Wednesday, 31 October 2007

Fay Grim


The last of my London Film Festival movies (boo hoo! sniff!) but brilliantly, four out of four have been great, and they are all as different as possible from each other. 'Fay Grim' is Hal Hartley's most recent effort, a follow-up to 1997's 'Henry Fool'. Now I am a devotee of Hartley, I worship at the altar of Hartley, and yet I didn't see 'Henry Fool', largely because at the time of release I was suffering from a pretty major vomiting phobia and I'd heard there was on-screen puking. Turned out I was the Fool in this scenario, because with the phobia behind me, it turns out that you can't get 'Henry Fool' on DVD any more. So not a clue what happened in that film. My guess it was a vaguely realist protrayal of a piss-poor novelist down on his luck.

'Fay Grim' focuses on said piss-poor novelist's eponymous abandoned wife, played by the distractingly beautiful Parker Posey (I spent at least half the film vowing to master the art of black eyeliner, and my usual cinema companion got all squirmy in his seat during the lengthy Posey In Paris Inexplicably Wearing Only A Long Coat And Sexy Underwear section.) However, vaguely realist it is not. It is in fact the most stagey, hammy, ridiculously over-the-top spy chase thriller movie spoof thing you are ever likely to see. It's absurd. it's ridiculous. It is utterly implausible. I loved every minute of it. In fact I adored it. And yet I am not one hundred percent convinced it is not secretly a terrible movie.

The thing is, Hal Hartley and I are soulmates. (He doesn't know this yet. I should also probably find out what he looks like, because I am shallow enough that this would make a difference. I always imagine him to look just like Martin Donovan.) I get Hal. What he finds interesting, I find interesting. What he finds funny, I find funny. What he finds beautiful, I find beautiful. He cannot be too self-indulgent for me, because when he is indulging himself, he is indulging me too. Just maybe not you.

Ultimately, if you loved 'Amateur', which you also, goddammit, can't get on DVD, you will love 'Fay Grim' because it's very much in the 'Amateur' school of Hartley's work. It is not as good as 'Amateur', but then what is? if you didn't love 'Amateur', it might be best to avoid. But if you have never seen 'Amateur', and don't know Hartley's work, and can't, for crying out loud, get any of it on DVD, then this is not a bad place to start. Just don't come crying to me if you hate it, because that probably means you hate me too.

The Savages


After the overwhelming inventiveness of 'I'm Not There', it was probably inevitable that 'The Savages' would prove a bit of a disappointment. Only a bit, mind. It is a brilliantly-acted film - what else would you expect from Philip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney - well-scripted, carefully made, and full of warmth, insight and humour about its subject: two dysfuntional siblings (Hoffman and Linney) brought together to care for their estranged, abusive father, who is suffering from dementia. It works a treat, it is enjoyable and thought-provoking from beginning to end, and much funnier than you'd expect, given the subject matter. It's just, well, not all that surprising; it perfectly fits of the mold of a superior American Indie movie without pushing any of the boundaries. A film like this reminds you that Indie can be a genre like any other. Can quirky still be quirky if it's quirky in such a specifically-designated way? Probably not. And yet, if you like the Indie genre you'll really enjoy this film, because it does everything as well as can be. Just not more. Never mind; writer-director Tamara Jenkins (a woman! a woman director! several hundred cheers!) is pretty inexperienced and on this evidence she has it in her to get better and better and better. Let's just hope for a few more risks next time.

Tuesday, 30 October 2007

I'm Not There + Director Q&A, Curzon Mayfair


When a genius makes a film about a genius starring a genius, you expect it to be good. Todd Haynes, Bob Dylan and Cate Blanchett are all at the top of their respective professions, and all known for making wonderful, strange, surprising pieces of work, so it is no surprise at all that I'm Not Scared is strange and wonderful and very surprising indeed.

In the director Q&A, Haynes - friendly, relaxed, in an old shirt and jeans, drinking coffee from a polystyrene cup - said that his intention in making the film was to preserve the essential weirdness of Dylan. In this he succeeded beyond the call of duty. I'm Not There divides the Dylan role into six - seven if you include the dual role played by Christian Bale, as trobadour Dylan, then pulling the short straw as Christian Dylan in a jewfro wig - the most Dylanesque of which is played by Cate Blanchett, in the most uncanny, spooky way, more of a possession than a performance, as 'Jude Quinn' i.e. 1966-era electric "Judas" Dylan. It's an incredible feat, she somehow morphs into him, but it is not just an imitation, rather a channelling, a scrutiny, a magnification. You utterly forget that you are watching a woman, but nor is she a man, she is more like a creature, the tarantula you see crawling across the screen in one of the party scenes. Her central role is surrounded by all of the other parts of Dylan, so that instead of a straight biopic you get a sense of the many aspects of Dylan as a person, the private, the public, the young, the old, most of all the developing creative and political mind, and all of it swirling and intercutting between fictional stories that somehow tell you a composite truth. At times it is the most pretentious thing you can imagine. At times it is completely baffling. The Richard Gere story, in which his character is in some kind of modern-yet-ancient American folk theme park Halloween past, based on Fellini and Billy the Kid, with added ostrich and giraffe, epitomises both these tendencies, and yet what is Dylan but pretentious and baffling? Contrast these with the stark images of Ben Wilshaw as raw 20-year-old 'Arthur Rimbaud' Dylan, in bright light and unforgiving black and white, sitting twitchily, stating his mission plan. This is also true. As is the precocious black kid, the shy protest singer, the selfish star...

This works so much better than any conventional biopic. I'm not a Dylan devotee, and I didn't know much about Dylan when I went in, and in some ways I still don't know anything about him. I don't know where or when he was born, how he got into music, what his albums were called, whether or how many times he married, how many children, how many hits he had, whether he had any breakdowns, drugs, rehab, what he's doing now, whatever. My factual knowledge of Dylan, in other words, remains sketchy. And yet I feel like I know Dylan, where he came from, who he was, what he did and why and in what context. It's an extraordinary film, it shouldn't work but it does. An amazing celebration of the power of genius.

Monday, 29 October 2007

Strictly Come Dancing Week 4 continued


So, I have finally seen it. Barely even noticed Tess's aluminium foil belt in my rush to find out what happened to Gabby and Penny. And you will be glad to hear that I have A Theory. I blame it all on the new dance-off system. Essentially, everybody knows now that if one of the dancers the judges don't like - notably, Kate, but there are others - gets into the bottom two, they will be out instantly. So if there is even a hint of judges' dislike, the voting goes insane. Meanwhile, some people will always vote for the really popular dancers (Matt, Alesha - both will be hard to beat.) It's those that are perceived to be favourites with the judges but not particularly well-liked that will go to the dogs now - so step forward, Penny and Gabby, both of whom danced well by my reckoning. This week's shock result may change things, at least it will be interesting finding out.

With all the excitement, I barely have a moment to mention my other thoughts, such as: why did they dress Letitia Dean - who looks lovely and natural in rehearsal - as the bride of Frankenstein? And congratulations to Ola for finally realising that Kenny can't dance, so giving him something entertaining to do will really help (I knew the moment he lifted his arms at the beginning that he was staying in). And that Kate's dance was the WORST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN. If I could vote to eliminate, she would go. Go. GO!!

Lastly, a plea not to ever give the in-house orchestra ABBA to sing ever again. I'm not sure why but they just can't do it. That rendition of 'Dancing Queen'... [shudders].

As ever, videos here.

Sunday, 28 October 2007

Strictly Come Dancing: Battle of the Blondes

Honestly, I leave the country for 48 hours and this is what you do? I haven't even seen it yet - have just flown home from my Grandmother's 90th birthday celebrations in France, am about to collapse into bed with a vile cold, and only know the result because it was on the radio in the taxi home. But having not seen the dances it seems inexplicable - and I am speaking as a Gaby-hater. I can only assume it's the revenge of thousands of disgruntled brunettes, sick of being considered less glamorous than their fair counterparts *for all of our lives*, and with speed-dial. Good work, ladies. Nevertheless: KENNY IS STILL IN. We *will* be discussing this further. For now... [staggers off to find the Vicks vap-o-rub].

Thursday, 25 October 2007

More Writing Tips


As some of you found the last lot of writing tips that I posted helpful, I thought I'd direct your attention to a debate that I recently took part in about the dreaded (or helpful?) Inner Critic. It's at Bookarazzi (a website for writers that I contribute to from time to time) over here. My comments are, ah, succinct, but there's a lot of wothwhile stuff in there. And it will at least explain the odd choice of illustrative image...

Wednesday, 24 October 2007

Neighbours: selective amnesia part 2


So it turns out that Paul Robinson is not the only one suffering from selective amnesia: Rebecca had also carefully forgotten a previous encumbent in her bed. So Elle and Oliver are not related after all and can return to doing horizontal rhumba pronto.

I am not sure whether to be disappointed or elated by this news. The accidental incest storyline is after all a classic of the soap genre and we coud all have spent an enjoyable few weeks being appalled as Elle and Oliver try and fail to suppress their taboo attraction for one another. Just like back in 1991.

On the other hand I will confess to being actually surprised by this development. Surprised! Trying to think about when a soap opera has surprised me in the past... trying... trying harder... failing. Soap operas do not surprise. They set up storylines so obvious that a two year old with a basic knowledge of narrative gleaned from reading Spot books could figure them out, and then spend weeks dragging them out until the one day you have a dentist appointment and miss an episode, and then resolve them. Even a sudden soap death tends to be signposted by the deathee's storylines being carefully finished just before they decide to take that moonlit walk along the beach with a storm brewing. (In case you are wondering why I am then such an avid watcher of soaps, it's because I find my real life a bit too unpredictable and I like the reassurance that in one area of my life unresolved sexual tension will *always* lead to a kiss.)

In conclusion, I have to say that the Neighbours screenwriters, in wimping out of the brother-sister-forbidden-love storyline, have actually done something far more daring instead. Kudos!

(I have chosen to illustrate this blog post with a picture of Jane Hall as Neighbours newcomer Rebecca. This is what I am going to look like in ten years time so I may as well get used to it. And no, she's not my long-lost mum. Or is she...?)

Tuesday, 23 October 2007

Lust Caution: a postscript

You may have noticed that my review of Luct Caution (below) contains absolutely nothing about the plot. That's because I went to see it knowing nothing about it aside from that it was set in WW2 China, and I think it's the kind of film where the less you know the better. Go, enjoy.

Lust Caution


There's an old cliche about actresses getting interviewed about nudity and saying that they will do it if it's essential to the plot. And everybody laughs because when is nudity ever essential to the plot rather than a pleasing piece of titillation to tide you through the movie? Answer: in Ang Lee's incredible new film, 'Lust Caution'. I have never seen such explicit sex in a film, equally I have never felt so strongly that every frame of it was essential to the story. And titillating? Only if you're the kind of person who enjoys googling beheadings. This is the only time that I have seen sex on screen depicted in all its true complexity and intensity, albeit from a very dark place. This is the kind of thing that the term "adult movie" should really describe: a true film for adults, exceptionally bravely acted by Tony Leung and Tang Wei, and directed with such skill by Lee that it knocks Brokeback Mountain into a cocked (so to speak) hat. Be warned however that it is very upsetting, very long and absolutely the worst possible thing you could go to on a first date. I'd post the trailer here but it is about the least accurate depiction of a film I have ever seen while still being cut from the same scenes.

On a personal note, could I just add that I might have enjoyed this film even more had the woman sitting next to me not taken *two* mobile phone calls during it?

Monday, 22 October 2007

Strictly Come Dancing: Week 3 Results


So adieu, then, Willie: we never got to see your Latin dancing and that's a real shame. You were robbed: your light footwork performed by the body of Gethin Jones would have kept you in the contest for weeks. His lumpen shuffling delivered by a shiny-headed pensioner would have had him out in week one. Blame it on the bossanova.

Here's another question: how on *earth* is Kenny Logan still in? Scots block vote?

UPDATE: Did anybody else see Willie crying on Strictly Come Dancing: It Takes Two? Bless him and his walrus moustache.

iPod Moment: Donna Summer 'Last Dance'


What I mean by an iPod moment is when something so mighty comes on your shuffle that the whole world around you, and everything inside you that is bringing you down, is swept away in the glory of the music. No taking the piss, now. It is a concept devoid of irony.

So anyway, if you were in Angel tube station last night wondering who that girl in the green coat dancing in the ticket queue was, that was me. Donna Summer's 'Last Dance': just too damn irresistible.

Sunday, 21 October 2007

Strictly Come Dancing: Week 3


First, an apology: I watched this week's Strictly Come Dancing in the pub, after a lunch of cider and crisps, waiting for the rugby to come on, and my memories of it are... hazy. However, from the murk at the bottom of my mind come a few images, like monocellular beings emerging from primeval ooze, only monocellular beings with bad fringes... that must be Tess. No belt today though. Phew.

Official Woman Who Talks Too Much Alesha did the blog proud with her jive, despite wearing a costume made from the hair of Edd the Duck. On the boys' side my current favourite is Matt who also did a great jive and I am beginning to think could be a real contender, especially when you consider the lamentable form of end of the pier novelty act Dominic, forget about the weight loss where is his neck John Barnes, your eyes do not deceive you I am actually carved out of wood Gethin, and the rest of the boys. Gethin in fact got great marks for his tango which surprised me because all I could see was him standing still and gurning, though his facial expressions paled into insignificance next to the gallery of face-pulling that was Leticia Dean: everything from "this food's too hot" to "I'm constipated" via "where are my reading glasses" and "I've got chewing gum in my hair." They had dressed her in a lovely, flattering dress, though, which could have been a crushing disappointment, except that Gabby had been styled in a grotesque high ponytail which took care of all my fashion disaster needs.

If you missed it, you can catch all the action on video here.

Friday, 19 October 2007

Which do you think is more significant?

Defrauding viewers out of £8million, or naming a kitten Socks? Think carefully before you answer.

Neighbours: selective amnesia

How convenient that Paul Robinson should be suffering from amnesia in Neighbours right now. Not only does that mean he couldn't remember having shagged Rebecca, Oliver's mum, meaning that he fathered Oliver and that his daughter Elle is therefore sleeping with her own brother, it also means that he can't pipe up and say, "What a coincidence! This is just like when my sister Lucy was accidentally shagging her long-lost brother Glenn." Lucy and Glenn, as I recall but Paul does not, carried on their shenanigans even after their inconvenient level of relatedness was uncovered, but the BBC censored it so mostly we got incomprehensible moments of them arguing about seemingly nothing in corridors. I wonder if the screenwriters will be so bold this time around - or if the BBC will let them?

Wednesday, 17 October 2007

The Booker Prize

I sort of feel like, as a "cultural" blogger and an author-type person, I should voice an opinion about the winner of this year's Booker Prize. But I can't, because I haven't read a single book on the shortlist. I've had a look around the internet and discovered that this hasn't stopped any number of other people voicing their equally uninformed opinions on the subject, but I have decided to take the moral high ground with this one, and my, the view is fine from here.

However, I can say that I have finally caught up with reading the 1996 shortlist. They should have given it to Rohinton Mistry.

Monday, 15 October 2007

Neighbours: Rosie and Frazer's wedding

I don't know why anyone still bothers to get married in Neighbours. You're only going to end up dead (Dee) or jilted (Annalise) or have your husband realise that he loves you too much to subject you to the horror of beng wed to him and therefore annul the wedding, precipitating your departure from the series (Lynn).

Today, Frazer (professional gambler, lately in wheelchair due to least convincing psychological illness since Lucy's hysterical blindness, now walking again having found superhuman strength in limbs whilst rescuing Ned's long-lost son Mickey from death by electrocution in the pool) and Rosie (lawyer, virgin) got hitched, meaning that doom MUST ensue. And ensue it did: Mickey (Ned's long lost son, lately almost dead in electrified swimming pool) managed to accidentally reverse a giant lorry into the middle of Ramsey Street, incredibly slowly and yet fast enough to crush a minibus carrying all of our best-loved characters. In a cul de sac. Fancy that.

Who will live? Who will die? I can't say for sure. I would just mention, though, that it's probably not the best move to launch a who will live, who will die storyline just after investing a whole lot of money shooting a new title sequence showing which characters are going to be series regulars for the next several months. Just a thought.

Beautiful Young Minds



While being kept awake on Saturday night by drunk, singing rugby fans, I found myself asking: why is sport important? Not why is it fun to watch, but why do we take it so seriously? The answers I came up with were pretty standard and not all that interesting: because it's the best competing with the best, the sportsmen and women are pushing themselves to incredible feats of achievement, makes your country proud etc etc. I am not remotely interested in sport but I decided that sports fans had a point, but please could they stop singing now.

However, watching Beautiful Young Minds, a documentary about young maths geniuses competing at the International Maths Olympiad, I had to ask myself, why don't we care as much about this as we do about sport? These kids are incredibly talented - in fact I've done maths and I've played football and I'd say I am more likely to represent my country at the latter than at the former, and this is from a girl who can't do a header without closing her eyes. They are pushing themselves to incredible feats of achievement. They make our country proud. But we have never heard of any of them. Name some great living mathematicians.

One answer is of course that rugby is more fun to watch than maths. Fair enough. But another is that these children are the type to be bullied and ostracised at school: overwhelmingly intelligent, cripplingly awkward and shy, a high level of autism spectrum disorders etc. One of the boys in the documentary one a silver medal at the Maths Olympiad, a goal he had been working towards his whole life, and he was too shy to go on stage to get his medal. In short, we don't like them, so we don't aspire to be like them, and we are not interested in their achievements. But why does the fact that they are not social successes mean that we can't celebrate what they can do? We certainly have no problem adoring stupid sportsmen who can barely hold a conversation.

Poignantly, the aforementioned boy who wouldn't go onto the stage was talking about how much he prefered life in China, where his "different" behaviour was explained by everyone there as just because of him being a foreigner. In China, he told us, it's considered a good thing to be intelligent, and if you are exceptional at maths that is considered cool. So why in this country are we so quick to celebrate sporting achievement and sneer at intellectual achievement? Just because it's "geeky"? Bad answer.

This blog loves maths geeks. And suspects that it wouldn't exist without them. The Woman Who Talked Too Much, officially backing the UK at the 2008 International Maths Olympiad!

Sunday, 14 October 2007

Strictly Come Dancing: Week 2 Results

Stephanie and Vincent go out: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

If they had stayed in they would have been dancing the tango next week. And now British culture is the poorer. Didn't any of those judges watch Dynasty? I think they were just intimidated by someone camper than they were.

On the other hand, that does mean another week of Letitia Dean's outfits. One should be thankful for small mercies.

I'm going to watch a documentary about maths geniuses now as a gesture against everything Strictly Come Dancing stands for.

Saturday, 13 October 2007

Strictly Come Dancing: Week 2


Week two of Strictly Come Dancing and I can report that we have dropped to Beltcon 3: an incongruous solid metal affair that was only averagely ugly and left plenty of my attention for the female dancers.

Which was just as well, because to be blunt, they wiped the floor with last week's male debutantes. I was biting my nails to the quick because Stephanie Beacham was the first out and I was terrified that she would be dreadful and leave the show, as, personality-wise, she's my favourite by miles; in fact she acquitted herself well with a decent quick-step which I hope will help keep her in for a few more weeks yet. In fact none of the women were bad by any means, aside from Kate maybe, but as she was on crutches until three days ago it's impossible to judge her potential. Letitia Dean, it must be said, was not remotely assisted in her enterprise by being made to wear a giant royal blue nappy.

The best of the girls were Alesha (official woman who talks too much and possible blog mascot), Kelly (glorious, but hampered by dancing with ghastly Brendan) and Penny (keeping Rod & Bod under control tonight). I took an instant dislike to Gabby Logan, but I hope she stays in for a while because her naked competitiveness is a joy to behold. Her face visibly plumetted when she didn't hit the top of the leaderboard - I haven't seen anything like it since Karen GIVE ME THAT TROPHY Hardy last year.

(Speaking of Karen, I wanted to watch with her expert commentary today, but discovered that it made the picture go off, which is not ideal in a dancing competition. Did anybody else have any luck with that?)

Anyway, having watched all the girls this week, plus the boys' woeful merengue, I am posting my new predictions for top 3: Kelly, Penny and Matt. Penny most likely to win due to everybody hating Brendan.

Control


Control is a beautifully-shot, brilliantly-acted, exquisitely-designed film that told me absolutely nothing whatsoever of interest about the life and death of Ian Curtis, lead singer of Joy Division.

The main thing that everybody knows about Ian Curtis is that he killed himself, and the main thing you come out of the film knowing is that he was an inscrutable bastard who killed himself. I do not use the word bastard with any affection. He stands around for the entire film looking moody about his dreadful dreadful problems: he can't choose between his wife and his mistress, he has epilepsy, he is in Joy Division. He is pathetic. Knowing what is coming, you start getting restless hoping that he will just get a move on rather than staging yet another argument with his wife in his bleak Macclesfield home. I am not sure that this is how I am supposed to feel after watching a biopic about a genius musician and his tragic demise.

Sam Riley puts in a fine, glowering performance as Curtis, and does an amazing job in the live sequences that are the highlight of the film; the actors playing Joy Division perform the songs themselves and the energy is captivating and unfeigned. When not on stage, Joy Division are largely defined by their hair: Bernard (naff fringe), Hooky (trendy cut), drummer (nondescript) which suggests to me that Bernard was the naff one, Hooky the trendy one, and nobody gives a shit about the drummer. But I am only guessing, you don't really get to see more of them than this. The women in Curtis's life are similarly superficially drawn. Despite her best efforts, Samantha Morton has nothing to work with to help her character, Curtis's wife, move beyond ordinary and progressively frumpy, and the only differentiation you get between her and Curtis's mistress is that the latter is thinner, better dressed and wears artistic eyeliner. As the characterisation comes entirely out of the wardrobe and not out of the lines, this is not a film to go to if you are blind.

Everybody does their best but the script is ultimately too weak. What we get is a chronology without insight. It is not enough to tell me that these events are interesting because they are about Ian Curtis, or that Ian Curtis is interesting because he was a talent who died young. I knew all that before I turned up. From a biopic you need something more, and all you learn from this is that Joy Division were a band you would like to have seen live but you will never get the chance, and that it's grim Up North, especially in black and white.

Friday, 12 October 2007

More Doris Lessing

I think that this has to be the best response I've ever seen to winning a prize. She's just *thrilled*, isn't she? Ahem... Now I love her all the more.

(Incidentally, I was out at dinner last night and I told someone there my suggestion that Doris Lessing, at 87, should spend all hre prize money on drugs. She retorted that taking drugs is very bad, a health risk and not even all that enjoyable, and that the correct response to winning £763000 at the age of 87 is so set up a charitable foundation. So, that told me. Now that you've seen the video of Doris, though, whose advice do you think she's most likely to take?)

Thursday, 11 October 2007

Doris Lessing and the Nobel Prize

Doris Lessing has won the Nobel Prize for literature. Good on her and good on them. Not only is she a fantastic novelist but she's a lovely woman; she came to give a talk to my bookgroup a few years ago and we were all in awe. I must admit that I've only read one of her books, 'The Golden Notebook', which was striking and memorable if occasionally baffling, and without doubt an incredibly important work for and about female writers - I'd say seminal, but that is entirely the wrong word. Ovarian? And now, as the BBC website says in its po-faced way, "She can... expect a rise in sales", including, probably, to me.

The Nobel prize money is £763000. Doris Lessing is 87 years old. What would you do with £763000 if you were 87? I think I would develop a massive drug habit. It's clearly idiotic to become a crack and heroin addict at 31 where you're in serious danger of losing your health, your family, your friends, your career, and eventually all of your money, leaving you in a life of degradation and crime. At 87, though, and with a spare £763000 in your pocket, it seems like a pretty good option. You'd be hard pushed to spend all of that on even the best drugs, your health is shot anyway, most of your family and friends are probably dead, and it's certainly not too young to retire. I am fully planning to spend the kids' inheritance on drugs, which my grandchildren can score for me and bring over to the nursing home. What else are you going to do with your twilight years? Watch 'This Morning'? Knit?

On Writing



This blog is supposed to be a popular culture blog, but I thought I would break away from that momentarily to talk a bit about writing. Novels are popular culture anyway, or at least they are when I write them, although we might have to debate the precise meaning of "popular". Anyway I get a lot of e-mails asking me about how to write so I thought I'd post my reply here and then I can direct people to it when they contact me. That's if I don't change my mind about all my advice and look back at it and cringe, anyway.

The thing is, I don't really know much about writing novels as I've only written one, or one decent one, anyway - which is one more than most people alive on the planet, but far fewer than most novelists. And I'm writing the second one but it doesn't seem to have got significantly easier or blessed me with loads of extra wisdom. Susan Hill has recently started running an excellent, and free, creative writing course over on her blog and already at this early stage it contains far more good advice than I have in the whole of my head. Also, I have looked many creative writing books, and they all looked rubbish, except for Stephen King's On Writing which I recommend. Both Stephen King and Susan Hill have written a hell of a lot more books than I have so their advice is the good stuff.

However, I have picked up a few things along the way, so I will now give you my Top Ten Of Everything I Know About Writing A Novel That You Were Not Afraid To Ask.

1. It can take a really long time. That doesn't mean you're doing it wrong.
2. Don't get too hung up about getting the first draft right. There's actually nothing left from my first draft of Gods Behaving Badly in the final book, except for most of the characters (the gods obviously, but not the mortals), and the vague shape of the plot. Everything else has been changed. That's also true of the first, unpublished novel that I wrote - including the bit about getting rid of certain key characters. Unfortunately, though, you can't skip the first, imperfect draft, as you need to get it down in order to figure out what is actually going on in your head and how it's going to work on paper, and once it's down it makes it easier to play around with your ideas and get them right. But it's OK to just bung scenes down as placemarkers, like: I don't know how to write this properly, so I'll just write it badly so I know that a scene goes there where such-and-such a thing happens, and I can go back and do it well later. (Of course the annoying thing about this is eventually you do have to write that scene and you probably still can't do it well. I had a horrible bit of rewriting just before the novel was published where I finally had to go back and redo my 'placemarker' scenes. Weirdly, I have been told by more than one person that they were their favourite, I still think they are below par.)
3. You need to figure out your own routine. I would give writing in the morning a try, as many writers swear by it, including me, but it won't necessarily work for you. Something will work for you, though, so experiment a bit. You also need to know if you're a planner or not (I'm not, but I thought I was, which is one of the reasons the first book didn't work) - do you need to plot everything out in advance or can you just go with the flow? Do you need a minimum daily wordcount, do yu need to spend a certain amount of time at your desk? I personally don't hold with the time at your desk thing, but I do give myself wordcount goals, which change from novel to novel and from day to day. At the moment I give myself either a 500 word goal or a 1000 word goal, depending on how I feel when I start and how clear I am on what happens next. But a very good writer I know manages about 50 words, on a good day.
4. You will always have times when you think what you have written is rubbish and you have no idea what to do. Especially because a lot of the time you will be right. But a lot of the time you will just be fed up and bored and tired, and it's not a good idea to be writing in that state. You need to know how to tell the difference, and I find that if I leave what I'm doing for a few days (sometimes weeks, and on some very painful occasions months) I will know whether the problem is me or the work, and either way I will be able to solve the problem.
5. A lot of "writing" takes place when you are not writing. It's called thinking and it is underrated.
6. Be wary of telling people too much about what you are doing. It can be helpful, but it can also solidify things in your head that should be more fluid. I find that once I've talked about things it can be hard to make changes once I'm trying to write them. There's this strange thing where what's in your head and what you can describe through talking and what works written down are three different things and you don't want to start confusing them.
7. Be careful of what you read. There's research, and there's reading things that other people have written which are similar to what you want to do, and which are so good and well realised that they clog up your imagination and shut down your ability to think in other directions. Once I know what I'm writing about, I stop reading anything remotely similar unless I absolutely have to for research. So with Gods, I read a lot of original mythology, but nothing at all involving anything remotely similar to the idea of gods being in modern times. So if I wanted to write a crime novel, I would stop reading crime novels and I would probably avoid anything crime-related on film or TV either.
8. Persevere. Writing a novel is a real test of stamina. It's a good idea to write every day, so if the novel is not going well, try something else. A blog is useful.
9. Time carefully when to show people what you've written, and choose who you show your work to with equal care. I don't like to show anyone anything before I have completed a first draft draft, because the first draft is where I figure out exactly what I am trying to do, and I don't want anybody else's input at that stage. But once I have finished the first draft, I want to know if what I am trying to do actually translates to the reader, so that's when I let people have a look. And I don't necessarily pick my closest friends or family for this job, because they love me and think I'm great and will probably think the best of what I've done and say nice things. I choose people who I know give good constructive criticism and won't be afraid of hurting my feelings.
10. Don't wait until it's perfect before you submit it. It will never be perfect.

And I forgot the most important thing, so I will have to have a number 11 now. ENJOY YOURSELF!!! If you are a terrible, terrible writer, but you love writing, carry on. Just don't expect anyone to read what you're doing. But if you are a great writer but absolutely hate every moment of it, you might want to consider spending your time doing something that you like instead.

Tuesday, 9 October 2007

Strictly Come Dancing: It Takes Two


A chance to meet two of the girls on tonight's Strictly Come Dancing: It Takes Two.

First up was Penny Lancaster Stewart, and her breasts. I feel that I should mention them separately because they pretty much conducted the interview by themselves. She was wearing a dress cut down to her middle and no bra and now I feel I have intimate acquaintance with them both, so much so that I might name them. Rod and Bod. A close examination of Penny' dancing so far reveals that she covers up her shortcomings by pulling excellent model faces with every move, which is super-clever, but might not wash with the judges. It might tide her over while she improves, though. One to watch, and not just because of Rod and Bod.

Next was Misteeq's Alesha Dixon. She's also a looker and a mover, though I would say she lacks discipline so far, if that doesn't make me sound like a headmistress / dominatrix / bore. Mainly this blog likes her because she talks too much. Talking too much, as you know, is the blog's key value, it is a bigger value than breasts here. I realise this is a disappointment to many. Believe me, in my daily life also. Nevertheless, in the Strictly Come Dancing: It Takes Two: Penny vs Alesha interview-off, I must declare Alesha is today's blog WINNER! Sorry Penny, Rod and Bod, better luck next time.

Recantation

I feel a bit guilty now. I'm sure that Paul McGann is a lovely person and a charming dinner party guest. He probably just really needed a piss.

Withnail and I: cast and crew screening

The first time I saw Withnail and I was on my fifteenth birthday. The second time I saw Withnail and I was on my fifteenth birthday. I had to watch it twice because the first time I couldn't understand a word of what they were saying. It was a rite of passage for me: my older sister used to quote it all the time, and in watching it I knew I had finally grown old enough to appreciate jokes about booze, drugs and sex. I was, inevitably, wrong about that, as I only just picked up that Uncle Monty was gay, I didn't know what the word "ponce" meant, and the bits with Danny the Drug Dealer actually scared me. What can I tell you, I was at boarding school and my favourite passtime was playing the cello. However, on the second viewing of the night, I did at least find it very, very funny, and I taped it off the TV next time it was on and watched it several more times. And even though I hadn't seen it for years, Withnailisms have seeped into my daily conversation: "I've got The Fear!" (daily, there's always something), "I've come on holiday by mistake... I'm not from London" (pretty much every time I leave town), "Bastard must have died" (when my agent hasn't called), "Bring me the finest wines known to humanity" (on the phone to the Wine Society) and so on.

Last night, I was lucky enough to get a ticket to the 20th anniversary cast and crew screening on Withnail and I at the bfi. (The usual suspect was responsible.) It was the first time that I had seen it on the big screen and it really rewards the larger size: you suddenly appreciate the exquisite detail of the production design, the glory of the Lake District vistas, and the unspeakable beauty of Paul McGann's jawline. Also, I had never noticed just how many vegetables Uncle Monty has about the place. It was interesting to note that because the audience was wall-to-wall Withnail obsessives, the hugely famous lines didn't get as much of a laugh as you'd expect due to their familiarity, and the real enthusiasm was reserved for slightly less well-known moments (in the Penrith tearooms, "We're going to buy this place and install a fucking jukebox" got a round of applause.)

After the film, the incongruous figure of Sue McGregor emerged to record an interview with Paul McGann ('I'), Richard E Grant ('Withnail'), Bruce Robinson (writer / director) and Ralph Brown (Danny the Drug Dealer) for the 'Reunion' slot on Radio 4. Previous reunionees, as McGregor informed us, have included Margaret Thatcher's first election team, and prisoners from Robben Island, so to say that she was out of her comfort zone with this lot is an understatement. The four emerged in trendy older man uniform - jeans, shirts and jackets - and the process of extracting blood from stones began. ("Are you a sponge or are you a stone?" [another quote, not one of Sue's questions])

I suppose that after twenty years of answering questions about Withnail and I, it does start to lose a little of its freshness. I suppose that it is a better idea on a show called Reunion to reunite people who don't get together all the time anyway, so they exhibit some excitement about seeing each other again. I suppose when you work at the BBC it is a good idea to test the height of the microphones so that there is at least a fighting chance of the answers to the questions being fully audible, and I suppose that those answers might have been more involving if the questions had been posed by someone with a passing interest in the topic - the audience questions were markedly better than McGregor's own. I also suppose that the atmosphere in the room was not entirely assisted that we were in there from 6.30 to 10.30 and you're not allowed to bring food in, or indeed allowed to piss in your seat (there was, I'll admit, one 15-minute break).

What I know for sure is that Paul McGann is not someone you would ever wish to invite to a dinner party. Pretty much when any of the other three were asked a question they answered it gamely enough, and plenty of interesting information was conveyed. (My favourite fact of the night was that Richard Griffiths was 38 years old when he played Uncle Monty, which does resolve my ongoing confusion as to why he hasn't aged in the past 20 years. My second favourite fact: the live chicken of "kill it before it makes friends with us" fame is the same as the dead, "shouldn't it be more bald" chicken sitting on the brick in the oven.) However, when Paul McGann was asked a question, he would first wait for about a minute in silence while he contemplated his reply. This even if it was a question addressed to the entire panel and he was the last to speak. Then. With. Huge. Pauses. Between. Each. Word. He. Would. Say. Something. So. Unspeakably. Pretentious. That. It. Frequently. Defied. My. Comprehension. For the four hours we were in the cinema, I'd say that a good hour was comprised just of Paul McGann pausing. Some poor bastard is going to have to cut all of the silences out of Paul McGann's answers and it's going to take forever, and what he says is *still* not going to make any sense.

Having said all of that, there was a real magic in looking at the fresh faces of McGann, Grant and Brown up on screen and then their rather more haggard forms in real life in front of you, and Bruce Robinson in particular was a lively interviewee, probably because he doesn't get people shouting GET IN THE BACK OF THE VAN at him on a daily basis. But even Robinson himself, at the end of the interview, described Withnail and I as "a cholostomy bag around my neck", which pretty much summed up the panel's attitude to the entire night. A fun but flawed evening, then, and if you haven't seen Withnail and I, I heartily recommend that you do so. Twice.

Sunday, 7 October 2007

Strictly Come Dancing / X Factor: Results Show 7.10.07


As previously mentioned, I hate results shows: they go on for far too long and are basically the televisual equivalent of a long drawn-out session of prick-teasing followed by premature ejaculation. Nothing I saw tonight remotely changed that opinion.

The Strictly / X Factor results shows were, like the programmes themselves, screened simultaneously, in the standard big knob contest between the two broadcasters, designed to maximise their own egos whilst minimising audience satisfaction. If the BBC really was a public service broadcaster, they would put Strictly out at a time when there core audience wasn't really wanting to watch something on the other side. Anyway, it did mean I could flick between the two whenever one got boring - i.e. constantly.

Strictly was an excercise in recycling: here's the performances from yesterday, here's what the judges said yesterday, here's Mark Ramprakash doing a dance fom last year, here's Michael Buble singing a song that was a hit several decades ago, here's a dance off featuring the two dances you liked least yesterday - the two dances you don't want to see a second time, in other words, but here they are, and here's the judges deciding who goes home, choosing the same dance they liked least yesterday.

X Factor on the other hand had plenty of new footage, all of which was of people crying. I'm crying because I'm nervous. I'm crying because I want it so badly. I'm crying because I'm thinking of my poor dead father. I'm crying because I'm thinking about my kids. I'm crying because Sharon Osborne has made me think I'm going home. I'm crying because I am going home. I'm crying because I'm not going home. I'm crying because I have temporarily gone home before not going home to tell my kids / my poor dead father that I'm not going home, and now my kids / my poor dead father is crying too. Watching the X Factor results show makes me think of when Joanne Lees did that press conference after Peter Falconio was killed, and everyone assumed she did it because she didn't cry. To be blunt, unless you cry a whole lot on X Factor, the public will hate you and you may as well be a murderer for all the chance you have of winning. If you ever go on X Factor, carry an onion in your pocket just in case.

Sharon Osborne, who is the best at deliberately winding the contestants up and making them cry before telling them that in fact they are through to the next round, is also the best at comforting them by clutching them to her maternal, subtly surgically enhanced, bosom (although in one case asking a sobbing girl to please keep her dripping black make-up away from Sharon's designer togs.)

Which did make me think, which celebrity would be the person you'd most like to comfort you when you're sobbing your poor little heart out (and I don't mean "comforting" in the tabloid sense)? And which the least? My opening bids: Brenda Blethyn and Chris Moyles (I'm guessing you can figure out which most and which least without me telling you.)

X Factor 6.10.07


While we're on the subject of appalling clothing decisions that distract from an entire show's output, it does seem only fair to mention Sinitta's fans on X factor last night. Did anything else happen at all?

Strictly Come Dancing 6.10.07



It's actually hard to say much about the contestants' performances this week. Knowing that I would be blogging about it, I took notes: I've got a whole page of aides memoires like "Flavia: gold tassled bikini!", "Where is Dominic's neck?" "Gethin and Camilla: stiff", "Ola's boobs!" "Nicole's practice outfit!" "Is Erin wearing a tablecloth?" "Is Craig getting more gay?" and "Brian and Karen: no chemistry."

The problem is that every three minutes the programme cut back to Tess Daly and wiped my memory of what had come before. Dear God in heaven, WHAT was she wearing? An unspeakable platinum straightened fringe helmet hairdo - no no NO no no - and then this white satin dress with sludge coloured patches and some kind of breastomatic uberbra underneath, which might have just about passed muster (although let's be honest, it wouldn't have) if it hadn't been for that BELT. Or to be more accurate, that giant black leather fetish truss trying to eat her middle. It was grotesque. It was obscene. It was appropriately black because it was like some kind of belt-shaped black hole sucking the rest of the programme into its ravenous maw. I feel like Kurtz: the horror, the horror. The belt will live on long after the mediocre starting dances have left my memory.

Still, from what I can piece together from the scraps surrounding the belt-shaped block in my mind, the early highlights were Dominic - surprisingly nifty, but does he have the determination to see it through?; Willie - exceptional footwork, but will come apart in the Latin dances; and John - charm personified, and the only one to really wiggle his hips, but may not have the stamina. At the bottom of my list is the charisma vacuum that is Kenny Logan, for whom I could only find one word: "boring".

Results show tonight: traditionally I don't watch results shows, as they drag everything out to the nth degree and spend most of their time either repeating what you saw the night before or P..... A...... U...... S..... I..... N..... G..... forever before you finally get to find out who's in and who's out, and I resent the waste of my time. We may have to reconvene here, though, if the rumours are true and it's the judges who are choosing who to keep and who to chuck from the bottom two (is this because of the BBC phone-in scandal? I noticed they were being SUPER clear about the phone-in rules) as I disapprove heartily and may have to complain about it.

[Please note: the image illustrating this post is not THE belt. It is merely the best I could do while still preserving my sanity and the sanctity of this blog.]

Saturday, 6 October 2007

Atonement


Aside from being the best advertisment for smoking, anorexia, and bias-cut fabrics that you will ever see, Atonement is a pretty weird film.

I read the book when it first came out several years ago, when I had a particularly vicious case of the flu (the same flu that was afflicting me when my mother came round and brought up my post, and I opened a completely unexpected bill for £10,000, and my mother thought I was delirious with fever, but in fact I was just a Camden Council leaseholder who was about to have a new roof that I didn't want.) I read it in a day, between fits of unconsciousness. I mention this to highlight the fact that I read it fast, which will become relevant later.

The opening section of Atonement, the movie, is glorious, particularly if you get any enjoyment out of seeing Keira Knightley in a wet, transparent slip / a swimsuit / any number of stunning floaty gowns that almost show her boobs, which, despite being a heterosexual woman, I do, even if just on the level of appreciation of beauty, and if you are a man, you will like even more so. (On the level of sexiness, we women get James McAvoy in a vest, which will satisfy many, but his arms aren't toned enough to fully convince as a gardener, he's on the short side for my lofty frame, and, well, I keep thinking of him as Mr Tumnus the faun in Narnia. Not a fantasy of mine.) It's filmed in an almost hallucinatory haze of heat, both literal and metaphorical, and plays on tiny details of differing perspectives, understandings and misunderstandings, relationships that shift in a glance exchanged, and so on. It's a soft, slow, beautiful slide into doom, at the end of which you might wish to consider going home.

You then get about sixteen hours of James McAvoy - not a remotely interesting character when taken out of the context of his relationships - marching through France with a loyal companion from the Dick van Dyke school of realistic cockneys saying Guvnor a lot. There's one particular shot that has already become famous, four unbroken minutes swooping and swirling up and down the beach at Dunkirk, which I think are supposed to signify the EPIC SCOPE of what happened there. Here's what I was thinking during those four minutes: "Wow, this is pretty impressive. Is that camera on rails? Of course it is. I wonder what the actors are doing when they're not in shot? How did they cue the horses? Where are the crew standing? Is James McAvoy going to be back in a minute? Oh yes, there he is. I wonder where he was standing in the meantime? I wonder how many takes this took? God, Dunkirk actually looks like quite a nice place for a holiday, with that Ferris wheel and those lovely old buildings. Wow, this really is a long shot." I haven't checked with Joe Wright but I am reasonably sure that this is not the effect intended.

After your sixteen hours of James McAvoy, you get about twelve hours of Romala Garai, looking creepily like the girl who played her character earlier on, and also largely uninteresting when taken out of the context of her relationships. There is some gruesome gore and quite a touching scene with a dying soldier, but to be honest, I already knew that war was grim and I really care a lot more about the situation set up in part one. If you want me to care about soldiers, the film should be about soldiers.

And somewhere within your sixteen hours of James McAvoy and twelve hours of Romala Garai, you get about four and half minutes of Keira Knightley in a nurse's uniform with a mullet perm.

The whole of this section feels a bit irrelevant and disjointed and never really gels with what we've seen in the first half. Now, looking back on my memories of the book, there is indeed an incredibly long stretch of James McAvoy, sorry, Robbie, battling his way through France, but the difference is that you can read that bit really fast rushing through to find out what happens next. Oh, and that there isn't a cheeky chappie saying Guvnor a lot, or if there is, he is more convincing in my imagination, and also the lead role is not played by a faun, though that's not really James McAvoy's fault, and he is quite a sexy faun. Also, and I did have a very high fever, but I do remember the two halves being more carefully balanced, and the London Briony (Garai) and Cecilie (Knightley) bits being more interesting. But I might be wrong about all of that. Still, as a book, it's not so stark when you lose entire characters for long stretches at a time, because the experience of reading is so different from watching a film - you immerse yourself in smaller chunks at a time, even when you are reading it as fast as I was, so each bit is your total reality at any given moment.

The last section of the film, however, is excellently handled, with Vanessa Redgrave, also cast with creepy accuracy as an old Briony, giving an interview about what has passed before and pulling it all together, and I cried so much that people in the cinema were actually worried about me. Vanessa Redgrave's career at the moment seems to be comprised entirely of cameo roles of people talking about the past and making me cry (see also: Venus) so I can't entirely rule out this being a Pavlovian reponse and that if I ran into Vanessa Redgrave at a cocktail party I wouldn't collapse weeping at her feet and get Martini in my hair.

All in all, though, before I went I thought that this is a book that would not work well as a film, and I still think so, no matter how well acted, how beautiful, how mesmerising the camerawork is, and how many times Keira Knightley can apply bright red lipstick and light a cigarette and dive into a fountain with the light behind her.

Friday, 5 October 2007

Home and Away



Twenty years of Home and Away! God, I feel old. (Though not as old as this pair. It's a successful programme, they could have stretched to airbrushing those bags and wrinkles. Cassie is meant to be eighteen years old! Too much sun, methinks.) I have been watching from the very start, when Alf had hair and Sally - who has been married about three times, and whose actress has an online sex tape - was barely more than a foetus. I like to stop work every day at 6pm and watch a celebratory half hour of Home and Away (which will be followed as of next week by an even more celebratory half hour of Strictly Come Dancing: It Takes Two, which is appropriate, as the Aussie version of Strictly seems to be won by someone from H&A pretty much every year). Five are also kind enough to show the previous day's episode at noon and the following day's episode on Freeview at 6.30, so if you are really desperate you can watch three episodes in one day, and if that isn't enough, you can read episode synopses on their website that stretch back and forth pretty much until both ends of time.

I also love Neighbours, which I have also watched from the start, and which is my lunchtime break: I'm pretty much an Aussie soap fanatic, and I try to find shame in this status, but so far it eludes me. This is all by way of warning you that there will be many more Neighbours and Home and Away posts to come.

For now, I will just draw your attention to the fact that H&A has just been castigated by the Australian broadcasting watchdog. I wonder what they could possibly have done wrong? Well, could it maybe be the storyline where Martha, having gone off the rails and developed a drinking problem after having an affair with a married man which culminated in an unwanted pregnancy and an abortion, gets involved with the dodgy owner of a dodgy nightclub and ends up as a lapdancer? She won't hear a word against her dubious lover until it's proved that not only has he fathered an illigitimate daughter by one of his dancers and driven another of them to heroin addiction, he is also using the club to sell cocaine. At this point I should probably alert the less informed that Home and Away is, strictly speaking, a children's programme. Apparently the other recent storyline that got them into trouble was one in which "two teenage characters decide to have sex", but I can't comment on that one, as I'm not certain if it refers to Ric and Cassie, Ric and Matilda, Cassie and Jules, Cassie and Mac, Belle and Drew, Belle and Lucas, or Lucas and Matilda, and I would hate to get my details wrong.

I'd write more about this but the lunchtime repeat is poised to start: Brad is going to propose to Sally, little knowing that anyone who does that generally leaves the series shortly after, and there is a storm brewing at sea, which means that anyone currently on a boat will be washed up on shore somewhere where they don't have people, and weeks will pass while Alf Stewart looks for them wearing a fluorescent jacket, and if they are pregnant they will give birth. And that's just twenty-five minutes worth.

Thursday, 4 October 2007

The Salmon Dance


All my posts have been quite long so far so here's a short one. The Salmon Dance by the Chemical Brothers is the boogiest song ever and I don't care if that's not a word. If you can hear it without getting up and shaking your groove thang I can only assume that you have no hips or that you are listening to it somewhere that precludes the strutting of stuff: in the bath, while operating a BBC phone in, at a funeral, or all of the above at once. And I'm sure that you actually can do the salmon dance at a funeral. Or in the bath. So the BBC phone in is the only possible excuse, and they don't even exist any more. See what you reckon:

Superbad


Another night, another movie. This time Superbad, from the makers of Knocked Up. Now, I loved Knocked Up, and every time I read one of those articles saying that it was reactionary, misogynist, anti-abortion propaganda I'd go a bit shaky and have to lie down in a darkened room thinking about dick jokes until I recovered. (It's not that I don't know about reactionary, misogynist, anti-abortion propaganda, but I have two words for you: Forrest Gump.) Superbad, inevitably, was a bit of a disappointment after that, though there is a perfectly good reason for it: Knocked Up is at least partly aimed at thirtysomething career women contemplating the implications of having children, and Superbad, despite its R rating, is aimed at teenage boys whose whole mission in life is to get drunk and get sex. It was, in fact, first written by star Seth Rogen when precisely at that age and stage in life, though some might argue, while he has increased in years, his attitude is pretty much where he left it.

The R rating for the American release is qualified with the words: "Pervasive crude and sexual content, strong language, drinking, some drug use and a fantasy / comic violent image - all involving teens." Which is as good a description of the film as any, and I particularly love the "all involving teens" postscript, which makes it sound like the most titillating entertainment ever, which is possibly not the effect the consors were going for.

Anyway, in my opinion, Superbad is a bit patchy, as much of the film consists of Jonah Hill (about 45 years old, playing an 18-year-old, wrinkles intact) saying pussy a lot as well as other words not meaning cat and which I'd rather not repeat too much as I'll end up getting a lot of unwanted traffic. Funny if you're 17, a bit tired if you're 31. However, there are so many moment of pure comic genius that it doesn't really matter. Many or most of this comedy gold comes courtesy of the uber-nerd Fogel, who creates a fake ID identifying him as the 25-year-old Hawaiian organ doner McLovin - no first name, just McLovin - and who is adopted by two cops whose idea of a good time is to get drunk, shine their ultra-bright torches in each others faces whilst driving, and run over children. (If you don't think that running people over is funny, avoid the film. There is a lot of bumper-to-bum action.)

I, however, had another reason to adore the film. I fell in love. True love, with the character of Evan. Now, I have previously believed myself to find love in the cinema before - Han Solo, Christian Slater in Heathers, Mr Incredible - but I realise now that was just lust. This is the real thing. Fortunately this feeling was largely unconnected to my sex drive - Michael Sera, who plays Evan, was born in 1988 - but my heart absolutely melted as the supremely well-brought-up Evan bumbled through the film with his no porn, respect for women, isn't it a bit exploitative to try to have sex with girls when they're drunk manifesto, if someone who is so busy being respectful and nice can even have a manifesto, because surely that would be a bit imposing on a nice pretty girl etc. Evan is not your archetypal teen movie lead, and although is never once made out to be a loser, the filmmakers have fun putting him is a series of excruciating scenarios, notably having to sing to a room full of violent coke-heads, battling with a faulty mobile phone, and best yet being "seduced" by the girl of his dreams who has obviously watched one too many porn films and drunk fourteen too many tequilas. At this point he gets my favourite line in the whole movie, as she rips his clothes off: "Please be careful of that sweater, it's very meaningful to me, it's vintage." I actually don't think I have ever gone out with anyone who wouldn't have said that very line, and I'll be honest with you, Evan's gawky frame, weak chin, soft feminine mouth, badly cut hair and carefuly chosen geek threads are not entirely unknown in my dating repertoire either. I defy any woman not to get a bit hormonal or at least maternal when confronted with the adorable Evan. (Don't worry blokes, there are innumerable shots of girls' tits to keep you entertained in the meantime.)

Ultimately, I'd say that whatever you thought of Knocked Up, take it down one notch and that's what you'll think of Superbad. If you loved Knocked Up, you'll really like Superbad, and if you hated Knocked Up, just lock yourself in a room until it is no longer at a theater near you. Unless you are a teenage boy (literally, or in soul), in which case run, don't walk...

Wednesday, 3 October 2007

Ronnie Hazlehurst RIP, and other thoughts on theme tunes


While most of my friends have been mourning the loss of Ned Sherrin, the humour broadcaster who I only know about in theory rather than practice because I find Radio 4 a bit intimidating, I have been busy saying goodbye to Ronnie Hazlehurst, TV theme tune composer extraordinaire. If you watched TV in the seventies and eighties (and all the repeats in the nineties and noughties) you will be familiar with his work on Yes Minister, The Two Ronnies, Are You Being Served (my own particular favourite - going up!), Last of the Summer Wine etc. Aside from being a genius - and if that list doesn't convince you, probably you should be listening to Radio 4 with the other highbrow people - he was also geniusly named, evoking, quite correctly, a cross between Ronnie Barker (comic actor of note) and Lee Hazlewood (the musical brains behind Nancy Sinatra's boots.) In fact he had the second best name in the history of TV theme tune composition, after WG Snuffy Walden (The West Wing, My So-Called Life, Thirtysomething etc.) (WG Snuffy Walden lags far behind in the history of actual names, where my personal favourite is the hard-to-beat American financier colleague of a friend of mine, Randy Bumgardner. More proof, as if it were needed, that Americans should not be allowed to name their own children.)

Ronnie Hazlehurst's skill was in writing TV themes that matched the content of their respective programmes to perfection. In one of his obituaries I read that his theme for Some Mothers Do Have Em contained the title of the programme played in Morse code on the piccolo. As it happens, just the day before he died, I was thinking about theme tune suitability, on the bus, when the theme for the Bond movie 'The Living Daylights', performed by A-ha, came onto my iPod. A-ha were my first ever favourite band, not because I liked them particularly, but because my cousin liked them and I had to do everything that my cousin did. There were three members of A-ha, so my cousin, my sister and I could have one each. We picked in order of age which is obviously the same as importance, so my cousin chose first, picking Mags, controversially, the curly-haired one who looked a bit like Craig McLachlan, which left my sister very happily with chiselled-cheekboned ice god Morten Haarket, and me slightly less happily with Pal, also known (to us at least) as weasel-features. As it happened, A-ha do have some great songs - I draw your attention to 'Take On Me' - so they weren't too bad a favourite band to have imposed upon you. 'The Living Daylights', however, is not one of those great songs. It's weak and slightly nonsensical, unless you think a chorus that goes 'Oh, oh, oh, oh, the living daylights' makes sense. Personally I don't think they knew what living daylights are, and actually neither do I. Once they've been scared out of you, what do they look like and where do they go? Anyway, you could call 'The Living Daylights' a poorly-chosen Bond theme, but actually the film is also weak and slightly nonsensical (cf Maryam D'Abo sledging down a mountain using a cello as a steering pole.) So it is a perfect match of film and theme, just as perfect as the glorious, iconic 'Goldfinger' with its glorious, iconic Shirley Bassey opening song, or the silly, sexist 'The Man with the Golden Gun' with its silly, sexist Lulu-voiced lyrics ("He's got a powerful weapon!" etc). Downbeat but memorable 'Casino Royale' did however bugger up by going for the downbeat but entirely unmemorable 'You Know My Name' by someone whose name, with beautiful irony, I don't know.

I have digressed, but nevertheless, farewell then, Ronnie Hazlehurst. Your work will live on, and I will smile, and possibly sing along, each time I hear it.

Tuesday, 2 October 2007

Battle of the Planets: Museum of Mystery



Back when I was a wee lass I loved Battle of the Planets. It's right at the beginning of my cartoon repertoire, before Dungeons and Dragons, before Ulysees 31, before Dogtanian and the Three Muskahounds, before even Touche Turtle (surely due for a live action remake?) Mainly I liked it for the following reasons:

- It had a robot dog.
- Princess had brown hair. And so did I.

Do not underestimate the significance of Princess having brown hair. In general, in cartoons and in the TV of that era (think Charlie's Angels, think Scooby Doo), being female and having brown hair meant that you were the less glamorous but more intelligent of the female characters, and who wanted to be intelligent? Not me. Princess, though, appeared to be the only female character in Battle of the Planets, though I experienced some confusion over Zoltar (voice of a man, wore lip gloss and a long cape), which meant that she had both glamour and brains - well, brains enough to come a close third in brain power after Mark and Jason and before the fat one and the mentally retarded one. I love cartoons.

Anyway, it's been a long time since I've watched Battle of the Planets, but there was one episode that always stuck in my mind. In it, Princess for some reason had been thrown out of G Force, and Zoltar was taking the opportunity to capture her by using - and I remembered this very clearly - some kind of competition which involved having to step through a Princess-shaped door. Thre was something deeply sinister and yet oddly seductive about the Princess-shaped door. I was terrified as to what was going to happen to her on the far side of this door; and yet I too wanted a Marie-shaped door, or better yet, I wanted to fit through the Princess-shaped door myself. But what would happen next? What? Well, I had no idea, because my mother made me go to my piano lesson. Perfidious mother! And it is no exaggeration to say that I have never stopped wondering what happened on the far side of that door. I have asked many people, Battle of the Planets watchers all, but none of them could remember that episode. I began to wonder if I had dreamt it or made it up.

[As an aside, I do wonder if the impact of the Princess-shaped door episode represented some kind of Freudian anxiety on my part, regarding both fear of adolescence and latent interest in sex, as I knew that one day I too would be Princess-shaped - though unlikely to ever ride a big yellow motorcycle in white high-heeled thigh boots - and I both desired and feared what I would experience on the far side of that transition. But I think that is for an entirely different kind of blog.]

Cut to this weekend, spent in the warm Windsor (not Barbara Windsor) bosom of the family of He Who Has A Big Mouth. I was shown to my delightful attic room and there I saw a complete DVD box set of Battle of the Planets. At last! Finally! Ultimately! Etc!

After quite some time of going through the episode titles and trying to guess which might be the Princess Door one (unlikely to be 'Attack of the Space Terrapin', disappointingly not 'G-Force Defector' etc) we found an online episode guide and there it was! 'Museum of Mystery'! Reader, I watched it.

OK, so first thing's first, I am slightly surprised that I have spent the last 25 years obsessing over the Princess-shaped door and yet I had completely forgotten the leading role played in the episode of a giant woolly mammoth. Nevertheless, it was with delighted recognition that I recalled how Princess, in battling the mammoth, lost her magic shoe, which was then recovered by Zoltar and discovered to have the ability to create a clone of Princess when blasted with radiation. Obviously. So. Princess loses her shoe. As a result, she is expelled from G-force. Zoltar uses the cloned Princess to create a Princess-shaped door. Princess and some other, slightly less attractive, Princess-shaped women go through the Princess-shaped door. At this point I am anticipating a whole panoply of further tests which will narrow the group of Princess-shaped women down to the one true Princess (iris recognition, fingerprinting, having to sleep on a bed with a pea underneath, etc.) But no. They gas them and put them in a cage, and then G-force come to rescue them, and they find the shoe, and then there is a really long battle with the woolly mammoth, which they win. The end.

So, a slight anti-climax. I cannot deny it. And yet a huge weight off my psyche, which has been blaming my mother and the piano all these years for ruining my life (cartoon sub-section of). Sorry mother. Sorry piano.

So while I am healing the wounds to my young telly-watching soul: does anyone have a DVD of The Watcher in the Woods? All I can recall is: Bette Davis. Woods. Eyes. But I am convinced it is the most terrifying film ever made. Or at least, my six-year-old self is. Can anybody help?

Monday, 1 October 2007

Strictly Come Dancing 30.09.07



I'm all about Saturday night. Well, Saturday mid-evening really. That's thirteen weeks of Doctor Who a year and fourteen weeks of Strictly Come Dancing and two Christmas specials, leaving twenty-three weekends a year for a social life (or watching it all over again on my PVR.) That seems balanced to me.

What's not to love about Strictly Come Dancing? Celebrities. Sequined outfits. Celebrities in sequined outfits. (This is not a list of what not to love, by the way. Once again, felled by grammar.) The in-house band mauling popular hits of the day. The in-house band in sequined outfits. Bruce Forsyth. Tess Daly. Tess Daly in sequined outfits. The judges. The judges in sequined outfits. The judges mauling popular celebrities of the day in sequined outfits. And dancing, dancing, dancing! Or things approximating dancing. Sometimes just agonised shuffling in manner of cow slowly expiring of CJD, in sequined outfit. Honestly, if you don't adore Strictly Come Dancing, there is nothing but a lump of coal beating glumly in your hard, lonely chest.

I am slightly disappointed this season that there is nobody that could accurately be described as a dancing wardrobe (cf Peter Schmeichel, Darren Gough) because it is always a highlight of my season wondering if they will tip over and crash as if leaned on by careless removal men, except in ruffles. On the other hand, the producers have made up for this oversight by booking the following glorious contestants:

1. Gethin, aka the cute one out of Blue Peter, who has already said he will wear *anything* the production team give him to wear. Rash. I mean, that's rash, and also he will probably get a rash, from all that tight, translucent, shiny, man-made fabric, with feathers and sequins and ruffles and OK, I'm getting sweaty-palmed. Moving on.

2. Stephanie Beacham. Stephanie Beacham! I have often said, OK, never said, but would have if I had thought of it, that what was missing from Strictly Come Dancing was a direct umbilical link to Dynasty, in perfect across-time-and-space marriage of kitsch icons bearing baby of family entertainment joy. It's a shame they couldn't get Joan Collins, but she is probably now a solid lump of botox incapable of independent movement. Stephanie Beacham is dancing with pocket rocket Vincent Simone, the half pint Latin King, in a beautiful meeting of snake hips and cheese, and if they get voted out in week one I will actually cry.

3. Laeticia Dean. I am actually not all that excited about Laeticia Dean, but if she were to get into a fight with Stephanie Beacham, ideally involving acrylic nails and detached hair extensions and ripped fabric, I would cheerfully support any increase in the license fee that the BBC cared to impose.

This week was only an introductory episode so we didn't actually get to see any of the new contestants dance, although they showed a snippet of Carol Vorderman's rhumba, so by no means could you call it a disappointment. Next week, though, the show begins in earnest. I can barely contain my excitement, in fact I am not containing it at all.

Question: if you could choose the dream contestant for Strictly Come Dancing, who would it be? I will open the bidding with: Alan Hansen.