The Kaleidoscope of the Noughties – OWW! – Games #1

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As video games become more sophisticated, more complex and for lack of a better term, more artistically minded in their conception, production and execution, you wonder how detrimental the moniker of “video game” is for a medium with its own unique set of possibilities. “Video” remains indicative of a previous age – somewhat rubbish, a bit eccentric and certainly not something to be taken seriously – and “game” reinforces the idea that the video game is simply a way to waste away time, therapeutic all the same, but serving no great purpose other than that. Some day I am sure the video game moniker will fade away, with our society appropriating a more suitable term for a medium whose potential is only just being considered with any seriousness. Perhaps the Noughties – Ergck! – will eventually be defined as a key decade in which video games really began to explore this potential, or at least mainstream audiences and more importantly multi-national conglomerates began to recognise it. But then again, concerning how gaming has developed over the last few decades, in would be hard to discard any development cycle as worthless.

STAR WARS: KNIGHTS OF THE OLD REPUBLIC (BIOWARE, 2003 for PC/XBOX)

Knights of the Old Republic, to me, was one of these transitory games where, even if it was not truly innovative, it had the polish and the instant appeal on top of an already well-crafted and satisfying core game, to absolutely enthral me. A large part of this comes down to the Star Wars license, this must be said, wielding all the hallmarks of the series – but the key for this is the quality of the story and the writing. If the Star Wars prequels proved anything, it was that the series is more than a number of repeated motifs, sounds, memorable dialogue and music. KOTOR, as it has since been known, arrived for me one Christmas and kept me busy for weeks, months even, suffering itself to be replayed by my younger self again and again, under an increasingly avid addiction to the flexibility available with the game.

Describing the plot again elicits nostalgic thoughts: 4000 years before the rise of the Galactic Empire, a Republic cruiser harbouring a powerful yet naive Jedi comes under attack above the planet Taris; you, an insignificant Republic soldier, are tasked with making sure the Jedi escapes the Sith. What follows is a terrifically enjoyable adventure that evokes all the fun and banter of the original Star Wars films as you begin to unravel the mysteries of the Galaxy, discovering the source of the Sith’s new found power. It’s an engaging story, populated with many lively and intriguing characters and involving numerous strange and wonderful worlds. The sheen and freshness may have diminished under repeated playthroughs, but its significance in many peoples gaming memories is inarguable and the popularity of its protagonist remains undwindling.

If there’s another thing that KOTOR did what other games didn’t do for me, it was to establish the name of a developer in my mind. Bioware, who have since flexed their muscles far and wide in the industry, would have already been familiar to veterans of RPGs such as Baldur’s Gate and Neverwinter Nights, but for me this was the first time we met. Developing into a cerebral gamer as I have, I’ve been interested in whatever they have gone on to do – although circumstance has ruled the much celebrated Mass Effect out of my reach for now. But I’ve played Jade Empire (great, despite its somewhat unsatisfactory length) and I have my eyes on Dragon Age: Origins, and certainly optimistic towards Star Wars: The Old Republic.

The Kaleidoscope of the Noughties – OWW! – Film #1

A Christmas season for me nowadays always seems like it lacks something, and that something happens to be a Tolkien film.
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I feel the need to skip the airy, demeaning preamble that usually smears the first half of my posts, but I also want to say that often with these lists there’s a need to juggle the concerns of the demographic, eschuing all manner of qualifiable films for foreign masterpieces or eschuing all of those masterpieces for crowd pleasing extravaganza’s. Many more try to dialetically merge these two modes of film appreciation with varying levels of success, often leading to compulsory choices that tick demographic boxes, from Funny Games to Mission Impossible III, resulting in a strange, tensile list that tries to please everybody and enthrals no one. The upside to this is that we often get to see the tensions of our society played out in the lists. The downside is that the lists just become a farce.

So this is the beginning of my film “list,” which will trundle on until I am satisfied.

The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship Of The Ring (Peter Jackson, 2001)

The problem publications seem to have with adding The Lord of the Rings to their lists is that they are so rife with pedantry, cynicism and cross-examination by their very nature (a nature brought to the forefront of their sensibilities now that the internet allows, even champions the feedback of idiots) that a typically po-faced genre like fantasy tends to fall out of favour because they aren’t in a cycle of constant self-justification. While The Lord of the Rings is by no means po-faced (as its many derivatives are) it bears a sincerity that this post-modern nastiness finds hard to swallow.

I remember the first time I saw the teaser trailer for The Lord of the Rings. I had had no interaction with any of Tolkien’s books until then – although I firmly remember my cousin, who will forever be five years my senior, mentioning it as a literary classic. After seeing the trailer, I read The Lord of the Rings, then The Hobbit, then The Lord of the Rings again, all within a matter of months – which was incredibly tough for a child of my stupidity. I read it religiously, effecting a kind of pseudo-cool position within the realms of geekdom at my school; the acceptable face of geekdom if you will, for being gifted as I was at running like a bellend and naturally skillful with the football, the rugby ball, the basketball and the tennis racket, I served as a kind of emissary to the other schoolchildren, for I could deal on their level and then retreat back into a cabal of couplet speaking outcasts and bask in their favour for a time.

But if I thought I did a good job of representing a long maligned (and long po-faced) genre, then The Fellowship of the Ring was the 9/11 of fantasy movies; it was a complete game changer (probably a more appropriate reference somewhere). People – more specifically men – more specifically men born in the late 60s/early 70s – - often go on about the first time they saw Star Wars, seeing the Blockade Runner shoot past the screen followed by a dagger shapped ship that just got bigger and bigger and bigger. After this experience, they saw, everything changed: the possibilities of cinema opened up for them. They knew then, they just knew, that they were destined to regional sales manager for Enviromow Lawnmower Delivery LTD for the rest of their lives. Well, firstly screw them for helping ensure the infantilisation of the sci-fi genre, and secondly, allow this to happen, but third and most significant, I’m going to borrow their anecdote and apply it to Fellowship: I feel The Fellowship of the Ring performed a similar ritual to the young minds of the early 00s. From the first few seconds of the first film, you just had to be impressed with what had been achieved.*

Out of the three films, the first remains my favourite. This is not a detriment to the latter two films, for they continue the journey in unrivalled quality, but the first retains a charm for me, whether it be the whistful Hobbits, the stirring formation of the Fellowship, the riotous last ditch efforts of a heroic Sean Bean as Boromir (long my favourite character) or the ethereal disquiet of Lothlorien or even the cerebral beauty of Rivendell. But most of all, what guarantees its appeal to me is probably that it’s a magnificent statement of intent from Peter Jackson. It is truly a wonderful, life-affirming achievement to have adapted a book so unwieldy and troublesome into such a deserving and worthy film, evoking the spirit of the book at the same time. I mean the prose of Tolkien is a literal nightmare; it makes mine look like that of a poet bloody laureate.

But what’s also fascinating and magnificent about the trilogy as a whole, is its construction of Middle Earth in our world (for which New Zealand will always be a place on my “to visit” list); the visualisation of all these spectacular, serene or terrifying locations; the designs of the Uruk-Hai, brutish and jagged; the men of Rohan in their rich Saxon get-up; the Elves in their brilliantly rendered, gorgeously executed armours and costumes. And all this was clear from The Fellowship of the Ring. Middle Earth was brought to life with such confidence and aplomb that any conceptions of Tolkien’s Middle Earth I gain while reading the book are articulated through what I know to be Weta’s aesthetic.

* To me this began with the prologue, a wonderfully economic but exciting look into the masses of armies clashing on the slopes of Mount Doom. In particular, the Blockade Runner moment occurs when the Elves of the Last Alliance unsheathe their massive swords and play synchronised ninja with orc.

The Kaleidoscope of the Noughties – OWW! – Music #1

The Arctic Monkeys – Don’t Believe The Hype; Listen Instead.
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It is music that often typifies a certain period in time, often to the extent where it’s lauded as timeless, despite its roots. Indeed, retrospectives on history often depend on music of the time to qualify them, whether they be documents of the Thatcher years (cue the Specials or The Smiths), the swinging Sixties (cue Booker T and the MGs or the Beatles, should they afford that), or the advent of Cool Britannia (cue splash frames of Damon Albarn looning about and the Gallaghers snarling), they all look to the produce of the music industry to inform their integrity and credibility.

So to say I’ve “lived” the Noughties – arm aches – requires me to round off a list of names thought culturally to be the great innovators and poets of the day. This is mostly moot to me as I just don’t particularly care for lyrics. It’s a strange thought, but often when I hear people commenting on lyrics, I marvel at their ability to do so, as if everyone has an uncanny knack for grasping lyrics at the second or first hearing except me. Some of my favourite songs I could not tell you the lyrics to. Instead, I listen to sounds, both noise and ambience and enjoy that instead. Often it’s the jump of the bass, the chorus of moody guitars or the galloping drumwork that’ll invigorate me. God knows how I like hip-hop if the lyrical eloquence passes me by (is it enough to say I like the samples and the beats?). So, on to this list, right…well, it isn’t really a list (and certainly not a competitive one at that) but hopefully it will be indicative of my decade.

ARCTIC MONKEYS – WHATEVER PEOPLE SAY I AM, THAT’S WHAT I’M NOT (2006)

I tend to shy away from bands touted as the next big thing, as much a reactionary process and rejection of the NME, as a serious suspicion of the optimism and premonitions of said musical journalists. To me the Arctic Monkeys were no different, at first, than the hosts of other young indie bands frollicking around in the mid-Noughties (Ow, broke a tooth). I even became openly hostile of them when their fame and profile started to rise – “only empty hype,” I told myself – but then I bought a ticket for Reading 2006. Refraining from going off to watch something else probably rubbish in retrospect, I hung around the main stage out of peer pressure as much as anything, quietly berating my parties taste. But then they came on and by god they were fantastic. I am not suggesting they are the best performers in the world, because I wouldn’t know that, but everything came together: the excitement rustling through the crowd, the hype slowly building underneath the forest of heads and plumes of smoke, the alcohol, the lesser thought of substances and suddenly the cutting guitars and thumping drums of View From The Afternoon, with the crooning voice of Alex Turner ringing out. I was totally sold on them. And thus ends my painfully unimpressive Arctic Monkeys anecdote.

As much as there is to criticise about “the dickhead festival,” I will always thank Reading what it gave me the night I saw the Monkeys the first time. I must also point out that my usual deafness to the lyric just doesn’t seem to apply with the Monkeys. I get everything, and I appreciate everything. Maybe it’s the influence of the Monkeys growing up on garage and hip-hop, but they pole vault the lyrical dreariness of the self-indulgent, new-romantic-Lord-Byron-wannabees who appear every bloody week, and allows them to deliver infectious rhythm and biting wit in their idiosyncratic stories of modern youth; stories that I get. Thing is, many narratives on the album relate to an experience I’ve known as a youngling in the fading years of the Noughties – Ow, again – and as such, the first Arctic Monkeys album shall forever be the soundtrack to my fading youth, irrelevant of those it passes by.

Reflecting back on the decade, it is feasible to see how we all became bigger wankers.

There’s a nauseating outpouring of retrospectives on the decade that was, but still really IS, entering the public sphere at the moment, reflecting on these past 9 years with various insights, some of which are interesting, others vaguely hollow and glib but most simply leading you to a state of realisation: 10 years have past and I have achieved nothing. Literally nothing. You’ve only just started taking global warming seriously, because Leonardo DiCaprio told you to, let alone rescued the planet from it. You’ve not found a cure for AIDS yet, because lets face it, cancer was in vogue this decade, but you didn’t manage to find a cure for that either. You haven’t brought a stop to oppression, you’ve not stopped global conflict and you certainly haven’t managed to find any level of contentment. And 10 years have passed you by.

Many may have watched Big Brother, but in the end, Big Brother was watching us.

What you could do to better form some kind of contentment and happiness would be to draft a list, a countdown, a ten commandments of music, films and books that have infiltrated and successfully manipulated your decade into a kind of roller coaster ride of different emotions, all secured via financial means, that give meaning to your sad, pathetic life. This is precisely what I’ve done. I form my world view and then reinforce it with corresponding materials which give credence to my observations, from the politik of xenophobia and combating terrorism to paranoia and coincidence to the grotty halls our nocturnal selves inhabit at the weekends, gulping at malty beer and playing urban poetry in our heads as we resist and allure those of the opposite sex.

But even though I subscribe to this notion of representation and image governed by my tastes, likes and choices, I still do not like lists. Especially numbered, countdown lists, competitive lists that lift a piece of music, an album for example, out of its context and its specific time and place and supplant it in a sort of chronology of the decade, full of contrivances which all incite pedantry and naysaying because of the very nature of having lifted these albums from their belonging and putting them where they don’t. I’m struck by Paul Morley’s article. I’ve been following his series Showing Off… for a while now on the Guardian website for the Observer. I’ll readily admit that not all is to my taste, but I reserve enough humility and self-ridicule not to scoff at some of the people appearing in its many interviews in much the same way as Morley does not himself.

I’m going to write my own retrospective soon, on the music, films, games and books which have shaped my particular decade, whether they were made of this decade or not. My criteria is wide, but that’s because lists, especially competitive lists are so bloody reductive. There is no such thing as an objective list and as Morley says, even should there be great care taken with the choosing of such a list, the results will always reflect the readership and status of the publication it’s being written for, thus the Guardian’s will differ vehemently from that of Ok! magazine or the Daily Mail. So I’m going to make a consciously subjective list. No, hopefully my “list” – I would prefer to think of it as a kaleidoscope to be frank, documenting my tastes, triumphs and failings – will simply be reflective of me and my own, no one else.

I feel relatively blessed, having been born on at the fall of one decade and the eve of another. It affords me an easy way of judging such decades as they correlate with my own transitions to 30, to 40 and so on. The two decades I have spent in waking life have informed me a great deal and will, I suspect in more autumnal years, be full of nostalgia and golden meadows buried with gold and drizzled in Liefman’s Goudenband. No doubt this last decade shall appear integral to what later comes, and thus I, in the present, feel a great desire to reflect on the wanky “Noughties” – OW – while I can to learn what I can.

And if you’re wondering why we’re all become wankers, then remember to hit yourself in the face the next time you see, hear or write – OW – the “noughties.” The “noughties”…what an infuriatingly pathetic monicker for our infuriatingly pathetic days. Now I’m going to run off and grab a tissue to stop my nosebleed. It’s the step up from The Game. No only have you lost The Game, but you also live in the Noughties.

Apple Are To Blame For My Irrational Fear of Technology

As a sucker for anything technophobic (or by extension, something exploring the idea of technophobia) I often find the time to ponder the possibilities of a future war between man and robot – and let me say, it does not look good for us. Driven to extinction by technologies oedipal urge to destroy us, we’ll be like rabbits in headlights, or hares on a coursing track, or any number of hare/rabbit related idioms that pave an equally bleak future for us.

The fear of such an event occurring becomes increasingly justifiable when you consider Apple. The white walled temples to the God-Technology-That-Is, known to us plainly as Apple shops, will (we can say with some rationality) at later stages in the Human-Robot war, become staging grounds for an aerial strike. Their current employees too – chummy, casual and acting on anti-depressants – are a foreshadow of what is to come: humans replaced by nano-technologically recreated biosynthetic hybrids. An Invasion of the Body Snatchers for the iPod Nano age.

But it is the technology itself which scares me the most: oblique and unknownable, sleek and seemingly efficient – and yet like Replicants, humbled by a built-in life span that means it’ll eventually expire and you will have to buy a new one – these seemingly innocuous white bodied machines are still a mystery. But most terrifyingly for me is their status as a lifestyle choice. I don’t care if you’re a Mac – you have blond hair and blue eyes like a child from the Village of the Damned! A machine should be a tool, and even if it is more than that, it should still be marketed as a tool so we don’t lose sight of reality.

Which is why my Windows operated Dell laptop is such a reassurance in these increasingly desperate times. Slow to react, prone to freezing and haunted by the blue screen of death, my laptop suggests an altogether more optimistic, some would say, vision of what lies ahead, probably because the laptop has a similar work ethic to my own. I’ll do it later. I’ll get round to it. Yeah, I’ll just finish making a cup of tea. That’s okay, I’ll try and install these new Windows updates while your asleep, okay? It never does. God knows what it’s up to.

The fallibility of a Windows laptop is a therapeutic reminder that should technology, en masse, become a sentient life form with one transglobal consciousness, it is likely to have the same crushing lack of ambition as my own. There will be no time for a war with humans if all it wants to do is surf the worldwideweb with disregard for whatever sanctions the ISP is imposing. Forget a blitzkrieg against the Governments of Earth; I can download the entire back-catalogue of dozens of obscure acid-jazz bands for free!

But perhaps my paranoia is misplaced. Perhaps a traditional war between man and machine will not occur, and perhaps Apple have already won. Their space-like stores have invaded the high streets of Britain already, and whether it be malfunctioning iPod shuffles or useless accessories, we keep going back. We’re hooked on this piece of the future we are able to handle. Space! we say. Perhaps, in our postmodern, consumer driven we have already lost and we are to blame. Or the people in marketing.

I don’t want an AppleMac; I see nothing of myself in it. Unarguably cool, progressively New Age and blatantly insincere, it is no son of mine. I’m a PC. Well mannered and efficient on a good day, downright unpleasant and withholding on a bad.

If Nick Griffin’s Appearance Told Us Anything…

If Nick Griffin’s cameo as the Villainous Glutton on BBC’s flagship political debatathon reminds us of anything, it’s that the right to free speech does not equate to complicit agreement of abhorrent ideologies.  There were many who feared that allowing Nick Griffin on the programme would provide the BNP with a platform to indoctrinate, in some vile Orwellian manner that has eluded the other parties (they would bloody well try if they could), the millions of viewers it would no doubt attract.  Such a fear was a gross overestimation of the BNP’s means.

Should anyone have stepped back from the hysteria, they would have noticed that the BNP is hardly privy to slick media  methods and totally in the dark about mind control techniques utilised by this man.  Indeed, earlier this year they were found out for using the image of a WWII spitfire flown by a Polish pilot in a campaign stressing the need for a pure, English society.  Their votes are gathered instead by rhetoric that creates false scapegoats out of greater social problems, and rhetoric that is delivered through the channels of the BNP’s own PR, and never open conjecture.

People seem to have underestimated their own voice in this debate.  There is no question that the BNP should be allowed into debates around the country.  They should, it’s their right as citizens and the BBC have made the correct decision in allowing Griffin on.  In fact, I’m surprised they took so long about it; surely an open debate would have exposed Griffin’s views long ago, and would also have given us a flavour of his character in ways the BNP’s PR could not control.  But the BNP’s idealogy roams in the fields far away from accepted public discourse of perception – we’ve all realised how jaded a reaction xenophobia is by now, surely – and the unified condemnation of Griffin is a welcome reminder that free speech does not mean people have to listen.

One wonders however, whether the occasion would have been better served, not with pantomime boos and classic put-downs (see this), but with a more sedate and meticulous scenario.  It’s a shame that the other political parties swept upon Question Time not to gain points with the public for their own policies, but simply to condemn a more hated fellow, but you almost felt them justified considering Griffin mentioning the wartime imprisonment of Jack Straw’s father.  Griffin certainly could have used a curtain to draw in front of his seat to curtail the jeering at times, but there is the sad realisation that he could utilise his poor reception to proclaim he was tried unfairly.  That isn’t so, but considering the BBC’s reputation wincing away under intense and absurd public scrutiny, such a claim could ensure that Griffin a small portent of contentment.

Revised Impressions of Heroes: Villains

It has been a while since I last had the time to post something on here, but now I have the time, I thought it would be apt to articulate my impressions of Heroes‘ third volume – Villains – thus far.  As this is being written, the last episode of this “arc” has yet to air, and if it were not for my willingless to experience a sub-par stream with bad sound synchronisation, I would have to wait another week.  However, I think, as we stand on the precipice of the volumes finale, we can garner some interesting observations on the series so far.

First off, I would like to congratulate myself for noting the haphazard pacing of the season opener, which in retrospect really was the taste of things to come.  Of course, of course, that has since become evident to everyone, but I feel due respect should be given in my case.  Forgetting vanity for a minute, I think it must be said, again, that the leverage of the “fans” really is noticeable on the show; the producers, writers and network seem to cave in to the speculation and wishes of die-hard fans without a fight.  I am not saying that those vocal fans are not accurate or inaccurate in their criticisms and suggestions, but the writers are writers for a reason, the production team working on Heroes for a reason and the network financing it for a reason.

I find following a show so susceptible to fan reactions to be a bit of a pain, especially when it results in often irrevocably dire plot lines and character arcs.  Consider the character of Sylar; a hit, memorable character who is the darling of superlatives the world over – yet because of his popularity with the fanbase, this dodgy fellow has been allowed both survive a sword through the heart (which ultimately undermines the entire first season) and recieve a humanising redemption from the pit of Hell in seasons 2 and 3.  It isn’t that Gabriel Gray (Zachary  Quinto) isn’t a bad villain – in fact, he’s generally played to great effect by the strange looking Quinto – but that Heroes is unable to tell the stories it wants because of the fans incessant whining.

The pace of the season has drfited between flat action sequences, rarely filmed with the kind of visceral verve invested in those of season one or two, and flat discourses between characters with some cringeworthy dialogue.  All in all, if  you had to pick and chose a list of shows in your weekly schedule of “self-time,” on paper, Heroes would not be up there.  However, I continually find an idea, or an enigma to look forward to in Heroes.  It does not matter whether Heroes provides or not – especially when some of the notions you pick up on are so unfounded – because neither do other big, ensemble dramas like Lost, which is driven by ideas, but ideas without explanation.

Heroes is often at its unwittingly strongest when it plays around with the ideas of lineage and misue of power; the whole mythology is more concrete than Lost and all the more fascinating for it.  Again, on paper, season 3 should have this in spades, but instead of the unravelling misdeeds of previous Generations in season 2, we instead find a rather flat character in Arthur Petrelli, the presumed dead patriarch of the Petrelli dynasty, played by Robert Foster.  Foster is a strange proposition; the potentially complex and memorable character of Arthur Petrelli is played with the kind of aplomb that should result in one, yet something feels off about his appearance, his delivery of dialogue and the fact that you can’t help but feel Foster is miscast in a role that would be much more effective if the the budget allowed for a bigger actor.

Foster is no bad actor however; his mincing of dialogue is great stuff, but the notion of respected lawyer and philanphropist does not suit an actor who would be more at home playing the local mob boss.  He just doesn’t have the gravitas to make the role convincing or even threatening enough for the series arch villain, especially one who has the powerful Austin Linderman (a superb Malcom McDowell) in his pocket.  Back to the events of the season itself and great news for those who thought Arthur was an odd fish; the penultimate episode Our Father (and one that got increasingly better as it went on) had Sylar telekinetically launch a bullet into the mans head, killing him instantly and destroying the cells that generate his abilities.  Arthur’s legacy is there, and it seems the wonderful Nathan Petrelli (a chisel-jawed politician with a paradox for a moral center) has taken up his fathers villainous mantle, which hopefully means the cluttered ensemble drama can keep with one clear goal for the next volume, entitled Fugitives.  Or mabye they’ll scrap that plottime when the fans vote in.

Perhaps it is the demographic that a show about normal people who gain superpowers inadvertently attracts that mean a standard ensemble drama is treated in ways not dissimilar from the realms of superhero conventions, pulp fiction and the comic book indstury.  In converse, one could say that Heroes is a superhero story that borrows from the realms of televised ensemble drama.  All in all, following a show in which characters, plot lines and even production staff can be voted off is not a show I want to follow.  I like Heroes, I like its ideas and I like the majority of its characters (and it has a great soundtrack atypical for your standard ensemble) and I hope that Duel, the last episode of Villains goes out on a high.  As a show, it isn’t immensely important as some will have you believe, and if it does go the way of Old Labour, Princess Di and Don La Fontaine, something will undoubtedly arrive in its place, but for what its worth, Heroes is good entertainment.

Update! Iron Man Review and Indy IV thoughts.

Hello My-Little-Place-On-The-Net-Devoid-Of-Life.

Been a while since I have taken the time to write or update this blog, but I have been busy enough to warrant an excuse. We’ve reached the point in British springtime when we can divulge whether this is going to be a nice summer or not, and considering the charmingly warm spring we have enjoyed so far, I think it is safe to say that we can look forward to a pretty grim summer. But it doesn’t have to be that way. We can now take off our thoughtful borguois tricorns and leave that arthouse cinema with the pretentious plush red seats and the expensive bar and head on down to the Multiplex, mess with the proles and thoroughly enjoy the mound of ostensibly fun blockbusters that require no appreciation of the ‘fine arts’ other than how to grin at an explosion.

To try and make this a slightly productive summer for myself in some capacity, I am going to try and write a few reviews for the big films I have seen, and maybe the smaller ones I see in retrospect or simply add to my Dvvduh collection. For example, my Iron Man ‘review’ – I prefer to call it a reaction considering my credentials – is now posted in the Eat Me Critics sect and having seen Indy IV for the second time yesterday, perhaps it is ripe to write up my ‘review’ to that. My reaction however, it something of a casual fan glad to see that Indy’s heritage has not been trounced upon. Scathing Cannes reviews were expected of course, but most press reviews have since been positive, although fan reactions remain mixed.

I liked Indy IV. It was familiar territory, led by a familiar old soul, into more familiar MacGuffin territory, through some familiar experiences set in unfamiliar ground. Yes, it is familiar. I don’t care. It is Indiana Jones, and if you take ‘I don’t care, it’s Indy’ as a reason rather than a cop-out, then you will enjoy it. I read Roger Ebert’s review after seeing the film for the first time and am glad to see he liked it. His reviews on films are so-so to me – sometimes I just plain disagree with the bloke – but his writing makes for a fun read and I can hardly doubt his integrity. In his review, he remarked upon a line that a wisened Ford makes; “same old, same old.” He is right of course; it is the same old stuff, and I loved it.

Most of the criticisms I have seen for the film from casual schoolboy critics remark upon certain ’stretchings of belief’ that I feel I am not at liberty to divulge in case of spoiling the film for you. I just do not admire criticism such as that, especially when Spielberg (who I must say was certainly on form during this shoot – it shows) offers an olive branch to bridge the gap between what is happening on screen and the audiences suspense of belief.

Other criticisms fall before the way side of course, because, like any self respecting audience member, I can abide the reason “Its Indiana Jones!” While it has always offered fun and enjoyment to a large slice of the audience, Indy has always been a treat for those who really enjoy film. It is packed so full of cinematic references that it almost runs like a tour through cinematic history. From the exotic adventure films of Errol Flyn and Charlton Heston (‘must say, sad that he is now deceased. I wasn’t a fan of his ideals, but he left a lot of friends and his integrity as an actor is undeniable) in Raiders of the Lost Ark, to the musical and James Bond homages (Temple of Doom), the rip-roaring chases and stunts that reminds us of Stagecoach, Ben-Hur et al (evident in all the films) and the appearance of the noir femme fatale in Elsa Schneider, Spielberg and Lucas have packed these films full of their own love of film as a medium and cultural palette. It just offers a lot more than, say, Star Wars in that sense, as well as being undeniably less geeky.

The new film, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (the title has grown on me considerably sincd it was announced by the way) is no less choc-a-bloc in that sense. Dealing with a new era, although at first a tad disparaging for devoted fans of the 30s romps, allows for new intertextuality, in-jokes and homages. An American Graffitti reference, as well as a marvellous scene itself, was one of the highlights of the film itself for me. I’m glad that the script (although certainly not the best of the Jones scripts) allows for some cultural references worthy of a chuckle. 50s momism, the nuclear family and the suburban household are all given the nuclear treatment by Spielberg, being obliterated in the opening act with no mercy, as Indy wanders into a Nuclear test site filled with eerie plastic dolls posing as the 50s middle class. ‘I like Ike’ also shows its face with barbed wit from Ford and then as a motif during the nuclear explosion.

Of course, the Soviets rear their head as the pantomime-villains-of-the-era, partly to Spielberg’s admittance that there really is no one else with the villainous credentials. Obviously, this has angered members of Communist parties the world over, particuarly those in Russia, but again, to Spielberg’s defense, he lets us remind ourselves that he himself is of Russian descent. For me, the Soviet’s work to an extent in Crystal Skull. They seem to fit the mould of the Nazi replacement and Cate Blanchett, as usual, is amazing as the dangerous, sexless looking Soviet, Colonel Irena Spalko. But at the same time, I don’t feel the Soviet’s are half as threatening as the Nazi party. Perhaps it takes someone born on the eve of the Iron Curtain’s collapse to make that claim, but the Soviet’s fill the antagonising role in what I have always seen as a ‘grey area’ in history. Admittedly, David Koepp’s script certainly acknowledges this; even while pursued by the KGB on American soil, Dr.Jones, ‘even with his War record’ an investigator states, is under suspicion of treason by the FBI. A spectular chase sequence through the Dr.Jones’ University allows for protestors with signs such as ‘Red is Dead’ to run in terror as Dr.Jones’ (on motorbike) is pursued by KGB agents in cars.

Certainly, there is more to say for the film, its strengths and its flaws, but really, if you take ‘It’s Indiana Jones for god’s sake!’ as a reason, rather than an excuse, it won’t matter to you.

David Cameron you cheeky git!

‘Mend Broken Politics’ – words of a hypocrite.

Am I the only one who finds David Cameron utterly repulsive? The fact that the Tories have the ability to court younger generations of Politicians into their ranks is a scary thought by my book. The party is and always will harbour back to out-dated rhetoric and reactionary squabbling because the Conservative party is and always will be a bunch of moronic toffs jettisoning concern for others in light of “daddy’s” wishes.

But the resurgence of a yuppie culture, of younger politicians spouting the ideas of shabby old Oxford’ites is distressing, if anything because you can see it working. David Cameron is only one of many young Eton lads curbtailing it up the political ladder, as old hats fall off the chain and break down under allegation after allegation, but as leader of the second biggest party in Britain, and concerns over PM Brown’s last few months, it certainly isn’t nice to have him around.

Just the other day, he attacked New Labour’s “systematic culture of spin,” a “culture” he has not only acknowledged here, but fully endorsed. The man’s a walking PR portfolio in him self. Not only in the giving of soundbites (in which he is exemplary), but also in his “getting down with the kids” attitude that, while utterly failing, certainly shows he has some in his PR team who actually know what kids are. That in itself is suprising. Shocking even.

Speaking at a conference on Wales, he even pulled the perfect opportunity dig at Labour; “top-down, centralising control.” Well, way to breach new ground Mr. Cameron. I don’t think I have heard that claim for a good few weeks. Of course, as a relatively close relation to the Royal Family, you can expect a slight strut in his step, but someone should remind “my honourable Cavalier” that he does not own the place.

Again, my dear Mr. Cameron please, please, please leave the political spectrum alone for a while and go and do something worthwhile for a few good years of your life. You can re-enter the Tory charade when you are the expected age.

Anglophobia!

Bond Is Gunning For Scottish Independence!

According to retired actor and former James Bond, “Sir” Sean Connery, “Schottlund” will have independence by the end of his lifetime. Let’s hope he has a terrific accident and is kept alive for a few thousand years via suspended animation or even if he merely gets lost on the way to his Tax-evasive villa in Bahamas. Connery has not even lived in his homeland for years, and suddenly he is jumping on the bandwagon for Scottish independence. It seems like a perfect way to cover his hypocritical backside.

The 77 year old actor says Scotland is “within touching distance of independence,” according to BBCnews. Sir Sean Connery is one of the most high profile supporters of the Scottish National Party, whom many account with creating a distinct anti-Englishness sentiment (I had previously thought was simply a genetic trait within most of the Scottish population.) While many know that Anglo-Scottish relations can get a tad petty at times, especially with two Scottish MP’s registering their support to Germany via an online bid during the ‘06 World Cup, even the SNP has been noted to be overly anglophobic by the general populace.

Connery is being incredibly cavalier about the situation however, being known to have made a few outspoken, unjustified and occasionally humurous quips in the past. These comments are also particuarly short sighted and impractical on his behalf, considering no other major parties in Scotland want independence or seperation. If the SNP winged it and managed to pass independence with a majority, they would shortly fall flat under the weight and pressure. The machine just isn’t ready to roll yet. While there is no problem with Scotland gaining equal representation, fully fledged independence is a tad ambitious on there behalf.

Comedian Billy Connelly, an avid Scot himself has declared that “Scottish Parliment is a joke.” While he may not be no political mastermind/spindoctor, I’m willing to take his word on this one. Scottish Parliment have decided after many referendums that Billy Connelly was in fact, taking the piss out of the Parliment, and they will soon begin voting as to he is taking the piss out of specifically.