in the way Hitch would "re-model" all his actresses. (Hitchcock's relationships with his leading ladies is quite disturbing - especially poor old Tippi Hedren). Vertigo is a surreal, intense movie - standing alongside Night of the Hunter and Blue Velvet as films that melt the divide between audience and author and take you into the mind of the film-maker for a couple of hours. Perhaps not a place you want to be, but fascinating anyway.
REVIEW: TENUE DE SOIREE (EVENING DRESS)
Antoine is an ugly, pale, short, bald, sad-eyed little man. He's a loser and his wife Monique hates him for it. She's in the middle of telling him this when Bob the ex-con cuffs her upside the head and takes Antoine under his wing.
Bob sweeps the pair off their feet, taking them on bold heists of posh houses and showing them how easy it is to make money. Monique is delighted and throws herself at the leather-trousered, rampantly sexual Bob. But Bob's interests lie elsewhere - to Antoine's discomfort...
ANTOINE: Take your hand off my fly.
BOB: I felt something hard though.
ANTOINE: That was my knife.
BOB: That would be cold. What I felt was hot. Hot as a grilled chipolata.
.
Antoine's instincts are to run far and fast before he's turned into Bob's personal "subway station". But Monique makes it clear that she loves her new life of excitement and robbery with Bob - and Antoine had better put out if he wants to keep her happy.
"Tenue de Soiree" (Evening Wear) is a surreal sex comedy filled with people bored by sex and wealth, desireless and lonely. The only exceptions are Bob and Antoine which is maybe why they are made for each other. Gerard Depardieu is brilliant as Bob the passionate predator, paunchily prancing about in a posing pouch - direct in his approach but sincere at least -
BOB: I have a tattoo that kind of grows. When it's snoozing it is a grenade...when it awakes it's a torpedo...
Writer/director Bertrand Blier was often accused of misogyny, but I think it is more fair to say he's an equal-opportunity misanthropist instead. In this film, it's not women who alternate between virgin and hooker, but everyone. And the film is at its strongest and funniest when it flips the sexual tables and Antoine finds himself pursued by the relentless Bob.
Very French in its matter-of-factness about VERY rude things, "Tenue de Soiree" is an enjoyable film about desire and gusto, sex and sincerity. Recommended to those who enjoy Joe Orton, John Waters and "Rocky Horror".
Bob sweeps the pair off their feet, taking them on bold heists of posh houses and showing them how easy it is to make money. Monique is delighted and throws herself at the leather-trousered, rampantly sexual Bob. But Bob's interests lie elsewhere - to Antoine's discomfort...
ANTOINE: Take your hand off my fly.
BOB: I felt something hard though.
ANTOINE: That was my knife.
BOB: That would be cold. What I felt was hot. Hot as a grilled chipolata.
.
Antoine's instincts are to run far and fast before he's turned into Bob's personal "subway station". But Monique makes it clear that she loves her new life of excitement and robbery with Bob - and Antoine had better put out if he wants to keep her happy.
"Tenue de Soiree" (Evening Wear) is a surreal sex comedy filled with people bored by sex and wealth, desireless and lonely. The only exceptions are Bob and Antoine which is maybe why they are made for each other. Gerard Depardieu is brilliant as Bob the passionate predator, paunchily prancing about in a posing pouch - direct in his approach but sincere at least -
BOB: I have a tattoo that kind of grows. When it's snoozing it is a grenade...when it awakes it's a torpedo...
Writer/director Bertrand Blier was often accused of misogyny, but I think it is more fair to say he's an equal-opportunity misanthropist instead. In this film, it's not women who alternate between virgin and hooker, but everyone. And the film is at its strongest and funniest when it flips the sexual tables and Antoine finds himself pursued by the relentless Bob.
Very French in its matter-of-factness about VERY rude things, "Tenue de Soiree" is an enjoyable film about desire and gusto, sex and sincerity. Recommended to those who enjoy Joe Orton, John Waters and "Rocky Horror".
REVIEW: QUO VADIS
"Quo Vadis" is the film that Hollywood made to try and encourage nana and pops from out behind their new-fangled, valve-powered goggle-box and out to the pictures to see a film in full-colour GOD-O-VISION - because this is a religious tale about the struggles of early Christians in Rome. I should add at this point that I am not in the least religious myself, but that is all right as this is a mainly historical tale in which miraculous events are kept to a minimum.
The tale has an arrogant Roman general (Rod Taylor) returning to Rome in triumph after a bit of smiting. This is actually very well done. They have Rod going through the impressive crowd scenes on his chariot, while a little bloke stands behind him reminding him that he is not a god. I am told the Romans really did this, in order to ensure their generals didn't get too full of themselves. And I believe The Edge serves the same purpose with Bono.
Rod attempts to seduce a young lady (Deborah Kerr) only to be rejected because she is a Christian while he's a pagan. But the Christians are in for it, as Nero burns Rome to the ground in order to make way for a home cinema and bowling alley extension to his palace - but blames the Christians for the inferno. And here I come to the reason for watching this film - Peter Ustinov (yes, again). He told a lovely story on Parkinson about working with Charles Laughton on the film. Laughton used to like to come over to his rented house to use the pool and one day Ustinov's young son ran into him - Laughton had let his hair grow long for the part and was wearing a towel -
SON: (Loudly) Who's that lady?
USTINOV: (Meaningful whisper) It's Sir Charles Laughton and he's one of our most eminent, well-respected actors. He is NOT a lady.
SON: (Even more loudly) Then why does he have breasts??
But I digress. Ustinov's Nero is a joy to watch. He's an effete, talentless artist, vain and cruel. Probably one of my favourite Nero-isms was his reaction to watching a Roman senator who has converted to Christianity being burned alive -
NERO: Calamity and woe! To fall from such exalted heights! To be reduced to this! I shall write a poem.
If you ignore the psychopathic sadism, Nero was a bit of a comedy emperor (like when he entered the Olympics and won everything, including events he didn't take part in). But this is not a film that takes accuracy too seriously so you shouldn't either. Still, "Quo Vadis" is a tale told on a scale they just don't do anymore, and thoroughly enjoyable if you like Roman malarky.
The tale has an arrogant Roman general (Rod Taylor) returning to Rome in triumph after a bit of smiting. This is actually very well done. They have Rod going through the impressive crowd scenes on his chariot, while a little bloke stands behind him reminding him that he is not a god. I am told the Romans really did this, in order to ensure their generals didn't get too full of themselves. And I believe The Edge serves the same purpose with Bono.
Rod attempts to seduce a young lady (Deborah Kerr) only to be rejected because she is a Christian while he's a pagan. But the Christians are in for it, as Nero burns Rome to the ground in order to make way for a home cinema and bowling alley extension to his palace - but blames the Christians for the inferno. And here I come to the reason for watching this film - Peter Ustinov (yes, again). He told a lovely story on Parkinson about working with Charles Laughton on the film. Laughton used to like to come over to his rented house to use the pool and one day Ustinov's young son ran into him - Laughton had let his hair grow long for the part and was wearing a towel -
SON: (Loudly) Who's that lady?
USTINOV: (Meaningful whisper) It's Sir Charles Laughton and he's one of our most eminent, well-respected actors. He is NOT a lady.
SON: (Even more loudly) Then why does he have breasts??
But I digress. Ustinov's Nero is a joy to watch. He's an effete, talentless artist, vain and cruel. Probably one of my favourite Nero-isms was his reaction to watching a Roman senator who has converted to Christianity being burned alive -
NERO: Calamity and woe! To fall from such exalted heights! To be reduced to this! I shall write a poem.
If you ignore the psychopathic sadism, Nero was a bit of a comedy emperor (like when he entered the Olympics and won everything, including events he didn't take part in). But this is not a film that takes accuracy too seriously so you shouldn't either. Still, "Quo Vadis" is a tale told on a scale they just don't do anymore, and thoroughly enjoyable if you like Roman malarky.
REVIEW: RETURN OF THE JEDI
Summer, 1983 in Scarborough. Groups of tubby pink holidaymakers throng the streets eating ice-cream and being unpleasant. What's a local boy to do? See "Octopussy" and "Return of the Jedi" several times! Octopussy was notable for having a theme tune with no mention of even ONE pussy, never mind eight and Return of the Jedi was the final film in the Star Wars Saga (they claimed).
"The Empire Strikes Back" ended with Han Solo being deep-frozen and Luke having his right hand cut off, which if you are a teenage boy is the 2nd worse thing imaginable. So in "Return of the Jedi" Princess Leia must rescue the Hancicle from a bunch of Muppets, lead by something that looks like it came out of a footballer's nose. Of course it all goes horribly wrong but Luke flies in to the rescue in a black cape indicating two things:
a) He's flirting with his "Dark Side"
b) He shops at "Zara"
Meanwhile, The Empire is building a new Death Star with the same destructive capabilities as the first, plus en-suite facilities. In order to destroy it the gang have to visit a nearby planet to switch off a force-field.
In an inspiring finale, the evil Empire with their advanced technology get taken out by a bunch of furry little chaps with tiny weapons. Han and Leia finally get it on, and Luke confronts his father.
I found the finale to the ending of the denouement a little disappointing, mainly because Darth didn't look nearly mangled enough without his mask for my liking. Also, he didn't have a cool voice like James Earl Jones anymore! It was all just special effects like Milli Vanilli! Huh.
Still, I have fond memories of "Return of the Jedi" for the Walkers, the huge giant space battle, the speeder bike chase, Jobbie The Hutt and that gold bikini.
"The Empire Strikes Back" ended with Han Solo being deep-frozen and Luke having his right hand cut off, which if you are a teenage boy is the 2nd worse thing imaginable. So in "Return of the Jedi" Princess Leia must rescue the Hancicle from a bunch of Muppets, lead by something that looks like it came out of a footballer's nose. Of course it all goes horribly wrong but Luke flies in to the rescue in a black cape indicating two things:
a) He's flirting with his "Dark Side"
b) He shops at "Zara"
Meanwhile, The Empire is building a new Death Star with the same destructive capabilities as the first, plus en-suite facilities. In order to destroy it the gang have to visit a nearby planet to switch off a force-field.
In an inspiring finale, the evil Empire with their advanced technology get taken out by a bunch of furry little chaps with tiny weapons. Han and Leia finally get it on, and Luke confronts his father.
I found the finale to the ending of the denouement a little disappointing, mainly because Darth didn't look nearly mangled enough without his mask for my liking. Also, he didn't have a cool voice like James Earl Jones anymore! It was all just special effects like Milli Vanilli! Huh.
Still, I have fond memories of "Return of the Jedi" for the Walkers, the huge giant space battle, the speeder bike chase, Jobbie The Hutt and that gold bikini.
REVIEW: CRIMSON TIDE
In between al-Qaeda and the Soviets we had a little break when there really weren't any credible enemies about. It was a sad time for action movie fans and we had to make do with films about Arnold Schwarzenegger picking flowers and Sylvester Stallone doing the laundry. Fortunately, those clever chaps in Hollywood had a FLASH of inspiration. "I know!" (they said) "We'll have the Russians turn nasty again!" How DO they come up with these ideas??
"Crimson Tide" is such a film and stars Denzel Washington, Gene Hackman, James Gandolfini and Viggo Mortensen who is currently number 1 on Caro's laminated list. I like watching films with Viggo in, because afterward I get to have sex, often for as long as 5 minutes, although I do have to brandish a sword and give stirring speeches in Elvish. Look, I'm not proud.
In the film, Denzel is senior officer on a nuclear sub under Cap'n Gene. Gene is a no-nonsense sort of chap, so when he's ordered to unload his nuclear arsenal on a Russian insurgent he fires up those bad boys and is about to press the button when...
Incoming message! Incoming message! The message reads...
"Dear crew of nuclear sub. Hope all is good with you. The weather continues fine and the President said to tell you his piles are improving. Now then, I expect you are wondering about that launching a nuclear attack and starting World War 3 thing we called about earlier? Well the thing is - you'll laugh when you hear this - what the President actually meant to say - and this is
REALLY important by the way - is that we should under NO circumtances - ooh bum I've run out of change for the phone box...BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP..."
Dammit! Do they launch or not? Denzel says they should await reconfirmation, but Gene's got an itchy trigger finger and orders Denzel REMOVED... Will Denzel take this lying down?
Well of course he won't! So starts a nail-biting battle of wits between the two men over who will gain control of the sub and the missiles therein.
I suppose it's all rather by-the-numbers, but it's competently done all round and speaking purely for myself, I was terribly relieved that World War 3 didn't actually happen frying us all to a crisp, as this would have been somewhat inconvenient.
"Crimson Tide" is such a film and stars Denzel Washington, Gene Hackman, James Gandolfini and Viggo Mortensen who is currently number 1 on Caro's laminated list. I like watching films with Viggo in, because afterward I get to have sex, often for as long as 5 minutes, although I do have to brandish a sword and give stirring speeches in Elvish. Look, I'm not proud.
In the film, Denzel is senior officer on a nuclear sub under Cap'n Gene. Gene is a no-nonsense sort of chap, so when he's ordered to unload his nuclear arsenal on a Russian insurgent he fires up those bad boys and is about to press the button when...
Incoming message! Incoming message! The message reads...
"Dear crew of nuclear sub. Hope all is good with you. The weather continues fine and the President said to tell you his piles are improving. Now then, I expect you are wondering about that launching a nuclear attack and starting World War 3 thing we called about earlier? Well the thing is - you'll laugh when you hear this - what the President actually meant to say - and this is
REALLY important by the way - is that we should under NO circumtances - ooh bum I've run out of change for the phone box...BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP..."
Dammit! Do they launch or not? Denzel says they should await reconfirmation, but Gene's got an itchy trigger finger and orders Denzel REMOVED... Will Denzel take this lying down?
Well of course he won't! So starts a nail-biting battle of wits between the two men over who will gain control of the sub and the missiles therein.
I suppose it's all rather by-the-numbers, but it's competently done all round and speaking purely for myself, I was terribly relieved that World War 3 didn't actually happen frying us all to a crisp, as this would have been somewhat inconvenient.
RANDOM STUFF: HERNIA DIARIES PART 2
“Yes, he’s shaved.”
This was the first thing Caro told my friends. And she wasn't talking about my face.
I was semi-perplexed, though not surprised, that my friends’ first query was if my willy looked as if it required a toupee. They are MY friends after all.
But I shouldn't complain. Following my announcement of having a hernia (which sort of constituted my “Coming Out” in more ways than one). I got a great deal of support and concern from my friends. Mostly in the form of willy jokes. Reg and Jacinta, two good friends and yoga-instructors were particularly interested.
“Was it caused by lifting heavy things or pooing too hard?” asked Cint. I should explain. She is Australian.
“I’m going to go with that whole 'lifting' thing”, I responded.
“Can you exercise?”
asked Cint.
“I can walk,” I
explained, “but no going to the gym. It’s really annoying.”
“Are you allowed to
swim?” she asked.
“Well, no, because I
can’t swim,” I said. “I’m allowed to drown. But that’s not very helpful.”
Reg and Cint
suggested that yoga might help, post-surgery. Reg, being a down-to-earth sort
of chap, is very popular with men who have never tried yoga before. “I’m
thinking of opening a studio and calling it “Stiff Men’”, he explained. I’m sure
it would be very popular, although possibly for lots of wrong reasons.
“But seriously, I’m used to dealing with people in
recovery,” explained Cint. “Is it an inguinal hernia?”
“A linguine hernia?” I repeated in horror. That sounded
disgusting. However, once I got home and googled it, I told her that it was.
Adding that it was somewhat disturbing she knew more about my goolies than I
did.
Months after my initial diagnosis passed like this and I got used to my little bump and the conversation it provoked. But finally, three months later I got a call for my appointment with a consultant – Mr. Hart, consultant urologist and bollock-supremo. It wasn’t a very satisfying appointment. He basically patted me on the bump, like he was giving me a really weird high-5.
Months after my initial diagnosis passed like this and I got used to my little bump and the conversation it provoked. But finally, three months later I got a call for my appointment with a consultant – Mr. Hart, consultant urologist and bollock-supremo. It wasn’t a very satisfying appointment. He basically patted me on the bump, like he was giving me a really weird high-5.
“Yes, that’s a hernia all right," he said.
Great. Two taxis and a 30 minute wait for THAT. I was
expecting a decent grope for that amount of effort. Not even a finger up the
bum. I could have saved myself a trip by sexting him instead.
“We have options here,” he told me. “You could ignore it,
which I don’t recommend, or we can prescribe a surgical support.”
Yes, he really said
that. I’m not sure how Caro would feel about encountering a truss in the
laundry, so I politely declined.
“In that case, surgery is the best option,” he opined. He
offered me general or local anaesthetic. I settled on local. I’d had a general
anaesthetic 25 years ago and got some weirdarse reaction to it. I remember
looking around the ward at all the other people coming around, eating toast and
watching telly and wondered why I was the only one throwing up on a nurse. So
local it was.
What was nice was all the pre-op support I got. Cint informed me she had asked her mother to light a candle and say a prayer for my willy. Also, Caro, Lisa & Ronnie all offered to accompany me to surgery and take me home again. It’s a nice thought, but I politely declined. I can be sick and pathetic just as well on my own as in company and it is not like anyone ever died from a bollock-realignment procedure. They didn't, did they?!?
What was nice was all the pre-op support I got. Cint informed me she had asked her mother to light a candle and say a prayer for my willy. Also, Caro, Lisa & Ronnie all offered to accompany me to surgery and take me home again. It’s a nice thought, but I politely declined. I can be sick and pathetic just as well on my own as in company and it is not like anyone ever died from a bollock-realignment procedure. They didn't, did they?!?
No, stay strong.
So I took myself to the Western General on Sunday, where I
was assigned a bed and a revealing shorty smock. I felt like I was one of those
women who wear mini-skirts and spend the rest of their evening wriggling about
trying to hide their Lady Garden. No-one was going to see my Gentleman Privet
either.
Or so I thought. Actually, it got quite an airing. All day. The surgeon was the first to whip up my smock so that he could draw a big arrow on my leg pointing to my bump. I’m not sure what the point of this was. The bump was OBVIOUS. It didn’t need signposting. Given that he was DOING the surgery, I didn’t see the point, unless he was planning on doing it drunk.
Or so I thought. Actually, it got quite an airing. All day. The surgeon was the first to whip up my smock so that he could draw a big arrow on my leg pointing to my bump. I’m not sure what the point of this was. The bump was OBVIOUS. It didn’t need signposting. Given that he was DOING the surgery, I didn’t see the point, unless he was planning on doing it drunk.
After some sitting around, I was then taken off to surgery
by a friendly orderly and a lovely Irish nurse. For some reason we got onto the
subject of Poundstretcher and how you always end up buying a ton of stuff that
you don’t need purely because everything’s a pound. “I don’t even LIKE Dolly Mixtures,” the Irish
orderly was saying.
Then we encountered another gurney being wheeled toward MY
gurney.
“Chicken!” shouted the Irish orderly.
“Faster! Faster!” I said. And we sort-of raced toward each
other at a fast walk. Sadly, my guy blinked first. I think it’s because, out of
the two patients, I was the only one who was conscious.
Meanwhile, the Irish nurse attempted to talk me through my
operation and assured me my bump would be transformed from an “ugly caterpillar”
into a “lovely butterfly”.
I was going to ask, “How did I get THIS orderly and THIS
nurse?”
But I know full well that I encourage this sort of behaviour. It was the same when I met Ann, who I think was the head nurse. She apologised for shaving me and also for applying tape afterward, which whipped out the rest of my hair. But somehow in between all this I managed to carry on a conversation with her, in which it was established that –
But I know full well that I encourage this sort of behaviour. It was the same when I met Ann, who I think was the head nurse. She apologised for shaving me and also for applying tape afterward, which whipped out the rest of my hair. But somehow in between all this I managed to carry on a conversation with her, in which it was established that –
- She lives in Glasgow
- She has four dogs, a spaniel, a lab/spaniel mix, a rescued retriever and a naughty Jack Russell “who is their leader”
- Yanking out pubic hair by its roots SMARTS. Quite a lot.
- She has four dogs, a spaniel, a lab/spaniel mix, a rescued retriever and a naughty Jack Russell “who is their leader”
- Yanking out pubic hair by its roots SMARTS. Quite a lot.
But Ann was lovely. I’m not sure what her job actually was,
but she took it upon herself to chat to me throughout the procedure. “It’s nice
to chat to patients,” she said. “You’re normally asleep and boring. Don’t look
so NERVOUS.”
Well EXCUSE ME for being nervous as I was covered in
plastic, like one of Dexter’s victims. Local anaesthetic was applied and then
all I could feel were things being pushed and pulled about.
“Was your hernia giving you much pain?” asked Ann. I
conceded that it wasn’t and that it actually took me a month to even notice it.
Ann rolled her eyes. “Well, who looks down there?” I asked. “I’m half-asleep
when I shower.”
“And a MAN,” shouted the Irish nurse.
The Irish nurse then put on Bon Jovi, and she, Ann and I all
got down to “Living On A Prayer”. “Try not to dance,” Ann suggested. I
apologised but told her I couldn’t help it. I am a child of the 80’s after all
but OW F*CK.
“That hurts. Hurts quite a bit,” I said. Trying to be
polite, after my filthy-mouthed faux pas.
“More local,” said the surgeon.
“That’s what I like to hear. Oh yeah that hit the spot,” I
said. That made them all laugh. (Is there something wrong with me, that I want
people to like me even during surgery?)
“I know, I know,” said Ann patting my arm. “It’s like having
someone rifling around in your handbag isn’t it?”
“Handbag? What are
you trying to say Ann?” I asked.
“I didn’t mean it
like that,” she apologised. “That’s just what I always say to women having a c-section.”
If I’m making gonad-surgery sound relatively pleasant, I
have to say, it wasn’t so bad. I mean, it’s not comfortable but if I were to
compare it to anything, it would be like really bad wind. So the next time you
have explosive diarrhoea you can say, “THIS is what bowel-surgery feels like!”
I spent the rest of the operation talking to Ann about New
Zealand, her children and the fact that she used to live on The Shore too. I
also talked at length about Caro’s job recruiting doctors to work in Australia
and New Zealand. I hope it gets back to her boss that I was TOTALLY trying to
drum up business during surgery. I would have handed out cards, if only they’d
fit into my smock.
Then it was all over and I was being whipped away. I was
quite sad saying goodbye to Ann and the Irish nurse. “You’re a lovely
butterfly!” she announced.
“Do I get a Brave Boy
lollipop?” I asked. They offered me a wine gum instead. “We’re the human face
of the NHS,” said the Irish nurse.
So I was full of good NHS vibes for a little while. They
were just so nice and kind to me. This was dissipated a little bit by the nurse
who left me hanging around for 45 minutes while she busied herself doing – um –
nothing. I don’t mind being kept waiting but WAITING IN EFFING PAIN not so much.
Yes, the local was wearing off and I was feeling quite grumpy about it. I
texted Caro that I was okay, but she didn’t reply for an hour. I sent her a second
text:
“You took ages to reply. Were you sleeping? Were you NAPPING
during my brush with death??” because I prefer not to over-dramatise things.
I got back a text accusing me of “bloody cheek”. Whoops.
Never piss off the chick who will be required for sandwich-making and possible
sponge-bath duties. But finally the busywork nurse got back to me. After
yes-yes-yesing my way through her post-op care chat, I made my way out of the
hospital, miraculously caught a cab right outside and got myself home in 20
minutes. “Just visiting?” said the cab driver. I told her I’d just come from
surgery. That’s ALL I said. “Surgery”.
“AAAAH! Too much information,” she cried, and spent the rest of the trip talking about HER last operation. Hmph! What a hypocrite!
“AAAAH! Too much information,” she cried, and spent the rest of the trip talking about HER last operation. Hmph! What a hypocrite!
Back home I had no complaints. Caro took excellent care of me. On day 1, sitting up, moving around and farting were EFFING AGONY.
But by Day 2 I was over the fart hurdle, much to Caro’s disappointment. Jasper the Cat was also surprisingly considerate. Ordinarily, he delights on kicking
me directly in the stomach and/or balls, but somehow managed to avoid such delightful pursuits which was just as well as it is embarrassing to scream in front of a kitty. He
did fall directly asleep on my “butterfly” one night and then made himself all
heavy and complainy when I tried to move him. In the end Caro had to scoop him
up for me. But that was all right. I knew it was only because he loves me.
And thanks to all for the queries from my friends, I knew they loved me too. That, or they are all perverts. Either way, I
felt loved. Also chilly.
Wednesday, 11 June 2014
RANDOM STUFF: HERNIA DIARIES PART 1
What follows is my account of a personal experience with a hernia. I should tell you now that it is not educational. If you want that sort of thing you can look at Wikipedia, although I should warn you they also have pictures. Of hernias. From the inside. You’re better off with me.
So I hernia’d myself. Something went gone awry in Bollock-town. There’s no pretty way to say it.
The thing is, I hadn’t noticed. I took myself to the doctor purely on the basis that my pants felt too tight even when I wasn’t wearing actual pants. My doctor was very understanding and thoughtful, but I was still uncomfortable. This is because, for me, it is not the policemen who seem to get younger and younger, but the doctors. This one looked like she was about 14 and I had to fight back an urge to ask who her favourite member of “One Direction” was. It was like giving my medical history to a girl guide, looking to score her “Bolock Examination” badge.
“Okay, if you just drop your trousers, I’ll have a look,” she said. That ended my train of thought right there. There is nothing that drops one out of a reverie quite like the SNAP of a rubber glove. So she prodded and asked me to cough. I felt like I was in a “Carry On” film. She found a tender area and pointed out a really obvious lump I hadn’t noticed before. There are some parts of me that I just don’t lavish that much attention on, and it was clear that this was their revenge.
So actually it is not my nad as such. It’s just sort of the general groiny area nearby. “It’s part of your bowel that has broken through the muscle wall,” explained the doctor. “It just needs to be poked back in.”
This upset me. Referring to my upcoming medical procedure as “poking something back in” sounds so budget. I imagined a surgeon performing the operation with a wooden spoon or the rubber on the end of a pencil. “Pass the Blu-tac!” he would shout as he wrapped up.
"Don't worry," explained my doctor. "Lots of men your age get them." Which was rubbish. BEDSIDE EFFING MANNER, I wanted to say to her, but I did not because she was just little and I didn't want to make her cry. But was it really necessary to insert the words "YOUR AGE" in that sentence? Since when I am "YOUR AGE"??? My DAD is YOUR AGE. Sean Connery is YOUR AGE. I'm NEVER going to be YOUR AGE.
Oh shut up.
But that's not my main problem. Because it’s a relatively pain-free and therefore non-essential process I was clearly going to be at the bottom of the waiting list. It could be MONTHS before I got the rubber end of the pencil, as it were.
In the meantime I was not allowed to go to the gym anymore, which annoyed me. I was just getting to the point where it felt like I was getting somewhere. Mind you, it could well have been the gym that caused the problem in the first place.
And that was the really perplexing thing. I had no idea how or when I ruptured myself. I thought you’d notice, like when you bend over and rip your knickers and everybody laughs, but no. The only noticeable things are more of an urge to wee and the fact you have a lopsided willy area.
So I resigned myself to my fate. Besides, it wasn't so bad. Other than the symptoms I’ve mentioned so far, I could barely notice it. Oh, also whenever I sneezed I had an urge to check that everything was still there and that nothing had twanged across the room.
If I haven't lost you already, tune in for part 2 in which I attend my referral, get a novelty shave and experience uncomfortable re-growth. I’ll bet you can’t wait.
So I hernia’d myself. Something went gone awry in Bollock-town. There’s no pretty way to say it.
The thing is, I hadn’t noticed. I took myself to the doctor purely on the basis that my pants felt too tight even when I wasn’t wearing actual pants. My doctor was very understanding and thoughtful, but I was still uncomfortable. This is because, for me, it is not the policemen who seem to get younger and younger, but the doctors. This one looked like she was about 14 and I had to fight back an urge to ask who her favourite member of “One Direction” was. It was like giving my medical history to a girl guide, looking to score her “Bolock Examination” badge.
“Okay, if you just drop your trousers, I’ll have a look,” she said. That ended my train of thought right there. There is nothing that drops one out of a reverie quite like the SNAP of a rubber glove. So she prodded and asked me to cough. I felt like I was in a “Carry On” film. She found a tender area and pointed out a really obvious lump I hadn’t noticed before. There are some parts of me that I just don’t lavish that much attention on, and it was clear that this was their revenge.
So actually it is not my nad as such. It’s just sort of the general groiny area nearby. “It’s part of your bowel that has broken through the muscle wall,” explained the doctor. “It just needs to be poked back in.”
This upset me. Referring to my upcoming medical procedure as “poking something back in” sounds so budget. I imagined a surgeon performing the operation with a wooden spoon or the rubber on the end of a pencil. “Pass the Blu-tac!” he would shout as he wrapped up.
"Don't worry," explained my doctor. "Lots of men your age get them." Which was rubbish. BEDSIDE EFFING MANNER, I wanted to say to her, but I did not because she was just little and I didn't want to make her cry. But was it really necessary to insert the words "YOUR AGE" in that sentence? Since when I am "YOUR AGE"??? My DAD is YOUR AGE. Sean Connery is YOUR AGE. I'm NEVER going to be YOUR AGE.
Oh shut up.
But that's not my main problem. Because it’s a relatively pain-free and therefore non-essential process I was clearly going to be at the bottom of the waiting list. It could be MONTHS before I got the rubber end of the pencil, as it were.
In the meantime I was not allowed to go to the gym anymore, which annoyed me. I was just getting to the point where it felt like I was getting somewhere. Mind you, it could well have been the gym that caused the problem in the first place.
And that was the really perplexing thing. I had no idea how or when I ruptured myself. I thought you’d notice, like when you bend over and rip your knickers and everybody laughs, but no. The only noticeable things are more of an urge to wee and the fact you have a lopsided willy area.
So I resigned myself to my fate. Besides, it wasn't so bad. Other than the symptoms I’ve mentioned so far, I could barely notice it. Oh, also whenever I sneezed I had an urge to check that everything was still there and that nothing had twanged across the room.
If I haven't lost you already, tune in for part 2 in which I attend my referral, get a novelty shave and experience uncomfortable re-growth. I’ll bet you can’t wait.
Tuesday, 10 June 2014
RANDOM STUFF: B*STARD IN A BOWL
So tonight Caro was on the phone to someone when a PAIR OF SPIDER LEGS suddenly emerged from a hole in the wall. Followed by a fat spider the size of a prune with legs. Caro was very brave and did not scream at the person on the other end of the phone. But she did inform me about it.
Because I am very practical, I decided the best approach would be to SECURE THE BEAST. Caro cut lengths of sticky-tape for me and watched breathless as I placed the tape over the hole. It was a dangerous mission, but I'm a man who laughs in the face of peril. And as spiders have not yet acquired sticky-tape technology, I think we are safe.
I do not care for spiders, but they do not freak me out quite as much as Caro. Or Hilary. Hilary told me a story about a spider "the size of a kitten" that crawled out of a blouse she was ironing. She screamed, vaulted the couch, ran down the hallway and was outside her flat with herself locked out before she knew what had happened. “Meanwhile, that FECKING spider was warm inside my flat, watching the telly,” she snarled.
Finally, her boyfriend came home and let her back in. She pointed at the blouse, still on the ironing board. “Yeah, yeah,” said Bill, “shaking the blouse out of the window, “it’s gone now, I saw it fall.”
“Did you really? Are you sure?” she insisted, cowering by the doorway.
“Of course, of course,” said Bill. But men lie. All the time.
The next day, Hilary was WEARING the blouse on the bus while reading her book when the spider CAME OUT OF HER SLEEVE AND STARTED WALKING UP HER ARM. Hilary lost it.
“I started beating myself with the book shouting ‘DIE YOU FECKER!’” she explained. It was after a few seconds of this that she noticed everyone on the bus was looking at her. “I got off at the next stop,” she said.
Still, this tale of terror does not compare to Lisa and her pet spider. This happened a few years ago, when a spider “so big you could see the eyes” traversed Lisa’s bedroom floor. She was unable to kill it. “I was afraid I’d hear its little bones snap,” she said. Instead she put a bowl over it and waited for it to starve to death.
This went on for some weeks. Caro and I would get regular updates on the phone:
DAY 4: “I think it’s losing weight”.
DAY 9: “It’s spun a web in there. I think it’s mocking me.”
DAY 11: “I’ve decided to name it. It’s called ‘B*stard’.”
Unable to sleep with B*stard in the room, Lisa would slide the bowl into the living room. Unable to watch tv with it looking at her, she would slide it back again. Certain it was now starved and desperate for revenge, she flew into a panic when she kicked the bowl over and B*stard the Spider escaped. Fortunately for Lisa a male friend was called over and he eliminated B*stard with Extreme Prejudice.
At least he claims he did, but as we know – men lie. All the time.
From the description Caro gave me, it is just possible that the spider in our wall is B*stard. Or “Son of B*stard” at least.
In the interests of a decent night’s sleep, I have assured Caro the sticky-tape solution will hold. But tomorrow I will get some Polyfilla and get all “The Cask of Amontillado” on his arse. I hope that does the trick. It's either that or we deploy Hilary with her book again.
Because I am very practical, I decided the best approach would be to SECURE THE BEAST. Caro cut lengths of sticky-tape for me and watched breathless as I placed the tape over the hole. It was a dangerous mission, but I'm a man who laughs in the face of peril. And as spiders have not yet acquired sticky-tape technology, I think we are safe.
I do not care for spiders, but they do not freak me out quite as much as Caro. Or Hilary. Hilary told me a story about a spider "the size of a kitten" that crawled out of a blouse she was ironing. She screamed, vaulted the couch, ran down the hallway and was outside her flat with herself locked out before she knew what had happened. “Meanwhile, that FECKING spider was warm inside my flat, watching the telly,” she snarled.
Finally, her boyfriend came home and let her back in. She pointed at the blouse, still on the ironing board. “Yeah, yeah,” said Bill, “shaking the blouse out of the window, “it’s gone now, I saw it fall.”
“Did you really? Are you sure?” she insisted, cowering by the doorway.
“Of course, of course,” said Bill. But men lie. All the time.
The next day, Hilary was WEARING the blouse on the bus while reading her book when the spider CAME OUT OF HER SLEEVE AND STARTED WALKING UP HER ARM. Hilary lost it.
“I started beating myself with the book shouting ‘DIE YOU FECKER!’” she explained. It was after a few seconds of this that she noticed everyone on the bus was looking at her. “I got off at the next stop,” she said.
Still, this tale of terror does not compare to Lisa and her pet spider. This happened a few years ago, when a spider “so big you could see the eyes” traversed Lisa’s bedroom floor. She was unable to kill it. “I was afraid I’d hear its little bones snap,” she said. Instead she put a bowl over it and waited for it to starve to death.
This went on for some weeks. Caro and I would get regular updates on the phone:
DAY 4: “I think it’s losing weight”.
DAY 9: “It’s spun a web in there. I think it’s mocking me.”
DAY 11: “I’ve decided to name it. It’s called ‘B*stard’.”
Unable to sleep with B*stard in the room, Lisa would slide the bowl into the living room. Unable to watch tv with it looking at her, she would slide it back again. Certain it was now starved and desperate for revenge, she flew into a panic when she kicked the bowl over and B*stard the Spider escaped. Fortunately for Lisa a male friend was called over and he eliminated B*stard with Extreme Prejudice.
At least he claims he did, but as we know – men lie. All the time.
From the description Caro gave me, it is just possible that the spider in our wall is B*stard. Or “Son of B*stard” at least.
In the interests of a decent night’s sleep, I have assured Caro the sticky-tape solution will hold. But tomorrow I will get some Polyfilla and get all “The Cask of Amontillado” on his arse. I hope that does the trick. It's either that or we deploy Hilary with her book again.
REVIEW: HOUSE (HAUSU)
Japanese schoolgirl Oshare writes to her aunt to see if she can come for a visit with her six friends. The affirmative reply is delivered by a lovely fluffy cat named "Snowflake" who follows Oshare everywhere she goes.
Oshare's friends include Mac (the greedy one), Kung Fu (the sporty one), Melody (the musical one) and Gari the clever one (she wears glasses and everything). In this first portion of the film, there is a lot of skipping and sunshine and laughing and happy music and everyone giggling at things that aren't that particularly funny. "Oh Mac! You are always so hungry!" "Ha ha ha ha ha ha!".
It is like the film-makers overdosed on sugar. I half-expected to see whistling mice and smiling sunbeams. It's a lot of happy to take. But I pressed on.
Things go a bit mad at Auntie's House. One of the girls disappears and Auntie is seen eating "something" in her room. Another girl is attacked by mattresses and transformed into a doll. Yet another cracks like a mirror then bursts into animated flames. The piano turns carnivorous and light-fixtures cannot be trusted. Meanwhile, Snowflake stalks the halls...
"Hausu" is a seriously effed-up horror film. Although, "horror" isn't quite the right place to hole this pigeon. It's a dark, surreal, frenetic, symbolic fantasy. It's like "A Nightmare on Elm Street" as directed by Terry Gilliam or what would have happened if David Lynch worked at "Looney Tunes". I should warn all those who wish to try it that it makes very little sense, but I watched al the way through anyway. It contains some striking images and once the madness starts it certainly isn't dull.
Made in 1977, it mixes childish animation with live-action in a distinctly bonkers and non-naturalistic way, that somehow adds to the fever-dream feel of the whole thing. Also a bear cooks noodles and a man is turned into a stack of bananas. I suspect I didn't understand a lot of this. Maybe you have to be Japanese. And on drugs.
If you are of a Freudian bent, you can have field day with the symbolism. I don't know how to put this delicately. The house is basically a metaphor for a massive fanny. Told you I didn't know how to put it delicately. I think it's about puberty or the death of innocence or evil light-fixtures or something.
Impossible to rate. If you're interested enough to still be reading, you'll probably enjoy it.
Oshare's friends include Mac (the greedy one), Kung Fu (the sporty one), Melody (the musical one) and Gari the clever one (she wears glasses and everything). In this first portion of the film, there is a lot of skipping and sunshine and laughing and happy music and everyone giggling at things that aren't that particularly funny. "Oh Mac! You are always so hungry!" "Ha ha ha ha ha ha!".
It is like the film-makers overdosed on sugar. I half-expected to see whistling mice and smiling sunbeams. It's a lot of happy to take. But I pressed on.
Things go a bit mad at Auntie's House. One of the girls disappears and Auntie is seen eating "something" in her room. Another girl is attacked by mattresses and transformed into a doll. Yet another cracks like a mirror then bursts into animated flames. The piano turns carnivorous and light-fixtures cannot be trusted. Meanwhile, Snowflake stalks the halls...
"Hausu" is a seriously effed-up horror film. Although, "horror" isn't quite the right place to hole this pigeon. It's a dark, surreal, frenetic, symbolic fantasy. It's like "A Nightmare on Elm Street" as directed by Terry Gilliam or what would have happened if David Lynch worked at "Looney Tunes". I should warn all those who wish to try it that it makes very little sense, but I watched al the way through anyway. It contains some striking images and once the madness starts it certainly isn't dull.
Made in 1977, it mixes childish animation with live-action in a distinctly bonkers and non-naturalistic way, that somehow adds to the fever-dream feel of the whole thing. Also a bear cooks noodles and a man is turned into a stack of bananas. I suspect I didn't understand a lot of this. Maybe you have to be Japanese. And on drugs.
If you are of a Freudian bent, you can have field day with the symbolism. I don't know how to put this delicately. The house is basically a metaphor for a massive fanny. Told you I didn't know how to put it delicately. I think it's about puberty or the death of innocence or evil light-fixtures or something.
Impossible to rate. If you're interested enough to still be reading, you'll probably enjoy it.
Monday, 9 June 2014
RANDOM STUFF: I AM NOT A PEOPLE PERSON
I am a misanthrope. Please don't take it personally. Individually, you are all lovely people and I care for you very much. But as a crowd, in large numbers - EN MASSE - you get on my tits. Here are some notes for you to allow us to get along better.
- Staring at the sandwich counter in Marks & Spencer will not make your favourite sandwich magically appear. Choose a bloody sandwich and move on.
- Before you get in the lift, you must first allow me to get off. Standing there prevents me from doing this. It is not a difficult concept.
- Charity muggers in the street. I am clearly trying to avoid you. Take the bloody hint.
- If you are planning on calling me tomorrow and fake-cheerily asking, "Have you got a minute to talk about your phone contract?" let me save you some time - "No, because I hate you".
- People who do not understand technology. Stop trying to use the self-service counter in Tesco's. You, with your packet of biscuits.
- Man On Bus Next To Me Today: Stop that ****ing coughing.
If you can all abide by these few simple rules I'm sure our relations will improve. I know I feel better already.
- Staring at the sandwich counter in Marks & Spencer will not make your favourite sandwich magically appear. Choose a bloody sandwich and move on.
- Before you get in the lift, you must first allow me to get off. Standing there prevents me from doing this. It is not a difficult concept.
- Charity muggers in the street. I am clearly trying to avoid you. Take the bloody hint.
- If you are planning on calling me tomorrow and fake-cheerily asking, "Have you got a minute to talk about your phone contract?" let me save you some time - "No, because I hate you".
- People who do not understand technology. Stop trying to use the self-service counter in Tesco's. You, with your packet of biscuits.
- Man On Bus Next To Me Today: Stop that ****ing coughing.
If you can all abide by these few simple rules I'm sure our relations will improve. I know I feel better already.
REVIEW: THE JERICHO MILE
Larry "Rain" Murphy is a convict. He murdered his father during a fight and is doing his time as quietly as possible. He keeps a spartan cell, speaks little and has nothing to do with the other inmates. The only exception to this rule is his friendship with RC, his running mate during exercise time in the yard.
But while RC runs for the exercise, Rain runs to empty his mind of everything, "You run like you're sniffin' glue, you run until there ain't nothin' but runnin'". When the governor of the prison notes that he's running a mile in under 4 minutes, representatives of the American Olympic committee turn up to check Rain out. Rain wants nothing to do with it - he knows he can't run outside the prison walls only to come back inside. But then RC runs afoul of prison dealer Dr. D, and Rain reconsiders the advantages of taking the offer.
Made in 1979, "The Jericho Mile" is an intense tv movie from Michael Mann ("Collateral", "Heat", "Manhunter"). Peter Strauss gives a great performance as Rain - a man with a fatalistic view of life who refuses to compromise no matter what the incentive. Brian Dennehy also turns up, giving an early, scary performance as Dr. D. The depiction of prison life feels very accurate (the movie was shot on location at Folsom Prison) but on the downside, the Starsky and Hutch "jive turkey yo' momma can you dig it blood" type dialogue certainly dates it.
The bottom line is that while The Jericho Mile is a great tv movie, it is still a tv movie so don't expect too much. Having said that, for some great acting and as an early indication of Michael Mann's talent, this is worth tracking down if you get the chance. A remake is rumoured, though sadly not from Mann.
But while RC runs for the exercise, Rain runs to empty his mind of everything, "You run like you're sniffin' glue, you run until there ain't nothin' but runnin'". When the governor of the prison notes that he's running a mile in under 4 minutes, representatives of the American Olympic committee turn up to check Rain out. Rain wants nothing to do with it - he knows he can't run outside the prison walls only to come back inside. But then RC runs afoul of prison dealer Dr. D, and Rain reconsiders the advantages of taking the offer.
Made in 1979, "The Jericho Mile" is an intense tv movie from Michael Mann ("Collateral", "Heat", "Manhunter"). Peter Strauss gives a great performance as Rain - a man with a fatalistic view of life who refuses to compromise no matter what the incentive. Brian Dennehy also turns up, giving an early, scary performance as Dr. D. The depiction of prison life feels very accurate (the movie was shot on location at Folsom Prison) but on the downside, the Starsky and Hutch "jive turkey yo' momma can you dig it blood" type dialogue certainly dates it.
The bottom line is that while The Jericho Mile is a great tv movie, it is still a tv movie so don't expect too much. Having said that, for some great acting and as an early indication of Michael Mann's talent, this is worth tracking down if you get the chance. A remake is rumoured, though sadly not from Mann.
RANDOM STUFF: THE BIRDS, THE BEES AND THE EXCITING RANGE OF FLAVOURS
When I was a kid, they made you do sex education at the age of 13. I assume this was to benefit the children of ultra-religious parents who told them nothing, and for whom genitals came as something of a surprise.
So snickering early teens were handed out exercise books which kept us busy for hours, drawing little glasses and moustaches on pictures of sperm. And then they made us watch a tv show called “Living & Growing”. I bear the mental scars from that tv show to this day.
It contained footage of a lot of very unappealing and deeply-tanned naturists larking about, and doing “healthy” things outdoors like chasing Frisbees and other sports that involved a disturbing amount of squatting and jigging and bouncing. Also, there were a number of upsetting diagrams. Even more traumatising than seeing a picture of ovaries superimposed on Floppy Naturist Lady, was the picture of what was inside my willy. It looked like something out of HR Giger's imagination. I daren’t go near it for weeks.
These memories have come flooding back to me after a friend with children visited. She told me that sex education still exists, but has been moved up the curriculum on account of “some bloody kid in West Lothian knowing all about dildos from the age of 8 or something”.
So she picked up her son (aged 10) from school one day to find that his normally effusive bounce was diminished. “What’s wrong?” Carol asked.
“I only got three out of ten on my sex test,” Sammy explained.
His mother commiserated, but told him that he really needn’t worry about this sort of thing for a few years yet. But the little chap was troubled:
“There were so many new words to learn and I got my testes mixed up with my uterus.”
Other areas of confusion were more typical: where do babies come from? This was also on the test, and the children were supposed to indicate this by drawing on a diagram of a woman. Sammy was confused by this, as his mother had delivered him by Caesarean section. So he drew a line across the stomach for which he got no points. “My teacher told me that babies come out of the woman’s pyjamas,” said Sammy. “I didn’t come out of your pyjamas, did I mummy?”
It was explained to Sammy that he probably misheard “woman’s vagina” as “woman’s pyjamas”. Although, as Caro noted, this would explain why it is always important to shake out your pyjamas before you put them in the wash.
The other dangers of sex education are the follow-up questions that inevitably follow. Another friend of mine recently told me her two daughters had made the entirely logical, but extremely disconcerting mental leap after being told the facts of life that their parents MUST HAVE HAD SEX. “But just to get us, right?”
It was explained to the girls that no, sometimes people do “that” just for fun. Their reaction was to be expected really - “Ewwwwww!!!”
Meanwhile Sammy had questions of his own. “I’ve heard men go to Amsterdam to pay to look at women with no clothes on,” he told his mother. “Why would they want to do that?” Bear in mind the lad is still at the age where he would pay to keep smelly girls AWAY from him. ESPECIALLY if they are not wearing underpants.
Carol told him that (again) he would one day understand but Not Yet.
But then he had a question that perplexed even her – “What’s the point of flavoured condoms?” he asked. She struggled for an answer.
“Well because they – errr – I suppose – the thing is – it makes – ummm. Oh, go and ask your father.”
You see, it’s never too late to learn things. And if anyone DOES know the answer, let me know and I’ll pass it on.
So snickering early teens were handed out exercise books which kept us busy for hours, drawing little glasses and moustaches on pictures of sperm. And then they made us watch a tv show called “Living & Growing”. I bear the mental scars from that tv show to this day.
It contained footage of a lot of very unappealing and deeply-tanned naturists larking about, and doing “healthy” things outdoors like chasing Frisbees and other sports that involved a disturbing amount of squatting and jigging and bouncing. Also, there were a number of upsetting diagrams. Even more traumatising than seeing a picture of ovaries superimposed on Floppy Naturist Lady, was the picture of what was inside my willy. It looked like something out of HR Giger's imagination. I daren’t go near it for weeks.
These memories have come flooding back to me after a friend with children visited. She told me that sex education still exists, but has been moved up the curriculum on account of “some bloody kid in West Lothian knowing all about dildos from the age of 8 or something”.
So she picked up her son (aged 10) from school one day to find that his normally effusive bounce was diminished. “What’s wrong?” Carol asked.
“I only got three out of ten on my sex test,” Sammy explained.
His mother commiserated, but told him that he really needn’t worry about this sort of thing for a few years yet. But the little chap was troubled:
“There were so many new words to learn and I got my testes mixed up with my uterus.”
Other areas of confusion were more typical: where do babies come from? This was also on the test, and the children were supposed to indicate this by drawing on a diagram of a woman. Sammy was confused by this, as his mother had delivered him by Caesarean section. So he drew a line across the stomach for which he got no points. “My teacher told me that babies come out of the woman’s pyjamas,” said Sammy. “I didn’t come out of your pyjamas, did I mummy?”
It was explained to Sammy that he probably misheard “woman’s vagina” as “woman’s pyjamas”. Although, as Caro noted, this would explain why it is always important to shake out your pyjamas before you put them in the wash.
The other dangers of sex education are the follow-up questions that inevitably follow. Another friend of mine recently told me her two daughters had made the entirely logical, but extremely disconcerting mental leap after being told the facts of life that their parents MUST HAVE HAD SEX. “But just to get us, right?”
It was explained to the girls that no, sometimes people do “that” just for fun. Their reaction was to be expected really - “Ewwwwww!!!”
Meanwhile Sammy had questions of his own. “I’ve heard men go to Amsterdam to pay to look at women with no clothes on,” he told his mother. “Why would they want to do that?” Bear in mind the lad is still at the age where he would pay to keep smelly girls AWAY from him. ESPECIALLY if they are not wearing underpants.
Carol told him that (again) he would one day understand but Not Yet.
But then he had a question that perplexed even her – “What’s the point of flavoured condoms?” he asked. She struggled for an answer.
“Well because they – errr – I suppose – the thing is – it makes – ummm. Oh, go and ask your father.”
You see, it’s never too late to learn things. And if anyone DOES know the answer, let me know and I’ll pass it on.
Sunday, 8 June 2014
RANDOM STUFF: HAIRY MOLE HAIRY MOLE HAIRY MOLE
I had an encounter with a man with a hairy mole the other day.
"Hi!" he introduced himself to me, "my name is REDACTED CENSORED. Nice to meet you."
HAIRY MOLE was all I heard and all I could see.
He shook my hand. Inside I was screaming.
For the course of the next hour, I tried to focus. This behaviour, I told myself, is completely unacceptable. There are things which are important and things which are not important. Was I even sure it WAS a hairy mole? Maybe it was just some fuzz, or even leftover food which had somehow found its way there. Let's just have a quick look...
AIEEE. It really is a hairy mole. I bit my lip to the point where I nearly swallowed my face and looked away.
Because. Look. Now here's the thing. I'm not giving you the full picture. This wasn't just a mole with a few hairs sticking out. It was a full-on sticky-out wart with a lot of spiky white fuzz on it. Like a mushroom with teeth or a little dude with a grey beard. It actually looked a lot like Rolf Harris in "Animal Hospital" only much smaller and stuck to this guy's face.
And why was it spiky??? Did it get TRIMMED? Did this guy run his Gilette Quattro over it every two to three days and what I was seeing was re-growth? Aaaaagh! I looked at it again!
I admit it. I'm a horrible person unable to see the human being behind the hairy mole. And as I grow older, who is to say that there won't be a hairy mole of my own lurking in the future? Will I one day disturb colleagues and frighten children by growing some malformed second nose in the middle of my forehead? We are none of us immune to the mole, so don't get complacent.
I know, I know. I know all of this but still, HAIRY MOLE HAIRY MOLE HAIRY MOLE.
I'm appalled at myself.
"Hi!" he introduced himself to me, "my name is REDACTED CENSORED. Nice to meet you."
HAIRY MOLE was all I heard and all I could see.
He shook my hand. Inside I was screaming.
For the course of the next hour, I tried to focus. This behaviour, I told myself, is completely unacceptable. There are things which are important and things which are not important. Was I even sure it WAS a hairy mole? Maybe it was just some fuzz, or even leftover food which had somehow found its way there. Let's just have a quick look...
AIEEE. It really is a hairy mole. I bit my lip to the point where I nearly swallowed my face and looked away.
Because. Look. Now here's the thing. I'm not giving you the full picture. This wasn't just a mole with a few hairs sticking out. It was a full-on sticky-out wart with a lot of spiky white fuzz on it. Like a mushroom with teeth or a little dude with a grey beard. It actually looked a lot like Rolf Harris in "Animal Hospital" only much smaller and stuck to this guy's face.
And why was it spiky??? Did it get TRIMMED? Did this guy run his Gilette Quattro over it every two to three days and what I was seeing was re-growth? Aaaaagh! I looked at it again!
I admit it. I'm a horrible person unable to see the human being behind the hairy mole. And as I grow older, who is to say that there won't be a hairy mole of my own lurking in the future? Will I one day disturb colleagues and frighten children by growing some malformed second nose in the middle of my forehead? We are none of us immune to the mole, so don't get complacent.
I know, I know. I know all of this but still, HAIRY MOLE HAIRY MOLE HAIRY MOLE.
I'm appalled at myself.
REVIEW: THE CABIN IN THE WOODS
Ever since "Scream", horror has become a terribly self-aware genre. It is the "we know you know" genre, if you like. I regard this as something of a pity as it robs horror of the conviction it used to have. That sense of THIS COULD HAPPEN TO YOU has gone.
It's this lack of conviction that I think explains the rise of the found-footage and torture-porn genres. Found-footage attempts to get around the problem by simulating reality by having you trapped with inane conversation delivered by complete dullards for 90 minutes after which SOMETHING MIGHT HAPPEN. Torture-porn goes straight for that visceral "ooya" empathatic-hurty feeling you get whenever you hear a friend broke their leg skiing. But I digress.
"The Cabin in the Woods" is definitely self-aware, and deals out those familiar horror cards with affection and humour. It's a clever, fun ghost ride of a movie that pokes sly fun at the audience for this sort of twisted entertainment even as it entertains. But it never really rises above "jumpy" on the scare-scale. It's too friendly and winky for that.
I'm not saying you won't enjoy it, but do set your expectations to "fun and forgettable", rather than a horror classic. I think we have to go pre-Scream for those, back to the time before they knew we knew they knew.
It's this lack of conviction that I think explains the rise of the found-footage and torture-porn genres. Found-footage attempts to get around the problem by simulating reality by having you trapped with inane conversation delivered by complete dullards for 90 minutes after which SOMETHING MIGHT HAPPEN. Torture-porn goes straight for that visceral "ooya" empathatic-hurty feeling you get whenever you hear a friend broke their leg skiing. But I digress.
"The Cabin in the Woods" is definitely self-aware, and deals out those familiar horror cards with affection and humour. It's a clever, fun ghost ride of a movie that pokes sly fun at the audience for this sort of twisted entertainment even as it entertains. But it never really rises above "jumpy" on the scare-scale. It's too friendly and winky for that.
I'm not saying you won't enjoy it, but do set your expectations to "fun and forgettable", rather than a horror classic. I think we have to go pre-Scream for those, back to the time before they knew we knew they knew.
RANDOM STUFF: ****ING ****!!!!!
So yesterday I swore at a piece of software. I had spent hours writing a document that – POOF – just disappeared. When I tried to get it back, I got the three hours ago version that I had started with such naive optimism.
I summoned up the entirety of my remaining strength, closed my eyes and brought forth the foulest epithets I could muster. It was a torrent of abusive language so vile, so perverse I could feel the air ripping around my head. Dogs howled. Angels wept. Somewhere, a lovely fairy exploded. I felt much better.
I did not say them out loud of course – people would say I was unprofessional and besides, if office workers started swearing out loud it would be like a Tourette’s Convention every day.
However, there is research, conducted by academics using actual science that have proved swearing can be positive. In a study, students were split into two groups and pain was inflicted upon them. The first group was only allowed to say “Gosh darn it” and “Whoa Nelly”. Whereas the second group was allowed to use rather more fruity language that rhymed with “grit”, “trap” and “motherducking sock-cooker”.
Here’s what they found. The second group could ENDURE PAIN FOR LONGER. Sweary words serve a valuable purpose! They allow for a controlled release of tension! So ladies who are currently in labour while reading this, go for it! Call your husband the most depraved filth you can imagine! Bear in mind that soon you will have an unruly toddler running around your house, drawing on the walls and wiping their bottoms on your curtains. You are going to NEED those swearwords so you may as well start practising now.
My wife is especially good with the swearing. I remember years ago when we were trying to help our landlady sell the flat we were renting from her, we would show potential buyers around. One young couple looked around but seemed a bit put off by the kitchen. It wasn’t until I turned around that I noticed my wife had rearranged the magnetic letters on the fridge to spell out “ratsh*t pigf*cker” on the freezer door. I don’t think they put in an offer.
I am not shocked by her easy use of the filth. I hear swearing on the street and on the bus all the time. I blame our high-pressure environment. In Geoffrey Nunberg’s book “Ascent of the A-Word” he says uncivil language reflects modern incivility, and I agree - it is city life that does it. You don’t get it so much in the countryside. You very rarely hear the phrase, “You b*stard hedgehog” or “You motherf*cking adorable squirrel”, for example. But I worry that city folk are over-using the salty-talk. That they say “f*ck” so often it is turning into a comma or a hyphen. See, we don’t want “f*ck” to become acceptable. We need it to remain FORBIDDEN or it will lose its power. Then we would need to invent swear-words involving new things we find repulsive or vulgar, as in “You are starting to Piers-Morgan me off” or “I have just stepped in a steaming pile of Justin Bieber”.
I suppose the question is, why are the swearwords we have now the ones that are forbidden? I went to see “The Vagina Monologues” where they try to rehabilitate the word “c*nt” by pointing out that it’s actually a pretty groovy thing as body parts go and we would certainly miss it if it took the huff over being associated with the likes of Simon Cowell. They do this exercise where they get the entire audience to chant the word in unison in order to “reclaim the c*nt”. As I left the audience, I met a friend who greeted me with a cheery cry of, “How you doin’ me old c*nt!” Sadly, this new usage didn’t really take with us and soon we were back to saving the c-word for when we saw Mel Gibson on the telly.
I just wish I could be bleeped like on the telly. Because then it is all left to the imagination. How much more powerful would it be if, when someone annoyed you, you could BLEEP at them and have them insert the worst profanity they could imagine instead of your having to think up something clichéd and over-used? That could be the best iPhone app ever, and include swanny-whistle noises, door-buzzers and football rattles for when you REALLY want to let go at someone.
Of course, this would require software, which is where I came in. But here’s a marketing idea! What if Microsoft or Apple actually MARKETED new products and software with swear-words built-in? I would definitely buy “Microsoft F*cking B*stard” or “Apple Ratsh*t Pigf*cker”. If my documents got wiped I could scream “F*cking B*stard Microsoft!!” right in the middle of the office and no-one could claim I was being unprofessional. Now there’s a Biebering BRILLIANT idea.
I summoned up the entirety of my remaining strength, closed my eyes and brought forth the foulest epithets I could muster. It was a torrent of abusive language so vile, so perverse I could feel the air ripping around my head. Dogs howled. Angels wept. Somewhere, a lovely fairy exploded. I felt much better.
I did not say them out loud of course – people would say I was unprofessional and besides, if office workers started swearing out loud it would be like a Tourette’s Convention every day.
However, there is research, conducted by academics using actual science that have proved swearing can be positive. In a study, students were split into two groups and pain was inflicted upon them. The first group was only allowed to say “Gosh darn it” and “Whoa Nelly”. Whereas the second group was allowed to use rather more fruity language that rhymed with “grit”, “trap” and “motherducking sock-cooker”.
Here’s what they found. The second group could ENDURE PAIN FOR LONGER. Sweary words serve a valuable purpose! They allow for a controlled release of tension! So ladies who are currently in labour while reading this, go for it! Call your husband the most depraved filth you can imagine! Bear in mind that soon you will have an unruly toddler running around your house, drawing on the walls and wiping their bottoms on your curtains. You are going to NEED those swearwords so you may as well start practising now.
My wife is especially good with the swearing. I remember years ago when we were trying to help our landlady sell the flat we were renting from her, we would show potential buyers around. One young couple looked around but seemed a bit put off by the kitchen. It wasn’t until I turned around that I noticed my wife had rearranged the magnetic letters on the fridge to spell out “ratsh*t pigf*cker” on the freezer door. I don’t think they put in an offer.
I am not shocked by her easy use of the filth. I hear swearing on the street and on the bus all the time. I blame our high-pressure environment. In Geoffrey Nunberg’s book “Ascent of the A-Word” he says uncivil language reflects modern incivility, and I agree - it is city life that does it. You don’t get it so much in the countryside. You very rarely hear the phrase, “You b*stard hedgehog” or “You motherf*cking adorable squirrel”, for example. But I worry that city folk are over-using the salty-talk. That they say “f*ck” so often it is turning into a comma or a hyphen. See, we don’t want “f*ck” to become acceptable. We need it to remain FORBIDDEN or it will lose its power. Then we would need to invent swear-words involving new things we find repulsive or vulgar, as in “You are starting to Piers-Morgan me off” or “I have just stepped in a steaming pile of Justin Bieber”.
I suppose the question is, why are the swearwords we have now the ones that are forbidden? I went to see “The Vagina Monologues” where they try to rehabilitate the word “c*nt” by pointing out that it’s actually a pretty groovy thing as body parts go and we would certainly miss it if it took the huff over being associated with the likes of Simon Cowell. They do this exercise where they get the entire audience to chant the word in unison in order to “reclaim the c*nt”. As I left the audience, I met a friend who greeted me with a cheery cry of, “How you doin’ me old c*nt!” Sadly, this new usage didn’t really take with us and soon we were back to saving the c-word for when we saw Mel Gibson on the telly.
I just wish I could be bleeped like on the telly. Because then it is all left to the imagination. How much more powerful would it be if, when someone annoyed you, you could BLEEP at them and have them insert the worst profanity they could imagine instead of your having to think up something clichéd and over-used? That could be the best iPhone app ever, and include swanny-whistle noises, door-buzzers and football rattles for when you REALLY want to let go at someone.
Of course, this would require software, which is where I came in. But here’s a marketing idea! What if Microsoft or Apple actually MARKETED new products and software with swear-words built-in? I would definitely buy “Microsoft F*cking B*stard” or “Apple Ratsh*t Pigf*cker”. If my documents got wiped I could scream “F*cking B*stard Microsoft!!” right in the middle of the office and no-one could claim I was being unprofessional. Now there’s a Biebering BRILLIANT idea.
REVIEW: ANATOMY OF A MURDER
Do you ever watch pre-1960's films and think, "It wasn't REALLY like that though, was it?" I mean people in old films never swear, are rarely cynical or sarcastic and they certainly do NOT have sex. This would seem contrary to the fact that you and I are sitting here right now, which would suggest that, at some point, grandpa & grandma must have got it on and had post-war black-and-white "You've Never Had It So Good" 1950's RUDENESS.
I'm sorry if I've upset you. I take it all back. Your grandparents never had sex. All of our parents were found under gooseberry bushes la la la.
My point is this. Due to censorship and society at the time, most old films are not quite the genuine voices of their era. You have to colour it in a little in your mind and there's few 1950's films that seem as nasty and cynical and real as the modern world.
But there are a few. "Anatomy of a Murder" is a good example. It's a courtroom drama that concerns the trial of a soldier after he kills the man who he alleges raped his wife. James Stewart plays the defending attorney - and he does that "I'm just a poor country lawyer" Clarence Darrow bit, up against George C Scott as the big-city prosecutor. It's a joy seeing them spar against each other.
It's a cynical film though. It's pretty obvious that Stewart's client is guilty, but Stewart's strategy is to find some legal reason that will allow the sympathetic jury to acquit despite the facts. George C Scott is equally slippery, trying desperately to keep the rape out of the trial and railroad Stewart's client by withholding evidence. It sounds nasty, but is in fact a lot of fun - like a high-stakes game of table-tennis but with the death penalty*.
A young and lovely Lee Remick plays the soldier's wife who may or may not have been raped and she's terrific - all swagger and pout. The film has little or nothing to do with justice - it's just about the system and how it works. As a result it feels surprisingly modern, apart from the cars and the clothes and the language. There's also an amusingly old-fashioned bit where the judge and the attorneys struggle to find a way to avoid using the word "panties" in the trial as it might offend the jury -
JUDGE: Can you think of any other word you could use?
STEWART: "Undergarments" is too vague.
SCOTT: When I was stationed in France they had a word - but it's even more suggestive.
JUDGE: Hmmm. Most French words are.
So for a glimpse into another time that feels authentic, "Anatomy of a Murder" is well worth a look. It features Duke Ellington on the soundtrack (he also makes an appearance as a piano player). Plus anything with Jimmy Stewart in is always wonderful. Even "Airport 77".
* Which would certainly make it more exciting. "Ping Pong Beyond Thunderdome", if you will.
I'm sorry if I've upset you. I take it all back. Your grandparents never had sex. All of our parents were found under gooseberry bushes la la la.
My point is this. Due to censorship and society at the time, most old films are not quite the genuine voices of their era. You have to colour it in a little in your mind and there's few 1950's films that seem as nasty and cynical and real as the modern world.
But there are a few. "Anatomy of a Murder" is a good example. It's a courtroom drama that concerns the trial of a soldier after he kills the man who he alleges raped his wife. James Stewart plays the defending attorney - and he does that "I'm just a poor country lawyer" Clarence Darrow bit, up against George C Scott as the big-city prosecutor. It's a joy seeing them spar against each other.
It's a cynical film though. It's pretty obvious that Stewart's client is guilty, but Stewart's strategy is to find some legal reason that will allow the sympathetic jury to acquit despite the facts. George C Scott is equally slippery, trying desperately to keep the rape out of the trial and railroad Stewart's client by withholding evidence. It sounds nasty, but is in fact a lot of fun - like a high-stakes game of table-tennis but with the death penalty*.
A young and lovely Lee Remick plays the soldier's wife who may or may not have been raped and she's terrific - all swagger and pout. The film has little or nothing to do with justice - it's just about the system and how it works. As a result it feels surprisingly modern, apart from the cars and the clothes and the language. There's also an amusingly old-fashioned bit where the judge and the attorneys struggle to find a way to avoid using the word "panties" in the trial as it might offend the jury -
JUDGE: Can you think of any other word you could use?
STEWART: "Undergarments" is too vague.
SCOTT: When I was stationed in France they had a word - but it's even more suggestive.
JUDGE: Hmmm. Most French words are.
So for a glimpse into another time that feels authentic, "Anatomy of a Murder" is well worth a look. It features Duke Ellington on the soundtrack (he also makes an appearance as a piano player). Plus anything with Jimmy Stewart in is always wonderful. Even "Airport 77".
* Which would certainly make it more exciting. "Ping Pong Beyond Thunderdome", if you will.
REVIEW: THE CONVERSATION
"The Conversation" is a moody, slow-burn of a thriller, directed by Francis Ford Coppola right after "The Godfather Part 2" and before he was crap*.
It is the story of Harry - he's a freelance surveillance expert whose experience in the world of wire-tapping, bugging and remote surveillance has made him extremely paranoid. He lives in a sparsely furnished, heavily alarmed apartment. He has a girlfriend with whom he refuses to share any personal details, and a business partner with whom he refuses to share any trade secrets. He dresses as inconspicuously as possible. He only ever calls people from public telephones. He becomes very disturbed when someone wishes him happy birthday. His birthday is private.
Harry has been hired to keep tabs on a young couple and spends a lot of time listening to a conversation he remotely recorded as the couple wandered around a park. They know they are being followed and they know something is wrong. Harry analyses the tapes over and over - attempting to catch parts of their muffled conversation to understand the meaning - and to understand why he's been hired in the first place -
"....does it bother you, walking around in circles..."
"...oh that's terrible - I always think he must have been somebody's baby boy once..."
"...he'd kill us if he got the chance..."
As the film unfolds, we realise that Harry had previously been on a job in New York, where his work resulted people being killed. Wracked with guilt, and determined not to let this happen again, he tries to stall his current employers in an attempt to protect the couple. But his employers are not people to trifle with.
Made at around the same time that the exploits of Richard Nixon's "plumbers" were becoming public knowledge, "The Conversation" is a paranoid thriller boasting a great performance from Gene Hackman as Harry supported by John Cazale ("Fredo" from The Godfather) Robert Duvall, Teri Garr and Cindy Williams. There's also a stand-out performance from a young Harrison Ford looking and behaving very much like one of those clean-cut, self-satisfied, dead-eyed members of the Nixon administration. Perhaps "thriller" is the wrong word to use as this is a very slow-moving, deliberate film. But as the paranoia and tension begin to tighten it is a disturbing drama about a man who needs to control every aspect of his life and sees that control slipping away completely.
Recommended to those who enjoyed "The Constant Gardener", "The Parallax View", "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy" and of course "All The President's Men".
HARRY: If you were the sort of girl who waited for someone... Someone who daren't tell you anything about himself. Even that he loved you. Would you go back to him?
WOMAN: How would I know that he loved me?
HARRY: Well... you'd... you'd have no way of knowing.
* And that's me sugar-coating.
It is the story of Harry - he's a freelance surveillance expert whose experience in the world of wire-tapping, bugging and remote surveillance has made him extremely paranoid. He lives in a sparsely furnished, heavily alarmed apartment. He has a girlfriend with whom he refuses to share any personal details, and a business partner with whom he refuses to share any trade secrets. He dresses as inconspicuously as possible. He only ever calls people from public telephones. He becomes very disturbed when someone wishes him happy birthday. His birthday is private.
Harry has been hired to keep tabs on a young couple and spends a lot of time listening to a conversation he remotely recorded as the couple wandered around a park. They know they are being followed and they know something is wrong. Harry analyses the tapes over and over - attempting to catch parts of their muffled conversation to understand the meaning - and to understand why he's been hired in the first place -
"....does it bother you, walking around in circles..."
"...oh that's terrible - I always think he must have been somebody's baby boy once..."
"...he'd kill us if he got the chance..."
As the film unfolds, we realise that Harry had previously been on a job in New York, where his work resulted people being killed. Wracked with guilt, and determined not to let this happen again, he tries to stall his current employers in an attempt to protect the couple. But his employers are not people to trifle with.
Made at around the same time that the exploits of Richard Nixon's "plumbers" were becoming public knowledge, "The Conversation" is a paranoid thriller boasting a great performance from Gene Hackman as Harry supported by John Cazale ("Fredo" from The Godfather) Robert Duvall, Teri Garr and Cindy Williams. There's also a stand-out performance from a young Harrison Ford looking and behaving very much like one of those clean-cut, self-satisfied, dead-eyed members of the Nixon administration. Perhaps "thriller" is the wrong word to use as this is a very slow-moving, deliberate film. But as the paranoia and tension begin to tighten it is a disturbing drama about a man who needs to control every aspect of his life and sees that control slipping away completely.
Recommended to those who enjoyed "The Constant Gardener", "The Parallax View", "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy" and of course "All The President's Men".
HARRY: If you were the sort of girl who waited for someone... Someone who daren't tell you anything about himself. Even that he loved you. Would you go back to him?
WOMAN: How would I know that he loved me?
HARRY: Well... you'd... you'd have no way of knowing.
* And that's me sugar-coating.
REVIEW: THE MANITOU
This review contains spoilers. Just so you know. But, trust me on this, it doesn't really matter because you won't be watching "The Manitou" for the clever twisty-turny plot.
"The Manitou" is a horror film from 1978. Made in the wake of "The Omen" & "The Exorcist" it tells of Karen Tandy who has a thing on her neck. She goes to a top oncologist who doesn't know what to make of it. It is not composed of cancerous tissue, he explains, and is growing at a rate very similar to.... He trails off, looking at a pregnancy chart...
Yes! She's neck-preggers! I'm not sure how she managed it, but "never let him put it in your ear" is my new advice to you girls.
She goes to see her boyfriend Tony Curtis. He plays a fake psychic complete with astrological cape and comedy moustache. The bit where he takes his psychic outfit off and starts grooving to 70's funk makes this film worth watching alone. But back to Karen! She falls asleep muttering strange incantations like "by the power of Greyskull" and "izzy-wizzy, let's get busy". Tony starts to worry, especially when one of his elderly clients appears to become possessed by a comedy demon that makes her mutter the EXACT SAME WORDS before throwing her down the stairs.
There then follows a bizarre and somewhat pointless series of scenes of Tony going to see a bloke who doesn't know the answer, but knows someone who might. Long story short, he goes to see a doctor who points him at a medium, who tells him to go to an anthropologist who tells him to go and see a Native American. There! Wasn't that nice and simple!?
John Singing Stone (the Native American chap) explains that a manitou (a powerful medicine-man) has attached itself to Karen's neck in order to be reborn. This will result in Karen's untimely demise. So doctors attempt to remove the (by now) medicine-man sized wart from the back of her neck using Star Wars blasty lasers that instead go beserk and blow up the operating theatre. Well you can't say you're not getting your money's worth.
The medicine man breaks free of Karen's neck, but has been shrunk due to all the laser beams and x-rays. So you've got this rather unthreatening Mini-Me version of Tecumseh wandering about the hospital, skinning lesser members of the cast and casting spells which cause sock-puppet demons to appear. Tony Curtis hits him with a typewriter and John Singing Kettle realises that the medicine man is vulnerable to modern technology. Tony has all the hospital's computers switched on, which causes the whole hospital to enter another DIMENSION! The dimension of VERY BAD SPECIAL EFFECTS. The medicine man tries to summon a squiggly Satan but is vanquished by Topless Karen who fires all the energy of the combined Vic-20's and ZX Spectrums at him. I'm not sure why Karen is topless.
Unrateable, but hysterical.
"The Manitou" is a horror film from 1978. Made in the wake of "The Omen" & "The Exorcist" it tells of Karen Tandy who has a thing on her neck. She goes to a top oncologist who doesn't know what to make of it. It is not composed of cancerous tissue, he explains, and is growing at a rate very similar to.... He trails off, looking at a pregnancy chart...
Yes! She's neck-preggers! I'm not sure how she managed it, but "never let him put it in your ear" is my new advice to you girls.
She goes to see her boyfriend Tony Curtis. He plays a fake psychic complete with astrological cape and comedy moustache. The bit where he takes his psychic outfit off and starts grooving to 70's funk makes this film worth watching alone. But back to Karen! She falls asleep muttering strange incantations like "by the power of Greyskull" and "izzy-wizzy, let's get busy". Tony starts to worry, especially when one of his elderly clients appears to become possessed by a comedy demon that makes her mutter the EXACT SAME WORDS before throwing her down the stairs.
There then follows a bizarre and somewhat pointless series of scenes of Tony going to see a bloke who doesn't know the answer, but knows someone who might. Long story short, he goes to see a doctor who points him at a medium, who tells him to go to an anthropologist who tells him to go and see a Native American. There! Wasn't that nice and simple!?
John Singing Stone (the Native American chap) explains that a manitou (a powerful medicine-man) has attached itself to Karen's neck in order to be reborn. This will result in Karen's untimely demise. So doctors attempt to remove the (by now) medicine-man sized wart from the back of her neck using Star Wars blasty lasers that instead go beserk and blow up the operating theatre. Well you can't say you're not getting your money's worth.
The medicine man breaks free of Karen's neck, but has been shrunk due to all the laser beams and x-rays. So you've got this rather unthreatening Mini-Me version of Tecumseh wandering about the hospital, skinning lesser members of the cast and casting spells which cause sock-puppet demons to appear. Tony Curtis hits him with a typewriter and John Singing Kettle realises that the medicine man is vulnerable to modern technology. Tony has all the hospital's computers switched on, which causes the whole hospital to enter another DIMENSION! The dimension of VERY BAD SPECIAL EFFECTS. The medicine man tries to summon a squiggly Satan but is vanquished by Topless Karen who fires all the energy of the combined Vic-20's and ZX Spectrums at him. I'm not sure why Karen is topless.
Unrateable, but hysterical.
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