I never did find that one blogging platform I liked.
All the posts from this blog and any future posts have moved over to my blog at wordpress.com
Friday 28 October 2011
Thursday 27 October 2011
excuse me, I fell asleep on the platform.
My third year film dissertation topic: Britain photographed and representing itself and its fears (subconscious claustrophobia and paranoia) in contemporary horror.
This is a topic I've had in my head for about two years. I remember the first time I watched 28 Weeks Later. It wasn't the images of apocalyptic Britain that I found to be terrifying, the loss of an entire group of human beings that I relate with, and their unique culture. It was the aftermath that 28 Weeks Later covered, and in particular the presence of America; the way in which they "heroically" descend upon the lost city and their vision of themselves being the total antithesis to the London setting and English people.
Thinking about this further, I came to the conclusion that post-apocalyptic films like 28 Days Later and 28 Weeks are distinctly different offerings to what you'd expect from an American film with the same kind of screenplay. The British idiosyncrasies are so clear not only in the direction of the plot (the cynical keep calm and carry on attitudes and endings where most of the characters die) but are interwoven into the location choices, mise-en-scéne, and even just the photographic framing.
So, I'm taking this idea further and investigating the claims I've just made, in a series of three contemporary British horrors (not just post-apocalyptic), analysing their photography, characters and stories for evidence, and also there standing in a historical context. Is this subconscious fear, claustrophobic paranoia, something that's been inherent in British people since we first became isolated habitants of a tiny, self-contained island? Or is it something newer? Does the constant reminder of the modern global village and the saturation of corporative American media do nothing but remind us of how we will always be physically seperated from it?
Core film texts (as of Oct 2011)
The Descent (dir. Neil Marshall, 2005)
This isn't a popular film among my peers it seems. But I think it's an effective horror film, with the ideal equilibrium found between aural fear and visual fear. I don't need to explain much in terms of why I've chosen this, surely? Most of it is set inside a cave, filmed in small crevices and tunnels, in nothing but torchlight. But not only this - even the exterior scenes are filmed in a distinctly small scale, claustrophobic way. American horror films usually exaggerate the landscape, make it rolling and endless. In this, even the great outdoors is confined, the frame full, the mountains and trees are intimidating rather than a symbol of freedom and fresh air. I can also talk about the kind of "monsters" here. British horrors usually have a very clear type of monster and reasons for said monster existing, and I've chosen my other core films for their similar monster types.
Creep (dir. Christopher Smith, 2004)
The London Underground. A ripe setting for a confined, tight and dark horror film. We have the same kind of aural scares in Creep as you find in The Descent - the screeching, incoherence of the "monster". Like I explained before, Creep maintains the 'minimal survivors' rule, and at no point does any character really try to act the hero. Actually, the self-contained, independent and slightly self-obsessed characters represent quite well Britain as a whole, and how it sees itself.
28 Weeks Later (dir. Juan Carlos Fresnadillo, 2007)
I chose 28 Weeks Later especially for the American presence in the film, and how we can compare that to the British side. America likes to present itself as grandiose and as brave as possible. Britain is effectively the opposite, and I love how these subtlely play against each other in the being of 28 Weeks Later. In the end, we can argue Britain wins out...
Maybe I'll prove my own theory wrong.
Ask me in May 2012.
This is a topic I've had in my head for about two years. I remember the first time I watched 28 Weeks Later. It wasn't the images of apocalyptic Britain that I found to be terrifying, the loss of an entire group of human beings that I relate with, and their unique culture. It was the aftermath that 28 Weeks Later covered, and in particular the presence of America; the way in which they "heroically" descend upon the lost city and their vision of themselves being the total antithesis to the London setting and English people.
Thinking about this further, I came to the conclusion that post-apocalyptic films like 28 Days Later and 28 Weeks are distinctly different offerings to what you'd expect from an American film with the same kind of screenplay. The British idiosyncrasies are so clear not only in the direction of the plot (the cynical keep calm and carry on attitudes and endings where most of the characters die) but are interwoven into the location choices, mise-en-scéne, and even just the photographic framing.
So, I'm taking this idea further and investigating the claims I've just made, in a series of three contemporary British horrors (not just post-apocalyptic), analysing their photography, characters and stories for evidence, and also there standing in a historical context. Is this subconscious fear, claustrophobic paranoia, something that's been inherent in British people since we first became isolated habitants of a tiny, self-contained island? Or is it something newer? Does the constant reminder of the modern global village and the saturation of corporative American media do nothing but remind us of how we will always be physically seperated from it?
Core film texts (as of Oct 2011)
The Descent (dir. Neil Marshall, 2005)
This isn't a popular film among my peers it seems. But I think it's an effective horror film, with the ideal equilibrium found between aural fear and visual fear. I don't need to explain much in terms of why I've chosen this, surely? Most of it is set inside a cave, filmed in small crevices and tunnels, in nothing but torchlight. But not only this - even the exterior scenes are filmed in a distinctly small scale, claustrophobic way. American horror films usually exaggerate the landscape, make it rolling and endless. In this, even the great outdoors is confined, the frame full, the mountains and trees are intimidating rather than a symbol of freedom and fresh air. I can also talk about the kind of "monsters" here. British horrors usually have a very clear type of monster and reasons for said monster existing, and I've chosen my other core films for their similar monster types.
Creep (dir. Christopher Smith, 2004)
The London Underground. A ripe setting for a confined, tight and dark horror film. We have the same kind of aural scares in Creep as you find in The Descent - the screeching, incoherence of the "monster". Like I explained before, Creep maintains the 'minimal survivors' rule, and at no point does any character really try to act the hero. Actually, the self-contained, independent and slightly self-obsessed characters represent quite well Britain as a whole, and how it sees itself.
28 Weeks Later (dir. Juan Carlos Fresnadillo, 2007)
I chose 28 Weeks Later especially for the American presence in the film, and how we can compare that to the British side. America likes to present itself as grandiose and as brave as possible. Britain is effectively the opposite, and I love how these subtlely play against each other in the being of 28 Weeks Later. In the end, we can argue Britain wins out...
Maybe I'll prove my own theory wrong.
Ask me in May 2012.
Monday 24 October 2011
porcelain.
South Bank on the Thames, London. My favourite place in the city. Maybe the world. My absolute muse.
Saturday 15 October 2011
recently watched #20
Since my last film recap, I've watched many films. Some brilliant, some worthy of watching constantly without getting bored, and some I'd rather not go back to. Here are four of the most interesting. For different reasons, of course.
Tron: Legacy (dir. Joseph Kosinski, 2010) I watched the original Tron (1982) directly before watching this. I can't say I liked it that much. It's everything you want in terms of a smart sci-fi plot with young Jeff Bridges but in parts it's totally incoherent in ways that made me just not want to bother. But having had the Tron: Legacy soundtrack by Daft Punk sitting in my iTunes library, well listened to and loved for over six months beforehand, I thought I'd better at least see what the sequel had to offer.
Basic premise of Tron - A computer hacker (Jeff Bridges) finds himself trapped inside the computer. Basic premise of Tron:Legacy - said computer hacker (Jeff Bridges) has been missing for some years. His now adult son, accidentally finds himself trapped inside the computer. He finds his father. He and his father must find way to escape.
I adored it within the first 30 seconds, and I can pinpoint the absolutely superb soundtrack as what makes it what it is. I'm not sure what came first, the visuals or the aural treats but they work so perfectly in sync that just thinking about the intro with Jeff Bridges talking (in that epic-trailer-voiceover-gravel-in-his-throat voice) about The Grid, gives me goosebumps. So it's mostly computer generated imagery, sleek and smooth and minimal and nothing like the original Tron. But despite this, it doesn't seem too self-obsessed with its own style. It just works, it looks and sounds good, and the film at a little over two hours may feel a bit long but it keeps the action up, is much easier to understand and let's just say, the costume designer needs and deserves kudos.
Made in Dagenham (dir. Nigel Cole, 2010) This was recommended to me by a close friend who shares my young feminist point of views. Made in Dagenham is a British dramatisation of the 1968 Ford car plant strike, and even with this keyword 'dramatisation', it makes me so proud. Its simple, near kitchen sink direction places it back neatly in the sixties. The fight against sexual discrimination isn't portrayed in the seemingly popular man-hating, extremist way - instead, this is a story about hard-working women, some married, some young and single, fighting together and in some cases risking their marriages and relationships, to change the face of politics for an entire sex. Feminism doesn't happen overnight and it isn't finished. And perhaps one of the best themes Made in Dagenham picks up on, and makes endearing, exciting and hilarious, is the concept of the male feminist!
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (dir. Tomas Alfredson, 2011) Search for this on IMDB. Look at cast list. Weep with joy, and watch it. What else can I say. Gary Oldman, Benedict Cumberbatch, Colin Firth… directed by Tomas Alfredson of Let the Right One In. The Swedish director has made an inherently British offering, keeping a hold of the drab, slow elegance of the book by John le Carré. Some critics have argued that Tinker Tailor is too slow in fact, but I beg to ask if they've actually read the book or grasped the point of making it so. It's a very British thing I feel, to make such self-deprecation and aching slowness so beautiful, and put within the context and the era, a fast moving action film would not work.
The set design is exquisite, portraying a listless and dreary London of the 1970s, and coupled with gorgeous photography, seamless editing, and a melancholic colour palette, I ask you to find me better. Gary Oldman is perfect as George Smiley, establishing within the first five minutes with minimal dialogue and slow performance, his lost, morose and depressed existence.
What upsets me is how underrated Benedict Cumberbatch's performance has been by the mainstream media. I might be biased… but while the rest of the cast is totally deserving of praise, Benedict Cumberbatch's Peter Guillam is definitely one of the most important characters, and somehow just through subtle facial expressions and flawlessly delivered dialogue (one of my favourite scenes being angry Guillam when he meets Ricki Tarr (Tom Hardy) after a long unexplained absence) you feel his loyalty for Smiley, and totally feel his angst during his one fleeting subplot about his personal relationships.
I desperately hope that Oscars are awarded for this. British film at its absolute optimum.
Rubber (dir. Quentin Dupieux, 2010) Basically, Rubber is a film about a tyre called Robert (yes, really) that becomes self-aware, discovers 'he' has telekinetic powers and through sheer willpower (who says tyres can't have willpower?) can make any living things head explode. And so, we follow his journey, killing people who get in his way, and becoming obsessed with a girl. It sounds ridiculous, and it is. It sounds like a spoof, but it isn't. But it has so many redeeming factors and does appear to have reasoning for its farcical plot, that I can't help but think this it's nothing but inspired and original in ways so many films lack.
It's beautifully filmed as far as films about killer tyres go. It isn't too long. And it doesn't at any point take itself seriously. Rubber laughs at itself and it laughs at the viewer for watching it, and the longer you watch the more it laughs at you. It plays with diegesis' - the happenings of the film are being watched by an audience on screen, an audience that represent us. At some points, they're bored. One man jumps diegesis near the end and starts talking to the actors, offering advice on how he thinks the action should go. At the end, Robert is reincarnated into a tricycle, and rolls down the street, other tricycles and tyres appearing at his side as he goes.
Rubber is an acquired taste. If you can get the fact it's not serious and can go with it, you'll find the hilarity woven into its being. If you're one of those who insists a spade is a spade, probably one for you to miss.
Tron: Legacy (dir. Joseph Kosinski, 2010) I watched the original Tron (1982) directly before watching this. I can't say I liked it that much. It's everything you want in terms of a smart sci-fi plot with young Jeff Bridges but in parts it's totally incoherent in ways that made me just not want to bother. But having had the Tron: Legacy soundtrack by Daft Punk sitting in my iTunes library, well listened to and loved for over six months beforehand, I thought I'd better at least see what the sequel had to offer.
Basic premise of Tron - A computer hacker (Jeff Bridges) finds himself trapped inside the computer. Basic premise of Tron:Legacy - said computer hacker (Jeff Bridges) has been missing for some years. His now adult son, accidentally finds himself trapped inside the computer. He finds his father. He and his father must find way to escape.
I adored it within the first 30 seconds, and I can pinpoint the absolutely superb soundtrack as what makes it what it is. I'm not sure what came first, the visuals or the aural treats but they work so perfectly in sync that just thinking about the intro with Jeff Bridges talking (in that epic-trailer-voiceover-gravel-in-his-throat voice) about The Grid, gives me goosebumps. So it's mostly computer generated imagery, sleek and smooth and minimal and nothing like the original Tron. But despite this, it doesn't seem too self-obsessed with its own style. It just works, it looks and sounds good, and the film at a little over two hours may feel a bit long but it keeps the action up, is much easier to understand and let's just say, the costume designer needs and deserves kudos.
Made in Dagenham (dir. Nigel Cole, 2010) This was recommended to me by a close friend who shares my young feminist point of views. Made in Dagenham is a British dramatisation of the 1968 Ford car plant strike, and even with this keyword 'dramatisation', it makes me so proud. Its simple, near kitchen sink direction places it back neatly in the sixties. The fight against sexual discrimination isn't portrayed in the seemingly popular man-hating, extremist way - instead, this is a story about hard-working women, some married, some young and single, fighting together and in some cases risking their marriages and relationships, to change the face of politics for an entire sex. Feminism doesn't happen overnight and it isn't finished. And perhaps one of the best themes Made in Dagenham picks up on, and makes endearing, exciting and hilarious, is the concept of the male feminist!
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (dir. Tomas Alfredson, 2011) Search for this on IMDB. Look at cast list. Weep with joy, and watch it. What else can I say. Gary Oldman, Benedict Cumberbatch, Colin Firth… directed by Tomas Alfredson of Let the Right One In. The Swedish director has made an inherently British offering, keeping a hold of the drab, slow elegance of the book by John le Carré. Some critics have argued that Tinker Tailor is too slow in fact, but I beg to ask if they've actually read the book or grasped the point of making it so. It's a very British thing I feel, to make such self-deprecation and aching slowness so beautiful, and put within the context and the era, a fast moving action film would not work.
The set design is exquisite, portraying a listless and dreary London of the 1970s, and coupled with gorgeous photography, seamless editing, and a melancholic colour palette, I ask you to find me better. Gary Oldman is perfect as George Smiley, establishing within the first five minutes with minimal dialogue and slow performance, his lost, morose and depressed existence.
What upsets me is how underrated Benedict Cumberbatch's performance has been by the mainstream media. I might be biased… but while the rest of the cast is totally deserving of praise, Benedict Cumberbatch's Peter Guillam is definitely one of the most important characters, and somehow just through subtle facial expressions and flawlessly delivered dialogue (one of my favourite scenes being angry Guillam when he meets Ricki Tarr (Tom Hardy) after a long unexplained absence) you feel his loyalty for Smiley, and totally feel his angst during his one fleeting subplot about his personal relationships.
I desperately hope that Oscars are awarded for this. British film at its absolute optimum.
Rubber (dir. Quentin Dupieux, 2010) Basically, Rubber is a film about a tyre called Robert (yes, really) that becomes self-aware, discovers 'he' has telekinetic powers and through sheer willpower (who says tyres can't have willpower?) can make any living things head explode. And so, we follow his journey, killing people who get in his way, and becoming obsessed with a girl. It sounds ridiculous, and it is. It sounds like a spoof, but it isn't. But it has so many redeeming factors and does appear to have reasoning for its farcical plot, that I can't help but think this it's nothing but inspired and original in ways so many films lack.
It's beautifully filmed as far as films about killer tyres go. It isn't too long. And it doesn't at any point take itself seriously. Rubber laughs at itself and it laughs at the viewer for watching it, and the longer you watch the more it laughs at you. It plays with diegesis' - the happenings of the film are being watched by an audience on screen, an audience that represent us. At some points, they're bored. One man jumps diegesis near the end and starts talking to the actors, offering advice on how he thinks the action should go. At the end, Robert is reincarnated into a tricycle, and rolls down the street, other tricycles and tyres appearing at his side as he goes.
Rubber is an acquired taste. If you can get the fact it's not serious and can go with it, you'll find the hilarity woven into its being. If you're one of those who insists a spade is a spade, probably one for you to miss.
strawberry letter 23.
Update from my photo journal, mamiya cc20, and I've also begun experimenting with processing my own colour film.
Sunday 7 August 2011
a natural palette.
I'm using tumblr for a more regular photography, non-text blog, as you can upload photographs straight onto the site and the quality isn't reduced. Have a look at everything in between here.
Tuesday 2 August 2011
Tuesday 19 July 2011
recently watched #19
Some Like It Hot (dir. Billy Wilder, 1959) Marilyn Monroe really was the perfect star; they don’t make them like this anymore. I get it now. Funnier than I was expecting.
United 93 (dir. Paul Greengrass, 2006) From the British director of two Bourne films is a dramatisation of the United 93 flight, the only hijacked 9/11 plane which didn’t reach it’s destination. It’s rare I get that moved by a film. Horrors, while being my favourite genre, largely unaffect me. It’s “real” dramas like this that turn my stomach. I believe it was the director’s desire to make the take-off-crash duration as close to real time as possible, and after a certain point of the film you don’t actually leave the flight. Just small things like this make it so much closer to a reality it’s almost painful to watch.
Mostly filmed handheld, I couldn’t imagine seeing this at the cinema – much like The Blair Witch Project, I’m sure it would be enough to make people very sick. But just the idea of this happening, and knowing that it did. Really intense.
Life is Beautiful (La vita è bella, dir. Roberto Benigni, 1997) After watching, I researched this film to find it had won many Academy Awards and been highly successful at Cannes in the 90s. I had never heard of it, only coming across it on Sky Modern Greats. Life is Beautiful is based on life for Jews in a Nazi occupied Italy and split into two clear parts – a slapstick, romantic comedy –esque first sequence which to me was a fairly typical Italian comedy affair, and a dramatic, sad but weirdly upbeat second half. The second half, set inside a concentration camp, I found most interesting, as you wouldn’t think it would be easy to make a comedy out of it. At times it is really heart wrenching, as you watch the main protagonist Guido, keep the horrible truth about their place in “camp” from his small son. He turns it into a game, one that most don’t win. It’s so delicately done.
And of course, as per usual, the Americans roll in right at the end to save the day.
The Green Mile (dir. Frank Darabont, 1999) Another classic I’ve felt compelled to watch for some time. At 188 minutes, it’s one of those films that becomes an intense effort to pull yourself through, especially considering the grim subject matter, but it never slows down enough for you to become bored. The photographic direction wasn’t of much interest to me, but the score was – it was so Thomas Newman. Anyone who’s seen American Beauty can tell the composer a heartbeat away. Honestly, I think Sam Rockwell quite frankly stole the show with this.
Cemetery Junction (dir. Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant, 2010) Anything by Gervais and Merchant I am going to watch, and their unrelenting cynical humour is so, beautifully clear. Cemetery Junction is another 1970s coming-of-age drama that reminded me a bit of Nowhere Boy, the Sam Taylor-Wood film on John Lennon's early life. But there was something missing, I can’t quite place it, but I’d only really recommend this if you’ve 1. Not seen enough coming-of-age-dramas or 2. You are very loyal to Gervais/Merchant. Not bad, just not anywhere near la crème de la crème.
Less Than Zero (dir. Marek Kanievska, 1987) Based on a book by the author of American Psycho, and myself loving American Psycho in film format, I thought this would be up my street. Baby Robert Downey Jr. is great. But a largely unmoving and slow film.
The Experiment (dir. Paul Scheuring, 2010) I’m just going to start out by say, America, you really need to stop taking brilliantly made European film and slaughtering it, all for the sake of removing subtitles. If you have any interest in the Stanford Prison Experiment alluded to in this film, watch Das Experiment (2001), which was so intense I nearly cried, and I’ve already explained how largely unmoved I am by most film, so this should tell you everything you need to know. I mean, even Adrien Brody and Forest bloody Whitaker couldn’t make this remake any more tolerable. It lacks the intensity, art direction and passionate performances and decent screenplay of its original.
Harold and Maude (dir. Hal Ashby, 1971) Another one it’s taken me too long to see. Unconventional relationship between a young boy and an older lady, two detached outsiders who constantly attend stranger’s funerals. The first scene shows Harold faking his own hanging, and his mother nonchalantly ignoring him, just another day. With a smooth, tinkering Cat Stevens soundtrack layered over the top, it’s a perfect 91 minutes.
Sophie Scholl – The Final Days (dir. Marc Rothemund, 2005) The Germans are frequently showing themselves at masters of dramas based heavily in reality – Das Baader-Meinhof Complex, Goodbye Lenin…. And this certainly deserves to be seen alongside those modern classics. It’s also compelling to see a German interpretation and confrontation with their own past.
Changeling (dir. Clint Eastwood, 2008) Interesting but I felt it far too long and drawn out. Maybe that was intentional. The feminist undertones were the one thing that kept me watching, so much so I found myself shouting at the screen. Women have come a long way from the 1920’s chauvinism, but we’ve still a lengthy road ahead. John Malkovich stole this for me, sorry Angelina.
Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror (dir. John Rawlins, 1942) & Sherlock Holmes and the Spider Woman (dir. Roy William Neill, 1944) Two Conan-Doyle installments with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, what isn’t to like.
Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (dir. Edgar Wright, 2010) As much as I feel disloyal to lodge my dislike against a British director making it stateside, Scott Pilgrim perfectly encapsulates everything I’ve grown to repel in the MTV generation. This film IS the MTV generation.
So called ‘awkward’ main protagonist? Check.
Action plot? Check. ‘Alternative’ romance subplot? Check.
Annoying ‘alternative’ love interest, who is ‘alternative’ because she was in a band and changes her hair colour? Check.
Constant need for me to use quotation marks to emphasis how cool this film wants to be by being awkward and alternative? Check.
The flashy, self-conscious onscreen graphics every time a phone rang became tiresome after the first go. You have seven plus lengthy fight sequences, all the same, all with the same onscreen graphics, to sit through. If you’ve seen one Michael Cera film then you know what to expect from him – just ‘that’ face. The entire film was so conscious of being COOL, of being GRAPHIC, of being LOOK-IT’S-MEANT-TO-LOOK-LIKE-A-VIDEO-GAME!!!!!!!! Utterly annoying. I may be biased but if you want a decent, unpretentious film based on a comic book that doesn't constantly scream I'M A COMIC BOOK AND I'M VINTAGE ALTERNATIVE, look at Ghost World for ideas. But I like Keiran Culkin. The Culkins always win.
In The Loop (dir. Armando Iannucci, 2007) British comedy at it's best, directed by co-creator of Alan Partridge, based on The Thick of It, savagely satirical with an angry, rude, arrogant, downright disgusting Scottish man played by Peter Capaldi who comes out with lines such as “Well, it is out there, it’s out there now, lurking like a big hairy rapist at a coach station”. My poor descriptors don’t do any justice, just, see it. Laugh. Enjoy. Love being British for so shamelessly having this caustic sense of humour.
London Boulevard (dir. William Monahan, 2010) Better than I thought. Better than the critics had insisted. A sexy Keira Knightley, with every other line usually revolving around the phrase “fuck off you cunt”.
Devil (dir. John Erick Dowdle, 2010) Right from the beginning I was shouting at the screen “THAT OLD WOMAN IS AN ANNOYING BITCH.” And I was right. There, I’ve ruined it for you; you don’t even need to watch it. It was almost okay, until the very last line – “it’s ok. If the devil is real, then God must be real, too.” OH, fuck off. Did this really need to take THAT turn?
Forgetting Sarah Marshall (dir. Nicolas Stoller, 2008) One of those rom-coms you only really need to watch once. Some good lines, usually about Russell Brand being British. Mediocre at best.
Get Him To The Greek (dir. Nicolas Stoller, 2010) See Forgetting Sarah Marshall.
Saturday 9 July 2011
finale.
When something final is going on just outside, red carpet just beyond your second floor window, tea and internet connection in hand.
When you can remember with so much clarity, (something rare in your own childhood memory) spending your pocket money buying the books. Pestering dad to take you to see the first Harry Potter film, back when only three books had been published and I'd read them all, the book spines creased and loved. Mum and Dad prone to falling asleep in the cinema but me aged 10 being too absorbed to care.
When you remember that was ten years ago.
Some people just know what they want to be from a young age. I didn't then and I still don't which terrifies me, it fills me with unparalled anxiety.
What I do know is that the entire Harry Potter franchise was a huge part in shaping my passions today. Back in school it wasn't cool to like Harry Potter but, somehow, even then I knew that didn't matter much. Why would I regret something that has brought me complete solace and inspired me, frequently, constantly. I know I'm an intensely detached person in general, I always have been. But having characters who were always there, who never moved a pace without taking you with them, is a lasting comfort . And I don't expect anything to end here.
This final premiere, actually witnessing the obsessed crowds only assures me that I was never the only one. What more can you need to gently caress your heart.
To the ultimate British franchise of all time.
Monday 27 June 2011
Monday 20 June 2011
recently watched #18
127 Hours (dir. Danny Boyle, 2010) I'm still so impressed Danny Boyle made a feature length film about Aron Ralston - because you know what happens. And well, everything but nothing happens. Aron gets his arm trapped under a rock and waits five days before he amputates it. There, I have ruined it for you. But 127 Hours never slows down. Somehow I still feel there was something missing and it wasn't the epic that I was in part expecting, but there are some exsquisitely composed visuals, gorgeous colour palettes and the soundtrack is typically Boyle.
Jackass Number 2 (dir. Jeff Tremaine, 2006) It's ironic I recorded this and found it on my Sky+ the day one of the crew members is reported dead. What can you say about this other than it's Jackass and if you have even the slightest weak stomach, give it a miss. I noticed a number of the stunts are exactly the same to Dirty Sanchez, I'm not however sure which came first. Dirty Sanchez remains my favourite though.
The Wicker Man (dir. Robin Hardy, 1973) An ex-tutor recommended this as one of the best British horror films. The Wicker Man tells the story of a stauntly Christian police officer who travels to a small, self-contained island in Scotland, investigating the reporting of a missing girl. Sounds simple enough, but it quickly turns nothing short of surreal with pagan-esque anthems, naked women dancing around fires chanting for virgin births, and children being taught how maypoles are phallic symbols. One of those completely non-graphic horrors that still manages to engage the hairs on the nape of your neck.
The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (dir. Billy Wilder, 1970) Yes, I am a raging Sherlock Holmes fangirl so you might not take this seriously, but this is one of the best films I've seen for a long time. The Private Life is not based on any Conan-Doyle original story, but travels a typical "investigation" narrative thread and uses it to parody and explore that relationship between Holmes and Watson. Hilariously funny and it never takes itself too seriously, but all those Holmesian ticks are kept warm by the brilliant Robert Stephens and Christopher Lee. This satisfied everything I love about Sherlock Holmes - "Watson this is a very small flat, we don't want to clutter it up with women!"
Bonnie & Clyde (dir. Arthur Penn, 1967) Bonnie & Clyde is notorious as having one of the bloodiest death scenes in film. The death toll of the film as a whole is nothing to be sniffed at either. Bullet holes and face shots. Faye Dunaway's style is flawless.
The Astronaut's Wife (dir. Rand Ravich, 1999) Johnny Depp is quite honestly the only redeeming factor of this. I felt confused by the fact all the real action happens in the first 10 minutes and even then you don't see anything. But it appears this is the point. You then have to spend the next 90 minutes bored, staring at Depp's beautiful but psychotic face, wondering along with his wife who the hell he is supposed to be. This seems to be a drama film, with the odd sci-fi bit throw in. Felt disjointed. Bored.
Smithereens (dir. Susan Siedelman, 1982) Female director - sold. Main protagonist 19 year old Wren is obsessed with fitting into the rock and roll scene of 1980's New York, but she has a problem - she doesn't really know anyone, she's utterly selfish and abrupt, and she can't play instruments or write songs. She is a walking creative draught. Maybe that's why I kind of liked her - she represented that typical angst of just not knowing what you're meant to do with your pathetic existence. Not having the means or knowledge to make your dreams come true...
Submarine (dir. Richard Ayoade, 2010) Richard Ayoade, just when I thought you couldn't do better, you go and make this lovely British independent film. Good work. With that boy from Tracy Beaker. And an original Alex Turner soundtrack. Welsh accents and secondary school tales. These things will never get old.
The Godfather (dir. Francis Ford Coppola, 1972) I apologise in advance here because from what I understand, I am currently residing within a minority. I am so disappointed with The Godfather that is pains me. It may just be the Mafia theme which I've never had the slightest interest in in my life. Not even the "greats" Marlon Brando and Al Pacino could make that 2 hr 55 min easier for me, not that there performances weren't admirable. I was bored. I couldn't keep up with the death toll and random Italian-American characters who walked in and then disappeared again, not to be seen for the rest of the film. There seemed to be unexplained jumps in time without any proper signifiers. Maybe I just didn't concentrate enough, maybe this needs a second viewing, but I can't think of anything less appealing right now. I am so sorry. Did I really miss something? edit: my dad aged 19 thought kind of the same thing. My opinion is legit.
Wednesday 15 June 2011
women as objects of fantasy
My Dreamers work is currently in the OCVC Creative Arts School end of year exhibition. Well, what I've finished of it. I'm still working on other things for it. My classmates are also exhibiting (unfortunately for me, better) work, so why not go and see it. It's open to the public at the Banbury campus until Fri 17th June, 11am-5pm.
Thursday 9 June 2011
nyc/uk day 8: landing, a final entry
It is 17:28 GMT and so I have been awake for about 28 hours which is virtually unheard of for me. I am not known for non-sleeping. My head is completely fried but I am over the worst of the "I'M SO GONE LET ME SLEEP" and am waiting until later this evening before I get my head down. I have had the weirdest 28 hours because it doesn't really feel that long, I haven't really had a "night" in that time, and well as is usual when you're travelling, a lot got packed in.
Woke up. Bathed. Packed. Nearly broke my suitcase trying to pack it. Checked out. Chilled out in Central Park for a few hours in 36 degree celsius humidity, I find that nigh on painful and spent the entire time trying to distract myself with soduku again, and the thought of cool English air that was only a handful of hours away from me. Keely had her last pretzel. Walked back to collect our baggage, excited by the fact street harrassment for the most part would also be behind me. Got super shuttle to JFK, waved happily goodbye to an infinity of reckless drivers and car horn users, and trooped inside terminal 4 ready for our lovely air conditioned flight home.
A flight I found entirely weird because there were a lot of empty seats. One of our air hostesses looked like the spit of Scarlett Johansson (Keely will argue this but she DID) so that excited me because hello, major lady crush. Finally watched 127 Hours and tried and failed to get some shut eye. I listened to The End enough times for it to always remind me of that flight home from New York every time I hear it. Some cockney geezers were sat in a row near us and they nearly made me cry with glee, you'd think I'd been away from England and beautiful British accents for months on end. Hearing "Welcome to cattle class!" in cockney after a week of New Yorkers was like Sherlock drizzled with chocolate syrup and ice cream.
My back still hurts from that flight. I love flying as part of a holiday but I don't, if that makes any sense at all. It does. So arriving home at 7am has buggered me completely but I'm surviving on my return to an eternal stream of proper sugary tea (as my Scottish father always taught me how to make it, thus it is perfect) and remaining Hershey's.
I shall return to you, New York. I need to visit as many of your superb Arthouse Theaters, gallerys and see as many more shows as my tiny pocket can squeeze in. Thanks again.
Woke up. Bathed. Packed. Nearly broke my suitcase trying to pack it. Checked out. Chilled out in Central Park for a few hours in 36 degree celsius humidity, I find that nigh on painful and spent the entire time trying to distract myself with soduku again, and the thought of cool English air that was only a handful of hours away from me. Keely had her last pretzel. Walked back to collect our baggage, excited by the fact street harrassment for the most part would also be behind me. Got super shuttle to JFK, waved happily goodbye to an infinity of reckless drivers and car horn users, and trooped inside terminal 4 ready for our lovely air conditioned flight home.
A flight I found entirely weird because there were a lot of empty seats. One of our air hostesses looked like the spit of Scarlett Johansson (Keely will argue this but she DID) so that excited me because hello, major lady crush. Finally watched 127 Hours and tried and failed to get some shut eye. I listened to The End enough times for it to always remind me of that flight home from New York every time I hear it. Some cockney geezers were sat in a row near us and they nearly made me cry with glee, you'd think I'd been away from England and beautiful British accents for months on end. Hearing "Welcome to cattle class!" in cockney after a week of New Yorkers was like Sherlock drizzled with chocolate syrup and ice cream.
My back still hurts from that flight. I love flying as part of a holiday but I don't, if that makes any sense at all. It does. So arriving home at 7am has buggered me completely but I'm surviving on my return to an eternal stream of proper sugary tea (as my Scottish father always taught me how to make it, thus it is perfect) and remaining Hershey's.
I shall return to you, New York. I need to visit as many of your superb Arthouse Theaters, gallerys and see as many more shows as my tiny pocket can squeeze in. Thanks again.
Wednesday 8 June 2011
nyc day 7: cars that honk at me have picked on the wrong Brit
Last full day. We made no real plans except maybe see a film (I desperately wanted to see Tree of Life) and go to Phantom of the Opera for our final evening.
After a long sleep following my mild sunstroke episode, a chill with a cup of tea in Central Park was in order. By 10am it was already about 30 degrees outside so the decision to do nothing in the shade for a while was probably a good one. Soduku and some Frankenstein script, what more could a lady want.
During our chill I remembered we'd wanted to go back to Barnes & Noble, and seeing as we probably wouldn't have a later chance to go, we trekked back down 5th avenue to find it.
Fact, I love Barnes & Noble. What sold me? Finding tables full of classic books, including many piles of Jane Eyre and Sherlock Holmes. So many different covers and... just lovely. I felt at home. There was a signing going on by an author I've never heard of in my life but a long queue was seemingly very excited by... so a lot of the store was closed off. Disappointing. Didn't stop me spending $50 on an Edgar Allen Poe book and a big pile of American magazines. A film issue and a lovely photo magazine for me, and some American gossip rags for my sister.
We failed to see Tree of Life in the afternoon because I'm, in Keely's words, a donkey for checking times of a cinema several blocks up, instead of the one down the street. Alas only Pirates 4 was showing and well, I've seen that. So we made a final trip to Walgreens and went back to our air con hotel room before Phantom of the Opera.
Phantom of the Opera was brilliant but a lot shorter than I was imagining. I've never seen a film or show of it before, of course I've heard the music. The Majestic Theater was much bigger than the Al Hirschfield Theater... but we were disappointed by the audience's lack of enthusiasm compared to the How to Succeed in Business crowd. The fact that half of the audience spent the show coughing and fidgeting also frayed my already thinning English nerves. I took some of the frustration out on our walk back by throwing some dirty glares at anyone who stood in my way, ignoring yet MORE people trying to sell us comedy show tickets ("oh you're from ENGLAND! Do you like Michael McIntyre/Bill Bailey?!"), and walking out in front of taxis so they had to slow down. I am so very grown up.
Airport shuttle at 2:15pm tomorrow and I've got an already heavy suitcase to pack. I hope you are ready and waiting for me, my sunburnt scalp and itchy bitten legs, England!
After a long sleep following my mild sunstroke episode, a chill with a cup of tea in Central Park was in order. By 10am it was already about 30 degrees outside so the decision to do nothing in the shade for a while was probably a good one. Soduku and some Frankenstein script, what more could a lady want.
During our chill I remembered we'd wanted to go back to Barnes & Noble, and seeing as we probably wouldn't have a later chance to go, we trekked back down 5th avenue to find it.
Fact, I love Barnes & Noble. What sold me? Finding tables full of classic books, including many piles of Jane Eyre and Sherlock Holmes. So many different covers and... just lovely. I felt at home. There was a signing going on by an author I've never heard of in my life but a long queue was seemingly very excited by... so a lot of the store was closed off. Disappointing. Didn't stop me spending $50 on an Edgar Allen Poe book and a big pile of American magazines. A film issue and a lovely photo magazine for me, and some American gossip rags for my sister.
We failed to see Tree of Life in the afternoon because I'm, in Keely's words, a donkey for checking times of a cinema several blocks up, instead of the one down the street. Alas only Pirates 4 was showing and well, I've seen that. So we made a final trip to Walgreens and went back to our air con hotel room before Phantom of the Opera.
Phantom of the Opera was brilliant but a lot shorter than I was imagining. I've never seen a film or show of it before, of course I've heard the music. The Majestic Theater was much bigger than the Al Hirschfield Theater... but we were disappointed by the audience's lack of enthusiasm compared to the How to Succeed in Business crowd. The fact that half of the audience spent the show coughing and fidgeting also frayed my already thinning English nerves. I took some of the frustration out on our walk back by throwing some dirty glares at anyone who stood in my way, ignoring yet MORE people trying to sell us comedy show tickets ("oh you're from ENGLAND! Do you like Michael McIntyre/Bill Bailey?!"), and walking out in front of taxis so they had to slow down. I am so very grown up.
Airport shuttle at 2:15pm tomorrow and I've got an already heavy suitcase to pack. I hope you are ready and waiting for me, my sunburnt scalp and itchy bitten legs, England!
Tuesday 7 June 2011
nyc day 6: waving at libby
Day 6 brought the last of seeing lengthy queues and joining them, with our final epicly touristy outing to the Statue of Liberty and Ground Zero.
The US doesn't seem to like to signpost things as much as at home... so after finally finding where to pick up tickets, we bought pretzels for breakfast and joined the end of a very long queue. I still feel very comfortable in queues, it's something we're good at.
Trying to take photos on the ferry, overlooking Manhattan Island and Brooklyn is not easy, because everyone else is trying to do the same. Every single stereotypical tourist photo you can think of, was being made. Within about 5 minutes I could feel my delicate, white English skin screaming at me. Thankfully I'd smothered myself in factor 50 before leaving.
The Statue of Liberty had looked tiny when seen from a distance on Brooklyn bridge. But she didn't disappoint close up. Keely waved so she was happy. I found some drink and shade so I was happy.
One lap of Liberty Island later, we found another ferry queue to jump on the end of, and plenty of queue jumpers and mumble at. It would be against our nature to do anything but. We shouted some more Boosh and it crowd quotes off the ferry like the quite frankly awesome people we are and rode dirty all the way back to Manhattan Island.
Between the ferry port and subway we came across some street performers so watched them for a few minutes before I felt myself physically turning into a walking wall of sunstroke mush. Time to get out of the sun for a moment. A few subway stops later and we came to Cortland St where Ground Zero is. It's nothing like I expected. I imagined there would still be plaques to the victims there, but now it looked purely to me to be a building site, which is both good and bad. The cranes and builders for me took away from the poignancy of it all, and I knew that I simply couldn't imagine what had happened there nearly ten years ago and it would be wrong of me to try. I think it's good America is moving on with it, making the area into something new (and let's face it, they'll always be quick to remind us of it) but I almost feel as though I failed as a person because I didn't take much away from the area.
We left for the hotel again pretty quickly. The New York subway is infinitely irregular and not as pretty as the London Underground. It seems to be stuck in the sixties. I bought another cuppa tea and some fiji water (it's in a rectangular bottle, I was sold). Fell asleep very quickly in the evening because I'm pretty sure I did suffer some mild sunstroke. I never learn.
Not feeling so homesick anymore but ready to return to my beloved motherland. I miss my Watson!
The US doesn't seem to like to signpost things as much as at home... so after finally finding where to pick up tickets, we bought pretzels for breakfast and joined the end of a very long queue. I still feel very comfortable in queues, it's something we're good at.
Trying to take photos on the ferry, overlooking Manhattan Island and Brooklyn is not easy, because everyone else is trying to do the same. Every single stereotypical tourist photo you can think of, was being made. Within about 5 minutes I could feel my delicate, white English skin screaming at me. Thankfully I'd smothered myself in factor 50 before leaving.
The Statue of Liberty had looked tiny when seen from a distance on Brooklyn bridge. But she didn't disappoint close up. Keely waved so she was happy. I found some drink and shade so I was happy.
One lap of Liberty Island later, we found another ferry queue to jump on the end of, and plenty of queue jumpers and mumble at. It would be against our nature to do anything but. We shouted some more Boosh and it crowd quotes off the ferry like the quite frankly awesome people we are and rode dirty all the way back to Manhattan Island.
Between the ferry port and subway we came across some street performers so watched them for a few minutes before I felt myself physically turning into a walking wall of sunstroke mush. Time to get out of the sun for a moment. A few subway stops later and we came to Cortland St where Ground Zero is. It's nothing like I expected. I imagined there would still be plaques to the victims there, but now it looked purely to me to be a building site, which is both good and bad. The cranes and builders for me took away from the poignancy of it all, and I knew that I simply couldn't imagine what had happened there nearly ten years ago and it would be wrong of me to try. I think it's good America is moving on with it, making the area into something new (and let's face it, they'll always be quick to remind us of it) but I almost feel as though I failed as a person because I didn't take much away from the area.
We left for the hotel again pretty quickly. The New York subway is infinitely irregular and not as pretty as the London Underground. It seems to be stuck in the sixties. I bought another cuppa tea and some fiji water (it's in a rectangular bottle, I was sold). Fell asleep very quickly in the evening because I'm pretty sure I did suffer some mild sunstroke. I never learn.
Not feeling so homesick anymore but ready to return to my beloved motherland. I miss my Watson!
Monday 6 June 2011
nyc day 5: pounds are superior to dollars
Nothing much to report today except that it's probably been my favourite day so far because it's been super chilled and took everything as it came. The humidity has retreated. Visited Macy's which as far as I can see is just Harrod's with less shoppers and no epic chocolatier. Had a field day in H&M, yes, the one shop I can get at home is typically my favourite.
We then decided we wanted to see How to Succeed in Business again, so spur of the moment dropped by tkts in Times Square and nabbed some for the afternoon matinee. With an hour to spare, we dropped our stuff in the hotel, I ate an epic sandwich and drank more vanilla cola while watching Spongebob.
I regret nothing. We've fallen for our beautiful English man Dan Rad all over again. As I said before his American accent is perfect but you can tell he's English because he properly pronounciates all his words.
I think myself and Keely made nuisances of ourselves by loudly filling the interval of the show with many it crowd quotes. It is our revenge for Americans being so noisy. Discussing "YOU BASTARD" will never be inappropriate for us. Yesterday I graffitied a book in our hotel room with it crowd quotes too, I hope future occupants enjoy.
But, I think my favourite thing of today was buying a certain gift for someone, just because I know if I got it I'd be a very happy lady indeed.
We then decided we wanted to see How to Succeed in Business again, so spur of the moment dropped by tkts in Times Square and nabbed some for the afternoon matinee. With an hour to spare, we dropped our stuff in the hotel, I ate an epic sandwich and drank more vanilla cola while watching Spongebob.
I regret nothing. We've fallen for our beautiful English man Dan Rad all over again. As I said before his American accent is perfect but you can tell he's English because he properly pronounciates all his words.
I think myself and Keely made nuisances of ourselves by loudly filling the interval of the show with many it crowd quotes. It is our revenge for Americans being so noisy. Discussing "YOU BASTARD" will never be inappropriate for us. Yesterday I graffitied a book in our hotel room with it crowd quotes too, I hope future occupants enjoy.
But, I think my favourite thing of today was buying a certain gift for someone, just because I know if I got it I'd be a very happy lady indeed.
Sunday 5 June 2011
nyc day 4: pink lemonade snapple
Yesterday we spoke to a guide at the Harry Potter exhibition who recommended getting out of claustrophobic and touristy Manhattan and try Brooklyn, go over the river and visit a flea market. So we did. I discovered very quickly that I hate the New York subway but the key is just get on a train and hope it takes you to a station somewhere near your destination. It's not simple enough to just name the stations and have seperate lines which can be clearly marked on a map - no, there have to be an assortment of numbers and letters and hidden names for you to jumble through just to get a few blocks down. At least it is a cheap way to travel around the city.
As soon as we got to Brooklyn it became clear that actually, over the last three days Manhattan has become as much a comfort zone as strictly possible. The heat and clear skies seemed to exaggerate the stereotypical "Americanness" of Brooklyn, streets coated in yellow light, windows with bars, steps in front of every house. After walking many blocks (and coming across Cumberland St which I perhaps got too excited over) we found the flea market on LaFayette Avenue. Amazing vintage dresses in one off florals, retro designs and delicate lace offerings, old suitcases, armless mannequins, and fixie bike galore. But my favourite stall offered vintage cameras, old photos of England and religious memorabilia. Unfortunately none of this was cheap, and actually all the really interesting stuff I'd love to spend money on, the sixties kitchen tables and gorgeous old wooden drawers, wire chairs and decorative mirrors, are all the things I'd be unable to fit in my suitcase. Inspiring none the less.
Once again a few hours walking around Brooklyn left us knackered. We retired to our hotel for a few hours and found solace in Nick channel... we've developed a 'it's so bad it's addictive' syndrome over Victorious and iCarly. I also had my first cup of tea of my stay, I'm sure the cashier in Starbucks knew I was British and I appreciated his "Enjoy!" comment after I'd paid.
Our final trek of the evening led us to the Empire State building, a trip that bought us the first American to attempt a British accent in front of us. It was all quite amazing.
So, halfway through. England I hope you are still waiting for me.
Now I'm going to do some more soduku and reclaim my half of the bed.
As soon as we got to Brooklyn it became clear that actually, over the last three days Manhattan has become as much a comfort zone as strictly possible. The heat and clear skies seemed to exaggerate the stereotypical "Americanness" of Brooklyn, streets coated in yellow light, windows with bars, steps in front of every house. After walking many blocks (and coming across Cumberland St which I perhaps got too excited over) we found the flea market on LaFayette Avenue. Amazing vintage dresses in one off florals, retro designs and delicate lace offerings, old suitcases, armless mannequins, and fixie bike galore. But my favourite stall offered vintage cameras, old photos of England and religious memorabilia. Unfortunately none of this was cheap, and actually all the really interesting stuff I'd love to spend money on, the sixties kitchen tables and gorgeous old wooden drawers, wire chairs and decorative mirrors, are all the things I'd be unable to fit in my suitcase. Inspiring none the less.
Once again a few hours walking around Brooklyn left us knackered. We retired to our hotel for a few hours and found solace in Nick channel... we've developed a 'it's so bad it's addictive' syndrome over Victorious and iCarly. I also had my first cup of tea of my stay, I'm sure the cashier in Starbucks knew I was British and I appreciated his "Enjoy!" comment after I'd paid.
Our final trek of the evening led us to the Empire State building, a trip that bought us the first American to attempt a British accent in front of us. It was all quite amazing.
So, halfway through. England I hope you are still waiting for me.
Now I'm going to do some more soduku and reclaim my half of the bed.
Saturday 4 June 2011
nyc day 3: harry potter is home
Never has the act of walking tired me out so much. We made it around the Harry Potter exhibition and the MoMa before having to retire for a few hours before heading back out to the Rockefeller Center. Still feeling slightly homesick... but everyone we've come across today has been lovely and the bits of Harry Potter were certainly a spot of home comfort!
Too tired for being completely nocturnal so sleep is needed.
Too tired for being completely nocturnal so sleep is needed.
Friday 3 June 2011
nyc day 2: i learned about the london underground from sherlock holmes
Day two has acted as an orientation day of sorts. Long sleep, sugar breakfast and a lengthy walk. Got to the end of 7th avenue by Central Park and a man tried to hard sell me a ride on a bike (giggity). He mentioned Sherlock Holmes so I liked him very much but he didn't get my money. He also told us that the same architect who designed Hyde Park designed Central Park, and while I don't know if that's true (not that I don't believe him) it's weird how in the right places, you could almost fool yourself into thinking you're in central London. New York is much noisier and more humid though. Not a patch on ye olde London.
Took a long walk to the Guggenheim only to find it closed on Thursdays. We walked back down 5th Avenue and Keely submitted to her Forever 21 wishes.
I cannot get over this claustrophobia I'm feeling. The streets are intimidating and the general attitude of the locals is something totally alien to me. I think we've met every stereotype possible in the last 36 hours but the buildings still tower and my loss is exaggerated. You feel small in England then you get here and it's all the more intense.
We didn't see much today, only sought out Times Square, descended on Hershey's and stocked up on American candy, and walked many, many blocks. Everyday we are discovering more Irish pubs, New York seems to have many Irish fans, and today we found the Scottish restaurant with "kilted waiters"! I'm intrigued by what the menu would comprise.
After a few hours getting our bearings, we returned to our hotel to chill (spending an hour watching Dr Oz which apparently is 4pm Embarrasing Bodies for the US, with admissions such as "I orgasm when I have a bowel movement". Truly amazing teatime telly). We then headed out to see Daniel Radcliffe on Broadway in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. It's only a few blocks down from our hotel at the Al Hirschfield theatre, which was surprisingly small. What I thought was a small theatre didn't ruin any sense of grandeur inside though, even if we were sat one row from the back. Generally speaking I don't "do" musicals, in fact, usually I'd rather have a large cup of bleach poured down my gullet. But I enjoyed this thoroughly, Dan Rad's American accent was brilliant even if I do get homesick for his English one, and well is there anything more "American" than a musical that includes a song about there being no coffee in the machine? It was all very Broadway, and I regret nothing.
On our trek back, overwhelming tiredness subsided temporarily, just enough for me to realise I much prefer New York at night. I believe Keely agrees. This may mean we grow steadily more nocturnal over the course of this week. I find the streets and the heat easier to bear when the blanket of night descends, maybe because seeing the sky reminds me how big this city is. I am beginning to understand why London is described as London Town.
Took a long walk to the Guggenheim only to find it closed on Thursdays. We walked back down 5th Avenue and Keely submitted to her Forever 21 wishes.
I cannot get over this claustrophobia I'm feeling. The streets are intimidating and the general attitude of the locals is something totally alien to me. I think we've met every stereotype possible in the last 36 hours but the buildings still tower and my loss is exaggerated. You feel small in England then you get here and it's all the more intense.
We didn't see much today, only sought out Times Square, descended on Hershey's and stocked up on American candy, and walked many, many blocks. Everyday we are discovering more Irish pubs, New York seems to have many Irish fans, and today we found the Scottish restaurant with "kilted waiters"! I'm intrigued by what the menu would comprise.
After a few hours getting our bearings, we returned to our hotel to chill (spending an hour watching Dr Oz which apparently is 4pm Embarrasing Bodies for the US, with admissions such as "I orgasm when I have a bowel movement". Truly amazing teatime telly). We then headed out to see Daniel Radcliffe on Broadway in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. It's only a few blocks down from our hotel at the Al Hirschfield theatre, which was surprisingly small. What I thought was a small theatre didn't ruin any sense of grandeur inside though, even if we were sat one row from the back. Generally speaking I don't "do" musicals, in fact, usually I'd rather have a large cup of bleach poured down my gullet. But I enjoyed this thoroughly, Dan Rad's American accent was brilliant even if I do get homesick for his English one, and well is there anything more "American" than a musical that includes a song about there being no coffee in the machine? It was all very Broadway, and I regret nothing.
On our trek back, overwhelming tiredness subsided temporarily, just enough for me to realise I much prefer New York at night. I believe Keely agrees. This may mean we grow steadily more nocturnal over the course of this week. I find the streets and the heat easier to bear when the blanket of night descends, maybe because seeing the sky reminds me how big this city is. I am beginning to understand why London is described as London Town.
Thursday 2 June 2011
nyc day 1: madam butterfly.
As this entry suggests I am trying to blog NYC as I go because I don't tend to remember small details. After a magnificently restless 3 hours sleep I found myself at Heathrow Terminal 3 with Keely, and following a worryingly easy check-in, discussed how being in America was definitely going to exaggerate our own accents.
I've never been to the States before and previously my longest flight was a mere 4 hours. I don't think 7 hours has ever gone so fast in my life. Virgin Atlantic was entirely impressive with inflight entertainment, and while lacking in Sherlock, I watched Submarine (Richard Ayoade's directorial debut) with that boy from Tracy Beaker and it's just another of those teen films that you find something to relate to.
Hours later in NYC and 5 hours in the past, through immigration and having found my luggage, a heavy wall of humidity awaited. The first lady we spoke to in the airport calmly told us about a tornado warning (excuse you WHAT, WE ARE ENGLISH, WE DON'T DO TORNADOS) and gossiped about the Royals. Because of course we all know the Royals and dine with them frequently.
On our airport shuttle through the city to Manhattan, it took me all of five minutes to feel entirely consumed. Having only experienced 'The' NYC through pixelated screens and second-hand conversation, I knew perfectly well that while the language barrier may be lessened, culturally, England and America are no even close on the spectrum. For a week no more red telephone boxes or chippys, no more zebra crossings, winding side streets and small alley ways. No, New York is beyond gigantic. The portion sizes, buildings and street widths are off my small English scale. Wide streets tightly packed and endless use of the car horn. Give me another week to be fully digested before I return.
My first retail customer service experience in Walgreens was less than satisfactory. I did the typical Brit thing of standing there patiently taking it, all the while inwardly huffing about how in England this wouldn't happen because you'd get your arse complained about and instantly fired. Is this something I should get used to? On the upside, England may not sell coca-cola vanilla but over here it lives strong, and I shall get through more Reeces peanut butter cups this week than I should admit.
I've never been to the States before and previously my longest flight was a mere 4 hours. I don't think 7 hours has ever gone so fast in my life. Virgin Atlantic was entirely impressive with inflight entertainment, and while lacking in Sherlock, I watched Submarine (Richard Ayoade's directorial debut) with that boy from Tracy Beaker and it's just another of those teen films that you find something to relate to.
Hours later in NYC and 5 hours in the past, through immigration and having found my luggage, a heavy wall of humidity awaited. The first lady we spoke to in the airport calmly told us about a tornado warning (excuse you WHAT, WE ARE ENGLISH, WE DON'T DO TORNADOS) and gossiped about the Royals. Because of course we all know the Royals and dine with them frequently.
On our airport shuttle through the city to Manhattan, it took me all of five minutes to feel entirely consumed. Having only experienced 'The' NYC through pixelated screens and second-hand conversation, I knew perfectly well that while the language barrier may be lessened, culturally, England and America are no even close on the spectrum. For a week no more red telephone boxes or chippys, no more zebra crossings, winding side streets and small alley ways. No, New York is beyond gigantic. The portion sizes, buildings and street widths are off my small English scale. Wide streets tightly packed and endless use of the car horn. Give me another week to be fully digested before I return.
My first retail customer service experience in Walgreens was less than satisfactory. I did the typical Brit thing of standing there patiently taking it, all the while inwardly huffing about how in England this wouldn't happen because you'd get your arse complained about and instantly fired. Is this something I should get used to? On the upside, England may not sell coca-cola vanilla but over here it lives strong, and I shall get through more Reeces peanut butter cups this week than I should admit.
Thursday 26 May 2011
recently watched #17
I now have an account on Rotten Tomatoes where I can rate everything I watch, add me so I can see your ratings and reviews!
Tuesday 24 May 2011
A short review: Third Star
Third Star (2010)
Director: Hattie Dalton
Starring: Benedict Cumberbatch, JJ Feild, Tom Burke, & Adam Robertson
(This review contains spoilers)
For someone who at the moment can only aspire to anyone lucky enough to have been able to make their own film, Third Star, the low-budget directorial debut of Hattie Dalton, stands up as something I kind of wish I’d made or worked on.
Third Star (name coming from a misunderstanding of phrase 'second star to the right and straight on till morning') follows a “wagon-trip” along the Pembrokeshire coast, you know the kind of thing we’re all used to – characters go on road trip – something changes - characters change forever. Textbook.
Nothing much happens for the 92 minute running time. We know James won’t see his 30th birthday and thus this is his final trip. His best friend Davey currently lives to look after him, Bill may soon be a father and Miles has been having a secret affair with James’ married sister. That 92 minutes seems directionless for a lot of time; it’s more a study of the relationship between these four friends who just don’t come from a hard-done-by era – our problems here are marital affairs and mobile phones. These minute problems when placed side-by-side with James illness and his obvious obsession over life create tension and painfully honest arguments.
Once again it’s proven that dynamic character relationships can triumph over lack of narrative drive and action sequences. Every single character at some point shows themselves to be totally selfish and absorbed in their own existence, and dying James’ constant cries that “you’re wasting your lives” (‘you’re’ extending right to us, it seems) are presented not so much as sentimental values but something that we all know perfectly bloody well – it’s only when we are presented face on with death ourselves that it seems to matter.
After seeing the trailer to Third Star I convinced myself I was going to be a weeping mess at the end, but weirdly enough I wasn’t. It was only on contemplation afterward that I got a lump in my throat. Not because of the fact you see James take his own life, immersing himself in the cold, unforgiving salt water of the Welsh sea. I was more taken with the utter certainty he had over such a choice. Earlier on he had angrily ranted in frustration that he wanted “more time” and then a day or two later explains with no ounce of unease that he wants his friends to be with him when he dies, to actually let him do this. He wants to die in his favourite place in the world. His fragility combined with mental strength is what I found so extraordinary.
Third Star is a truly beautiful piece of work, and a welcome break from all the blockbuster predict-a-thons that are inevitable in the coming summer months. There are moments of true hilarity, the quirky, short-shorts-wearing star-wars-action-figure-searching characters met along the way, beautiful men (wink) and boy conversation, and a counter-balacing heart-stopping conclusion. It’s incredibly sad and typical that such a touching, worthy film only gets an extremely limited release (and two years after production!). The cinematography and gorgeous landscape photography are just exquisite, and there was not a single performance who I could fault. The mechanics behind the male friendship are clearly something I’m not going to understand personally but the petty wrestling around every corner (one source of comic relief at least) and anger felt so real that at times you couldn’t help but wonder how the hell any of these men had become friends in the first place. But Benedict Cumberbatch is the unparalleled central performance and when you see it you’ll understand why.
If you can get to a venue to support the filmmakers, then I urge to you do so. And probably pack tissues.
www.thirdstarfilm.co.uk
Director: Hattie Dalton
Starring: Benedict Cumberbatch, JJ Feild, Tom Burke, & Adam Robertson
(This review contains spoilers)
For someone who at the moment can only aspire to anyone lucky enough to have been able to make their own film, Third Star, the low-budget directorial debut of Hattie Dalton, stands up as something I kind of wish I’d made or worked on.
Third Star (name coming from a misunderstanding of phrase 'second star to the right and straight on till morning') follows a “wagon-trip” along the Pembrokeshire coast, you know the kind of thing we’re all used to – characters go on road trip – something changes - characters change forever. Textbook.
Nothing much happens for the 92 minute running time. We know James won’t see his 30th birthday and thus this is his final trip. His best friend Davey currently lives to look after him, Bill may soon be a father and Miles has been having a secret affair with James’ married sister. That 92 minutes seems directionless for a lot of time; it’s more a study of the relationship between these four friends who just don’t come from a hard-done-by era – our problems here are marital affairs and mobile phones. These minute problems when placed side-by-side with James illness and his obvious obsession over life create tension and painfully honest arguments.
Once again it’s proven that dynamic character relationships can triumph over lack of narrative drive and action sequences. Every single character at some point shows themselves to be totally selfish and absorbed in their own existence, and dying James’ constant cries that “you’re wasting your lives” (‘you’re’ extending right to us, it seems) are presented not so much as sentimental values but something that we all know perfectly bloody well – it’s only when we are presented face on with death ourselves that it seems to matter.
After seeing the trailer to Third Star I convinced myself I was going to be a weeping mess at the end, but weirdly enough I wasn’t. It was only on contemplation afterward that I got a lump in my throat. Not because of the fact you see James take his own life, immersing himself in the cold, unforgiving salt water of the Welsh sea. I was more taken with the utter certainty he had over such a choice. Earlier on he had angrily ranted in frustration that he wanted “more time” and then a day or two later explains with no ounce of unease that he wants his friends to be with him when he dies, to actually let him do this. He wants to die in his favourite place in the world. His fragility combined with mental strength is what I found so extraordinary.
Third Star is a truly beautiful piece of work, and a welcome break from all the blockbuster predict-a-thons that are inevitable in the coming summer months. There are moments of true hilarity, the quirky, short-shorts-wearing star-wars-action-figure-searching characters met along the way, beautiful men (wink) and boy conversation, and a counter-balacing heart-stopping conclusion. It’s incredibly sad and typical that such a touching, worthy film only gets an extremely limited release (and two years after production!). The cinematography and gorgeous landscape photography are just exquisite, and there was not a single performance who I could fault. The mechanics behind the male friendship are clearly something I’m not going to understand personally but the petty wrestling around every corner (one source of comic relief at least) and anger felt so real that at times you couldn’t help but wonder how the hell any of these men had become friends in the first place. But Benedict Cumberbatch is the unparalleled central performance and when you see it you’ll understand why.
If you can get to a venue to support the filmmakers, then I urge to you do so. And probably pack tissues.
www.thirdstarfilm.co.uk
Saturday 21 May 2011
Scent psychosis. Perfume: The Story of a Murderer.
Perfume by Peter Süskind
A few weeks ago I came across the book Perfume: Story of a Murderer among my favourite fandom, Sherlock. It all makes sense now. If you know of Perfume already and of Sherlock you’ll more than likely spot the connection (and I apologise now for any subconscious references in this piece). But anyway, three sentences in and I digress. Something about it sparked interest, and I promptly bought myself a second hand copy on Amazon marketplace.
A short synopsis.
Protagonist Jean-Baptiste Grenouille is born during the mid 19th century in an unrelentingly disgusting, dirt-trodden Paris. Utterly sociopathic pretty much from birth, he has an unparalleled sense of smell and discovers the emotional control scents can have on human beings.
I won’t lie; the prospect of a good murder was my main interest. But in fact the book spends the entire time skirting around everything it sells itself to be. Perfume is a superb character study of Grenouille, with a good narrative foundation to keep you from wandering off.
Grenouille commits his first murder fairly early on in the book, where he first discovers the ultimate scent of a female. The killing is an accident, a moment of passion, and one that in the hands of anyone but Grenouille and Süskind would entail rape and extreme sexuality. But it’s completely non-graphic and almost underwhelming. Which is why it is so perfect. Grenouille hasn’t committed a murder for a sexual purpose; in fact he could be described more accurately as asexual. He is so intoxicated by her scent that takes her life mercilessly and leaves the scene of the crime with absolutely no remorse; only an intense desire to keep that smell, or at least its memory, with him until he dies. Scent is his only passion, one that gravely removes normal human traits – like guilt or love.
Some of the book classics we all know, A Clockwork Orange, Frankenstein, Lord of the Flies, deal with between humans and their relationship with ‘something else’ – God, perhaps. It’s safe to say Perfume follows this line of enquiry, to a point where our protagonist Grenouille actually sees himself as a God. Süskind has written him in such a way that we aren’t sure if Grenouille himself can really distinguish between his reality and his fantasies. One of the most intense sections of the book takes place over 7 years, inside a cave out in the wilderness of France, with only earthworms and silent vegetation for company. To you or I, this would seem utterly terrifying, but to Grenouille, to be removed from all other distractions allows himself to literally live inside a fantasy, where he spends all day sleeping and dreaming. The biblical connotations concerning this time spent in silence inside a cave, and his move back to civilisation where he is greeted as some kind of prophet are clear. Actually, I couldn’t help but find an amusing connection between this and Monty Python’s Life of Brian with the man inside the hole.
I don’t want to go too far into my thoughts on Grenouille as a character study because I won’t do it justice, and well, I can’t recommend the book enough. You’ll be equally intoxicated with it and probably develop your own obsession with scent over the course of its pages.
I battled with my own feelings of sympathy toward Grenouille (in line with many of the sub characters in the book), with Süskind’s descriptions of claustrophobic sense of smell. You wouldn’t be able to get away from it, you’d be so conscious that maybe spending seven years inside a cave masturbating over the memories of everything you are obsessed with wouldn’t be such a terrible prospect after all.
Now the adaptation. Directed by Tom Tykwer (Run Lola Run) and starring Ben Whishaw (yes, that guy, what’s his name, Pingu? Off Nathan Barley!) as Grenouille. Minutes into the film and I already concluded that I believe Whishaw, while giving a superb performance, is far too pretty to be Grenouille and isn’t as disease-ridden-looking (if that’s a suitable description) as I envisaged when reading. Perfume actually delivers quite an impressive piece of casting - Dustin Hoffman and Alan Rickman to name but two, and well, they certainly don’t displease.
The film is fairly lengthy at 145 minutes and this said, misses out huge chunks of the source text. Naturally this occurs with adaptations, novels just aren’t the same as screenplays, and this adaptation certainly won’t impede upon your enjoyment of it as a story. It does however take a path away from the ‘character study’ element of the novel, one which probably is more to do with making a more mainstream and accessible movie than anything else, but all the same…
Grenouille of the novel is outwardly sociopathic and point blank lacks the ability to love, feel guilt, or even acknowledge consequence. The Grenouille of Tykwer’s world is more ambiguous and lacks that epic God-complex that made the novel so enthralling. From his first killing one not acquainted with sociopathic Grenouille may well be fooled into thinking that he did in fact fall in love with the victim. The way he rips clothes away from her body, and delicately presses nostrils against skin will certainly provide titillation for many audience members. It’s sensually lit, bathed in gold light and could be mistaken for a sex scene. This sexual ambiguity runs for the remainder of the film, (until the very end where Grenouille himself admits he cannot experience love and commits suicide with the aid of his ultimate human perfume) and it is the only problem I have with it as a whole. I feasted upon the book because it was a fabulous exploration of human sense. Perfume the film is not.
Sexual or asexual?
The length may put off some viewers, and admittedly it is a very slow 145 minutes. I don’t think however it would settle within 90 minutes and its slowness does everything to exacerbate and make example of Grenouilles lonely, meandering life where he knows we’re all just working towards the end. Everything you experienced with speed, soundtrack and editing with Tykwer's Run Lola Run, just think the opposite and that's everything you need to know about Perfume.
I read the book before I watched the film. I recommend you do it the other way around. The book is a genuinely intriguing read, but the film perhaps deserves to be seen more as a standalone work to be enjoyed. The cinematography is nothing new or particularly note-worthy, but I cannot fault Whishaw’s performance, and well, could anyone say no to a bit of Rickman in 18th century costume?
A few weeks ago I came across the book Perfume: Story of a Murderer among my favourite fandom, Sherlock. It all makes sense now. If you know of Perfume already and of Sherlock you’ll more than likely spot the connection (and I apologise now for any subconscious references in this piece). But anyway, three sentences in and I digress. Something about it sparked interest, and I promptly bought myself a second hand copy on Amazon marketplace.
A short synopsis.
Protagonist Jean-Baptiste Grenouille is born during the mid 19th century in an unrelentingly disgusting, dirt-trodden Paris. Utterly sociopathic pretty much from birth, he has an unparalleled sense of smell and discovers the emotional control scents can have on human beings.
I won’t lie; the prospect of a good murder was my main interest. But in fact the book spends the entire time skirting around everything it sells itself to be. Perfume is a superb character study of Grenouille, with a good narrative foundation to keep you from wandering off.
Grenouille commits his first murder fairly early on in the book, where he first discovers the ultimate scent of a female. The killing is an accident, a moment of passion, and one that in the hands of anyone but Grenouille and Süskind would entail rape and extreme sexuality. But it’s completely non-graphic and almost underwhelming. Which is why it is so perfect. Grenouille hasn’t committed a murder for a sexual purpose; in fact he could be described more accurately as asexual. He is so intoxicated by her scent that takes her life mercilessly and leaves the scene of the crime with absolutely no remorse; only an intense desire to keep that smell, or at least its memory, with him until he dies. Scent is his only passion, one that gravely removes normal human traits – like guilt or love.
Some of the book classics we all know, A Clockwork Orange, Frankenstein, Lord of the Flies, deal with between humans and their relationship with ‘something else’ – God, perhaps. It’s safe to say Perfume follows this line of enquiry, to a point where our protagonist Grenouille actually sees himself as a God. Süskind has written him in such a way that we aren’t sure if Grenouille himself can really distinguish between his reality and his fantasies. One of the most intense sections of the book takes place over 7 years, inside a cave out in the wilderness of France, with only earthworms and silent vegetation for company. To you or I, this would seem utterly terrifying, but to Grenouille, to be removed from all other distractions allows himself to literally live inside a fantasy, where he spends all day sleeping and dreaming. The biblical connotations concerning this time spent in silence inside a cave, and his move back to civilisation where he is greeted as some kind of prophet are clear. Actually, I couldn’t help but find an amusing connection between this and Monty Python’s Life of Brian with the man inside the hole.
I don’t want to go too far into my thoughts on Grenouille as a character study because I won’t do it justice, and well, I can’t recommend the book enough. You’ll be equally intoxicated with it and probably develop your own obsession with scent over the course of its pages.
I battled with my own feelings of sympathy toward Grenouille (in line with many of the sub characters in the book), with Süskind’s descriptions of claustrophobic sense of smell. You wouldn’t be able to get away from it, you’d be so conscious that maybe spending seven years inside a cave masturbating over the memories of everything you are obsessed with wouldn’t be such a terrible prospect after all.
Now the adaptation. Directed by Tom Tykwer (Run Lola Run) and starring Ben Whishaw (yes, that guy, what’s his name, Pingu? Off Nathan Barley!) as Grenouille. Minutes into the film and I already concluded that I believe Whishaw, while giving a superb performance, is far too pretty to be Grenouille and isn’t as disease-ridden-looking (if that’s a suitable description) as I envisaged when reading. Perfume actually delivers quite an impressive piece of casting - Dustin Hoffman and Alan Rickman to name but two, and well, they certainly don’t displease.
The film is fairly lengthy at 145 minutes and this said, misses out huge chunks of the source text. Naturally this occurs with adaptations, novels just aren’t the same as screenplays, and this adaptation certainly won’t impede upon your enjoyment of it as a story. It does however take a path away from the ‘character study’ element of the novel, one which probably is more to do with making a more mainstream and accessible movie than anything else, but all the same…
Grenouille of the novel is outwardly sociopathic and point blank lacks the ability to love, feel guilt, or even acknowledge consequence. The Grenouille of Tykwer’s world is more ambiguous and lacks that epic God-complex that made the novel so enthralling. From his first killing one not acquainted with sociopathic Grenouille may well be fooled into thinking that he did in fact fall in love with the victim. The way he rips clothes away from her body, and delicately presses nostrils against skin will certainly provide titillation for many audience members. It’s sensually lit, bathed in gold light and could be mistaken for a sex scene. This sexual ambiguity runs for the remainder of the film, (until the very end where Grenouille himself admits he cannot experience love and commits suicide with the aid of his ultimate human perfume) and it is the only problem I have with it as a whole. I feasted upon the book because it was a fabulous exploration of human sense. Perfume the film is not.
Sexual or asexual?
The length may put off some viewers, and admittedly it is a very slow 145 minutes. I don’t think however it would settle within 90 minutes and its slowness does everything to exacerbate and make example of Grenouilles lonely, meandering life where he knows we’re all just working towards the end. Everything you experienced with speed, soundtrack and editing with Tykwer's Run Lola Run, just think the opposite and that's everything you need to know about Perfume.
I read the book before I watched the film. I recommend you do it the other way around. The book is a genuinely intriguing read, but the film perhaps deserves to be seen more as a standalone work to be enjoyed. The cinematography is nothing new or particularly note-worthy, but I cannot fault Whishaw’s performance, and well, could anyone say no to a bit of Rickman in 18th century costume?
Thursday 5 May 2011
real comic affairs. ghost world by terry zwigoff & daniel clowes.
With marketing slogans such as “the underground comic book” you could be deceived into venturing into Ghost World with notions of saturated colour, tight Lycra clad main characters, questionable names and a heavy emphasis on visual style. It might be worth remembering the underground part of that slogan, because if you haven’t treated yourself to the delights of Daniel Clowes 1997 green and black graphic novel of the same name and are expecting some epic comic drama, you’ll be sorely disappointed.
If however you want sharp characterisation, dark wit loaded with sarcasm and a healthy dash of misanthropy, all packaged within a loose plot of angst and alienation, ending with a dessert of non-existent happy-ending, you’ve arrived at the right film. Oh, and you’ll still get your silly names (Enid Coleslaw? Rebecca Doppelmayer?)
Terry Zwigoff (previously known for his 1994 documentary Crumb based on the life of a comic writer) and Daniel Clowes - two middle aged men - at first seem the wrong candidates to accurately portray the strains and gradual dissolution of a young female friendship. But perhaps that universal knowledge of the detritus and boredom that is teenage life enables them to just about nail it, and in turn makes Ghost World as a whole entirely relatable for both males and females. But as far as screenplays on this subject go (and the market is saturated with them, Rushmore and American Beauty to name but two), this has got to be one of the funniest and wonderfully gloomy things to come in film for a long time.
Enid (Thora Birch) and Rebecca (Scarlett Johansson) are best friends, freshly graduated from evil high school and now set forth on the inevitable journey between school and “real-life”. They have it worked out – they’ll get jobs and live together. But when the apathy of summer (and, certainly in Enid’s point of view, apathy of life generally) dawns, things start to get complicated between the pair. Complicated in the form of middle-aged bachelor Seymour (Steve Buscemi) who they initially just want to torture. But with the appearance of Seymour, the most unlikely “romantic” subplot in film history comes to life and he unwittingly becomes the eccentric fascination of 18 year-old Enid.
This subplot remains very loose throughout the film – as does much of the narrative. This said, connoisseurs of Clowes original comic will come to realise there is a lot more narrative in the film than the book. In fact the so-called romance subplot doesn’t exist in the book and has clearly been written in to satisfy your regular cinema-goers. I think it’s fair to say, had Zwigoff decided to make this into a truly faithful adaptation, you wouldn’t feel for the characters half as much.
As Enid, Rebecca and later, Seymour, wander aimlessly through the streets, it’s not any sense of plot or end destination that keeps the film moving, it’s the unending stream of hilarious conversations and deadpan expressions, along with a jingly, simultaneously meandering soundtrack, that keep you hooked. We can almost guarantee you won’t be able to see or predict the ending (clue: if there is one) of this, but you’ll appreciate the ride none-the-less.
At one point in the film, a character drawls how they are going to “get a job in some big corporation, and f—k things up from the inside”, and perhaps this sets the undertone for the entire film. Immersing itself entirely into the world of the alternative, with a clear love of obscure vintage music, trinkets and art, Ghost World actively aches to be as anti-Hollywood as possible. Zwigoff doesn’t try to be cool. He doesn’t try to wedge it into any avant-garde genre. In fact, as soon as Enid becomes what ordinary people would perhaps imagine as alternative (it’s probably safe to call it the mainstream alternative with bright green hair, leather jacket and Buzzcocks soundtrack) she is mocked and ironically feels entirely out of place.
American life and Hollywoodisation in general takes a mocking. Commercialised, shrill radio presenters take a punch – “I feel like I’m being jabbed in the face” as Seymour poetically puts it. Cool people take a punch. People who try too hard to be cool take a punch. Elitist art takes a punch. But it’s all delivered in such a hard, blunt manner without apology that you’ll fail stifle your laughter, and perhaps your agreement. You can’t help but approve of the direct and disturbingly truthful observations of the characters.
Enid genuinely doesn’t fit into a “model” – from scene to scene her complete style changes. One minute she’s wearing a bright coloured comic t-shirt, the next she’s wearing a tiny leopard print skirt and a fluffy headband. Enid herself begins to represent the whole films need to avoid all your preconceptions of teenagers and angst. You could go as far as saying it explores what identity really means – and through Seymour, asks us if we ever find our true identities. Do you know who you really are and where you’re heading?
The fact that Zwigoff has steered entirely clear of alternative cliché is what makes this so successful and appealing to a wider audience. There is no scent of a desire to build in some high-speed, MTV style editing that’s become so popular among the younger generation, or boring and inevitable love scenes. In terms of cinematography and aesthetics, Zwigoff has stayed true to a traditional tableaux style film that is fast going out of fashion and has instead made the narrative and beautiful, antique misé-en-scene the primary focus.
The Enid’s and Seymour’s of the audience can enjoy the Indian dance music, bluntfully truthful and quotable lines, constant irony, mix-matched fashion sense and interesting trinkets in the background; and hopefully feel a sense of belonging. The Rebecca’s are welcomed to enjoy an unconventional look at the world without being alienated completely from it.
All performances are admirable. Thora Birch, fresh from winning a number of awards for her performance as another detached teenager in the previously mentioned American Beauty (1999), ultimately turns Enid into a particularly unlikable character with her overt misogyny, obvious lethargy and at times, utterly selfish behaviour. But underneath, Birch keeps Enid a simple human who seems scared to properly grow up, something that certainly the target audience of alternative teenagers and young adults will identify with. Birch successfully acts with chameleonic tendency, constantly switching between deadpan humour and animated hilarity (for example during a hysterical scene where she drags an unexpecting Seymour into an adult store).
Indie persona Steve Buscemi, well known from cult classics such as Reservoir Dogs (1992) and Fargo (1996), also gives a stand out performance as lonely Seymour, who works in complete sync with Birch’s Enid. Seymour is probably the most likeable character in Ghost World, and ironically, the one not in the original graphic novel. Buscemi retains the idiosyncrasies you will previously know him for – the ultimate resigned pessimist. His Seymour is so clearly resigned to his own loneliness that he comes to symbolise everything Enid wants – a certain ‘coolness’ without even trying. He has a certainty of his own identity, whether he likes his identity or not. He’s a dork who knows he’s a dork; a “jazz loser” who knows (or at least he thinks) he’s a “jazz loser”. “You are the luckiest guy in the world!” exclaims an awestruck Enid when introduced to Seymour’s jazz room, filled with obscure jazz records, framed photographs and antiques. As a result of the certainty he has of himself he disputes this, arguing “you can’t connect with other people, so you fill your life with stuff”. Seymour is just as much a social commentary in himself as anything else.
Visually placed side by side, the quirky looking Buscemi and unconventionally beautiful Birch look so mismatched that funnily, they almost match, slotting together like the oddest puzzle pieces of the set. The dizzying Hollywood looks of Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise pale into infinite insignificance when you experience Ghost World. They are real-looking people in a weirdly realist film for the real people.
Fittingly, Johansson’s Rebecca is arguably the most conventionally attractive character, and conventional in every other sense. She becomes the bridge between alternative world and “ordinary” world with her desire for a steady job and her own apartment, but maintaining the faint drawl and misogyny of her best friend. Rebecca is the least exaggerated character. Johansson plays her with such an understated everyday vibe that you’ll probably want to be best friends with her yourself.
Ghost World should be a success – whether a success commercially or just as an indie is unclear. Coming after all your other American archetypal teen movies like American Pie where sex and virginity jokes are the order of the day, Ghost World is refreshing in every way. This isn’t a teen film about high-school popularity, or where losing your virginity is your ultimate goal – it extends its net further. It’s a teen film that is reconciling the teenage audience and the adult audience, beautifully and (in the end) sadly dealing with more adult estrangement in the wide world outside school. Sooner or later you have to grow up, and doing this in a media obsessed consumer society, is no easy task.
So, if you want to see Buscemi briefly get his girl, or just want to feel less alone in your own meandering meaninglessness, see this film. Perhaps more than once.
Note: This is a review I submitted for BA coursework and it has been written as though the film has just been released.
Sunday 24 April 2011
Monday 4 April 2011
Friday 25 March 2011
Thursday 24 March 2011
Tuesday 22 March 2011
sexualised fairytales: after invisible monsters
still working on the narrative for this piece but i'm not sure if i'll publish it with the work when it's finished. i'm hoping the work will be representative enough and contain everything you need to apply your own storytelling.
Saturday 5 March 2011
Monday 28 February 2011
i get nervous.
i know, my painting skills are appalling. but the only way to improve is to practice, right?! and anyway, i like using painting as a medium to support my photography work.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)