On Saturday night we watched This Is Spinal Tap, a film which clips along and lasts barely 75 minutes. We then watched Letter to Brezhnev which lasts just over 90 minutes. I've also been listening to a podcast about the third greatest film of the 1980s, An American Werewolf in London, which has a running time of 97 minutes. No film needs to last more than 105 minutes at the very most. Reservoir Dogs lasts 99 minutes which is the perfect length. Tarantino's latest film lasts for over 160 minutes. Why? Films are too long these days. If you need your film to last more than an hour and three quarters then turn into a TV series. And don't get me even started on The Irishman. Difference there is that at least you can watch that at home if you're one of these people with Netflix, so you can at least get up and have a walk around. Rocket Man, the Elton John biopic could have done with some serious editing, knocking at least 20 minutes off it. I was well square-arsed when we came out of the pictures. I'm currently reading Elton's autobiography, as well as being a right rollicking read, we've already met Bernie Taupin by page 50, he's slayed the American glitterati by page 70 and the entire book is out of your way in less than 350 pages. Brevity in all things is what I now demand. Just because you can do something doesn't mean you have to. Films lasting far too long is what puts me off going to the pictures these days. I'm nearly 50, life is short, I have other things to do.
I like what this band do. They do prog, but hardly any of their songs last more than three and a half minutes. Which is nice. For prog. h
I've been having a discussion on Facebook, prompted by the Oscar nominations, about films. I have to say that the idea of sitting in a cinema is becoming less and less appealing as I get older. At risk of sounding like a grumpy old man, people in cinemas get on my wick.
First we have to pay nearly ten pounds a pop for the privilege of sitting in there with people who won't sit in their allocated seats (I was once given short shrift by a guy at a cinema in Nottingham when I informed him that he was sitting in my seat for a performance of far-fetched Brad Pitt WWII film Fury. Flaming pillock).
Then they have to bring in all manner of food. I mean, those nachos they insist on serving these days look horrific. What is that fluorescent orange gloop they have to smother them with? It looks radioactive. And that's before we've even got started on rattling sweet wrappers and bags. Then, when they're not pushing food into their hungry maws, they're talking. Or looking at mobile phones. It's only in the past decade that I've actually seen people being ejected from a cinema for bad behaviour (The Woman in Black in Birmingham). Is that because people no longer know how to sit quietly for a couple of hours?
Then there's the films themselves. That's when you can actually get to the main feature part. You can put another thirty minutes on the stated start time because first we have to sit through half an hour of adverts, which wouldn't be so bad if they were still like this. The main features are rubbish these days too. I went to the cinema five times last year, two of those films (Trainspotting 2, Dunkirk) were rubbish, one was okay-ish (Murder on the Orient Express), one was quite good (The Death of Stalin) and the other one was Dave Gilmour* at Pompeii, so I knew what I was getting with that. All films these days seem to be based on comics, and not the sort of comics I like either. If someone made a film based on The Tough of the Track (Alf Tupper), Braddock VC or Billy's Boots then I'd be well up for that. If they're not based on comics it has to be a historical drama where they get all the facts wrong. And if it's not those then it's some worthy old bollocks. Why does nobody make daft comedies any more? Police Academy, Trading Places, Groundhog Day, Rita Sue and Bob Too, those stupid-but-good films with John Candy, Chevy Chase or Dan Aykroyd?
I dunno, maybe I'm just more into television these days. Namely imported television. Deutschland 83, Witnesses, Modus, that silly Swedish Scooby Doo thing that BBC4 showed in the autumn. All much more deserving of my time, I think. I'm currently well into French law and order procedural Spiral. We've only discovered it on series 6 but it was my birthday last week and Mrs Ambassador gave me the first four series in a boxset. I can't wait to sink my teeth into all 4000+ minutes of that.
It's either that or I stick to the excellent television channel Talking Pictures TV.
*I say 'Dave' because he insists on being called 'David'
Wow, 2013, eh? Phew, what a year. Here's my round-up, it's been a long time since I've done one of these.
Albums of the Year:
Steven Wilson - The Raven That Refused to Sing and Other Stories. Just a superb LP. And it is an LP, something that demands to be listened to from start to finish. Imagine King Crimson with some ballads. No? Oh, okay, well it sounds good to me.
Public Service Broadcasting - Inform Educate Entertain. This project take the dialogue from old films and PIFs and puts them to music. Sound's rubbish? Nah, check this out.
Wolf People - Fain. This Bedfordshire quartet probably haven't heard any music recorded since 1970 or seen a film since Blood on Satan's Claw. Very, very English, er, psych-folk-prog.
Single of the Year:
The Maccabees - Pelican. I know it was originally released at the fag end of 2011, but it's a song it took me over a year to decide I liked. And when I decided I liked it, I decided I really liked it. They're one of those bands whom I have no desire to hear anything else by, I'd only be disappointed that it wouldn't be as good as Pelican (I put Death Cab for Cutie in the same category - they'll never top I Will Possess Your Heart). They won't be able to top this.
Gig of the Year:
Steven Wilson at the Royal Albert Hall. My wife and I had already seen Steven at the Manchester Academy in March, but this gig in October was quite, quite terrific. The band he assembles are all just on it - special praise for Kajagoogoo bassist Nick Beggs and former Zappa drummer Chad Wackerman - while the songs and the way they're presented are just sublime. An added bonus for this gig was that my wife managed to get us some excellent seats right near the stage (see photo). So good were the seats that VIP guests were sitting in front of us.
TV shows of the Year:
The Returned - Shows with subtitles, not usually my bag but the story here is all that matters. The Returned is about grief and missing people, something we've all experienced. I'm not going to complain about the ending like nearly everyone else, it could have stood as a stand alone series with that ending. Let's just hope they don't jump the shark in future series. Oh, and one of the lead actresses is rather lovely.
Toast of London - Just a wilfully daft comedy about a tosspot actor with Matt Berry. I loved it and am glad to see it's coming back for a second series after abysmal ratings (there are some tasteless people out there).
The Silent War - A late entry, this, part of BBC2's Cold War season. It's a documentary about the way submarines were used in the Cold War. A bit dry? You bet, but I love all this Mutually Assured Destruction stuff. And remember, DON'T DROP ANY SPANNERS.
Count Arthur Strong - Another wilfully daft comedy. You either love or hate Count Arthur Strong and it seems more people hate him. For me, this was just a delight. The episode set during a recording of a radio play really was superb, one of the funniest things on television all year.
Broadchurch - You've already read the superlatives. And it had a proper ending. I can't imagine what they'll do for series two though.
What Remains - This psychological murder mystery proves we can do this stuff as well as any foreign broadcaster. And, spoiler alert, I'm not holding my breath for series two.
Film of the Year:
Pfft, hardly been to the cinema. Here's what I've seen at the pictures: Rush, Alpha Papa. Yup.
Sightseers - probably released in 2012, but I saw it this year 'on demand'. An erotic odyssey to well-loved tourist spots in the north of England in a caravan goes horribly wrong...
Event of the Year:
Getting married! Yay! Believe the hype, it really is the happiest day of your life. I highly recommend it.
Anyway, that's it from me, have a good Christmas and I hope 2014 is good to you. I love you all and I'll leave you with the greatest Christmas song* ever. NO ARGUMENTS!
*Even though it's by a hoary old prog rocker who nobody likes
Hey, guess what? I'm still alive! Hurrah! Sorry I've not done much on here but I've been busy. You know, like really busy. You would not believe how busy I've been. I've been so busy I'm off the Busyometer scale. Yeah, you know really, really busy. I've been busy doing all sorts of stuff. Busy hating Harry Redknapp takes up a lot of my time at the moment. But I've taken time out of hating Harry Redknapp to do this. You lucky bastards.
Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah, David Essex. I'm young enough to remember a time when David Essex wasn't famous. He's always been there. Whether winking at the camera on Top of the Pops or hosting his own TV show or having a sitcom written for him. I quite like him. I like him so much I went to see him in his musical All the Fun of the Fair last week with members of the family. It's not the best musical you'll ever see but it's a diverting couple of hours and live entertainment's always better than staying in watching the telly, isn't it?
Looking at the programme I was reminded what a great talent his is. Essex gets the sole writing credit on all but one of the songs in the show - and it's one of those jukebox musicals where the songs are already known to you. It has to be said there were quite a few hits in there so he's clearly not just a pretty face. Take Rock On for instance; that is a great record. It still sounds fresh nearly forty years later, in fact the opening bass chords are quite scary (it has to be said that some of the songs are shoehorned in to the musical: "Do you know what, Jonny? We're gonna make you a star!" Cue the song).
But what I admire most about Essex is his film Stardust. I love that film. The thing is that he can actually act as well as write and sing all of the songs. I first saw Stardust when I recorded on to video a late night showing when I must have been about 14. The thing that struck me most at the time was the scene where he goes to bed with a pair of buxom twins. For a 14 year-old that was just the most mind-blowing thing I'd ever seen (although having read Hammer of the Gods and Motley Crue's books, bedding a pair of twins sounds like tea at Grandma's). It's still a film I love though, as I love a lot of films of that era like Slade in Flame. It's the age-old story of boy wants to be rock star, becomes rock star, gets into the 'H', gets his head together in the country, overdoses live on TV. If you've never seen it please do, especially as Paul Nicholas gets kicked out the band, Peter Duncan's in it, Dave Edmunds tries to act and Keith Moon plays himself. And the title song played over the closing credits is just magnificent. Look at this; Stardust with That'll Be the Day is less than seven of your English pounds on Amazon.
Anyway, I like David Essex (as do an awful lot of ladies of a pretty wide age range) and can do an impression of him. Yeah.
Warning: This is a rare post about which contains stuff about, ugh, 'feelings'. Those of a nervous disposition should look away now.
Been thinking about my parents a lot over the last few days. Not only because I've spent some time in the place where my mum's ashes were scattered - it's a lovely place and I would have gone anyway, while there I saw an infamous figure/cretin in British life walking along the beach - but also because I noticed in a bookshop a film tie-in edition of Nigel Slater's rather excellent book, Toast. I don't normally go in for Top 10 Favourite whatever, but if I did one on books that would definitely be in there. It's a book about how Slater's formative years were shaped by the food he ate. Coming from a family of gluttons* I found loads of common ground with him in it. Apart from the fact that his mother was a terrible cook (it's called toast because the one abiding memory he has of her is scraping burnt toast) mine was absolutely fantastic. I think one thing people do when a family member dies is to talk about whoever it is whose gone and talk over the good times and good things. Most of our reminiscences came from the food Mum prepared. The thought that we'd never taste her macaroni cheese (pretty mundane but her macaroni cheese was gorgeous, great 'comfort food'), chocolate fudge cake, fruit scones, Yorkshire puddings, shortcrust pastry, ginger parkin, steak and kidney pie or trifle again made us shiver (well, just me on the trifle front as those two divvies don't like it). There was also the disasters but funny disasters, like when Dad, who didn't get a sophisticated palate until later in life, insisted that he'd only eat spaghetti bolognese with veg. Plates of spag bog with a healthy serving of boiled savoy cabbage on the side was duly delivered to the table. She'd also sneak carrot into lasagne and had this fetish for putting sultanas in curries. Years later, when I'd discovered curry houses, I pointed out to her that I'd never eaten in an Indian restaurant that served savoury sultanas, she laughed and told me that that's how she was taught to make curry...by an English chef.
You'd also never see her weigh anything - unless she was cooking for a competition, where strict rules applied - her skill was immense. I wish I could 'knock up a few scones' if someone gave us short notice that they were visiting or cook something delish for an ill or needy friend. Memories are all I have, like Slater.
On a slightly different subject, came back to find the great Danny Baker has fucking cancer. I say 'fucking cancer' because that's what I call it after hearing Wilko Johnson call it that on an interview recently when talking about his deceased wife. Cancer's a murderer which takes good people before their time; like Mum, three grandparents, an aunt, an uncle and several family friends. I wish Danny well and nothing but best wishes. If you can spare a few pence for a cancer charity, please do.
*There's a great photo of Mum's twin brothers at a Christmas party in the fifties. Though facing the camera neither of them are looking at it, but follow their eyeline and they only have eyes for an enormous trifle on the table.
I've seen this poster everywhere over the past couple of weeks. I have to say it's doing a pretty good job of making me not want to see this film. It doesn't take a great leap of the imagination to see what this film's about: a bunch of immature, self-satisfied, smug American 'college chums' wisecracking with each other while their long-suffering 'womenfolk' have to put up with them. If Hollywood wants to know why it's on its knees, they need to look no further than this poster. I'm not a violent man but I could quite easily smack in the mouth all the males who appear on it.
Hey, remember that film Escape to Victory? Yeah, terrible, isn't it? Well they're only going to remake it. The ringleader? One Mr Vinnie Jones. Oh dear. Why remake something that bad? The original starred footballing greats like Pele, Bobby Moore and, er, John Wark. Who does Mr Jones want to put in the Bobby Moore role? Yes, that's right, David Beckham aka The World's Most Overrated Footballer. Three cheers for Becks! Not. He'd love that, Beckham, wouldn't he? He can really mix it up with his mates in La-La Land if he's made a fil-m. Perhaps his big buddy Tom Cruise could give him some acting tips. Or then again, maybe not.
Another irritation this week:
The new Jacob's Creek ad. The very idea of dinner parties fills me with dread at the best of time, but this ad is set at a dinner party with a bunch of wise-cracking Australians. In my head I shoot the fucking lot with an AK47.
Those pricks who sat behind me at Forest last night. For their information that 'little Scottish twat' is the same 'little Scottish twat' who got our team to third in the table. Oh, and to the woman who shouted out "I'm missing Holby City for this!", why didn't you stay at home then? Although someone's retort of "Who are they playing?!" was inspired. Sometimes the things people shout out are hilarious (there's nothing more life-affirming than hearing a nine year-old boy, in full view of his parents ,shout "The ref-er-ree's a wanker!"), not that crew, they were just full of bullshit from the first whistle. Even when we were coasting to a win. What makes it worse is that they were clearly season ticket holders. Groo!
Non-irritations this week:
Alison Steadman and David Troughton in Alan Bennett's Enjoy at the Theatre Royal in Nottingham. Good to see quality actors actually at work. And who'd have thought Bennett would have put blow job gags in one of his plays? Steadman looked absolutely knackered during the curtain calls though.
Alice in Wonderland. I got caught up in the whole 3D gimmick with this. The 3D doesn't actually make that much difference apart from a few spears being thrust towards the screen, but thoroughly enjoyable nevertheless. I reckon it's only the second Tim Burton film I've seen too.
Drums. My man got me to do some hard stuff this week. I need to practise, so it's good I've bought my own drum kit, int'it?
Forest manager Billy Davies's match programme notes; I'd love to hear them read aloud by a five year-old.
Anyway, if you don't like this then you don't like music:
This is going to be my last blog post for a while as, thanks to my employer's policy of making us all have two weeks off when holidays are at their most expensive, I'm going away at the weekend and, along with the fact I'm going to be away for a chunk of August, I'll have limited internet time over the summer. So I thought I'd do a what-I've-been-watching-on-TV round-up.
Let's start with Guesstimation, a dreadful new Saturday night vehicle for Nick Knowles. It won't surprise you to learn that I hate Knowles. He comes across as the kind of idiot who stands at the bar in pubs spraffing off to his pathetic mates about how great he is while mentally undressing every woman who walks into the bar. To compound my hatred I heard him being interviewed on Radio Nottingham last week while trying to promote Guesstimation. While he was at it he thought he'd slip in that he's doing a new reality show. The woman interviewing him stopped him and reminded him that in the past he's slated reality television (while conveniently forgetting that he made his name on DIY SOS, and appeared on Comic Relief Does Fame Academy), well of course he went off on one defending what he'd said and his show. Like I said, an idiot. And have you ever noticed that, apart from DIY SOS, his shows never get past a couple of series before being canned? Why is he still employed by a major terrestrial broadcaster, anyone else would be on QVC by now. Oh, and that permanent 'designer stubble' winds me up a treat an'all. Anyway, getting back to Guesstimation, it's crap. It surely has to be the dullest game show format ever devised. the aim of the game is, get this, to guess stuff. Well that's not very interesting for the viewer is it? There's no conferring so we have to wonder what two teams of twats are actually thinking. There's nothing for the viewer at home, well, apart from throwing crisps at the telly when one woman guessed that Tokyo was 350 miles away from London. That's the distance form London to Edinburgh.
At the weekend I watched a film on BBC4 called The Mother, it was shown as part of BBC4's season about old codgers. The film's plot revolved around a widow (Anne Reid) having an affair with her daughter's boyfriend (Daniel Craig). I don't know why, but the sight of Ken Barlow's first wife being taken up the Gary Glitter by James Bond has traumatised me and left having nightmares. The film didn't really go anywhere and at the end I was left feeling worthless and empty. No doubt Reid and Craig had similar feelings when they watched it back. Having said that though, Anne Reid does have nice knockers for her age.
What about Wallander? Have you seen that? I'm not talking about those Kenny Branagh ones from last year, I'm talking about the Swedish ones currently running on BBC4. I've only seen the one, but they're very good. I have to watch them in bursts of a bout thirty minutes at a time though because of the subtitles. Normally when you watch a film with subtitles it's usually French and the action's punctuated with bits of rumpy-pumpy so you have time to give your brain a rest. Wallander's relentless though, the plots moving on constantly so you don't even have time to think that they all sound like the chef off of The Muppets. Apparently Wallander says an awful lot about modern Sweden. Shame that, I've always fancied going to Sweden, but I don't fancy getting blown up in a bank.
Don't get me started on On Thin Ice, a show where Ben Fogle and James Cracknell try and race other teams to the South Pole. I watch it because I find polar exploration fascinating, but I find the whole thing rather pointless. If you're going there for scientific purposes, fair enough, but to go and race? You need your head looking at. And they're so miserable doing it, especially when Cracknell's foot looks as though it's going to drop off and he wakes every morning to a massive coughing fit. Factor in the fact that you're constantly trying not to get frostbite in your winkle every time you go for a leak, and a happy time is not being had by all. I find it oddly enjoyable though.
Also good to see the return of Only Connect. The contestants are usually overgrown students, but I enjoy it, not least for Victoria Coren. I'd marry her, I would. The problem is she's a shark at poker and I have trouble remembering the rules to snap. Never mind, we can but dream.
While I'm away this blog will celebrate its 1st birthday (a week tomorrow), which is something of a feat for me as my blogs don't normally make it that far. So happy birthday Modern Gutnish! You'll never know how much trouble I had naming you.
Right, that's me then, I'll leave you with my favouritest summer song in the history of the world. Have a good summer and I'll see you in a few weeks. Bye!
Well, here we are again. What have I been up to? like you're interested. For starters I've booked two holidays. One of them is a get-away-from-it-all affair to the north of Scotland in a small place overlooking the Moray Firth. Apparently you can watch dolphins from the garden. I hope they don't get too close, there's a word in The Meaning of Lifffor the point when animals stop being picturesque. I don't get on very well with animals and have never seen the fascination of wanting to swim with dolphins. Mind you, I don't see the fascination of wanting to swim. As Billy Connolly says "Man spent thousands of years evolving to get out of the water, and the first thing he wants to do is run back in". We don't belong in there, there are things in there that want to hurt you.
Anyway, I'm going up there to just switch my phone off and chill out, away from solicitors, bank managers, pension companies, fawning funeral directors, the DWP etc etc. Having said that though, I get on quite well with our solicitor, she's a laugh. I knew I'd gone a bit far the other day though when I launched into an anecdote about The Great Soprendo before realising she didn't have a clue who I was on about. The penny dropped when I was reduced to saying "You know, The Great Soprendo off of Crackajack...piffpaff puff......he was married to Victoria Wood...used to do Dictionary Corner on Countdown...Geoffrey Somebody...no?...oh." Obviously she'd spent her formative years poring over legal texts while I watched telly. Never mind, it's her loss.
I've also been thinking about buying a new car, thanks to Lord Mandy of Mandelson'sscrappage scheme. I hate buying cars though and I'm desperately trying to put it off. It's the salesmen, I went with an ex-girlfriend to look for one for her once and the salesman kept addressing me. I had to tell him it wasn't me buying the car. He also kept saying 'superb' at the end of every sentence, like a complete wanker. The last one I bought the salesman said "I can see, sir, you look like the kind of man who loves his gadgets." How could he tell that? And he was wrong anyway. I'm still putting it off though, and knowing my luck, when I do brave the showroom it'll be the day after all the scrappage money's run out. Bah!
I've been reading The Northern Clemency by Philip Hensher. It's a sprawling book that spans two decades in the lives of two middle-class Sheffield families. I love that kind of thing. (See my love for Stan Barstow's Vic Brown trilogy, Jonathan Coe's Rotters' books and Our Friends in the North for more details) It's a 700+ page monster but it's one of those books I don't want to end. He takes ages getting the detail right, which some would probably find infuriating, but it's the detail I love. Also not much happens, but it's very involving. So involving, in fact, that I had a day off work yesterday and took it to the pub yesterday afternoon. I never take books to pubs, and never go to pubs on my own, but I did yesterday. I read about eighty pages while getting slowly half-cut on pear cider and sitting at an outside table which I think was meant for smokers, but fuck 'em. Have you tried pear cider? It's a great summer drink, very sweet, but it slips down as easily as pop.
I went to see Telstar - The Joe Meek Story at the cinema last week. What a disappointment that was. It didn't know whether it wanted to be a knockabout comedy or a serious drama about mental health issues. I have a passing knowledge, and general interest in Meek, but the film told me very little I didn't know already, apart form the fact that his session guitarist of choice was Ritchie Blackmore. It also concentrated too much on his relationship with a complete turd of a man called Heinz, who Meek fell in love with and spent loads on trying to get a string of hits out of him. It all went pear-shaped, as you'd probably guessed. I was frustrated that it didn't tell you how a tone deaf man who couldn't play an instrument became a producer of such note. I reckon they made it with the interest of the average cinema punter in mind and didn't want to get bogged down in all that detail. It would have made a better TV drama, like those BBC4 films about real people. Especially as I was at a weekend showing with only six other people. That was after I'd picked myself up off the floor at how much the cinema wanted to charge for a) premium seats (Which turned out to be Mastermind chairs at the back with a small table, worth £14 of anyone's money. Not. I'd want a mid-film blowjob by a Polynesian handmaiden thrown in for £14) and b)the price of popcorn, surely the world's most inexpensive food product somehow made on par with caviar.
I'll leave you with this. How hateful is that? It's like those annoying tear-off calendars at work which each have a bit of cod philosophy at the bottom of each page. The filmed report on that page is worth watching just for the sound of the train driver's monotone voice spraffing off a a bit of Immanuel Kant, and saying "The passengers love it." Really? Oh, and it's also worth watching because I've taken a fancy to the woman at 50 seconds.
There's a lovely piece by Stuart Maconie in the latest edition of Word magazine about Gregory's Girl. I couldn't agree with what he says more. I, like Maconie, also use lines from the film to punctuate real life situations. Just the other day I was speaking to someone at work on the phone and trying to explain how to set a particular piece of equipment. I found myself saying "Then the red light should flash every four elephants". I then had to explain to my hapless colleague what an 'elephant' is. And if you haven't seen the film, and think I meant a pachyderm, think again. Go and watch the film, you won't be disappointed.
If you're a fan of the film, then you can count on me as friend for life. The only person from work who I see on any sort of social level is also a huge GG fan. Just the other week I went up to him in the canteen, nudged him and said "Don't touch the ravioli, it's garbage." In fact, this guy is such a fan of it, he even visited Cumbernauld, where it was filmed, as a sort of pilgrimage. I was insanely jealous, until he told me it was shithole and he couldn't even find the Clock Plaza.
And what man over the age of 35 isn't excited by a film featuring Clare Grogan in a beret. Just go over there and have a little think about that. Clare Grogan. In a beret.
Of course it's biggest strength is that it shows teenagers in a positive light. Not trouble-making, glue-sniffing tearaways. Just good kids who are crippled by every teenager's sense of awkwardness. And if you'd seen me at a school disco, you'll get my drift.
In fact events at our school in the late 70s formed part of the inspiration for the film. A girl had been picked for the football team which caused a minor national outcry. It made it on to John Craven's Newsround and everything.
And, our hero, has Rush posters on his bedroom wall. John Gordon Sinclair is a big Rush fan. In fact it was a Rush patch on someone's bag that encouraged him to carry on attending a Glasgow youth theatre group, he knew there were good people there.
You can't beat these for classic lines:
"Lot of fuss over a bit o' tit, eh?"
"We'll start the driving lessons when you've mastered the walking bit"
"Tits! Bum! Fanny! The lot!"
"Let's go and sweet-talk those two lovelies" - something myself and GG-fan-colleague usually jokingly say on a night out.
"Whoah, whoah, easy on the sugar, lady!"
"Here's 50p, you can buy loadsa chips wi' that"
"Pickled onions and dates don't mix, you might have to do some *mwah* kissing later on"
"That is a brassiere!"
If you're still unconvinced, it's on BBC1 on Sunday night.
I watched a TV programme about Trainspotting the other night, and it reminded me how much I love that film. I remember seeing Shallow Grave at the cinema in about 1994, I think. It was one of the few times I've seen a film at the cinema more than once. I thought at the time that these people who made it must have a great future ahead of them as it was a British film that stood head and shoulders above all other British films at the time. In those days if you went to see a British film it usually meant a romantic comedy or a costume drama. Shallow Grave showed imagination with a great idea and young, relatively unknown actors. One of whom was Ewan McGregor. I was aware of him before because he'd been in Dennis Potter's Lipstick on Your Collar, and because of that I thought he was a Cockney. His performance in Shallow Grave was just ace. I became aware of the people behind Shallow Grave making Trainspotting because I used to read Empire magazine (this was in the days when I was trying to impress women and had a large socialising circle so I used to go to the pictures a lot), and I'm sure it was some sort of news story in there. I'd read the book Trainspotting by that time and couldn't wait to see how they were going to put it on the big screen. My appetite was whetted further by this teaser trailer that was put into cinemas in the summer of 1995.
Well, after seeing that the excitement was to much to bear and there was still another six months before we'd see it. Even on that one minute trailer it looks brilliant.
Then it finally came out. I think I went to see it maybe three times, which was unheard of me and I think it's still a personal record. I just loved everything about it, the camera angles, the freeze frames, the captions, the acting, the amount of proper swearing, the fantasy sequences, the music, the black humour. Of course all the Daily Mail moralisers were up in arms about how it supposedly glorifies Class A drug abuse. It was quite obvious to me that none of them had actually seen it (so what's new?) as in the second half it clearly shows the down side of the 'H'. I was of the opinion at the time, and I still hold the opinion, that it should be shown in secondary schools as part of social education classes. Let ver kids make up their own minds and don't preach to them. Back to the film, and there isn't one weak performance in it. McGregor, as Rent Boy, was everything you wanted him to be. Ewen Bremner as Spud was perfect casting. Robert Carlyle's Begbie was just like every pub thug you've ever met. Danny Lee Miller's Sick Boy had a cool swagger about him which is just what you want from the character.
And the best thing of all, and the reason I went to the pictures three times before the video came out? The opening titles. They're the best opening titles of any film ever. It hits you between the eyes from the second it starts, just hearing that drumbeat on Lust For Life brings me out in goosebumps. Strap yourselves in for this film, it will blow you away.
There's even a surprise appearance by Dale Winton.
What more can I say, I love it and I'm going to order the DVD right now.
Choose life. And remember, don't let your friends tie you to the railway track.
Has anyone seen this show, Total Wipeout? It's total and utter cack on a level with Hole in the Wall, with which I think it may bear some relationship to as they're both based on Japanese formats. I know it's supposed to be a bit of Saturday evening fluff, but come on. It features Roy Castle lookalike Richard Hammond, a man seemingly incapable of turning anything down.His performance is the very definition of 'phoned-in' as its made pretty obvious he's not there, he just does links from a studio. He's not there because it's shot in Argentina, and obviously our Richard's so busy making adverts and doing PAs that he couldn't possibly have the inconvenience of flying to South America. That bit's left to the personality vacuum - and former squeeze of no.5 in my list of irritating TV men Patrick Kielty - that is Amanda Byram. I suppose the idea is that it's supposed to be like It's a Knockout. But whereas IAK had a little bit of charm, this is like staring into an abyss of idiocy and shame. I felt dirty after being forced to watch it and needed a bath when I returned home. Can't they show a few Tom and Jery cartoons instead? Having said that, I've always fancied South America, so I might apply for series two. And you just know there's going to be a series two.
Anyway, what is good news is that I've caught the teaser trailers for Channel 4's Red Riding series. It's based on the Red Riding quartet of books by David Peace. I'm glad they're dramatising them because I lost interest a bit halfway through reading book two, but according to online reviews this isn't uncommon and the books hit their stride by book three. Watching the TV series might push things on a bit for me. I hope they do them justice, because I've got serious doubts about the film adaptation of Peace's The Damned United. Who knows, it might be great (and I hope it is), but Timothy Spall's playing Brian Clough's right hand man Peter Taylor, and he'd better be phenomenally good at accents as Taylor had the thickest of thick Nottingham accents. I've never heard someone born outside Notts do a convincing Notts accent. Certainly not Sean Bean.
