Tag Archives: time

Doctor Who: Series 6: Episode 1 – The Impossible Astronaut


I was blown away by last night’s opener to the new series. It has once again confirmed my belief that Steven Moffat is an absolute, scientifically certified genius. He joins the handful of men whose lives I would like to steal, perhaps via some sort of wickedly clever sci-fi device, that of course, damn him, only he could probably dream up.

I was always a fan of Russell T. Davies and both Eccleston’s and Tennant’s Doctors, but for me there’s no doubt that Davies was always playing things safe now. Moffat has grabbed the nation’s beloved Timelord by the lapels and thrown him headlong into a series of interlinked stories, that are simultaneously the same and completely new. By taking risks Moffat has shown just how masterfully clever, funny, scary and gripping Doctor Who can be. People really ought to see that this is Television at its best, and writing at its best. If they don’t they are dullards with tame imaginations and bland dreams. When they blew out birthday candles as a child they probably wished that the trains would run on time. I’m sticking my neck out here.

But I’m being so uncharacteristically passionate and assured of myself for good reason: The Impossible Astronaut was an impossibly confident and swaggering opening to any series in the world. It wasn’t trying to please or conforming to any tried and tested formula. It was the realisation of playful ideas and desires formed in Moffat’s marvellous head. As several commentators have remarked, this is probably how Moffat always wished Doctor Who should be. He loved it but he knew it could be better. With all of time and space to play with, Doctor Who should never be safe, never be predictable, and never be limited. It should always be surprising and inventive. Moffat sees this.

And how I missed that music! The bow tie, the tweed, that blue box and Doctor Who Confidential!

With last year’s climatic two parter, Moffat showed he could do story arcs, drama and spot on contrast better than his predecessor. This time he’s once again wonderfully flipped expectations on their heads by beginning his second series at the helm with all the secrets and emotional punches of a series finale. And he set it in glorious 60s America!

FROM NOW ON THE SPOILERS BEGIN

He killed the bloody Doctor! In the first episode! And in all interviews he insists it’s real death, seemingly inescapable death, an end beyond even the healing powers of regeneration. All the clues within the show suggest it’s the actual end of the Doctor. Knowing Moffat, the answers to this, the biggest question of all, certainly will not be resolved in the second episode. Of course there’ll probably be a get out but knowing Moffat, not an easy one. The implications will hang over the entire series. And given the way he ended the last series, with the mysterious manipulator of the Tardis still hidden, and the half built Tardis in the Lodger unexplained (it turned up last night though!?), he could well carry the question of the Doctor’s death over to his third series.

 After all the Doctor we’re left with is two hundred years younger than the one so thrillingly and absorbingly killed. Moffat sent him gallivanting through history at the beginning, something Davies would never have done but is far truer to the potential of the character. He is not hopelessly tied to companions; he can travel in time for god’s sake.

The Silence are brilliant monsters. In appearance they pay gothic homage to the classic Roswell alien, but their defining ability is so very Moffat; you look away and you forget you ever saw them. Hence the tagline: “Monsters are real”. The image of them in Secret Service suits was so iconic and striking and scary, but not all that original. Crucially with Moffat it’s the ideas that have to be good first and foremost.

All the performances are improved from last time out, and in particular Smith as the Doctor himself is now completely confident. The role is his own. Moffat’s more intriguing Doctor is his Doctor and vice versa; the writing makes him so good, but Moffat’s writing also needs talented interpretation and portrayal.

So many questions were raised; I worry for even Moffat’s genius as to how they are resolved. The impact of any story arc will be diminished if every episode is so packed with “what ifs” as this one. It can’t maintain such a pace and accommodate endless secrets too. But obviously if I see this, so does the wise one. He’ll have more hints than previous series, rewarding the diehard viewer, but each episode will stand alone and grip in itself. And as I said earlier, Moffat’s disregard of convention will ensure that he doesn’t feel he has to resolve every question in this series. Why shouldn’t he throw all his good ideas at us at once and string them out tantalisingly?

I would now only begin to repeat the more eloquent words of more qualified commentators, so I shall stop and treat myself to watching the episode again. In the meantime check out The Guardian’s excellent, weekly post-show blog and feel free to check back here regularly for my own thoughts.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/tv-and-radio/tvandradioblog/2011/apr/23/doctor-who-the-impossible-astronaut

All hail Moffat! Long live Who!

P.S. He’s put the Who back in Doctor Who and he says this is intentional. Thank goodness, let’s see more of the dark side to such a powerful and fascinating character!

The Door


We all make mistakes. We all have regrets. Regrets in particular are an undeniably universal part of the human condition and the lives of everyone; from rock star to street cleaner. It doesn’t matter if you’re the flawless Empress of dozens of kingdoms or a waitress in a greasy spoon; there will be things you wish you had done differently. Sometimes, when things get really bad, it’s a cliché phrase of woe to wish that the ground would swallow you up. Usually though you’re probably more likely to be hoping for a window onto the past. A hole big enough to crawl through, or a door if you’re feeling especially demanding. There’s not a soul on Earth, no matter how content they may profess to be, that wouldn’t consider the chance to go back. The chance to revisit a moment when everything changed.

Boiled down to its basics, this is what The Door is all about; that irrepressible human desire to erase what has been eternally written on the pages of history and memory.  That craving for just one chance of redemption and the opportunity to take another path, a happier route, on the journey of life. In many ways The Door is an extremely simple tale but it’s one that uses fantasy to suggest dark and disturbing truths about human nature. It will simultaneously cut uncomfortably close to the core of your personal experience and be impossible to imagine and relate to.

The Door is a German film, telling the story of David Andernach, played by Mads Mikkelsen. I was dubious of Mikkelsen’s ability to carry this film off. I am most familiar with him from Casino Royale, in which he played a suitably menacing but also expectedly caricatured Le Chiffre. The way The Door is constructed requires intense focus on the personal viewpoint of Andernach and Mikkelsen is in practically every scene. You really notice it when things centre round his wife for a few minutes towards the climax. Thankfully his performance is varied, convincing and touching at times.

Also good are his wife Maja (Jessica Schwarz) and daughter Leonie (Valeria Eisenbart). Eisenbart is especially excellent as a child actor accurately expressing the knowing innocence of children, reacting to the sensational and dramatic events of the plot. Andernach’s mistress Gia is played by Heike Makatsch, and if I’m being really picky, which I guess I am, her performance was bland and predictable. She does play perhaps the least diverse of all the characters though, particularly when compared to the other more mysterious, male neighbour to the family.

However whilst poor performances could conceivably have ruined The Door, the really standout thing about this film is the story. It’s the sort of plot that can’t be justified in summary. I certainly can’t make my description of it much more alluring than the mildly interesting efforts of the production notes, without spoiling the surprise factor that made The Door so immensely enjoyable for me.

What I can tell you is that Andernach is a famous artist who is over the road fucking the neighbour one day when his daughter trips over her shoe laces and drowns in the family pool. Five years later Andernach is a broken man, begging his former wife for forgiveness. He tries to drown himself in the same pool, only to be rescued by a friend. He then follows a butterfly (his daughter wanted him to catch them with her but he chose a rendezvous with his mistress) to a hidden door that opens onto the day she died. He intends to simply save her and then perhaps alter his future, but he finds himself trapped in the past, lurching from one unintentional catastrophe to another.

In a way I’m tempted to write one review of The Door for those who have not seen it and one for after you’ve all hunted it down and enjoyed its one hour and thirty five minutes or so. It’s a film that raises a lot of big questions and emotional themes that would be interesting to discuss in more depth. You think you can work out its progression from the premise but you probably won’t. I will say that its poignant overall message seemed, for me at least, to be something along the lines of; we can all relive the past if we pay a big enough price and surrender enough of ourselves, but it’s a part of being human to let go and move on.

Trying to bottle up the raw feeling I got from The Door makes it sound far from creative or moving. But watching it with its tender score and acting and simple surprises, you are really sucked in. For once the glowing descriptions of the film adorning the marketing are totally apt and spot on; The Door is a “dark moral fable” and “an accomplished supernatural thriller”. You’ll be gripped by it, fascinated by it and haunted and moved by it. You’ll wonder what you’d do confronted with your own door.

The failure of Reading and Writing Month – An apology and explanation from Mrt’sblog


If anyone at all follows my blog they would’ve noticed the disappointing petering out of Reading and Writing Month. I feel I should explain as briefly as possible why a project I was very excited about and had big plans for did not turn out as I had hoped.

What happened then? I suppose the simple answer is: real life. It’s an excuse all the same I know but when it came down to it I couldn’t motivate myself to either write for my blog all that much or do enough reading because of actual events and “dramas”. I used to make the mistake of using this blog as an emotional outlet for “real life” and I have no intention of ranting again here and spoiling what I’ve worked hard on. But I also once said I would write on this blog should I ever find that elusive state known as happiness. I may as well say now that for most of 2011 so far I have indeed been happy; the happiest I have ever been probably. I am grateful to have felt that even if it was fleeting.

Enough of that though and back to blogging matters. It really is most regrettable that I have a real life at all sometimes. I am frequently full of ideas for writing but most thoughts never become blog pieces or creative works. Often I know that if I try to realise an idea and rush it to some sort of completion, its quality will disappoint. I know that an awful lot of the words I vomit onto these pages are not examples of the best work I can produce. Sometimes it’s just imperative that I produce something or air my views on whatever issue I am passionate about, no matter how inadequately.

For Reading and Writing Month for example I had numerous ideas in the pipeline. I planned to write on literary classics like Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Lolita, comparing their taboos. I planned to write my own short stories after amateurishly examining a selection of some I had managed to read. I wanted to discuss the future of reading with the coming of Kindles and IPads and audiobooks etc. I intended to explain why I rarely re-read books, and ask why we come back to old favourites when there was so much to discover and consume. Do we all have bibles for certain things, like good writing or storytelling, which we like to re-read to learn again? Like revision almost. Or do we re-read to recapture a feeling? Generally I wanted to have finished reading a lot more books than I did.

More recently in terms of general blog writing I’ve wanted to comment on the Libyan situation and the ethics of a no-fly-zone. Trips to Fulham football club and controversial Champions League games would have once spawned some thoughts. Various television programmes from comedies like 10 O’Clock to dramas like Christopher and His Kind have tempted me to put pen to paper, or finger tips to keyboard more accurately, but I have simply lacked the confidence, the time and the reserves of happiness to begin.

This is incredibly self-indulgent but it does annoy me that a) I don’t write enough and b) I don’t write well enough. Lots of things interest me and I want to write about most of them, but the task often seems insurmountable. The recent impingement of my real life on my blogging has forced me to rethink my writing habits. I shall have to accept that I can’t do it all. Especially if I’m to keep reading. And if I’m to do anything at all with at least a degree of adequacy. So I’m considering drawing up a more regular timetable for posts on particular topics. Film pieces will probably still emerge in a regular messy pattern, but perhaps other things I should simply talk about once a week on a certain day.

It will be sometime most likely before I do anything concrete about this. But it will probably soon have to be done out of necessity and I’m hoping it might help improve both output and quality. If you do drop by now and then I’d love any feedback or suggestions on what readers want and what Mrt’sblog can do better.

In the meantime I am personally trying to convince myself of the positives of Reading and Writing Month, despite its undoubted failure. I read a good mix of short stories and who knows maybe in future I’ll draw on them to write my own. At least for now I have good stories I can return to. I’ve generally rediscovered my taste for reading, not that it ever really went anywhere, even if progress is slow. I’m currently devouring, well gently chewing, Room by Emma Donoghue and soon I’ll start on Martin Booth’s A Very Private Gentleman, now a film called The American starring Mr Clooney. After these reads I’ll return to the list from Reading and Writing Month and try to make headway once more.

A heartfelt sorry from Mrt’sblog then, to myself at least if no one else is that bothered. Do follow me on Twitter (@Mrtsblog) and give me that feedback (constructive or completely pointless, all comers welcome)

The King Maker


Last year the Liberal Democrat leader Nick Clegg was dubbed a “King Maker” by many in the press, due to the historic power afforded to him as a result of a hung parliament. He could either prop up grumpy Gordon or crack open the party poppers for Dave’s coronation. The public rejoiced in watching the usual big boys squirm and a new man get a chance to pull the strings. But now no one agrees with Nick and he’s plummeted from the heights of Britain’s most popular to the land’s favourite burning effigy. Thousands genuinely hate him and want to scratch out his entrails for his sickening, unnatural marriage to the Tories. They despise him for drunkenly tossing away longstanding pledges to the public on his stag night and loathe him for cutting chunks from the country’s finances lustfully on honeymoon. For many it’s a painful, all consuming dislike of this one yellow tied Westminster suit amongst hundreds.

It’s sometimes easy to accept the idea that in today’s world, truly bad films don’t get made anymore. It’s impossible to find two hours in front of a screen with some flickering images completely unsatisfying. You can’t hate a piece of filmmaking like you hate a man. You can’t find it as painfully offensive to your artistic taste and morality as swathes of reckless, damaging government spending cuts. This may be true. Even the most misguided projects I review usually have some kind of redeeming quality, at least one moment of real enjoyment or an admirable aim. But The King Maker is a film that took only 60 seconds for me to want the blessed release of the end credits. It’s an absolute and total turkey, the sort of film that goes straight to the bottom shelf at Tesco for a reason, the sort of film that without qualification deserves the label: BAD.

Out of scores and scores of poor movies, The King Maker is one of the few that if you have any sense of quality and taste, you’ll rapidly be able to regard with something close to hate. Seriously you should heed my warning if you want to avoid an excruciating hour and a half; do not watch The King Maker. Certainly DO NOT PAY ANY (real) MONEY TO SEE THIS. You might think its 88 minute running time short, but it feels a hell of a lot longer and you’ll never get those precious minutes back. There is nothing at all to justify spending time on this lifeless, empty shell of a film.

Literally nothing at all, everything about The King Maker is purely bad. As I’ve said it takes less than a minute for the shoddy editing and woefully low production standards present throughout to raise their ugly, persistent heads. The film opens with an action chase sequence peppered with ludicrous ninja/karate style high kicks and flips. There are jumps and landings that would be laughable were the tone not so serious or the camerawork and execution not so dire. In fact much of the action in The King Maker could be from a masterful slice of slapstick Charlie Chaplin or a ridiculous Monty Python sketch. But The King Maker is not even so bad it is funny. At times it ought to be hilarious. I did not laugh or smile once at its awfulness though. Afterwards my face hurt from the exhaustive efforts of a non-stop grimace.

The main reason I can’t even recommend The King Maker as refreshing fest of unintentional LOL moments is because it’s evident that the actors are trying so damn hard. You can’t have a good old heartening chuckle at all those involved in the film when it’s so obvious that they were trying to make something good; they have no idea how shit it is and you’re left with an endless feeling of painful pity. Every element of the movie is bad, every acting performance poor at best and agonisingly awful at worst. In fairness to the cast they are not helped by the script. Rather than rant about its failures one quote sums up the clunky, grating quality of the dialogue: “Look it’s the king’s emissary, I wonder what he wants?”.

For what it’s worth the film chronicles the story of Portuguese mercenary Fernando De Gama (Gary Stretch), who is shipwrecked in Siam and rescued from slavery by his love interest. He works his way up through the ranks of society, stumbles across a plot, and has scores of his own to settle blah blah blah…it’s really not worth it.

There are continuity errors aplenty, an out of place soundtrack that will make you cringe, silly stunts and cliché black and white flashbacks. CGI of a port full of ships looks like it’s been taken from an unsuccessful computer game with unconvincing Windows 98 graphics (the water in particular looks atrocious). In fact the plot and action set pieces and horrible attempts at a historical setting all seem like ingredients from an out of date, bargain basement video game. There are even punch and kick sound effects ripped straight from cartoon archives.

Despite my partial defence of the actors earlier, the standout flaws of this film are their totally unbelievable performances. The worst offender is the plotting Queen and her lover as they fail to convey the passion of their secret affair. The majority of their scenes together seem like a disappointing porno with an inexplicable lack of flesh on show. Another potentially career devastating turn comes from lead Gary Stretch. His limp delivery of lines serves as the final nail in the coffin for The King Maker. Even a film so badly executed could have salvaged some likeability with a charismatic turn from the lead actor. Stretch merely drags things further into painful depths of disappointment and dismalness.

The King Maker was supposed to be a spectacular showcase of Thailand. It’s only the third Thai film to be made in the English language, and the first since 1941. There are some superb, beautiful locations occasionally visible in the background amongst the appalling action of the story. But they don’t deserve to be associated with the worst film I’ve seen this year and I suspect the favourite by a mile in the race for worst film of 2011.

Reading and Writing Challenge Month – Day 2


Ok so I’ve started writing this with just minutes to go until the dawn of day 3, and things are yet to get into full swing. In fact they’ve barely begun. I’ve entitled this post “Day 2” but Day 1 was non-existent in terms of reading. Day 2 has been little better.

I’m hoping that at some unknown juncture there will come a turning point. Something will simply click and I shall start to bulldozer my objectives in an all out, joyous and unstoppable blitz. In the past I’ve tended to tackle projects with this rather unsustainable method; gradually formulate ideas and then unleash them in a single brief frenzy. There is of course the possibility of very total and publicised failure.

I’m determined to succeed and for once see something through to the end productively. Today in one of the few moments I did dedicate to the challenge, I grouped stacks of books I aimed to devour this month into one daunting pile. It was off-putting and the task seemed insurmountable, but it gave me something to focus on. The opening days of the challenge have been filled with life’s distractions but soon isolation I usually dread will kick in and give me time to hunker down.

Given how impossible the task is starting to seem, I decided to begin with baby steps to ease myself in. I therefore chose books that were less dense and less mountainous to climb. The sort of thing you can snatch things from. So I quickly consumed some poems from Sylvia Plath’s collection, Ariel and mulled them over looking at the sea in dazzling sunshine. Some of the imagery seemed so true and touching such as, “The window square whitens and swallows its dull stars”, but in my rushed, excitable state of mind some poems and lines left me baffled, clueless, unmoved and adrift.

I also purchased an audio book, on a shopping trip with the purpose of equipping myself for a return to playing football. I’ve never experience an audio book and was inspired by this challenge to try it. It gave me an idea for a piece on different types of reading and the future of reading. This is one of my major flaws I’m afraid. I amass ideas and things to read/watch/listen to and get bogged down with so many I do not achieve them. However hopefully this will be different. Hopefully. I have lots of ideas for other articles and thoughts and intend to carry them out. (The audiobook was last year’s booker winner, The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobsen, by the way)

I bought The Day of the Triffids by John Wyndham a couple of years ago for my EPQ on science fiction in the Cold War period. I didn’t use the book in the end and never got round to reading it. At the time I was sick of science fiction after studying so much of it so intensely. But I did enjoy everything about it; the ideas, imagination, ethics, history, imagery. Everything. So I’m aiming to make Triffids my first proper read and rekindle the passion. Perhaps I’ll attempt some sci-fi of my own.

The Sartorialist by Scott Schuman is essentially a picture book, full of stylish, fashionable people. It’s not my usual sort of thing. But reading it (or watching it) is surprisingly fulfilling, enlightening and enjoyable. It’s a nice way in to my challenge; a thick book encapsulating so much of society, but one easy to consume.

I sit on my bed with The Sartorialist and Triffids, determined not to sleep until I’ve had a good go at both. I’m also about to finish a film review. I can feel the tiredness dragging at my face as the clock has just turned to midnight and signalled the start of Day 3. Will it be the day I get my act together?

2010 Doctor Who Christmas Special: Moffat keeps us on our toes


If you’re a “regular reader”, if I have such a thing, then you think I’ve just gone mad. Christmas was over a month ago. And I’m only just getting round to recording my thoughts on last year’s festive offering from our favourite Timelord. But such is the magic of iplayer that I downloaded the fantastic episode immediately afterwards, with the intention of reviewing it, only to let it wither away. Now, with it about to die, I had to re-watch it before embarking on a trip abroad and sing its praises.

Because what Steven Moffat managed to do with this seasonal special is capture the sentimental essence of Christmas and cast a magical spell over Doctor Who again. Peppered with slick, funny, genius dialogue, A Christmas Carol was a marvellous reinvention of a classic, and an expression of a truly unique imagination. Fish that swim in the fog; how wonderfully original and unexpected and inexplicably Christmassy.

The problem in the end, with Russell T. Davies’ Doctor Who, was that no matter how spectacular, the stories became predictable. In many ways Moffat’s adaptation of A Christmas Carol had expected elements, features expected at Christmas time. But the all important sci-fi, Whovian additions to the tale were quirky, creative and inventive. There was fantastic time-hopping which had gone missing from the Tardis until Moffat’s ascension to the throne. With all of time and space to choose from, one thing Doctor Who should never, ever be, is predictable.

This story had emotional heart as well as more laugh out loud lines, delivered by a superb Matt Smith who’s well and truly at home in the role now, than I can remember. They included though, the brilliant: “What’s it called when you have no feet and you’re taking a run-up?” and the Doctor’s advice for Kazran’s first kiss; “Try and be a bit rubbish and nervy and shaky…Because you’re gonna be like that anyway.”

Michael Gambon was excellent as the old miser transformed. Katherine Jenkins made an impressive acting debut, doing all that was required of her, including delivering some enchanting singing fit for the occasion. The music in general was wonderful. There were some impressive child performances. The script wasn’t always spot-on, with there being some cheesy, ordinary lines, mainly during the sections with Amy Pond. The episode opened with the necessarily dramatic, but disappointing, “Christmas is cancelled!” The sublime moments more than make up for this though, including the Doctor in a white tux, fretting by a swimming pool about his impending engagement to Marilyn Monroe. Talk about conveying the glamour of time travel successfully on a budget.

This story is a showcase for so much. A lot of it very Christmassy stuff. The power of carols, the warming bitterness of thwarted love and memorable quotes; “halfway out of the dark”, “Time can be written, people can’t”, “Never met anyone who isn’t important before”. Wonderful plot twists like when the Doctor shows the young Kazran his older self. Most of all it’s an example of just how amazing Doctor Who can be on so many levels. All the superlatives I’m wheeling out don’t come close to expressing how good this episode was and how much I liked it, how much I loved it. The new series this year will be split into two and the opportunities for cliff-hangers and twists for Moffat will be unprecedented. I can’t wait to see what he does.

Waiting On The Platform…


It’s been a long time since I wrote a song.

 

Waiting on the platform
A ticket in my hand
A passport to happiness
A key to wonderland

Sitting in the carriage
A book on the seat
A pointless distraction
From the girl I’m off to meet

Blocking out the scenery
As it flies past my ear
I’ve got a feeling
It’s gonna be the perfect year

Because when I’m with her

My life feels so complete
It’s like I’m flying
No other moments compete
I just can’t help it
I wish that time could repair
That stupid, unfair flaw
Which means she’s not always there

 

Listening to the driver
As he ticks off the stops
In a blissful little bubble
Free of grumpy raindrops

Arriving at the station
A smile on my face
Wider than this city
So hard to erase

Sitting down to wait now
As she zooms below the street
The second she emerges
Life’s taste will be so sweet

Because when I’m with her
My life feels so complete
It’s like I’m flying
No other moments compete
I just can’t help it
I wish that time could repair
That stupid, unfair flaw
Which means she’s not always there

Remembering the last time
I held her to me close
My heart starts vibrating
It’s tough to compose

I can’t quite believe it
That someone like her
So talented and pretty
That time starts to blur

Should not only be
An amazing and trusted friend
But the first one to want me
To let me protect and depend

Because when I’m with her
My life feels so complete
It’s like I’m flying
No other moments compete
I just can’t help it
I wish that time could repair
That stupid, unfair flaw
Which means she’s not always there

There’s no one quite like her
No one could compare
She makes me act all silly
And adopt a stupid stare

I hope she’ll always call me
When she’s feeling low
Even the briefest conversation
Has me wishing for slow-mo

When it’s time to go home
Depart London and leave
Of course I’ll be sad
And might have to grieve

I’m leaving a great city
And the only girl I need
But I can’t always live in Heaven
And demand perfection for my greed

Because when I’m with her
My life feels so complete
It’s like I’m flying
No other moments compete
I just can’t help it
I wish that time could repair
That stupid, unfair flaw
Which means she’s not always there

I wish that time could repair
That stupid, unfair flaw
Which means she’s not always there

Waiting on the platform
A ticket in my hand…

No need for excessive force? Wii might as well not bother then


Proper funny people, that is to say comedians, often take the ordinary and un-funny happenings of everyday life, apply their own particular, wry comic twist and sit back satisfied as rows of audience members dissolve in laughter. I imagine that for them the knowledge that they took a dull occurrence which wasn’t at all humorous and made it so, simply by looking at it through their own bulging, witty eyes is the ultimate fulfilment of their “art”. I however have always been fairly satisfied with spotting something undeniably hilarious and jabbing a finger in the general direction of such an event, usually accompanying the gesture with subtle shouts such as “Oh my God that’s so funny!” or simply a worrying, wobbly intake of breath and my lips just about gasping “HA!”.

Take the apparently newsworthy and 100% true story of “Wii-type games linked to sprains” provided by the BBC today and the laugh out loud details that ensue upon closer inspection. The article begins by insisting the Nintendo Wii and other such motion sensitive games technology had started to produce its own “brand of player injuries”. By “own brand” we can assume that they mean someone has actually bothered to confirm what we all suspected; fat, unfit people buy the Wii, thrash around with it in their living rooms for a while and claim it to be exercise and the odd unlucky sod does himself a catastrophically embarrassing You’ve Been Framed style injury to himself in the process. To have your concealed fantasies of amusing, lardy louts unintentionally vandalising their own whopping plasma screens and yelping like puppies dangled from the Empire State building after pulling a muscle returning Mario’s serve, or something, is pretty damn funny in itself. But then you pause and consider the authority behind the article.

The BBC says that “doctors”, yes those highly trained professionals admired and trusted by society, have reported on this. They have not merely met a few times to discuss it or had a small handful of them examine the issue, but convened a ruddy conference in San Francisco on the subject! Or alternatively forced the information upon an unsuspecting, unrelated gathering. The enthusiastic medical professionals tasked with the job of investigating this “phenomenon”, apparently consulted the USA’s “National Electronic Injury Surveillance System”. I mean seriously? This database actually shows that in a five year period 696 video game related injuries occurred, of which, disappointingly, only 92 were caused by a Wii- type motion device. I say disappointingly because the other injuries are things such as chronic thumb ache in overzealous, spotty adolescents hunched over a button mashing session of Gears of War or Call of Duty. The Wii injuries have a more harmful and admit it, therefore more comic potential.

At this point I am reminded of my childhood and adults trying to impress caution on me whilst I wielded some sort of sharp object excitedly. “Careful, you could take someone’s eye out with that!” they would whine. Someone else’s, not my own. And so to the funniest sentence of this weird piece of news…

Wild swings of the console’s remote also accounted for dozens of “bystander injuries”.

Now come on that is funny right? Imagine all the possible scenarios; a husband who has just about talked his wife into a game of Wii tennis inadvertently smashing her in the face, a tottering old nan accidentally swiping away her opponent’s walking stick, sending them sprawling across the coffee table, GAME, SET, MATCH! But then I read to the end of the article. Most “victims” of bystander injuries are under 10 years old. I’ve never been a fan of the Wii anyway when I have tried it. It always struck me that it got away with poor quality games, nothing more than cartoons, in comparison to other consoles because of its gimmicky, futuristic tech. Now I have even more reason to shun it. Quite apart from the fact there is no need to get over excited for the controller to respond, you can just as effectively flick your wrist from the sofa as dive around the lounge, it was fun to lose control and pretend. Now “excessive” force is out of the question in case it becomes child abuse, which just isn’t permitted to be funny. Great.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-11455144

Zodiac


Today I rejoiced in the death of summer. Like a smug old miser I strutted contentedly amongst the pug faced, mourning proles, at once detached from and amused by their sodden gripes and moans. The streets were pelted a gloomy grey and everyone lamented the arrival of the dreary and the damp. I on the other hand basked in the murk and inhaled the invigorating moisture of decay. I smiled at the amber dying leaves on the trees through wet windows clustered with restless droplets. I watched the drones as they collided with other droids in the street and promised to meet up, both equally delighted at any sort of forthcoming event to disrupt the bleak routine, and felt satisfied with my own ongoing, indefinite ok-ness, which was somehow above the desperate need for meaning so evident here in their drizzle beaten faces. I would enjoy the death throes of autumn as they confined the summer to the past and await the renewal.

I suspect that this sort of contented and acceptable lonely misery is but a few misplaced steps from disaster. It’s not natural or healthy to find comfort in a puddle, joy in soaked litter or amusement in swaying, torturous supermarket queues. But such are the pitfalls of isolation and having too much time on your hands. Before you know it you’ll be getting such weird fulfilling highs and exciting kicks out of misery that you’ll be actively seeking out other people’s or worse dabbling in a little sadness creation.

So perhaps serial killers simply have too much time on their hands and so do the hacks that get fascinated by their exploits, like Jake Gyllenhaal’s character Robert Graysmith in David Fincher’s 2007 “lightly fictionalised” film Zodiac, of the Californian murders. Fincher’s latest project will star rising Brit Andrew Garfield and is a largely factual account about the creation of social networking site Facebook and the odd personalities behind it. Similarly Zodiac treads the ground of a true story and follows a number of insular, eccentric and withdrawn individuals who become consumed by the case and the need to break the code left repeatedly by the killer as the key to his identity. Indeed at times the film feels like a fly on the wall documentary following the investigation, flipping between various angles such as the police department and the journalists captivated by letters sent to their papers. The period detail is vividly executed and both Fincher’s direction and James Vanderbilt’s script must be praised for a striking realism. However the sizeable chunk of the movie that deals with the years in which the murders themselves takes place flashes by without focus, jumping rapidly through weeks, months and then years at a time, never quite deciding whether or not to follow the progress of the detective, the reporters or Gyllenhaal’s awkward, gifted cartoonist.

The disjointed nature of the first half of the film may not be Fincher or the script’s fault, as it may simply reflect events. The fact remains though that once Graysmith the cartoonist becomes properly fixated on the case the story is anchored and becomes far more engaging. During the first half of the movie Gyllenhaal’s character is introduced but then quickly becomes a periphery figure, only for him to become the much needed focus later on, with better opportunities for character development. Graysmith’s obsession drives a wedge between himself and his family, as he dredges up the past during a time when the Zodiac killer is not even active. He begins to piece together bits of the puzzle, bits the audience has already seen in the frenetic fast moving first segment of the movie. The film’s actors such as Mark Ruffalo, who plays his detective in a brilliant Columbo style, finally get the chance to act rather than simply move through events as Graysmith confronts them and tries to get them to confront their failures in the past investigation and to convince them of the importance of resolving the case. Robert Downey Jr also shines in this section after regressing to a failed drunkard from high flying crime reporter. If Fincher’s new Facebook biopic is as good as early reviews say then it is likely it follows the more focused approach of the latter part of Zodiac, as opposed to its wide ranging opening.

That is not to say there are not a number of good points about the first half of Zodiac, simply that it could have been better with clearer structure and better pacing. As I’ve said the film is always lovingly shot and the period sensually evoked, right down to the ear splitting rings of the telephones during high points of the crisis. There is also a piece of dialogue between police offers from different States over the phone that is at once humorous and sickeningly frustrating, as bureaucratic barriers and petty rivalry block an easy coordinated approach to handling the evidence. Mark Ruffalo’s Columbo lookalike Detective also forms a partnership with fellow investigator Anthony Edwards that is genuine and funny at times and makes the audience care, but sadly the film neither dwells on this relationship long enough for it become truly significant, whilst also lingering too long to damage the rest of the narrative.

The murder scenes themselves are perhaps not surprisingly some of the most gripping in the film and you sense Fincher had more creative freedom whilst shooting them, obviously due to the fact that these sequences had to be more “fictionalised” than others. The first murder is tense and creepy, with sexual undertones hinting at the killer’s motivation. The scene in which the killer kidnaps a mother and baby is distressing and chilling, with suspense hanging thick in the air. Not because you don’t know it’s the killer, the discrete camera angles and suspicious behaviour make this obvious, but because his reaction to the presence of the baby is surprising and what he does will prove just what a monster he is or not. Perhaps the most brazen murder and the one that truly kick-starts the investigation, the shooting of the cab driver in San Francisco, is filmed with a visual flourish reminiscent of Grand Theft Auto the computer game. Fincher has the camera follow the cab from a bird’s eye view as it passes through the bustle of the city, as the player views their vehicle in the early GTA games, with radio music blaring out and then interrupted abruptly by gunshots, and the slow motion splash of blood, followed by children’s screams and a 911 call.

All in all there is no doubt that Zodiac is a well made film full of decent performances and given the sensitive subject matter it was perhaps more important that it presents an accurate factual record than an entertaining story. However those looking forward to Fincher’s new fact based film will hope it pulls of the feat of both documenting history and making it exciting throughout.

Doctor Who/Sherlock News


http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2010/aug/29/doctor-who-cliffhanger-series-split

The next series of Doctor Who will be split in two, with the first half of the usual 13 part run ending in the spring and picking up after a cliff hanger in the Autumn. I must say that at the moment, finding myself missing Moffat’s new Who already, I wish this was already the set-up as the wait till spring 2011 seems endless. What is so exciting is as I mentioned in my series 5 review, that Moffat feels like he was merely setting something up and this season split containing a “game changing” half way cliffhanger, may well answer many of the questions raised in the current story arc about cracks in time etc that were left brilliantly unresolved even by a two part season finale full of loose end tying. Those snatched moments of Davros’ voice may finally prove significant and will the Doctor’s relationship with either River Song or Amy progress? Will we even get a new Doctor? This seems unlikely given that Smith has grown into the role and won me and millions of other Tennant fans over, but after what Moffat is claiming would be three series (he insists the split makes two effectively different runs, not one split into) it might be time for a new Doctor by Christmas 2011 or spring 2012.

And wouldn’t some of us Moffat fans just love it if he plucked Benedict Cumberbatch from his other recent smash success Sherlock, from sleuthing in London’s modern streets to prowling and pondering aboard the Tardis? Sadly to hold two such iconic roles would seem too much but prior to him brilliantly reinterpreting Holmes for the modern era Cumberbatch would have made the perfect aloof, awkward, genius Timelord. It’s probably a long way off but I’m sure when Moffat does change the lead actor he will surprise us all, perhaps with someone older, perhaps with controversy or another relative unknown. With regards to Sherlock it shall be getting its second series and the DVD of the first soon to be released, boldly contains the original pilot, also called A Study in Pink like the first episode, but missing some crucial elements like the on-screen texting, the  typical Moffat Mycroft-Moriarty subplot and more detail of the murders. I look forward to getting my copy of the series, not only to have the excellent episodes on tap whenever I crave them but also to study the transformation from pilot idea to brilliant, fully realised, popular smash hit. Moffat will certainly be the centre attention again come 2011, with a second series of Sherlock and Doctor Who to pull off in the face of massive expectations. I’m sure he can do it.