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Tuesday 24th August 2004

Bicycle Clip Time

As sometimes may be evident from the rolling list of films to the right, I often enjoy sitting down to watch the odd 'Horror' film, but the reason I haven't rambled on about this vast genre of film before is that I find it's difficult to accurately analyse it, define the various sub-categories within it, and single out the films within the genre that find me squirming in fear, where, in addition to the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, those on my face start prickling and a genuine chill runs through me.

A recent, a slightly peculiar study at King's College London seems a good place to start. It uses a mathematical formula to decide that The Shining is the perfect scary movie. The formula concentrates on three main areas: suspense, realism and gore. Although I think The Shining is a brilliantly creepy film, the inadequacy of those three 'key' elements highlights the fact that the genre of Horror gathers together three or four fairly diverse classes of film, meaning that unsettling and frightening films like Rosemary's Baby or The Wicker Man sit in the Horror section of Blockbuster next to vaguely boring novelty films like The Sixth Sense (or would if Blockbuster bothered to stock any films over 5 minutes old).

As far as I can make out there are four loose sub-categories of Horror film - please forgive the slightly random titles for them, as well as the extremely trivial and self-indulgent exercise of describing them.

1. Spooky: These are films which usually involve a supernatural element, and generally terrify through more subtle means than other types of Horror. Fleeting glimpses of things that should remain unseen and discomforting noises provide the fear, rather than gallons of blood/brains/blood and brains. The Shining is in this class. While a complete nutbar chasing his screaming wife and son around a maze with an axe isn't exactly subtle, and the tidal wave of blood that crashes out of the lift contradicts my definition of this type of film, the majority of The Shining, with its oppressive atmosphere of impending disaster, the child's rasping 'Redrum' and the various unexpected beings rattling around in the hotel, sits quite neatly in this sub-category.

A special mention has to go to the BBC's early '90s stab at this genre - the television play Ghostwatch, which scared the hell out of me at the time, provoked a rash of viewer complaints, prompted one suicide and has never been repeated.

2. Terror: It could be argued that this is a catch-all class, but I think it includes those films that, while not being Slasher or Shocker films are too explicit to be merely Spooky. I think most Zombie films, from Night of the Living Dead to 28 Days Later can be included here, as well as most films featuring odd homocidal creatures, such as Aliens (but not Alien, more of a Spooky film) along with the Hammer House of Horror productions and their like. I also think the more gruesome Horror films, often referred to as 'exploitation' films belong here, such as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Last House on the Left and Cannibal Holocaust - the last of these meriting a name check because it retains the title of The Most Disturbing Film I Have Ever Seen.

3. Slasher: Clearly, the slightly dodgy Jason, Freddie, and Halloween films and all their inferior imitators.

4. Shocker: The twattish little brother of Slasher films, these seem to trade on no more than simply shocking the audience - Final Destination, I Know What You Did Last Summer and so on.

So, after pompously defining the Horror genre, here's a list of, in my opinion, the best Horror films around. They seem to come from the Spooky or Terror categories, which I suppose are the ones I find the most 'shit-yer-pants-scary'. In no particular order:

1. Don't Look Now: Set mostly in gloomy decaying Venice, this film creates a constant understated menace that bubbles under the suface for much of the time and only manifests itself visually at the startling climax. Brilliantly subtle Horror film, with the added bonus of wondering whether Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie really did have sex.

2. The Ju-On films: I've only seen two of these (out of four) but I choose them rather than any of the other dazzlingly terrifying Japanese films because they seem to bring together all the elements of, for example, Ringu and Dark Water, and unremittingly assault the viewer with the result - a steady succession of eldritch images and deeply unnerving sound effects.

3. The Others: Although not as immediately scary as many other films, and despite its slightly gimmicky twist, the brooding mansion enveloped by perpetual fog, the constant unease and tension within that mansion and the vaguely threatening unseen presences make this an accomplished and stylish Horror film.

4. The Eye: Another one from the far east, this time Hong Kong. A blind woman gets a corneal transplant and as a result can see for almost the first time in her life - but naturally she can make out certain things other people, with their home-grown organs, can't. It's enough to make me think that, even if I was close to death on an operating table and the surgeon was about to perform a life-saving transplant operation, I would insist on seeing evidence that my new body part hadn't once belonged to a feared village outcast, or been dug up in a Native American burial ground, before I consented to the procedure.

5. The Omen: A big budget '70s studio film - and an effortlessly effective Horror film. I once knew someone who watched this when he was 13, and went to bed afterwards, almost paralysed with fear. Waking from a nightmare a few hours later he scrambled out of his bedroom into the long corridor outside, and saw the disembodied head of the impaled priest come floating towards him, prompting him to run screaming around the house. No, it wasn't me - I'd have just thought it was Dr. Who.

52 - posted at 17:06:56
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Thursday 12th August 2004

Post-it Note

A quick one to register that Dave's blog is finally up and running again. Well worth a click for an account of (for example) life in the Scottish film industry and how to deal with the odd charmless fuck one comes across while living that life.

Bye for now...



51 - posted at 16:28:18
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Tuesday 3rd August 2004

First off, I notice that Paul McCartney has devised a new cartoon character, described as a 'cheeky Scouse nut-muncher'. I'm not really sure what else to say, but I thought it needed highlighting.

Secondly, and completely unrelated, there's been a bit of grumbling and indignation as the Home Office continues its thankless task of overhauling charity law. For years private schools and hospitals have enjoyed tax benefits and other perks that charitable status confers, with an article in today's Guardian suggesting that private schools pull in about £100m a year from subsidies as a result of their charitable status. The idea that these places receive such perks is an emotive subject, because no-one likes private hospitals and no-one likes fee-paying schools - at least no-one in the vast swathe of the public that has never and will never enjoy the benefit of instant health treatment on presentation of a fat cheque or of languishing by the boundary with a glass of Pimm's in the company of Bumfluff, Badger, Titch and Strangely-Brown.

And this is what it all comes down to - public benefit. To qualify as a charity the organisation in question has to carry out one of a list of legally defined charitable purposes. Currently, the advancement of education and learning generally is an established charitable purpose, even in the absence of any element of poverty in the class of beneficiaries. But this isn't quite enough - within the advancement of education there must also be a public benefit. Although some might wonder how learning to sing in Latin and throwing up all over small Cornish villages benefits the public, in relation to private schools such a benefit has always been assumed without question. Despite hopes that the reforms would force the institutions to specifically set out the public benefit they served in order to maintain their status, or start benefiting the public in some way, the Home Office's draft bill has instead shied away from the issue. It doesn't even include a definition of 'public benefit', leaving the status of the schools (and hospitals) unchecked. If the bill was passed into law in its current form, the courts would end up having to define public benefit. And somehow, given the make-up of the judiciary (despite its gradual reform) I don't think such a definition would give Eton, Harrow or Hogwarts much to worry about.

Of course private schools (and in that term I include public schools) should account for their charitable status - by failing to address the issue the Government has shown again the lack of courage that has come to define it over the past couple of years.

When the fee-paying school I went to started up, its foundation documents stated that the place was to provide a school for 'forty poor scholars' and a hospital for 'eighty poor men'. The reality behind this was debatable then, and is certainly a load of old bollocks now. So, in the interests of giving something back to the institution that contributed to five long years of my life, in case it should need any help when (with any luck) the bill gets amended and the school has to justify its status, here are a few of the public benefits that private schools provide:

1. Endless tabloid fodder. Over the last few years my venerable seat of learning has provided the red tops with a whore-mongering headmaster, a Mr Gay UK contestant/ French teacher, a transsexual maths teacher and an English teacher who forged his GSCE students' coursework marks. And yes, he taught me English GCSE.

2. Hollywood villains. While it is often remarked upon that Hollywood villains are frequently English, it should be also be noted that they invariably speak with a distinctive English public school accent - for example, Saruman in The Lord of the Rings, the Sheriff of Nottingham in Robin Hood, Alec Trevelyan in GoldenEye and the Emperor in the Star Wars films. This is also true for the most evil villains in Hollyoaks.

3. The release into the world of a whole class of young men adept at taking a hot crumpet from behind.

4. Honking.

5. The provision of material for uninspired writers of blogs.

Inappropriate as it may be that these institutions can enjoy charitable status without justifying themselves, I can't help feeling that picking on them is a populist move, which helps protect other questionable charities. As I've mentioned, the majority of the public don't really like private schools and hospitals - but ultimately they do very little harm as opposed to religion. Yet, another charitable purpose is the advancement of religion. While recognising the good work done by the admirable and non-discriminatory actions of some religious groups, I can't help but wonder, when I look at the law, why the advancement of religion should be rewarded in such a way, especially when looking at the wording used. The common law reads as follows:

...to advance religion means to promote it, spread its message ever wider among mankind, to take some positive steps to sustain and increase religious belief.

And in the most sinister wording, advancement of religion should involve a 'programme for the persuasion of unbelievers'. The unrelenting divisiveness of religion and the disproportionately influential role it continues to play in this country suggest to me that this area should also be the subject of scrutiny when reviewing charity law. But if the Government can't even bring themselves to adequately address private schools and hospitals there's not a chance of it addressing the even more anachronistic beneficiaries of charitable status.

50 - posted at 15:29:26
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Wednesday 30th June 2004

Muddy Funsters: Edited Notes from Glastonbury 2004

All times are approximate...

Wednesday

6pm My clock-watching has become offensively obvious. Hoisting the hamper packed with quails' eggs and roast swan onto my back, I slip unnoticed from the office. (An aside: has Glastonbury really changed that much? This is an article from 18 years ago.)

6.55pm Paddington. The 'special service' train to Castle Cary I'm planning to catch is so special that it has had to be cancelled. I manage to catch up with another one at Reading.

9.30pm Bit of a queue to get through the fuckoffsuperfence. An over-enthusiastic jobsworth rifles through every last pocket in my rucksack. You're not getting my shoes off mate.

'Do you have anything in there you're not supposed to have?'
'No' I say.
'You know what I mean?'
'Yes.' This is getting tedious.
'Well, if you do it's much better I find it than the lads inside. They've had nothing to do for two days and'll fuck you up if they find anything.'

Nice. So much for the Glastonbury spirit.

9.45pm I am beginning to suspect that Matt is some kind of modern day miracle worker (like Derrin Brown). Not only has he single-handedly erected two tents in rain and a howling gale, but he's also managed to save a space for a third tent, which I proceed to try and put up. After a few farcical minutes of missing pegs and wildly flapping canvas, I wonder if pissing into the wind would achieve more.

Thursday

7.30am The tent is shaking, the roar of wind and rain echoes through its shell-like interior. I struggle down to the Joe Banana's blanket stall and buy wellies for Claire and myself, and, on Matt's behalf, a pair of gum boots for Sally.

9.17pm Portugal have equalised. The jingoism and tension that has made me feel slightly uncomfortable throughout the match climax, and I decide to boycott the rest of the game. Unfortunately it seems I can't avoid it - the whole site rings with the groaning of supporters and the background roar of the Estadio da Luz.

10.30pm I meet Claire at 'Pedestrian Gate A'. Hooray! We head back to the tent, where we discover Sally has also arrived. Everyone's here. Time for the festival.

Friday

4.45pm Badly Drawn Boy must be rather hot in that woolly hat. Maybe it's an affectation, or maybe he's slightly unstable, as his increasingly random mumblings between and during songs suggest.

5.10pm Ah ha! Off-stage celebrity sighting number 1: Howard Marks.

6.05pm Groove Armada sound good, but I only have the energy to sit on the ground and listen, in the lovely sunshine. And there's my first spotting of public nudity at the festival, just passing. Charming.

9.00pm onwards The Avalon Stage is a tiny, out-of-the-way stage, but an early arrival means that Claire and I are right at the front, leaning against the barriers, as Lamb come on. They play for an incredible hour - it is amazing, intimate, perfect, charged with emotion, owing to Andy confirming the band's imminent split at the start of the gig. He cries, shouts, crowdsurfs, twiddles knobs and plays his bongos. Lou's beautiful voice is a sensation and her performance is inspired. This is the best gig I've ever been to, without exception.

10.45pm Oasis have a hard act to follow, but they're doing OK. The only problem is that I enjoyed Karaoke more when I did it in Hong Kong, and I have a suspicion that Paul McCartney will have the upper hand when it comes to sing-a-long classics. Still, all together now, 'Maybe, I don't really want to fookin' know...'

Saturday

7.00am Despite yesterday's sunshine, that constant pattering sound isn't the near-by buzzing of the electricity pylons, but unpleasant rain, falling from an unpromising grey sky. I decide to stay in the tent for a few hours.

2.35pm It's amazing how quickly the grass gets pounded into submission, and dark brown porridge appears in its place. Thank god we aren't up here in this beastly mud and oomska without Wellingtons. It's also lucky that we have a third tent in which to store all soiled garments.

4.30pm But not as lucky as this: Matt, Claire and I are trudging to the Cabaret tent with the intention of seeing Stuart Lee's amusingly sarcastic act, when we hear 'Heaven' wafting over the trees. A quick splash over to the Jazz World stage finds Lamb playing an unscheduled acoustic set. Fantastic!

9.05pm Damien Rice strums away self-indulgently. 'He's no Jeff Buckley', I remark to Claire.

9.11pm Mr. Rice begs to differ, launching into 'Hallelujah'. Still, he's no Thom Yorke.

9.19pm Rice pleases the crowd with a version of 'Creep'.

10.30pm onwards Macca performs a dazzling array of covers, including Joe Cocker's 'With a Little Help from my Friends', Tiffany's 'I Saw Him Standing There' (except he substitutes 'him' for 'her', the cheeky scouse scamp), the Will Young/Gareth Gates love-in 'The Long and Winding Road' and Guns 'n' Roses' 'Live and Let Die' (accompanied by impressive pyrotechnics). The Droopy-Eyed Left-Handed One also plays touching tribute to the Thickly-Eyebrowed Quiet One and the Speccy One in a populist high-quality set, that would have even Osama Bin Ladin tapping his feet, had he managed to get a ticket this year.

Sunday

1.30pm This is the sound of the Zutons. And it's alright, but I get a bit bored and wander off after a while to have my fifth Cheese/Spinach/Mushroom crepe of the weekend.

2.25pm The Divine Comedy are performing with aplomb. Neil Hannon's straightforward political opinions make a pleasant change from the tiring bombast heard elsewhere on Worthy Farm.

'The UK Independence Party...they're a bunch of nobs aren't they?'

Then he plays a cover of the Queens of the Stone Age's 'No-one Knows'. The wag.

3.30pm I go for my second wander around the Green Fields and the Stone Circle: 'Insect Circus!' 'Pointless Maze!' 'Weave your own fence.' 'Tie your own dye'. 'Hash truffles - get your hash truffles!' 'Mushrooms, lovely mushrooms!' 'Wrens' livers! Otters' spleens!'. And so on.

4.05pm I'm wandering carelessly through the Tipi field, wondering if I'd like to live in a wigwam. And there she is - a few yards away with her children: Louise Robinson (nee Rhodes), soon to be erstwhile singer and lyricist from Lamb...we'd like to know a little bit about you for our files.

4.06pm It's no good, I'm too shy. I can't muster the courage to go and say hello to her. She rounds up her two little boys, glances at me briefly and moves on.

4.15pm I excitedly tell Claire about my non-encounter and the way I'm being eaten up inside by regret.

6.45pm I bump into Matt and Sally, a couple of wine bottles happier. I excitedly tell them about my non-encounter and the way I'm being eaten up inside by regret.

6.50pm Matt and Sally wander off and I think about my non-encounter and the way I'm being eaten up inside by regret. I become conscious of the music blaring out from the near-by Radio 1 stage. It sounds like the discotheque at a wedding. I investigate - and it's no wonder, they've let someone's uncle behind the decks. Hang on, that's Fatboy Slim!

7.35pm I realise that Belle and Sebastian's likeable summery music can't stop the rain. Unfortunately, neither can my 'waterproof' anorak.

7.50pm The sun is shining again, apparently as a result of the collective will of 112, 500 festival-goers. And look - there's a pretty rainbow.

9.40pm 'She walks down the street with a short dress on / which sometimes exposes the tip of her dong'. Thanks, Goldie Lookin Chain.

10.15pm I meet up with everybody near the cider bus. I excitedly remind them about my non-encounter and the way I'm being eaten up inside by regret.

10.16pm I realise my frequent lament is becoming tedious to some people, and I resolve to keep it to myself, at least until I leave Somerset.

11.00pm onwards We have decided to avoid the music headliners and head to the previously unheard of 'Dance and Fire Stage' to watch Bill Bailey's act. It is hilarious. Perhaps it's owing to the slightly befuddled state of my mind at the moment, but I'm giggling like an imbecile, possibly slightly embarrassingly. My highlight is Bailey's rendition 'Zippy-de-do-dah' as performed by Portishead.

Monday

7.15am Wake up. Pain. I try to take the tents down. It's slow going as I feel as though there is a flock of belligerent midget puffins in my head, who won't let me stand up straight. Also, suddenly, mud seems to be over everything. I'm sure it was only on the ground before.

3.00pm After a lot of queuing, both at the site and Castle Cary station, followed by a couple of train journeys, I find myself standing at a cross-roads in Clerkenwell. There isn't a blade of grass or tree to be seen. Or a speck of mud. Surely that's not right.

49 - posted at 20:31:09
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Wednesday 9th June 2004

The other night I went to the 'Gala Opening' of the Camden film festival, marked by a showing of the Ealing comedy The Ladykillers. The foam red carpet, fixed to the sticky linoleum floor of the Odeon with black gaffer tape, and a free glass or two or cheap plonk certainly gave me a glimpse of how celebrities live - and the place was peppered with them, from Trigger off Only Fools and Horses to Richard Bacon.

Before The Ladykillers, a predictable, but watchable and vaguely thought-provoking short film about homelessness and skag was aired. The director, who when taking questions from the audience afterwards seemed rather bemused as to why part of his M.A. was being exhibited, did an admirable job of retaining custody of his art in the face of assaults from those crass questioners who wanted to claim it for their own various pet causes (something which Camden borough is over-flowing with) - he just about managed to stumble back to his seat with the artistic integrity of his film intact.

And then to the main feature. Its quintessential 1950s Britishness (despite the screenwriter being an American) and the bright sunshine in which it is mostly shot, sit pleasantly at odds with the dark, cruel humour lurking at the centre of the film. In this strange lost world of post-war London, Alec Guinness's chaotically-teethed, madly-barneted professor rents a room from the charming but slightly senile Mrs Wilberforce, a widow living in a subsidence-ridden house near St Pancras station. He plans to execute a heist with the help of four associates (including a young Peter Sellers and an excellent Herbert Lom), using the unwitting old dear as a key component in the caper. Naturally, she gets wind of what's going on, and the rest of the film concentrates on the five crooks' attempts to work out how to deal with her. The film becomes more explicitly sinister towards the end, as Alec Guinness and Herbert Lom creep around in a twilight wasteland, hunting each other down through the swirling smoke of passing steam engines.

I don't revisit old films enough - The Ladykillers was a pleasure to watch, plagued only by the affected laughter of the idle trustifarians who had managed to drag their Evisu clad, frappachino-bloated frames from their minimalist West London / ShoHo pads northwards, in order to irritate other cinema-goers, no doubt before sloping off towards some ghastly gastro-pub to bark loudly at each other about their plans to make a cutting-edge film in sepia about neglected urban doorways on newly acquired state-of-the-art digital camcorders, thus proving to themselves that they work for a living. But I digress.

Perhaps feeling slightly insecure at the prospect of hob-nobbing with said style gurus, I decided to forgo the delights of the Gala drinks reception, and instead wandered home, clutching my complimentary goodie bag of organic snacks and a free pen.

48 - posted at 19:16:32
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