Mini Reviews 3

The Hobbit

The weight of expectation upon Peter Jackson’s filmic return to Middle Earth was heavier than Michelle McManus with a depression-induced stress-eating disorder. Yet, the inevitable comparisons with LOTR are unfair, The Hobbit being a simpler, more fantastical (and arguably better) novel than its famous younger brother. It’s far lighter and comical, much more traditional childish fantasy. This is made explicit when paralleled alongside LOTR’s ambitiously dramatic narrative. On the screen the differences are even more obvious. For example, one scene in Jackson’s adaptation sees the Goblin King, looking like a cross between a cartoon turkey and Stuart McCall, set up his own death as a gag. It’s hard to imagine Viggo Mortensen making knock knock jokes in the Black Gate finale. I think its dissimilarity with LOTR instigated many of the mixed reviews.

It’s an excellently made film, and both an effective expansion and stand-alone to an extremely popular saga. The casting, especially the phenomenal Martin Freeman, is spot on, the special effects and attention to world detail, staggeringly good, the plot, well-paced, the dialogue, solid if unspectacular. Peter Jackson’s direction is exquisite, squeezing out every drop of humour, tension and wonder possible from each scene.

It’s surprisingly difficult to review. It’s thematically vacuous, but so is the novel, so should Jackson be applauded for a faithful adaptation? Or criticised for lack of filmmaker innovation? I’m unsure.

Personal gripes include the excessive use of slow-motion in set-pieces, the glaring unfunnyness of James Nesbitt, when it inexplicably metamorphoses into an instagrammed Disney musical with ugly people, and the fact that orcs are never once referred to as ‘Glasgow Rangers fans.’

It’s still a great piece of filmmaking, and entertainment, one made even more valuable by the tremendous disappointments of nearly every other sequel, prequel, spin off, or bastard, Inuit son.

Diary of the Dead

In one of my previous mini reviews, I critiqued Zak Snyder’s 2004 remake of the cult-classic Dawn of the Dead. In a stunning move, Snyder masterfully by-passed the anti-consumerist satire of Romero’s work, instead making a gore-porn flick where the only serious question raised is whether or not the girl Phil Dunphy is shagging is under-age or not. The uncertainty still haunts me to this day. It has the political relevance of my pyjama drawer.

Thank God, ladies and gentlemen, for the 2^nd coming of George A. Romero. The low budget Diary of the Dead takes aim simultaneously at the frightening influence of new media on everyday life, and man’s inherent curiosity with suffering and horror. The extent of the limited funds is sadly exposed; the extremely small scale both the plot and set locations operate on could potentially serve to emphasise the severe effect a zombie apocalypse has on an individual or group, but the unintentionally farcical performances, and God-awful dialogue, contradict that theory.

While it abandons Dawn of the Dead’s inert socio-political subtext for the chaining-you-to-a-chair-while-a-brooding-voiceover-rams-it-down-your-throat-until-you-pass-out-from-heavy-handed-mind-thuggery school of expression, it remains a profoundly intense 90 minutes. The protagonist’s character development is startlingly good, as he progressively becomes obsessed with recording the end of days... just because it's interesting, it somehow grows on you how relevant and relatable these characters, despite their eccentricities, actually are. It is genuinely thought-provoking stuff, and the ending is fantastically depressing, if a tad contrived.

DotD also adopts a Shakespearean ‘film within a film’ narrative concept. It's original and effective, even so much that when one of the characters continues to film while one of his 2D pals is the replacement of a 4am kebab for a notably hungry zombie it actually seems believable. I would make a joke about it being ‘filmingception’ or something, but sadly I don’t have the wit of a self conscious fourteen year old who watches Pokemon ironically. While the lecturous thematic exposition is off-putting, Diary of the Dead is a poignant, moving, underrated, shitely made dollop of cinema.

However, my favourite Diary of the Dead remains the fans’ forums on Rangers’ Media.

'On the Road' Review

‘The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn...’

That quote will soon be framed on the walls of Indie kids, alongside their signed copies of Mumford and Sons lyrics, and their first pair of non-prescription glasses. In this cage, the meaning of Kerouac’s ferociously energetic attack on the repressiveness of post-war America, and his 250 page thesis on self-discovery through hedonistic acts, will be forever lost among the limitless horizons of indoor-scarves and all-things denim.

This is because Walter Salles’ film adaptation of Kerouac’s classic, possibly my favourite (half) novel, amplifies the book’s, supposed, failings. As well as exposing its plotlessness, and the sheer one-dimensional misogyny plastered onto his female characters, Kerouac’s outrageous self-indulgence on the importance of the Beats is adapted perhaps a little too faithfully. The film is hopelessly pretentious, alienating anyone who hasn’t read the book, and therefore anyone who understands that its self-importance is part of its majesty. The awkward ‘intellectual Jazz’ score doesn’t help things. It’s this factor, rather than its potential to be something genuinely inspirational, which will appeal to the ‘individualistic’ masses. This, perhaps, only furtherly emphasises what we fans already knew; that it is unadaptable.

But the film is respectably faithful to the book, and is well-made in its own right. It’s well shot, although with a tad overuse of shaky-cam, though in a post-Greengrass era this is forgiveable, the colour scheme cleverly changing according to mood; bright yellows, greens and blues when the parties are in full swing, greys and browns for the crashing-back-to-reality hangovers. The soul of each American city is captured well enough, and the scenes ‘On the Road’ identify the isolated, almost secret, beauty and barrenness of rural America. Sam Riley is excellent as Sal, as is Kristen Stewart as Marylou, giving credibility to my assertion, mocked ever since she emerged as the Vampire’s pouting sex-object, that she is a good actress. The supporting cast perform amicably, especially strong is Tom Sturridge as Carlo Marx. The man personifies Ginsberg’s writing, as Carlo is Kerouac’s pseudonym for Allen Ginsberg, arguably the most fundamental poet of the Beat era, to perfection, and in many ways steals the film. The star of the show is Garret Hedlund as Dean. Dean as a role is, in my opinion, the equivalent of playing Hamlet or Anna Karenina; one of the most challenging, complex and fascinating in fictional history. Hedlund is fantastic, flawlessly embodying the wonderfully flawed icon’s infectious charisma and endless series of contradictions.

As someone near obsessed with the adventures of Dean and Sal, it was more minor interpretative things which frustrated; the explicitness of the homoeroticism, the use of Sal as a narrator (I hate narration, I’ve always considered it lazy writing in cinema and TV. Same goes for flashbacks) the glazing over of an important scene or character, and most annoyingly, the lack of expose on the sexual contrast between Sal and Dean; Sal’s necessity to infuse sex with love and meaning, and Dean’s necessity to shag everything with at least half a sex organ.

These don’t detract from the film itself though, especially if you’re just a casual fan of the book. The biggest compliment I can pay it, is that it, even in just a small way, evokes Kerouac’s energy. That excitement for the unexpected, that desire to explore new physical, emotional and psychological realms, seeps through the screen. Minutely, but it is present. I can thereby confirm that, if do like, or love, the novel, it is worth viewing.

It’s a pretty good film, with an extremely ponderous second act, but with an effective opening, and a great ending (If you appreciate the story behind Kerouac’s actual writing of the book back in New York, you’ll get as childishly excited as I was). It never descends into boredom, nor rises to greatness. I’d qualify it as being about as good an adaptation of the novel as can be made. And, in this small way, it can be classed as a minor success. I would still love to see Sofia Coppola have a go though.

It’s now time to sit in dread anticipation for the seemingly awful adaptations of The Great Gatsby and Great Expectations...

Kieran's 50 Favourite Films; No. 45

45. Y Tu Mama Tambien

Alfonso Cuaron, best known as the director of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and the underappreciated Children of Men, at the turn of the millenium, made the finest film about adolescence since Los Olvidados, which, interestingly enough, is also Mexican. Must be their water. While Y Tu Mama Tambien examines the psychology and physicality of that most troublesome of life’s segments with a powerfully honest eye, this not simply a John Hughes film with less Simple Minds, more complex orgies, it’s an astonishingly moving tale of discovery; self, sexual and otherwise. Recalling the decadent adventures of Kerouac, Burroughs and Ginsberg, best friends Gael Garcia Bunel and Diego Luna embark upon their road trip with Maribel Verdu’s sexy, (slightly) older women with the sole intention of getting things, namely high, and their hole. It doesn’t take a tweed-jacket wearing cinephile to grasp the concept that they ‘get more than they bargained for.’ To assume predictability at this point is understandable; so far, so American Graffiti/Motorcycle Diaries/On the Road. However, the way the relationships develop, grow and crumble between the three leads is mesmerisingly, to use a word I despise using in this context, raw. 

Their deeply human anxieties; their sexual insecurities, their pseudo-Freudian maternal and paternal issues, their relatably palpable fear of mortality, all expose the immature, misunderstanding psychosis of young adults trying to establish themselves into regular life. These are two boys, initially, eminently dislikeable, who use cocksure arrogance to mask their confusion and uncertainty about, well, everything. It’s horribly clichéd to claim, but Cuaron’s masterpiece ponders adolescence and maturity, sex and love, the relationship between archaic Mexican politics and a post-modern internet society, (The story takes place in the backdrop of a mini political revolution) and yes, you guessed it, life and death. It’s visually stunning, with a colourful vibrancy accentuating the impact every fight, every joint, every... scene of intimacy, has on the viewer. It’s exciting to watch, to be part of, but also frightening. It feels real. The performances are flawless, the soundtrack perfectly implemented and the final twenty minutes are really, really quite incredible. You will feel something by the end. What you feel is hard to determine. Only 45^th on my list just now, it’ll inevitably climb its way further up. One of the most significantly affecting cinematic experiences I’ve ever had the pleasure to enjoy.

One of my favourite one-take shots.

Kieran's 50 Favourite Films; No. 46

46. The Good, The Bad and the Ugly

That theme. You know the one I mean. Ennio Morricone’s unforgettable composition. That’s right; WOYOWOYOWAHHHH...WAH... WAH... WAUGHHHH. That one. Sergio Leone’s majestic epic, his first of three films on this list, more than stands the test of time, but not, I’m afraid, the test of tiresome, overused clichés in describing it. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly may not be the best Western of all-time, but it’s certainly the most iconic; Clint Eastwood’s Good, a calmly smouldering beacon of all things cool and macho, is the definitive Western protagonist; Lee Van Cleef’s Bad, the dastardly heartless villain of the piece, straining every ounce of contempt out of the audience with his deliciously evil sadism with a smile; Eli Wallach’s Ugly, hilariously bumbling while also sneakily cunning, and also the movie’s show-stealer, is a pitiful, back-stabbing rogue with no redeemable qualities, but he’s a laughing stock, and is therefore redeemable in our eyes. Morricone deserves yet another mention. His score corroborates Leone’s harsh, jagged imagery of delicately framed desolate landscapes and even more desolate close-ups of its inhabitants. ‘Ecstasy of Gold’, the piano-centric piece played during the film’s pants-wettingly exciting climax, is an example of the very best in film music. While the first two in the ‘Dollars’ trilogy were entertaining and gripping, they lacked the vastness in scope and ambition of TGTBATU. Leone’s final chapter is not only thrilling, funny and sad, it’s also surprisingly profound, offering a never-before-seen insight into The Good’s desperately lonely existence, and in one section, even delivers a powerful anti-war message. I do not know a single male who hasn’t adored this film. But then again, I don’t know a single female that has. I don’t know how that’s possible. There can only be one type of person who dislikes this; a son of a... WOYOWOYOWAHHHH...

The XX - 'Coexist' Review

Someone once asked me why I loved The XX so passionately, after all, it’s just a guy and girl singing over some basic distorted guitar chords and simple synth effects. I replied that that was why I loved them. This sounded far more poignant, and far less pretentious, in my head. My point still stands however. The XX pride themselves on making beautifully simple, beautifully haunting, beautifully beautiful music. They make music for your ears. Their music makes your ears happy, which in turn, makes you happy. It’s all in the maths. Their critically acclaimed 2009 debut shook the foundations of modern pop; a pleasingly ascetic 40 minute odyssey on sex, love and heartbreak. The likes of Crystallised, Islands and Shelter are now embedded in the public conscience. While the album wavered slightly towards the end, it finished spectacularly with the quiet masterpiece Stars, more than excusing the album’s minute flaws.

Coexist, one of my most anticipated albums of the year, is different. There are no stand-outs like Crystallised or Stars. It’s one of the most consistent albums I’ve heard in a while; I dare you to try and pick out a ‘filler’ track from any of its eleven. More notably, it’s one of the most consistently excellent albums I’ve ever heard; I dare you to try and pick out a track which isn’t fantastic. The heavenly opening, Angels, sets the tone perfectly; ‘And with words unspoken, a silent devotion, I know you know what I mean, and the end is unknown.’ A hopelessly romantic beginning, no?  These musically basic, but still brilliant, slower tracks, (Try, Missing) are this album’s eulogies to the ghosts of relationships past; heart-string tugging and profoundly moving tales of pain, misunderstanding, denial and emotional redemption. My favourite of these, and my favourite lyrically in the album, is Unfold; the now iconic psychedelic guitar in top form, Oliver Sim’s vocals are even more angsty than normal, Romy Madley Croft’s, even sexier, but the lyrics are incredible, the defining form of pseudo love-poetry for our generation; ‘In my head, you tell me things you’ve never said, and I choose to forget, and take the good and leave the rest.’ It ranks up there with Radiohead’s Motion Picture Soundtrack, Okkervil River’s A Stone and Airborne Toxic Event’s Sometime Around Midnight among my favourite love songs from the past twenty years.

It’s not just stunningly pretty melodies they’ve come up with, there are some pure pop and R&B tracks also. Jamie Smith has been one of the most in-demand DJs of recent years, and the experience he's gained on his turn-tabling travels has given The XX a new dimension; many of their new songs have cracking beats to match the synths, bass and guitar. One of the build-up songs on the album, Swept Away, is almost house music; an eclectic mix of the old and new, guitar, bass and the drum machine percussion. Reunion, another build-up song, even throws steel drums into the mix, and when the song kicks in around 2 minutes, I can guarantee it’s one of the most sensational climaxes in a track you’ll hear this year. Maybe, just maybe, my favourite song off the album is Fiction, the prime beneficiary of this beat improvement. The toe-tapping guitar soon gives way to Dizzee Rascal-lite beats, and then they combine flawlessly with the occasional rhythmic intrusion of a deep piano note. It’s... perfection. My ears weep for never again will they hear anything as aesthetically pleasing. The lyrics are, again, contemporary genius, a voice for the dissatisfied late teenage/early twenties romantic. Reality disappoints the fictitious illusions of chivalric, or ‘old school’, romance; ‘come real love, why do I refuse you? Cause if my fear’s right, I risk to lose you, and if I just might wake up alone, bring on the night.’ Sensually sad.

If you held a hypothetical gun to my head and told me to state my favourite song off the album, I’d say you were an idiot as an imaginary gun isn’t particularly intimidating, but if you asked politely, I might have to say Fiction. But I don’t want to. Coexist is my album of the year so far. Even with releases from Crystal Castles and The National, it will be extremely difficult to topple it from its esteemed throne. Buy it. For your ears’ sake.

Kieran's 50 Favourite Films; No. 47

47. Casablanca

Casablanca is, not-undeservedly, regarded by many as the prime example of cinematic perfection. Flawlessly acted, written, photographed and directed, it’s perhaps aged, very slightly, if, indeed, at all. This acknowledged classic is not just an acting showcase for Bergman, America’s beloved innocent actress, that is, until she went and had sex with a man, that sinful little harlot, and Humphrey Bogart, although they do throw in two career-defining performances. Michael Curtiz also makes little attempt to overly influence the film’s structure and tone. Indeed, it’s the wonderful simplicity of its plot and characters which has caused such widespread reverence and adoration. Bogart’s lovelorn, snarky club-owner is the classic American-down-on-his-luck; Bergman’s shy, dissatisfied femme fatale is as equally iconic; the supporting characters, especially Sam the house pianist and Renault, the leader of the local law enforcement, are likably odd and friendly.

The story of choosing between, as referred to by one of the characters, ‘love and virtue’, is one more frequently over-used than ‘keep calm and carry on’ jokes, but never has it been so poignant, and so touching, than in Casablanca. Rick gives up his lost love, and very probably his last chance at happiness, but, in turn, this is because he refuses to give up the good in him, the good in mankind. While love acts as his temptation to give up his good nature, it is also the incentive for Rick to stick to his moral principles; it’s love which enables him to let Ilsa go. 

However, while the story and acting are strong, it’s the screenplay which stands out. Possibly the finest piece of writing to ever emerge from Hollywood, it’s flawlessly paced, structured and characterised; you can see the layout of each individual act tear through the seams of the fourth wall. It’s just perfect, there’s no other way to describe it. Pouring over it online, it becomes abundantly clear why it’s the textbook script choice for film schools. It understands its story and characters to an absolute tee, and it’s one of the most quoted (and misquoted) scripts in history. Like It’s a Wonderful Life, Casablanca was ‘just another Hollywood production’ with little expectation warranted at the time of its release. In spite of its three Academy Awards, it’s taken decades for its reputation to grow in stature. It remains at the top of many ‘Best of’ lists, and more importantly, it is easily one of my favourite films.

Cinderella - A Twisted Fairytale

Basically, I've been busy with other writing stuff recently, and so haven't had much time to update this blog, so to keep you good people entertained, I've got a short-story I wrote during my final school year for my English class. The class was tasked with twisting a common, popular fairytale, and this is my end-product. I hope it proves worth reading. I'll try and continue my 'Top 50 Films' list before I leave on holiday again. AS ever, enjoy!

Cinderella left Mawking Manor on July 18^th at precisely 5 o’clock of the pm. Of course, Cinderella wasn’t her real name. It was an affectionate title indebted to her by her close friends. She was granted this nickname due to her profession and personality; cleaner for the wealthy members of society, with big hopes and ambitions for her life. She was a daydreamer, and was frequently punished by her employers because of her tendency to escape into fantasy while on the job.

July 18^th was no different. While in the downstairs bathroom of the empty manor, she gently stroked her duster along the cold marble surfaces, her heart barely in her task. She had an audition for a soap opera the next day. She dreamed of fame; the echoing clicks of paparazzi cameras following her every move; the toy boys, or hopefully dream husband, trailing in her wake as she gracefully strides up the stairs of her very own manor. Maybe even this one. It would be like that movie Sunset Boulevard, which she vaguely remembers seeing when she was younger.

As she was about to leave, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Standing perfectly still, she stared. Her stained tracksuit bottoms, crop-top and apron were not particularly enticing, nor was her mussed hair and fading make-up. She screamed dramatically at the figure before her, and then started giggling. Humming optimistically, she locked the manor’s front door and left for the train station.

She returned to her flat in the city centre. It was Friday night, and she was going clubbing with her girlies. After applying her make-up, clambering into her glass heels, and changing into something less comfortable, she then caught herself in the mirror. ‘You’re drop-dead gorgeous’, she thought to herself. ‘You’re going to find your Prince Charming tonight. I can feel it’. She confidently pouted to herself, then left to meet her friends at the train station.

Suzanna and Megan were already there. They exchanged warped screams of joy at the sight of one another, and hugs made awkward by 7 inch heels.   ‘Hey honeys’,’ she declared enthusiastically, ‘how are you? Where we going tonight?’ ‘Megan’s found this great place that does 2 for 1 voddie shots on a Friday. I thought we could give that a go. I know how you like your voddie shots...’ replied Suzanna. There was an eruption of incessant giggling. ‘Just stop me if I have one too many like last time, girlies.’

In the taxi, their conversation turned to more serious matters. ‘Did you hear that John cheated on Emma?’ ‘No?’ ‘I know!’ ‘I always said that he was a dick. I never even knew he had a girlfriend when I went home with him. Though, in my defence, I was very drunk, and he is soooooo hot.’ ‘Megan, I warned you about him. Jesus, I’m like the godmother to you two. I will admit that he is pretty much fairytale-handsome.’ Megan leaned her head, while giggling, on Suzanna’s shoulder; ‘We love having you as our godmother though.’ Cinderella smiled. She asked ‘what’s this club called anyway?’ ‘The Ball.’

They managed to get in with minimum fuss. It was quite dark, an unnatural blue light acting as the only illumination; glass tables were distributed along the walls of the club, with a large dance-floor at its centre. The night was still young at this point, and the girls decided to pass the time by occupying a table and taking advantage of the Vodka Shots Friday Deal. An hour or two later, when the club was reasonably full, the girls, after putting on their less inverted shoes, took to the dance-floor. The club opted for underground drum-and-bass, rather than chart hits, which suited the girls, and Cinderella in particular, perfectly.

Feeling the rhythm circulate their tendons and muscles, they danced, the regular thump-thumps of the bass composing their decadent impulses. The LED lighting began. The song reached its climax; laughing and screaming with every hedonistic impulse, they gazed into each other’s crazed faces every millisecond the club vanished from light to darkness and back. It was at this moment, at the climax, that Cinderella caught a man staring at her. When the song ended, she laughed characteristically, and drew her hair away from her face. She perceptively noticed that he was still looking. She noticed that it was the ‘fairytale-handsome’ John. He looks especially ‘fairytale-handsome’ tonight, she thought to herself. In a schoolgirl gesture, she drew her finger to her mouth in accompaniment to a sly smirk in a half-intoxicated attempt at seduction. This telepathic flirtation continued for a few minutes until Megan became aware of what was happening. ‘Cindy, no. Please don’t.’ ‘What?’ Suzanna inquired. ‘Cindy and John are having eye-sex.’ ‘Oh for God’s sake, Cindy. Please promise me you won’t get mixed up with that?’ ‘Oh come on, it’s nothing.’ ‘Please, Cindy. You’ll only get hurt.’ ‘Fine, if it makes you feel better, I promise. Okay?’ John glanced at her again, and putting down his pint, licked the foam from his lips slowly, and contemplatively.

Megan and Suzanna ventured to the toilet to reapply their make-up. Cinderella checked her phone, changed into her glass heels, and pretended to be busy as John inevitably sat down, grinning. ‘Alright?’ Cinderella returned the grin, ‘yeah.’ ‘Cool, cool. Do you... wanna dance?’ Every word was uttered with a terrible bluntness masquerading as charm. ‘Sure.’ She took John’s offered hand and, together, they danced. Like peacocks attracting a mate, they showed their colours at a distance, but after a few minutes they crept closer together. She became immersed in his deep brown eyes, and she stroked his chest. She turned away and backed into him, his hands clutching her waist as she lifted her own onto his shoulders behind her. His hands moved over her body, grabbing everything, and she let him do so. He started to kiss her neck; she giggled and playfully drew away. He pulled her back and whispered sweet nothings in her ear; ‘you look well fit’. She smiled and grabbed her prince’s hand, dragging him through the crowded room towards the fire exit. She quickly glanced back to her table in time to see Megan shake her head in disbelief. They exited into the alleyway outside.

John immediately began to kiss her and, grabbing everything he could, gently pushed her against the wall opposite the door. Cinderella wallowed in sheer lust and allowed him. She started to slip her hand into his trousers, and drew him closer. John responded in kind, and slowly climbed her thigh with his hand until it was under her mini-skirt, and hard at work removing the final obstacle. She had descended into illusion, and being so enamoured, had no mind to stop him. His eyes told her that she loved him. He stopped suddenly, and drew back; hideous confusion and bewilderment etched on his face, followed by horrified realisation. ‘The Fuck...the fuck...? You’re one of...oh my god. That’s fucking sick. Get...get the fuck away from me. You...you fucking sick fuck.’ ‘Please.’ He grasped onto his arm as he tried to retreat. ‘Please don’t leave, I’ll do anything to you, I’ll...’ Reality hit Cinderella the same moment that John did. He spat on her collapsed body and, shaking his head and murmuring in shock, left the alleyway. Cinderella coughed up blood, and began to cry. She saw her reflection in one of the tops of the glass tables, which had been left outside. The  drop-dead gorgeous girl pitied her. She screamed as she threw one of her glass heels at that condescending figure, shattering the image. She lay in the alleyway, weeping, as a clock-tower somewhere in the city struck for midnight.

The Dark Knight Rises, but falls below my expectations

There remains nothing left to be said about Heath Ledger's performance in The Dark Knight. His extraordinary portrayal of Batman's most iconic enemy catapulted The Joker into the most esteemed circles of cinematic villainy. His nakedly evil charisma and pragmatism drives the film, which, even in hindsight, remains one of the best Hollywood blockbusters of all-time, the most exciting of its kind since Aliens. Batman Begins, my personal favourite of the trilogy, was unexpectedly political and relevant, almost, if you excuse the slang, 'artsy'. It's highly entertaining, and the most narratively coherent of the three, but it stands as a bold metaphor of the dangers of Capitalism and currency's chokehold on human existence. It's also very moving, exploiting the obvious humanity which makes Batman so much more relatable and appealling than most other Super Heroes. It's one of my favourite films of the Noughties, along with Nolan's second film, Memento. Nolan had a difficult task on his hands to match the quality of these movies with his third, and last, Batman film. Expectations were that he should exceed them; a near-impossible task, especially given the 'Third Part Curse', which seemingly plagues every trilogy save for Toy Story, and maybe Bourne. He fails.

The Dark Knight Rises is extremely disappointing, both as a filmic finale and as a film in its own right.

Nolan uses cheap plotting tricks and twists, and it quickly becomes clear that he ran out of ideas following the first two. The storyline is predictable; if you have even the most limited knowledge of the Batman universe, you should be able to realise what's around the corner. Each twist feels forced, surprising considering Nolan's previous successes with them; the warehouse explosion scene in The Dark Knight, the final reveal in The Prestige, and, basically, the entirety of Memento. The film trundles along confusedly, unsure of what it actually is. The transition between slower moments of (sadly cliched and now overly familiar) profundity concerning self-sacrifice, vigilante-ism and grief, and (the still compelling) action sequences is awkward and jolty, with obviously important scenes being ended abruptly, and edited for the sake of ramming-speed pacing.

The dialogue, although having never been Nolan's strongest suit, is particularly dreadful, hideously contrived and warped to move the story along as quickly as possible. There is no real flow, wit or intrigue in the script, just painful one-liners and boring monologues. The new characters are one-dimensional; Bane, with so much potential, is nothing more than a stereotypical anarchist-communist, who believes chaos is good for the common man, that the rich should be pay for being rich while others are poor, and so on and so forth. Blake, the beat-cop, is too perfect, too shiny. He is the modern, and actual, personification of the Harvey Dent White Knight of Gotham myth, except Nolan chooses this flawless hero trait as the character's sole backstory, rather than manipulating and twisting it like he did in the previous film in the creation of Two Face to symbolise man's natural corruption. Catwoman, although eh... aesthetically pleasing, is completely redundant and pointless in the plot's progression. Marion Cotillard's character cannot be adequately explained without mentioning spoilers, so I'll just say this; it's rubbish.

The film has its highlights; Caine, Bale and Oldman are as excellent as ever, and Tom Hardy, despite the cumbersome dialogue, is fantastic as Bane; his unique posh-Gypsy English accent and sad distant eyes inspires fascination, while his brooding hulk of a figure provokes fear and menace. As mentioned previously, the action scenes are still exciting, although not as clever as before.

The Dark Knight Rises is by no means a terrible movie, it's certainly above average when compared with your generic contemporary action film. It just feels as if it's trying too hard; too hard to be epic, too hard to be funny, too hard to be poetic, too hard to be emotional. It all too often descends into using monotonous, by-the-book narrative pressing, corny sentiments of patriotism/heroism or heavy-handed thematic exposition. In the end it's a confused, muddled mess, with some great set pieces, and some fantastic shots of Anne Hathaway's body parts in a tight, latex costume. At least we'll always have them. The film remains a complete cop-out, pandering to the box-office's unquenchable thirst for all things bigger but not necessarily better. Maybe Nolan made it as he did to appease Warner Brothers. Maybe it's the Batman film the public needed, not the Batman film the public deserved.

Mini Reviews #2

Same format as last time. 3 reviews, all less than, or equal to, 250 words. Enjoy.

The Counterfeiters

German cinema, and to a lesser extent, Spanish cinema, has always been the equivalent of the under-appreciated middle child in European film, with its intelligent, progressive, ambitious siblings, French and Italian cinema, taking most of the plaudits. This is in spite of Deutschland producing some of the most important and brilliant directors in film history, seemingly like clockwork; Fritz Lang, Wim Wenders, everyone’s favourite nutcase, Werner Herzog, and more recently, Olivier Hirschbiegel. I’d go as far as saying that it’s my third favourite country, cinematically at least, behind British and Korean. At the risk of sounding racist, German films are efficiently solid viewing. The Counterfeiters, a war drama about Jews who were recruited into a Nazi counterfeiting (funnily enough) operation tasked with destabilising the British and American economies, continues this trend. While it never quite flirts with the promised land of filmic greatness, it remains a well-acted, powerfully told insight into one of World War Two’s forgotten acts of bravery. There are excellent performances from Karl Markovics and August Diehl as two Jewish prisoners facing suitably difficult moral dilemmas; compromise your beliefs and survive, or martyr yourself as a hero for your cause. Devid Striesow is intriguingly complex as the officer in charge of the operation, sort of like a less charismatic, and chubbier, Oskar Schindler. He is utterly nonchalant about anti-semitism, and is only concerned with his personal success. The noirish, brass-focussed score is effective, and the ending, although predictable, is satisfying. A rewarding and moving, if not awe-inspiring, watch.

Tyrannosaur

Tyrannosaur is Paddy Considine’s (who I’ve met outside the Greggs on Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow by the way. Through the medium of online journalism, it’s as good a situation as any for name-dropping) directorial debut, and to use an English colloquialism, it is an absolute corker.  After giving one of my all-time favourite performances in Dead Man’s Shoes, one of the most disturbing and gut-wrenching films ever made, Considine proves here that he has just as much ability behind the camera as in front of it. His camerawork in portraying working class England is, inevitably, reminiscent of his mentor Shane Meadows, but it works effortlessly in the development of the appropriately depressing setting, and the quality of his writing is perhaps, although not as funny, even better than his aforementioned tutor. Eddie Marsan, is back at his best here, playing, yet again, a creepy, sad, terrifying little man. He plays this role so often that I’m beginning to think he might well be a creepy, sad, terrifying little man... Peter Mullan, a consistently excellent actor and faithful Celtic season-ticket holder, is even better. His heavy Glaswegian accent emphasises his abhorrence, anger and bitterness towards everyone and everything and it is terrifying to behold, yet the warmth he occasionally shows also incites in him a deeply sympathetic character. The highlight however is Olivia Colman. No superlative can adequately describe her. Very probably the best performance by an actress I’ve seen. Just watch her. She is quite literally jaw-dropping. A free hug for whoever spots the Celtic scarf Easter egg.

Ironclad

Ironclad can be summed up very simply and easily. It’s really, really terrible. But it’s also very, very violent. Which, when I assume the adolescent, testosteroney version of myself, (the same badass version who takes criminal delight in driving through red lights in Grand Theft Auto IV, and killing spiders in the house without shedding a single tear out of overwhelming fear which has clearly, obviously never happened before), it actually makes it quite good. Yes, the acting, dialogue and pacing are all completely rubbish, but you don’t watch a film like Ironclad for a Shakespearean-quality character study. You watch it to cry out ‘OOFFTTT’ as a guy is pummelled into 4 feet of mud with his own leg by an ugly, crazed, bearded maniac. You watch it to proclaim ‘EEERRGHHHH’ as a warrior’s decapitated head is used as a small shield by his adversary. You watch it to yell ‘OH GEE WHILLICKERS’ as some randomer is strangled to death with his small intestine, while his friend intervenes by cutting every main artery of the strangler, deflating him like a gore-filled balloon. Maybe. I don’t know, this analogy isn’t going anywhere. Basically, you watch it for gallons of blood being sprayed over the camera lens, and plenty of limbs flying all over the place like they’re unfunny jokes in an episode of The Big Bang Theory. It delivers in the brainless entertainment stakes. If you want anything other than an ultra-violent crapfest, you’ll be sorely disappointed.

See? Quite violent...

Top 10 Albums of the Noughties

Exactly what the name dictates; no ‘best of’ albums, no compilations and no TV or film soundtracks/scores are allowed. 100 words or less on each album. I know, not exactly about film and TV... Now to start.

Honourable Mentions; 

• Turn on the Bright Lights,
• The Glow pt. 2,
• Crystal Castles,
• All Godspeed you Black Emperor albums

10. Broken Social Scene – Broken Social Scene

BSS’s best album may have just missed the cut off having appeared in 2010 (Forgiveness Rock Record), but this is still a stunning piece of work. Drew and Canning’s lyrics are delightfully complex, occasionally dark and profound, but also witty and humourous at times. Perhaps the album which defines their ‘sound’ most; the reverberated guitar and melancholic voices reeks of Sonic Youth, but there is something wonderfully eccentric and inspirational about their music, as opposed to Sonic’s less enthusiastic (to say the least) attitude. Swimmers and Fire Eye’d Boy are personal favourites. Very underrated, both the band, and the album.

9. For Emma, Forever Ago – Bon Iver

A more predictable choice, but really quite an inevitable one. Skinny Love is rightfully hailed as one of the finest love songs of the decade, but Flume and RE: Stacks are equally superb, and, in fact, Lump Sum might just be my favourite of the bunch. The guitar and lyrics are just superb; ‘In my arbour till my ardour trumped every inner inertia,’ is an inspired line. Although not technically a flaw, I did find it quite short and perhaps the album never reaches the dizzying heights of some further up the list, but it’s consistently excellent and thoroughly engaging.

8. Kingdom of Rust – Doves
 

I’ve always found it difficult to label The Doves. Equally alternative, prog-rock and punk, they certainly defy genre. What is definite is their status as one of the most brilliant rock bands of our generation. And this might well be their masterpiece. The epic, yet haunting, title track is an acknowledged classic, as are the likes of Winter Hill and Jetstream. I love The Outsiders though. The rhythm guitar, bass and percussion are sensational, and it’s one of their ‘punkier’ offerings. A band with plenty of variety, and plenty of quality.

7. The XX- The XX

The finest ‘easy listening’ album of the decade. The interplay between the instruments and the voices of Smith and Madley Croft is seamless and perfectly substantiates each other. Every song is relaxing and soothing, but retaining poignancy and originality in the process. They’re hardly vacuous. To describe it as beautifully moving would be a dangerous understatement; the romantic, yet angsty, lyrics, almost exclusively about sex and love, are heartbreakingly honest. Crystallised, Shelter and Islands rightfully have their plaudits, but Stars is their finest song. So very simple, quiet almost, yet so very, very powerful.

6. Funeral – Arcade Fire

Very probably my favourite ever ‘indie’ album. Arcade Fire are the voice of the generation in-between ‘Generation X’ and the Ipad generation; a group of people caught up in the clash of post-modernism and post post-modernism, screaming out in misunderstanding and anger. Win Butler may not be the best singer, but the passionate range of emotions evident in his voice is awe-inspiring. A work stripping the artificial pointlessness of modern society to the core. Wake Up, Rebellion (Lies), Neighbourhood 3 (Power on) and In the Backseat are particularly fantastic. They’re amazing live too.

5. Boxer – The National

The modern masters of alternative rock, they use piano and violins as main instruments, along with the more traditional choices, rather than using them as gimmicks in some half-hearted attempt at originality. Much like Doves, The National can do almost anything. Ranging from the slower, more touching and contemplative tracks (Fake Empire, Start a War) to percussion and guitar heavy anthems (Apartment Story, Squalor Victoria). Boxer is an incredibly clever and varied album. The song, Slow Show, also has my favourite ever lyric; ‘You know I dreamed about you; for 29 years before I saw you.’

4. Kid A – Radiohead

The first of 2 Radiohead albums on the list. (it was inevitable) Kid A was the album in which Radiohead showed that their mind-blowing genius was not limited to rock. They dabbled in electronica, and it paid off. Extremely original at the time, it still had the unique ‘Head feel, best displayed in their outstandingly odd lyrics. The National Anthem is possibly the most badass song ever written, Idioteque, the most disturbing, and Motion Picture Soundtrack, the most heartbreaking. Radiohead are commonly criticised as being pretentious. You are only pretentious when you don’t match your own hype. Radiohead exceed it.

3. Ghosts of the Great Highway – Sun Kil Moon

I’m going to go out on a limb here; Mark Kozalek’s ambitious project, Sun Kil Moon, is the most underappreciated band since The Smashing Pumpkins, maybe of all-time. He is certainly the best folk singer-songwriter I’ve heard and this is his best album. The weird thing is; neither his lyrics, nor his music, are all that ground-breaking. They do, however, work perfectly.  Every song is just so atmospheric, dark and intense, yet also extremely thought-provoking, and somehow, even beautiful. Carry me Ohio is one of my favourite songs, and Gentle Moon nearly had me in tears. Masterpiece.

2. ...Is a Real Boy – Say Anything

I’m not a fan of grunge/college rock. I hate bands like Blink 182, Green Day and Sum 41. Say Anything are different though. There is a wonderfully angsty, hate-filled quality to them, as if they despise everything ever other grunge band pretends to stand for. Not as much as they hate hipsters though; one must listen to Admit it! to fully realise this. Incredible song. Max Bemis is my favourite lyricist. I can’t even articulate why, just listen to the words he aggressively spews into the microphone, then you’ll understand. Also, Alive with the Glory of Love.

1. In Rainbows – Radiohead

All 10 individual songs are great in their own right, but together, as a single piece of work, it’s staggeringly good. Bodysnatchers has the best transition I’ve heard in any song, is just brilliantly insane anyways, and All I Need is maybe Radiohead’s greatest love song. Videotape is the best song ever written about death and the afterlife, while Jigsaw Falling into Place is also excellent. The highlight, however, is Reckoner. The best song I’ve ever heard; it’s ridiculously ambitious, yet completely flawless. The guitar and percussion defy hyperbole. Genius. No other term can suitably describe it.

Talent Shows: Why they don’t even warrant a witty, ironic article title.

As you are probably aware, I love to hate things. I especially love to express why I hate them. As you are also probably aware of, the easiest thing to hate currently, is reality TV, and more specifically, ‘talent shows.’ These two concepts collide in this article, in one incoherent, incomprehensive, unstructured, potentially offensive rant. You should have seen this coming...

There appears to have emerged a pattern in the Devlin household over recent weeks. Every Saturday night, the family settles in front of the television with dinner to watch The Voice; providing sustenance to our bodily functions while watching literal crap which makes us want to immediately return our in-the-process-of-being-digested food to our plates in the quickest and most unsatisfying way possible; hereby, defining ‘multitasking’. This is not the only recurrence. After roughly ten minutes into the crapfest each week, I am exiled from the living room. My crime; making one too many cynically snide remarks about everyone and everything in relation with reality television. My punishment; being forced to do something useful/fun.

First off, it’s worth pointing out that reality TV, in fact, does not exist. It is an advert; an illusion cast over the TV-watching populace by the types of big-shot TV network executives who light their Cuban cigars with burning £50 notes while guffawing and shaking hands with each other over a manipulation job well done. It cannot exist. Yes, the people you see on your telly screen do actually exist and, yes, perhaps what occurs in ‘real-time’ might not be scripted, but it is still not reality. This is because of the editing process. In editing, the producers can use and change a variety of camera angles and shots, musical cues, snippets of interviews here and there, sound effects etc, all of which influence your opinion of the person or situation. Would that specific person’s story be less touching if Sigur Ros’ Hoppipolla wasn’t playing in the background? You think what the producers want you to think. There is no personal input. Reality TV should consist of infinite possibility, only limited by the scope and imagination of the viewer. The reality (lol) is that reality TV is a linear road, along which everyone must travel in the exact same way. There is also the factor that the people on our screens may be lies, a character portrayed to gain our approval and affection, with their true face deeply hidden behind a likable exterior.  Reality TV is an impossibility.

Now to the morality of the thing. One of the things I most despise about being alive in general, is when people say to me that something is their ‘guilty pleasure.’ I really hate this. Either accept it as a pleasure, as something you enjoy. Don’t feel guilty about enjoying yourself, unless it’s something harmful, then instead of enjoying yourself while doing it and adding a few headaches of guilt along the way, don’t do it. It’s actually really, really simple. It’s as black and white as that. One of the most common ‘guilty pleasures’ is watching reality TV shows. The term ‘guilty pleasure’ seems to act as some form of justification for watching it; they’re basically saying ‘I know it’s malicious, stupid, mind-numbing, scripted, superficial, shallow, obsessed with humanity’s flaws, and money-grabbing, but it’s okay because it’s kinda’ entertaining, in a brainless way.’ That’s another term associated with reality TV which infuriates me; ‘brainless entertainment.’ Understandably, I have no quarrel with the first word, it’s the second I dispute and for which I provide an antithesis. Have we really descended, as a species, to the point where we find hopelessly deluded, yet innocent, social exclusions coming onto our screens to simultaneously be humiliated in front of millions of people while having their only dream, their only solace in their lives, snatched away from them, spat on, thrown to the ground, stamped on, and laughed at by the British populace, entertaining? Do we really want to watch some arrogant ‘LAD’ take off his shirt and molest an audience of thousands with his repulsively disillusioned sexuality? And then vote for him so he can do the exact same thing next week?  Do we really want to encourage people that these judges are actually important and interesting individuals? After all, there are only ever 3 types of judge on talent shows; The Good, Quiet, Relatable Man, The Cocky, Boring Man Who Never Smiles, and lastly, The Woman Who Slept Around A Lot And Got Lucky By Getting A Record Deal And Not A Fatal STD. The entire thing disgusts me. These producers are parading humanity at its worst on our television screens, proclaiming it to be entertainment, and we just lap it up.

Perhaps reality TV’s biggest crime, is convincing us that it actually matters; that we should care about the show and the people on it. One just needs to glance at one of the tabloid rags to see that some detestable fool with the IQ of a shoebox getting kicked off ‘Pleaz Let Me Sing Out Loud And Really Loudly Pleaz, Coz my Third Unkle Died 9 Years Ago’ taking page 1, while news about further massacres in Syria takes page 7. I don’t care if your dream is to sing. My dream is to have a special metabolism which means I can eat all the Mini Cheddars I want, and never have to care about imploding. It’s not going to happen. I’ve come to terms with that. (At least after a rather extended mourning period) Your dream probably isn’t even to sing. It’s most likely to have lots of money, sex and drugs, and singing seems the way to achieve this goal with the minimum requirement of effort needed. God, I hate you hypothetical contestant.

Depressing as it might seem, maybe this isn’t the worst of humanity. Ladies and gentlemen, I bid you welcome to post post-modern humanity. John Sullivan posits; ‘Are we so raw? It must be so. There are simply too many of them-too many shows and too many people on the shows-for them not to be revealing something endemic. This is us, a people of savage sentimentality, weeping and lifting weights.’

Yaaaaaaayyyyyy...

The future looks bright.

 This is a good example. I always feel so sorry for these people.

Kieran's 50 Favourite Films; No. 48

48. It's a Wonderful Life

My 48^th favourite film begins a series of more predictable choices on my list. It’s a Wonderful Life is revered by many as their favourite film of all-time, and it’s not difficult to understand why. It remains, arguably, the most iconic ‘feel-good film’; a celebration of friends, family, faith and, generally, life. Essentially a parable about the victory of Bailey over Potter, spirituality over superficiality, life over death, of good over evil, it is a monument to the spiritual reward of selflessness and patient perseverance, over materialistic and consumerist values. George Bailey, played by the legendary Jimmy Stewart, has had to deal with consistent failures and disappoints; he couldn’t travel the world, he couldn’t go to college, losing his firm’s entire savings, but his never-failing faith in humanity, even when he loses faith in himself he never loses it in us, inspires us, the viewers, to be better people. This is genuine inspiration, not some cheap sob-story. One of the modern criticisms levelled at It’s a Wonderful Life is that it encourages the traditionalist doctrines of the ‘American small-town lifestyle’, and that it offers nothing but brain-washing sentimentality, perhaps not helped by Frank Capra, the director, being renowned, and by some, resented, for his own, perhaps deluded, optimism over man’s qualities. I offer an antithesis; ‘there's never anything easy about making a film where the central character is seriously considering suicide... "It's a Wonderful Life" achieves a fine balancing act between pathos and feel-good that is delivered by an outstanding cast.’[1] The morals of Capra’s classic are traditionalist and old-fashioned, yes, but they are also extremely modern; they are absolutely timeless. In a world concerned with the next Ipad app entitled ‘YOLO’, it is never irrelevant to remind ourselves of the important things in life, such as, for example, actually living. Funny, entertaining, poignant and so, so moving, It’s a Wonderful Life is the charismatic old angel here to remind a modern cinema obsessed with exploiting our temptations and flaws, that man is inherently good.

'Woah. My handshh are huge Mary.'

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[1] http://www.bbc.co.uk/films/2000/12/12/its_a_wonderful_life_1946_review.shtml

Kieran's 50 Favourite Films; No. 49

49. The Long Good Friday

Get Carter has been referred to as the British version of The Godfather, and Layer Cake, the British Goodfellas. If these comparisons hold up, then I believe that The Long Good Friday is the British Once Upon a Time in America; often forgotten about, but superior to the rest of its gangster-movie associates. As with the best films, it’s difficult to articulate why exactly I love Long Good Friday so. For starters, the performances are sensational, and in some cases, really quite powerful. Bob Hoskins’ descent into a poisonous mixture of grief, regret and anger is one of the most chilling transformations in cinema, and Helen Mirren’s decline from the beautiful and charming trophy-wife into someone so shell-shocked and anxiety-ridden matches him. The soundtrack, too, is absolutely incredible, and is instrumental in the build up in tension and atmosphere which proves to be oh so important in the film making such a profound impact on the viewer. 

In all probability, my obsession with this film lies in its pacing. The film moves very, very quickly, with numerous scenes of shocking and unexpectedly brutal violence, and while confusing initially, it becomes clear that this was the intention. We discover what happens at the same time as Bob Hoskins’ gangster overlord, creating a far more relatable character in what is, essentially, an unempathetic scumbag. The sheer scale and circumstance is perhaps best hinted by the title. The film (mostly) takes place over a single day. This day, as suggested, by the title, is Good Friday, a day, of course, associated with the death of Jesus Christ. Hoskins believes himself to be untouchable; 'who would dare attack me!?' But if someone as powerful as Jesus can be defeated, anyone can, after all, he is only human. The choice of this day in particular is but one of the many uses of examples of black humour used by director John McKenzie throughout. Just as Jesus dies and has his fall, Hoskins will have his own; his decline, and he has no choice but to suffer as a witness to the collapse of his gangland empire around him, suffocating his pride. I don’t see it as a Christian message, but more of a simple, moral one. The veil of Hoskins’ hypothetical temple had been rent in two, from top to bottom. Hoskins has enjoyed his immoral hedonism, and the ending, possibly the most perfect ending in cinematic history, symbolises him receiving his overdue justice, in the most delightfully cruel fashion. And it is stunning. One of the few films which justify the term ‘masterpiece.’

Kieran's 50 Favourite Films; No. 50

Due to the existence, and necessity, of exams, I’m afraid I don’t have much time to quench the word lust of my readers. To atone for the SQA’s wrongdoings, I’ve decided to make up for this by posting a paragraph or two dedicated to each of my favourite 50 films, counting downwards, at least until my exams are over, by then my infantile attention span might drag me to pastures new. But don’t worry, those pastures will be as smugly sarcastic and narcissistically hate-spewing as ever. I’ll probably post one every other day, so keep a look out. Okay, are you ready? We’re off...

50. Raiders of the Lost Ark

Spielberg’s 2^nd greatest filmic achievement, (I say filmic, he might consider being a father his greatest achievement. Well, the man does enjoy his corniness) it’s very probably the best adventure film ever made. The adventure ‘genre’ is actually very particular, contrary to popular belief. The three components of this ‘genre’ consist of two major genres, and one sub-genre in their own right; comedy, action and romance. Other examples of this delicately defined field range from The Mummy to Pirates of the Caribbean. Raiders succeeds, where many others fail, because it absolutely nails each individual component, and they flow and interact seamlessly with one another. The comedy is light-hearted and genuinely funny, the action frequent and exciting, but never intrusive, and the romance unashamedly old-fashioned, (maybe a bit sexist, though) taking the form of the classic ‘reluctant damsel-in-distress eventually falls for Mr. Charismatic Sarcasm’. It has heroes and villains, romantic interests and comic relief characters, all staples of adventure. There are so many great scenes, which are now eternally branded onto the pop culture cattle; the rolling boulder, the fist fight at the aeroplane, the scene where he shoots crazy-sword-Arab-man, and, of course, that retreating shot of the Ark’s final home...

Here's Indy doing the Haka to impress a statue head.

I could go on and on about how innovative the special effects where, or how perfectly atmospheric John Williams’ score was, or how superb the pacing and characterisation was. Instead, I’ll lastly point out that Raiders is the pinnacle of escapism in film. We watch films for a variety of reasons; entertainment, education, attractive actresses in inappropriate clothing, but they are all a product of escapism; the idea that we can leave the drudgery of our own lives behind, and embrace another world; an immersive experience. Spielberg achieves the finest example of escapism with Raiders, in its purest, most unspoilt form. A blockbuster masterpiece. I leave you with the words of the greatest film critic of all time, Roger Ebert. He writes ‘It’s actually more than a movie; it’s a catalogue of adventure... it wants only to entertain. It succeeds.’[1]

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[1] http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/19810101/REVIEWS/101010360/1023

St. Aloysius' College: A Review

Well, this week I’ve decided to do something a little different (I did say that I’d post about other stuff aside from TV and film, so, unfortunately, you have no legal case against me. Ha). I shall be reviewing my experience at St. Aloysius’ College. Otherwise known as; my school. Prepare for sentimentality...

I’ve decided to take a break from following, in my writings, such mainstream areas of criticism as film, TV, music and literature. All modern criticism seems to focus upon imaginative creations; fiction, conjured up by someone’s grey matter, with only the ambition to conjure separating them from any other person’s grey matter. The afore-mentioned sections of criticism covers this, and it includes theatre and opera, and even food criticism. This is what makes humanity uniquely wonderful; our potential to imagine, and to dream. And criticising these imaginative creations is what makes humanity hilariously sadistic. It’s just so much damn fun. However, this immensely restrictive idea that it is only suitable to review fantasy, to review dreams, is practically medieval. With contemporary society having access to, essentially, every experience man has encountered previously with the press of a button, why can’t we review reality? It’s already started to take hold. People have been, for a few years now, reviewing hotels, holidays, plane and train journeys, and even, through the most malicious of websites, Spillit, each other. Reviewing my school is not odd.

After 15 years as one of its pupils, I enter my final weeks at St. Aloysius’ College, and I find myself overwhelmed by heart-breaking nostalgia. After taking part in a photo with the remaining members of the Kindergarden class of ’99, along with the early departure from the school of a friend who I have known for 13 years, the realisation has finally hit me that my entire life is about to change. No longer will I wake up at half 6 on Monday morning, depressed at the prospect of yet another school week, before putting on that iconic green blazer and being driven into a dreary, smog-drenched Glasgow city centre. No more will I walk the RE Corridor to hear dialogue from Mean Girls blaring out of the classrooms unabashedly. For the last time I will barge into my English teacher’s room first thing to rant and rave about the football at the weekend. Never again will I write AMDG in the upper-left corner of my jotter. My childhood is over; my school days are slowly washing away to the confines of memory, forever.

St. Aloysius’ College has been the very definition of a home away from home for me. When I was sad, after a family tragedy for instance, the school, and more importantly, my friends, consoled me. When I was ambitious, the school made sure that I aspired to them with the best of my abilities. When I was hungry, the school fed me. With ridiculously over-priced food, but that doesn’t matter.

As an institution, St. Als is one of the best schools in the country, but the quality and consistency of its exam results is not what makes it so special. In order to find out just what differentiates St. Als from the rest, I’ve had to ask friends and acquaintances on their personal opinions of the school, as I, personally, have never been a pupil somewhere else. Their contentions confirmed my suspicions. They, and I, believe that St. Als is not so much a school, as it is a community.

As a Catholic Private School in Glasgow, we already have quite a distinct identity, one which is frequently, and unfairly, held under a negative light by many. Perhaps it’s an example of self-involved first-world problems, but I deem it unnecessarily cruel to be called a ‘posh, fenian w****r’ in Sauchiehall Street. I have seen first years physically threatened by random passers-by, purely because they are wearing that green blazer. Newspapers constantly single out St. Als when writing opinion articles about the negatives of private schools, as opposed to any of the other numerous ones which operate in the city, with one journalist even labelling our pupils ‘posh Sebastians and Julias’, showing, in the process, the grace and journalistic integrity of a doorknob. St. Als is, according to the West of Scotland media, an indirect link to both poverty and sectarianism, and that we have an evil, complex plan to brain-wash children into Catholicism, (which, in actuality, is what my aunt genuinely believes happens). Our school attracts an almost ludicrous amount of resentment.

This is a fundamental factor behind the community spirit of the school. The term ‘whatever doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger’ is, although sometimes untrue, apt in this situation, regarding the school. As we are bombarded on all sides by hate and misunderstanding, it drives us closer together. Our identity defines us.

Beyond negativity, it is the completely open-minded attitude of the school and its ethics which is the single most important foundation in the community spirit. Regardless of race, religion or creed, you are just as welcome as everyone else.  The bursaries programme ensures that, if you are intelligent enough, you can join the school, no matter the financial situation. The pupils embody the Jesuit spirit through their attitude of helping the less fortunate than ourselves, with the almost peerlessly diverse range of charities and organisations. As one of my teachers says, it is what you learn about yourself and life in general which is the imperative, not the exam results. The teachers are (mostly) interested in helping you achieve your best, and enjoy yourself while doing it, and I hope to keep in contact with many of them after I leave. The school exerts itself to always maintain a friendly and welcoming atmosphere. Our ideals define us.

Lastly, the community nature is enhanced through the retreat programmes, especially the Kairos retreat. It is a soulful, eye-opening, and for some people, even life changing (as difficult as it may be to believe) experience. Kairos attempts to reinforce your faith, as well as your respect for yourself, and your friends and family. Even though I didn’t feel as though it immediately changed my life, it has certainly had a lasting impact upon me. On these retreats, you bond with people you’ve never spoken to before in ways best friends never do. By the time you reach 6^th year, all concepts of ‘cliques’ or exclusive social groups are non-existent; it is an inherently friendly relationship between everyone in the year. Our relationships define us.

Beyond the community feel of the school, St Als has had an incredibly personal effect on me. Here’s where it gets really sentimental. When I first came to senior school, I was incredibly shy and unconfident, nearly self-loathing. For many years, I retreated into fantasy via images on screen, words in books, or my own imagination. I have always been, and still am, a ‘loner’, or someone who prefers their own company much of the time, but back then my choice was more of complete isolation than simply just being by myself. I was also doing poorly in school. In hindsight, I must have been worrying those who cared about me. With no disrespect to my parents, who had just as big a part to play in my development, and to a certain extent, myself, St Als was one of my biggest helps to escape this. The teachers instilled the belief in me that I could do better in my studies, the retreats and numerous events, as well as the school’s focus on socialising, helped me realise the positive effect others had on me. The school’s morals encouraged me to be a better person and showed me that I had the potential to be live up to that person I aspired to be. I slowly left my own personal dream world and accepted reality, and myself. My appreciation for it helping me become the person I am today (I apologise for the arrogance) cannot be evoked through words. St Als moulded me.

If this entire article sounds overly soppy and sentimental, then that’s because it is. If it sounds unashamedly propagandist for the school’s sake, then that’s because it is. If it sounds like a personal eulogy to my past as a pupil at St Als, then that’s because it is. None of this masks the fact that everything I have written is completely true. I simply cannot thank the school enough. Despite its traditionalist doctrines (long skirts? How dare they!) St Als remains one of the most modern schools in its adoption of a welcoming and down-to-earth community spirit. Entire families are brought together through attending the school, generation by generation.  I know I will remain an Aloysian long after I leave the school, although, you never quite leave St Als, at least not in spirit (HA! There’s your cheesiness!) I will come back to see the old place again, and again; I’ve been institutionalised, just like so many others; Mr. Divers, Mr. Renton, and of course, one of the most consistent people in my life, Bertie Banyard, and I'm sure many of my current peers feel the same. Just as my grandfather went to St Als, I hope my children go, and my grand-children. It is a community. It is a family. I felt safe, well-looked after, and above all else, happy. My future uni days have a lot to live up to...

Teenage American Problems. On the Telly.

The Easter holidays gave me time to reflect; time to socialise; time to pursue my ambitions and study. Instead, I watched small-budget American teenage dramadies I stumbled across on TV Choice with one eye, with the other focussed on a Maths past-paper question I had started 2 and a half hours earlier. I regret nothing.

The first series I watched was Glory Daze, a love-letter to the American student-in-college lifestyle of partying hard and working not so hard, and an even more poetic letter to American ‘Fraternities’. Set in the eighties, all the cheesy rock anthems are present; ludicrous shenanigans and pranks are carried out on those dastardly Republicans from Theta-somethingorother house; alcohol is consumed via red plastic cups. It’s not entirely dissimilar from a sketch performed by a famous Glaswegian comedian, a sketch mind you, which has been referenced so excessively, that any possible crumb of humour which remained has been crumpled into nothingness, accompanied by a self-satisfied guffaw. Anyways, four newly arrived freshmen; The Decent Leader And Protaganist, The Awkward Jewish Comic Relief, The Quirky Jock, and the Conservative Rich Kid, find themselves rejected from every ‘fraternity’, sort of the equivalent of the British ‘College’ system, except for the house that has only one rule; PAARTAAYYYYY!!! Totally, wicked, crazy antics ensue. Glory Daze should be the type of programme that I hate; it’s contrived, clichéd, embarrassingly corny and wholly unoriginal.

But I liked it.

The prize of eternal friendship to whoever can name me the characters from this photo alone.

In the forced humour, wit seeps through the cracks. The characters may be simplistic, but they are all very likable and you hold genuine affection for them by the end of the series. My personal favourites are The Oracle, a 32 year-old stoner who illegally remains in the ‘fraternity’ house; his drug-induced philosophical and theological rantings are easily the highlights of the show, and Reno, the laid-back, insanely charismatic (unofficial) leader of the ‘fraternity’, who approaches every challenge life presents with a casual witticism, and the offering of a beer. The 80’s soundtrack is great, and the inevitable romance which blossoms between the protagonist and his (already involved) love interest is surprisingly intelligent, both in its development and its conclusion. In fact, despite the clichéd storylines and (the majority of the) jokes, it’s actually quite a smart show. Contemporary themes such as the repression of hip-hop in the music business are represented. I never said they were socially important themes, mind, but they do, technically, still count. They do, honestly. Its unapologetic love of hedonism is infectious, and I am unashamed to say that I fell for its wily charms. Very entertaining.

What wasn’t entertaining was Awkward. I really hated this TV show. It’s basically a less funny Mean Girls/Clueless/Easy A, without the self-awareness which made those teen-movie classics so enjoyable. Jenna Hamilton, played by Ashley Rickards, who looks like a more attractive Ellen Page, is a strong contender for the most (unintentionally) dislikeable protagonist in any form of fiction. Teenagers are, by their very nature, generally self-involved people; we’ve all experienced this in some form, however, Jenna’s overwhelmingly selfish and deluded outlook blows all these conceptions out of the water. We teenagers all, at one stage or another, experience the search for our ‘self-being’, to solve the mystery of our individuality. Jenna goes one step further, beyond the journey for her identity; she strives for attention. She repeatedly narrates that she’s ‘invisible’, and that she just wants people to ‘notice her.’ In fact, it seems to me that that’s all she talks about. The opening scene involves her losing her virginity with one of the down-with-it, cool kids in the school. He looks at her, hereby showing her the sexual attention she desperately craves, nods in the direction of an empty storage cupboard, and they go off and have sex. That’s it. No character backstory or anything. We’re supposed to immediately sympathise with people as hopelessly shallow as that? That sets the rest of the tone for the series. Easy A and Clueless succeeded because they dealt with the topical issue of ‘first-world teenage problems’ with honesty, while having the tongue firmly in cheek. Awkward takes its self far too seriously, when it really has no right to do so. It just isn’t fun.

Don't roll your eyes at me or I'll break your other arm, you self-absorbed, nihilistic fart-weasel.

Anyways, back to hating Jenna. This self-absorbed, superficial persona does not develop into anything remotely likable as the series drags on. Even when she has the two popular boys in the school lusting after her, which initially seemed to be everything she aspired to have in life, (The Twilight effect of female characters’ sole ambition as being someone’s boyfriend appears to be more widespread than earlier thought) she still isn’t happy. It’s get to the point where I just don’t care. In fact, I’ve written her a letter;

Dear Jenna,

I don’t care, okay? I don’t care that nobody gives you attention that you probably don’t warrant. I don’t care that you have to choose between two guys, who are so stereotypically ‘teenagery’ that they are literally hormones who have assumed human form, and who desire you so extensively that you can physically see their pupils dilate as they stare at you, reeking of testosterone and adolescent angstiness. More importantly, I don’t care that you are embarrassed by walking about with a broken arm. That’s just stupid. If I wanted to listen to a teenage girl complain about stuff I didn’t care about for half-an-hour, I’d go and ask my sister to list every thing/person/situation which annoyed her. But that’d be sanity-suicide, so I don’t. Please, please, please, get over yourself, and just be happy? You’re witty, clever and attractive. It isn’t difficult to be happy with your life. Try it sometime.

Yours sincerely,

Everyone, everywhere

There, that should do the trick. Oh no wait, it wouldn’t, because every other character is just as infuriatingly self-obsessed. I’ve mentioned the arrogant romantic (I use the term purely out of triple irony, being oh so very superior and clever) interests, but Awkward also bears host to countless self-consciously quirky characters; you know the type, they say gibberish like ‘I feel like a meercat on a scooter after last night,’ and it feels as if they’re grabbing you aggressively by the shoulders and screaming in your ear ‘omg, I’m so random! LOL AT ME!,’ forcing you to break down into tears of terror, confusion and bitter hatred. You’ll wake up screaming and naked in six years time, as the image of bright pink beanie hats comes back to haunt you in a flashback which had seeped out of the darkness of receded memory.

This is your life if you watch Awkward. You’ve been well warned.