(Why) It's Shite Being (At A) Scottish (Film Festival)

“It doesn’t matter who you are. You’ll feel like a failure and a nobody.” Those were the words imparted upon me by an acquaintance when I announced to her that I was heading out to Cannes in May 2008. Normally I’d have brushed off such wisdom as hyperbole, but this particular acquaintance happened to be the producer of the first four Harry Potter movies (combined worldwide receipts = a gazillion dollars). When someone of that standing tells you something of that ilk, your first reaction can only be to gulp.

Turns out she was half-right. By mere virtue of actually being at Cannes, and getting to rub shoulders with such luminaries as Shia LaBouf and the frog-like accountant from The Untouchables, I didn’t feel like a failure at all. A nobody, yes, but I still felt somewhat accepted there. Which makes the clinical, isolating atmosphere of this year’s Edinburgh Festival even more chilling to recall. People rush back and forth between the expo centre and the festival screenings like there’s a bomb set to explode in their chest if they don’t check in at regular intervals. Maybe it’s simply because they feel that standing still on Lothian Road for more than 30 seconds will result in a mugging or, at very least, some drunken berating from the local winos. Either way, everybody seems desperate to get to places without actually being sure of what’s in store when they arrive. Parties and networking events seemed mostly like forced meet-and-greets, where people politely explain what they do before awkwardly commenting on the buffet and moving on to the next pocket of attendees. It’s all very civil, but at the same time everyone seems so afraid of cutting loose in case they accidentally upset or offend. Of course, I hate people in general so I’m possibly not the best judge of social functions. Nonetheless, I was still desperate to hear a heated argument (that I didn’t start) or to receive an invite to the gents to do some blow.

In fairness, it’s a festival that prides itself on prestige. Whereas Cannes is a meat market of people desperate to sell you their third-rate Transformers knock-off, Edinburgh is all about cinema. There are no curveball screenings of some Z-grade horror clag or lavish press conferences. You go, you watch, you absorb, you reflect. Unfortunately – and this is wholly down to personal preference – this year’s line-up lacked any real bite. Granted, the setting doesn’t help. London has the vaguely-glamorous hosting of Leicester Square and the “fuck-we’re-serious-about-film” locale of the BFI to help maximise the experience. Edinburgh boasts the (admittedly brilliant) Filmhouse, and a Cineworld located directly opposite a tyre-fitters. There’s something crushingly unresplendent (not a word) about being ushered into a European premiere on the same screen that you saw the Scooby Doo movie.

Of the films I did bother to catch, nothing really stood out. Toy Story 3 is an oddly depressing affair; The Runaways is a bland rock biopic that forgets to include any real character shading or emotional wallop; Winter’s Bone is the kind of movie that people mutter in the same breath as the word “Oscar” for about ninety seconds and then forget about (although John Hawkes proves again why he’s one of American cinema’s most under-valued actors, despite being still primarily known for getting blown to shit by Tarantino in the pre-credits sequence of From Dusk Til Dawn). Other movies caught my attention but slipped through my grasp – partly down to bad scheduling, and partly down to my staggering indifference to the whole thing. Making myself rancidly ill after three days of not eating and staying awake until 5am (not through festival-related joviality, but rather through the generous company of city-based friends) probably didn’t help my mindset.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe I was just resisting the charms. Edinburgh is a tourist trap at the best of times and generally I hate the place, so perhaps I automatically set out to berate the whole experience. I’m grateful that I’m even granted access to such events, but you simply can’t win them all. I’ll do Frightfest next. At least I might see someone’s head get pulled off, even if there’s still no blow.


Neth acknowledges he’s being overly-harsh, and knows plenty of people who had a wonderful time; as such, he’s deeply envious of them. And he’s kidding about the cocaine. Probably.

Robert Roberts Esquire to you, honky!

The first role I saw Dennis Hopper perform was King Koopa in the dreadful Super Mario Bros in 1993. The second film I saw Dennis Hopper in was as Frank Booth in the superb Blue Velvet, six months later. That level of diversity was synonymous with the guy - the cynical would suggest he took plenty roles simply as a paycheck, but I can honestly say I've never seen a movie where Hopper didn't give it his all. There was never an autopilot for the guy; something many of his contemporaries will never lay claim to. And while he'll be rightly remembered as Booth, or as Easy Rider's Billy, or Speed's Howard Payne, or for that movie-defining showdown with Christopher Walken in True Romance, Hopper went full-tilt in countless other flicks. And because you can't have a celebrity death these days without an accompanying list, here's five little-seen or oft-forgotten picks from the great man's CV:

Tom Ripley (The American Friend, 1977)
It's a shame people most associate the role of Patricia Highsmith's sociopathic creation with Matt Damon. Some even draw a closer link with John Malkovich. But Hopper (the second actor play the character, after Alain Delon in 1960's Plein Soleil) essentially revived his post Last Movie-career with this stunning turn in Wim Wenders' movie.

Paris Trout (Paris Trout, 1991)
A million miles away from his comic-book villainy in the likes of Speed, Paris Trout could almost be Frank Booth's distant relative - a sexually abusive, bigoted child-murderer. A truly chilling performance from Hopper - in a movie directed by Stephen Gyllenhaal, dad to none other than Jake and Maggie.

Bob Roberts (My Science Project, 1985)
The antithesis to Doc Brown, Hopper's scientist teacher-come-mentor is a whacked-out hippy desperate to get back to the good old 60s. The movie around him may be second-rate (although not without some charm), but any time Dennis is on screen the yucks increase ten-fold.

Lyle (Red Rock West, 1993)
Anyone who menaces the shit out of a sneaky Nic Cage is just fine by me, and Hopper did it in spades here as the bona-fide hitman mightly miffed at chancer Cage stealing his gig.

Bill (Jesus' Son, 1999)
As was so often the case, Hopper nearly walks off with the entire movie as a psychiatric inmate dispensing sage advice to Billy Crudup's heroin-addled FuckHead. "There's no deeper shit than the kind we're in right now, I'll tell you that..." Brilliant.


So thanks, Dennis Hopper. Whether it was within cult gems like River's Edge, or mainstream guff like Waterworld, or iconic classics like Apocalypse Now, you were never anything less than utterly watchable. RIP.

Seven Interesting Facts About Danny Dyer

When he's not writing relationship advice in cheap-wank publications squarely aimed at illiterate morons, Daniel Amadeus Dyer (b. 24 July, 1977) makes a healthy living appearing in British feature films squarely aimed at cine-illiterate morons. He's been carving out a niche in the industry for over ten years, cropping up in such diverse timeless gems as Human Traffic (the shit Trainspotting) and Doghouse (the shit Shaun of the Dead). But Dyer himself remains a somewhat camera-shy individual away from his film and agony cunt aunt work. After what feels like literally minutes of tireless research, I've compelled seven interesting facts about Mr Dyer that may help throw a little light on his towering, methodical approach to characterisation.

1. Danny Dyer was the first British baby to be born on the backseat of a Ford Fiesta. Other notable Fiesta-births include that slapper who used to show you her tits for 50p at school, and Chelsea / England defender Ashley Cole.
2. Dyer excelled at secondary school in his formative years. His top subjects included crayons and weeing up the toilet wall. His record of 7ft 11in (as measured by classmate Alan Harris) has yet to be beaten. A plaque in the boy's bogs of the science block at the Canning Town School For Special Children confirms this feat.
3. Although his first screen credit is Prime Suspect 3, eagle-eyed 80s children may remember Dyer playing the role of Mike in the CITV sitcom Mike & Angelo, about a kid whose creepy adult mate is actually an alien. And a bit of a nob.
4. Dyer's on-screen wide-boy persona is actually an example of his dedication to Method performance. Danny has, in fact, never been to Essex on account of a phobia of flat land. As a result, he lives half-way up a mountain in Wales.
5. Despite professing a love of all things football - and in particular West Ham - Danny is hampered by the fact that a childhood incident involving a spud gun left him unable to see spherical objects. This is why he can spend days on end staring directly at the sun, to no optical damage whatsoever.
6. In 2008, Dyer released an album of grime-core rap songs derived from theme tunes to vintage television cartoons. The single "Thundercats - Ho" was a top 75 hit in Bulgaria.
7. Saying Danny Dyer's name five times in the mirror will summon him to appear behind you, in order to give you a right shhlap.

Danny Dyer - I salute you. As long as you promise to keep making movies, I promise to keep not watching them.

1984 called. It wants its horror icon back.

There's one truly terrifying moment early on in the A Nightmare on Elm Street remake. During an avid-fart credits sequence, the words "Produced by Michael Bay" flicker across the screen. It's the only genuine scream this otherwise-lifeless dud can muster. Bay's Platinum Dunes have mastered the art of taking once-relevant horror films and turning them into generic conveyor belt slop, devoid of any of the social commentary that made their originators worth the time. The original Elm Street can be read as a statement on the Vietnam draft, with Freddy Kruger standing in for the US government that was all-too-keen to dismember the dreams of American youth and send them off to their death. Dunes' remake has nothing close to this subtext - in fact, there is no subtext. Also lacking is the weird, ethereal quality that made Wes Craven's 1984 original so damn creepy - instead, here it's never ambiguous as to where reality and the dreamworld cross.

To make things worse, Jackie Earl Haley's take on Kruger plain sucks. True, by the time we'd rolled around to the eighth installment of the original franchise, Englund's Freddy was little more than a comedy MC preying on teens who frankly deserved to meet a sticky end. But 2010's Freddy possesses none of the tricksy gimmicks that filled the old series with invention - here, he's just a proto-slasher who talks too much (mostly in unnecessary expositional diatribes) and barely seems capable of doing the job - how many times do his victims need to fall asleep and escape his clutches before he can actually get around to finishing them off? And to cap things off, his objects of prey are a bunch of bland every-teens with no distinct foibles or character traits to make them worth rooting for. It's a testament to how badly-structured the screenplay is when we spend close to the entire first act focusing on a character who is then thoughtlessly slaughtered, only for us to shift on to the next dullard heroine. By this point, caring is no longer an option.

That's not to say the current crop of original horror pictures are much better, though. Take, if you'd be so kind, Tom Six's The Human Centipede (First Sequence) - which is causing all kinds of internet slobbering right now on account of its dark, controversial nature. What they're failing to tell you is that it's actually a dull, poorly-acted mad scientist picture that rarely manages to muster much in the way of outrage or shock. The simple premise sees a retired German surgeon abducting people so he can create a - you guessed it, you fucking star - human centipede, complete with an intestinal tract that runs through several bodies. It's a neat concept, in theory, and some splashes of jet-black humour help it through it's early stages. But it seems so eager to please fans of both the lamentable Saw series, and those oh-so-more-intellectual types who like their horror with a more perverse Asian bent, that it struggles to find its own feet (or in this case, knees). The victims are obnoxious, the doctor's actions outside of his lab are baffling, and even the most grotesque of situations seems somewhat lukewarm in the cold light of day. Maybe I'm just desensitized beyond all repair - or maybe it's just a big hoo-haa over nothing.

To prove that I'm not going to waste every entry in this blog on slagging off movies (believe it or not, I actually love quite a few of them), I'll use this closing paragraph as an opportunity to pimp Chris Morris' excellent Four Lions. A tabloid-baiter of the highest Morris pedigree, it's a radically funny flick that suggests those responsible for some of the most horrific crimes are, in fact, a bit low on intelligence and far too easily-lead. Morris even manages to cram in some oddly touching moments that rescue his protagonists (antagonists? For this viewpoint, it's hard to say) from simple caricature. It's yet another sterling effort for British cinema (alongside the recent Disappearance of Alice Creed and Exit Through The Gift Shop), and as such is well worth seeking out.

Identity crisis.

If one thing really worked in Iron Man's favour, it was that, during the summer of 2008,  it provided a bright and breezy anti-thesis to the brooding intensity of The Dark Knight. Sure, it fell apart in the third act, but for the most part everything else neatly hung off Robert Downey Jr's sublime performance.

At first glance, it seems Iron Man 2 has taken heed of the scant criticisms leveled at its predecessor - the CGI suit looks more convincing; there are ample characters for Tony Stark to verbally spar with; and we've even got what seems to be a far more menacing villain in the shape of Mickey Rourke. Collective hands are swiftly rubbed together - this is shaping up nicely indeed. Let's light the touchpaper and stand well back.

And then... nothing. For at least twenty minutes, until we get a set-piece already trailered to shit and, annoyingly, overridden by Gwyneth Paltrow's shrieking. It's a problem that only swells as the movie progresses - to the point where the second act becomes turgid to sit through, due to the sheer lack of excitement. Director Jon Faverau and screenwriter Justin Theroux clearly want to have their Batman theme cake and eat it, as Stark mopes around under the onus that the world is just about to turn on him and his narcissism-fueled grasp is slipping away. There's a well-worn theory in screenwriting circles that act two is where the real fun and games kick off, but Iron Man 2 seems to have skipped that class all together. Instead, the mid-section of the movie is crushingly dull.

There was a fear that, by throwing more villains into the mix, the movie would wander into Spider-man 3 territory. It's an empty concern, as both Rourke (as Whiplash) and Sam Rockwell's Justin Hammer are given so little to do that they barely register as an irritation, let alone severe global threat. While there's a real danger presented to Stark early on in the film, its dealt with far too easily to give any serious cause for concern. And when Samuel L Jackson's Nick Fury finally shows up, his only purpose seems to be to provide a little exposition and plug the upcoming Avengers movie.

Faverau almost seems to be channeling Robert Altman (minus the smarts) in his handling of his cast, as they snark and bicker over the top of each other at increasing volume. From Downey Jr's smart-ass mouth it sounds fine, but the others struggle to keep up - and that's sympomatic of the film's overall problem. Stark is far too interesting a character to sit back and let others take over for prolonged periods, and when they do - and they do - the film languishes as we wait for him to reappear.

And to add further insult to injury, the climax feels somewhat rushed, giving Rourke and Rockwell no room to really breathe as the bad guys. There's no real poignancy or emotional depth to anything presented on-screen, leaving things feeling essentially at a status quo - which begs the question: what exactly was the point?

(125) Days of Summer...

... from April 30th to September 2nd, and I can count the movies I'm genuinely excited about on three fingers. That's right - the blockbuster bonanza kicks off even earlier this year (in the UK, at least) with Iron Man 2 opening on Thursday. And there's a strange whiff of the 1998s (Godzilla? Lost In Space? The Avengers?) about this year's line-up, with nary a tantalising prospect amongst them. Last week the Film Distributor's Association stated that there's no fear of dwindling receipts due to World Cup coverage - perhaps they haven't factored in the fact that nobody really gives a toss about this bumper crop of I-don't-give-a-rat's-ass pictures...

ROBIN HOOD (May 14)
This was, at one point, a fairly ingenious script that retold the Hood legend from the Sheriff of Nottingham's viewpoint. That was until ego-monster Russell Crowe came on board, first deeming himself to play both roles (hey, if it's good enough for Van Damme, right?), before relegating himself to the single character of Robin Hood and adding another generic telling of an already over-stuffed canon. To add insult to injury, we can't even expect Gladiator-style grue, on account of the tot-friendly PG-13 rating it's received.

PRINCE OF PERSIA (May 21)
"It's the new Pirates of the Caribbean!" touted the producers. "No! It's the new Mummy Returns!" replied the audiences, unimpressed with the dodgy accents, confusing SFX and garbled narrative evidenced in the trailer. It also seems to have glossed over the fact that the funnest part of the original game was making the Prince repeatedly fall down a hole and impale his bollocks on some spikes.

SEX AND THE CITY 2 (May 28)
Oh. Jesus. No.


SHREK FOREVER AFTER (Jul 2)
The fourth entry in a franchise that spluttered to a halt around five minutes into its second outing. Expect to be bludgeoned over the head with pop culture references that'll already be stale by the time you leave the cinema, and more braying Eddie Murphy-isms - the kind that keep lining his pockets so he can go off and make more films like Meet Dave. Kids will lap it up, but then kids are fucking stupid.

THE TWILIGHT SAGA: ECLIPSE (Jul 9)
This isn't the one where it all goes batshit insane. That's the next one. Instead, expect more mournful shoulder-lurching and sparkly bloodsuckers. A franchise crossover with the Blade series is already long overdue.


INCEPTION (Jul 16)
One of three reasons to actually make a trip to your local multiplex, this is just ticking boxes all over the place: Di Caprio; Nolan; eye-boggling special effects; Cottilard; Joseph Gordon-Levitt... Of course, it could end up being a redux of Minority Report by way of The Matrix Reloaded, but try to think positive here.

TOY STORY 3 (Jul 23)
And here's another one of those reasons, although Pixar's increasing dependency of sequels is becoming a concern.

THE A-TEAM (Jul 30)
Seen the trailer? Then you've already most likely seen all the best bits. I've heard rumblings that this is not-good-at-all...

GROWN UPS (Aug 6)
Adam Sandler? David Spade? Chris Rock? Kevin James? Rob Schneider? Sounds less like a summer event movie, and more like an endurance test brewed in the depths of Hell. Every time Sandler steps out of his comfort zone (Punch Drunk Love; Funny People), he leaps right back into it for another five years. As such, fuck 'im.

PREDATORS (Aug 13)
Oh, cool! A sequel / reboot / whatever to a franchise whose combined domestic gross was less than that of Scary Movie 4! Just what we always wanted! Some things genuinely belong in the 80s...

THE EXPENDABLES (Aug 20)
Speaking of which... What kind of crazy alternate universe did I step into, where people are genuinely excited by a movie toplined by Sylvester Stallone, Jason Statham, Dolph Lundgren and Steve Austin? This is cynical nostalgia-pandering at its very worst, coupled with a trailer that makes it sound like it was penned by a six year-old with some crayons.

SCOTT PILGRIM VS THE WORLD (Aug 27)
And here's reason #3, although by the time it hits screens there's a good chance you'll have torched your local movie house in protest.

My advice? Seek out some of the smaller stuff doing the rounds this summer. There's re-releases of Five Easy Pieces, Rashomon and A bout de souffle on the cards, as well as new movies from Michael Winterbottom (The Killer Inside Me), Noah Baumbach (Greenberg) and Francis Ford Coppola (Tetro).

Or you could just watch the football. I know I probably will, and my national team didn't even qualify. Thanks a bunch, Hollywood.

Pedestrian crossing.

There's a moment early on into Cemetery Junction, the first big-screen collaborative offering from Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant, where one of the characters remarks that another should stop listening to "poofs like Vaughn Williams" (straight) and put on "some Elton John" (less straight, but this is 1973 after all) instead. That's about as sharp as the gags get here - winking "oh it's so ironic" nods to stuff that seemed almost innocent back then - house prices; dinner-table racism; sexual politics. Unfortunately, they're handled with all the subtlety of a brick.

Let's put aside my ire at the hypocrisy of Gervais two years ago dismissing the British film industry - only to reappear after two commercial flops with his first British feature. It's hard to find the "glorious England" Gervais has been flapping his mouth about during his promotion of Cemetery Junction - his depiction of early-70s Reading is neither the bleak landscape his characters seem so desperate to escape from; nor is it wholly the rose-tinted nostalgic lane that its (admittedly fabulous) soundtrack suggests.

Instead, our three protagonists (The Handsome One; The Angry One; The Dorky One) mill around, perpetrating such minor offences as a couple of bar brawls and painting a cock on a billboard. The central hook is that The Handsome One - having somehow wangled a job as an insurance salesman - suffers a rude awakening upon realising that the idyllic life of his superiors might not be for him, and that instead his heart lies alongside the adventurous fantasies of The Boss's Daughter (who is, in turn, engaged to A Bit Of A Prick).

Character names are irrelevant here - everyone is painted with such broad archetypal strokes from the get-go that literally nothing surprising happens for the duration. If you've seen even a couple of movies in your lifetime, then you can plot out every single arc within the first five minutes. Cemetery Junction is, sadly, that predictable. That's not to say the movie doesn't hold a few charms - there's an inspired sing-a-long to Slade at a corporate function; and the central trio make for a believable (if dull) little clique.

Gervais and Merchant clearly want this film to be Reading's answer to Barry Levinson's Diner, or any other number of "we've gotta get out of this place" pictures of that ilk. Unfortunately, the obstacles presented to the main characters seem almost inconsequential - a key plot thread that's been slowly building throughout is simply ignored come the climax - that it's hard to really care. They're all gainfully employed; they're reasonably successful with the ladies; and even the local bobby seems to like them. They're hardly struggling from the outset.

Performance-wise, nobody really rises above adequate (and with a cast supported by the likes of Ralph Fiennes and Matthew Goode, that's not good enough), with one brilliant, shining exception - Emily Watson. Delivering more emotional nuance in a single glance than the rest of the cast can muster for the duration, she's tragically underused - but when she gets her moments, she uses them to once again prove she's one of the greatest, most oft-underrated actress working today.

Gervais and Merchant have bragged ceaselessly about how many movie offers they've turned down since finishing up Extras. It's a shame, then, that the one project they chose to go with feels more like a Screen One drama (with some added use of the word "cunt") than anything as cinematic as they'd hoped to deliver. Must try harder.

So... what's the title?

There was an interesting point raised yesterday on Kermode & Mayo's Wittertainment radio show about the new movie "Perrier's Bounty", and the fact that - despite it being a rather decent picture (I'm seeing it later this week) - the title is an absolute stinker. It got me thinking about the nature of titling your movie, and what kind of impact it can have on your box office returns. Particularly, my thoughts turned to British cinema and how some of the names of our recent output have potentially worked vastly against their favour.

Part of this musing spews from being faced with a couple of script-titling obstacles of my own. One project I'm working on currently has the most generic, nondescript name imaginable (it was inherited, though); the other did have a fairly useful title that has since been rendered meaningless by a great big overhaul of both plot and theme. Examples, then, of some recent hazardous examples of nom-de-pluming:


The Scouting Book For Boys
Sounds like: A tween adventure pic, possibly featuring a bunch of misshaped losers banding together under the wayward but well-intentioned scout leader figure, possibly played by Jack Black or Ben Stiller or (if it was 1994) Daniel Stern.
Actually is: "A vibrant but shocking narrative full of macabre undertones" (Britflicks) about unrequited love and teenage angst.


The Cottage
Sounds like: An idyllic, thesp-heavy nod to the work of Ingmar Bergman, as aging luvvies gather at a peaceful village getaway and address their anxieties and issues.
Actually is: A blood-soaked kidnap-turned-rampant-hillbilly horror with Jennifer Ellison getting her head removed by a spade.

Beyond The Pole
Sounds like: Strippers! Hurray!
Actually is: Global warming bromance! Boo!

Quantum of Solace
Sounds like: Art project a-hoy-hoy! Possibly just a terminally ill man addressing his woes to the screen for 90 minutes.
Actually is: Nonsensically-edited franchise beat 'em-up!

Made In Dagenham
Sounds like: Another shitty Nick Love gangster movie.
Actually is: A tale of the 1968 female employee strike at Dagenham's Ford plant. The original title, "We Want Sex", wasn't any better.

Donkey Punch
Sounds like: Spiky CGI "Shrek" off-shoot.
Actually is: "Dead Calm" as told by lairy twats. Let me just check and see if the title is contextually correct... OHGODTHAT'SFUCKINGDISGUSTING!


We should just follow the example of "Mega Shark Vs Giant Octopus" and market our movies solely by conceptual titling. After all, it worked for "Snakes On A Plane", right? Right? ... Oh.

To contradict Chuck D...

The last time I got properly excited about a comic book movie was in early 2003. I'd worked myself up into a rabid frenzy over the big-screen adaptation of one of the few remaining Marvel characters I still actively followed. Two hours later and I walked out into the February sunshine feeling somewhat angry and betrayed. That's what you get for allowing yourself to get worked up for "Daredevil", I suppose.

So the copious reams of hype that have been swelling in the past months directed towards "Kick-Ass", the new superhero flick from Matthew Vaughn, have left me far too jaded to get animated. Cynically tootling along to a preview screening last night, my hopes were moderate at best - I'd heard tales of graphic violence, gleeful profanity and a pre-teen with a mouth like a sewer. Big whoop - I see all that in my day-to-day home life anyway.

And despite such trepidations going in, it actually thrills me to confirm that - for a change - the advance noise about the movie is on-the-nose: "Kick-Ass" is fucking tremendous fun. Essentially a post-modern take on the superhero genre (but free from the morose tone of "Watchmen"), the flick plays out like the most demented origin story ever committed to the screen, set in a similar universe to that which Batman inhabits, but with the lights turned on.

For all its bloodletting (and trust me, "Kick-Ass" is plenty violent) and cussing, the film presents a refreshing change from the current trend of gloomy, oh-it-sucks-being-me superhero tales of recent times. It's bright and breezy, and it thunders along at a cracking pace, rarely stopping to catch a breath (thanks in part to Jon Harris and Eddie Hamilton's amazing editing). Furthermore, every performance is note-perfect: Aaron Johnson's titular character errs on the right side of geeky to make him a sympathetic protagonist; Nicolas Cage's acting barometer is titled firmly towards "crazy" as he lampoons Adam West's Caped Crusader delivery; Chris Mintz-Plasse nicely steps out of the shadow of McLovin as fellow wannabe Red Mist; and Mark Strong makes for a pleasingly hiss-able villain too.

None of these hold a candle, however, to Chloe Moretz as Cage's pint-sized protegee Hit Girl. The Daily Mail have already flung their arms aloft in repulsion at the character - and it's not hard to see why (at least, from their demented "Ban This Sick Filth" viewpoint). An 11 year-old avenger who wields butterfly knives and utters lines that would make Colin Farrell blush, Hit Girl is quite literally one of the coolest figures to grace genre cinema in a long, long time. Moretz swings the character from adorably innocent to shit-your-pants terrifying with ease, and you end up praying that a sequel will be along sooner rather than later, lest they have to recast and get someone else.

If the film has a flaw, then it's that the second act lags a little after the barnstorming opener. And even though the climax is a blast of riotous carnage, it never really pulls any surprises out of the bag to distract from all the gunplay. That said, the central conceit is a doozy - why shouldn't we intervene when our fellow man is in trouble? Are we, as a society, so petrified of one another now that the only people willing to risk their necks are the crazy psychopaths in the stupid costumes?

Regardless, do believe the hype. "Kick-Ass" is exactly that.


"Kick-Ass" opens March 26.

Kerouac can blow me.

So, I'm in the midst of writing a "road movie", and as such my thoughts turn to other "road movies" to plagiarise seek inspiration from. Generally, I've eschewed the more darker side of asphalt-travellin' (sorry, True Romance and Badlands) in favour of something a little gentler. And while I lay no claim to this being definite, I thought I'd share ten of my favourites from the genre with you, humble (and sexy) blog reader. Thus:

THE SURE THING (dir. Rob Reiner, 1985)
In which John Cusack shotguns beers, agitates Tim Robbins ("Hi, I'm Gary Cooper, but not the one who's dead...") and tries to get it on with that chick from Fly II.

THE WIZARD OF OZ (dir. Victor Fleming, 1939)
Look, I never said anything about this being car-based, did I? Judy Garland has a fugue and imagines some midgets. Happens to the best of us.

Y TU MAMA TAMBIEN (dir. Alfonso Cuaron, 2001)
Everyone always ends up talking about the bit where they jerk off on the diving boards, and seem to often overlook discussing the bit where they jerk off on the diving board... Dammit!

MIDNIGHT RUN (dir. Martin Brest, 1988)
This might actually be the most quotable movie of all time. It's certainly the most quotable Yappet Koto movie of all time.

ALMOST FAMOUS (dir. Cameron Crowe, 2000)
The kind of movie that fills me with that warm, fuzzy feeling every time I see it. The sort of feeling normally only brought on by ingesting warm fuzz.


SIDEWAYS (dir. Alexander Payne, 2004)
Paul Giamatti and Thomas Haden Church go to wine country; get into scrapes; learn some home truth; get chased by man with cock out. Like a high-brow Harold & Kumar, really.

THE LAST DETAIL (dir. Hal Ashby, 1973)
You know they remade this in the 90s, right? With Tom Berenger and William McNamara. And Erika Eleniak in the Randy Quaid role. Words fail me.

STAND BY ME (dir. Rob Reiner, 1986)
Technically this should fall into the "off-road movie" category, seeing as they don't spend a lot of time on roads in it.

JUMP TOMORROW (dir. Joel Hopkins, 2001)
Seen by about six people on these shores, this is the only challenger on this list to Almost Famous' "man, that's just lovely" claim. Go and seek it out this instant (or, like, when you have a chance. It's not up to me to tell you what to do)!

INTERSTATE 60 (dir. Bob Gale, 2002)
Even less people saw this one, for shame. It's a bit too episodic to hang together, but it features Gary Oldman as a malevolent genie-type and Chris Cooper as a bat-shit insane lung cancer patient. What's not to like?

I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!

Every avenue I turn, I seem to be meeting fierce objection to this whole "Clash of the Titans" remake thing that's going down in cinemas this April. And yet, I remain thoroughly drawer-dousingly excited about the whole shebang.

Greek mythology is a sorely under-mined vein in modern Hollywood cinema. The closest thing we've had in the last ten years was Troy, and that didn't feature any giant fucking scorpions or snake-haired lady-monsters at all. This has both of those things, plus a flying horse, plus winged beasties with sharp teeth, plus a Sam Worthington, plus Stygian witches, plus a mah'fookin Kraken. All wrapped up in a tidy bow of excessive CGI and sprinkled with an out-of-place trailer song by The Used, of all people.

I may sound like I'm being sarcastic, but for the first time in my pathetic little life, I'm really not. Bring this shit on YESTERDAY ALREADY.

Blogma.

Caught Kevin Smith's 1999 "cult hit" Dogma last night on Film4. And I say caught in the most terminal sense, because sitting through that movie is akin to contracting leprosy. My love affair with the tubby New Jersey shopkeeper started, like many, when Clerks hit video in 1995. I was skiving school for whatever reason, and a kindly parent (in the shape of my mum, who - if you hadn't already garnered - is awesome) was good enough to rent it from the local Blockbuster for me that afternoon. Such liberal profanities made 15 year-old Neth giddy with glee, and it - along with Mallrats, caught a year or so later on Sky - became firm re-watch favourites. Chasing Amy, less so - although now it's plain to see it's actually Smith's best film by a country mile.

Anyway, I digress. Watching Dogma last night (and I've seen it plenty times before), something occurred to me: every single performance in that film is awful. If this were a no-budget lo-fi entry then that would be understandable, but these are proper actors (and Chris Rock). Alan Rickman? Dreadful. Linda Fiorentino, so fucking ace in The Last Seduction? Dreadful. Salma Hayek? Dreadful. Damon and Affleck? Dreadful - aside from that one boardroom judgment scene, where they're actually given something interesting to do. Don't even get me started on Jason Mewes and Smith himself - a performance more muggy than a mug party at the mug store, and one he's been duplicating on screen in that role ever since.

So what gives? The script, that's what. There's a common criticism that the movie spends roughly 80% of its time having characters explain the plot to each other, and it's true. Smith attempts to condense centuries of religious ideology into 130 minutes, and in the process simplify it down for an audience whose prime objective is to see Mewes make another fart joke. As such, every word arrives stilted and unnatural. It simply throttles the comedy, and makes the film cringe-inducing. Having Salma Hayek cast as a muse is one thing; getting her to explain the potted history of Golgotha whilst under attack from a monster made of shit is just asking too much.

There are some interesting ideas floating around Dogma, but none are ever applied with much conviction. It's a shame that Smith seemed so keen to make this for his fanbase rather than a wider audience, because without the laboured references to Home Alone, or the bumbling non-schtick of Jay & Silent Bob, or the "what the fuck am I doing here?" expression on Fiorentino's face, or the fart noises, this might have actually been a worthwhile exercise. Unfortunately - and like all his following offerings - it seems so desperate to please the stoner crowd that it simply gives up trying anything new. In that respect, Smith's unflagging army of die-hards have become his own worst enemies as a film-maker.

Does this answer your fucking question, The Thrills?

Sad news today about Corey Haim's reportedly fatal overdose. Given the dude's rocky history with drugs, it's not exactly a huge surprise to find him cark it at the hands of narcotics. Nonetheless, it's a depressing end for a guy whose name alone used to inspire video rentals of his (admittedly not-very-good) star vehicles. Top five Corey Haim movies, then:


1) The Lost Boys (1987)
A given, surely, on the basis that this is the one going on every eulogy. Exhibiting a sense of cultural camera-winking later exploited to the max by Scream, The Lost Boys made Haim an identifiable hero to 11 year-old boys everywhere, and made vampire slaying a fucking quip-tastic art form - "death by stereo" indeed.

2) Licence To Drive (1988)
The second pairing of Messrs Haim and Feldman, with the former pilfering his dad's motor in order to get his wicked way with Hollywood's very own Dorian Gray, Heather Graham. Seriously. That chick does NOT AGE. Badly dated, but still pretty damn funny throughout.

3) Silver Bullet (1985)
In an Oscar-baiting ploy mimicked years later by the likes of Tom Cruise, Sam Worthington and those dudes from Murderball, Haim here goes wheelchair-bound in Stephen King's odd reworking of Rear Window. Portly spouse killers are replaced by werewolves, and Gary Busey's in it too. Brilliant.

4) Prayer of the Rollerboys (1991)
Corey goes action hero (with a script from the writer of Point Break, no less), as a rollerblading pizza delivery boy living in a hellish (well, there's a few buildings on fire) future overpopulated by surfer-looking Nazi thugs. Patricia Arquette's in there too, and it has Nine Inch Nails on the soundtrack.

5) Dream A Little Dream (1989)
The most over-looked of all those 80's body-swapped comedies (pipe down, Like Father Like Son), this has Haim dealing with his best bud Feldman swapping consciousnesses with none other than Jason Robards. Genius (well, not really, but it's still better than Vice Versa).

Just missed this list - Fast Getaway. And Watchers. And Blown Away (not the IRA one). RIP, sir.

Obligatory Oscar Summary Post

Disappointed faces from James Cameron AND Jason Reitman? That's a twofer right there.

So another overcooked slab of back-slappery draws Awards Season to a close, and by golly gosh, don't the Oscars just love stamping their "us last!" foot all over the place. Despite the fever-pitch stand-off that had developed between Avatar and The Hurt Locker, the whole ceremony felt markedly flat and passed by with little in the way of surprise or upset. Let's break this shit down, shall we?


THE GOOD

• Sandra Bullock's speech - gracious, funny, touching. Good on her.
• Waltz winning Best Supporting Actor. Hopefully this guy has a long career ahead of him, and not just in villainous mainstream guff either.
• Fisher Stevens winning an Oscar. That's FISHER. STEVENS.
• Martin and Baldwin as hosts. Alright, they were kinda touch'n'go for the first few minutes, but the wisecracks soon began to flow.
• Tyler Perry's introduction for Best Editing. Funnier than all of his movies put together.
• Jeff Bridges' posture. That guy just knows how to stand.

 THE BAD

• Barbra Streisand announcing Best Director with "It's about time," leaving an entire ethnicity and a whole gender wondering if she's talking about them.
• That horror montage, as introduced by two stars of fuckin' Twilight. A moment of geek revelry (did you spot Warwick Davis?), but wholly out of place and massively forced.
• Some Argentinian movie I've never heard of beating both A Prophet and The White Ribbon to Best Foreign Language Picture. I know that me not having heard of it is no reflection on its quality, but fuck it - this is my blog and I liked those movies.
• Interpretive dance, to visualise the Best Score nominees. Absolutely bloody awful.
• James Taylor performing a live song over the New Dead People montage. Ghastly.
• Those stupid fucking Best Actor / Actress introductions from the nominees' peers. Only Colin Farrell salvaged a little dignity there, by talking about spooning in Mexico with Jeremy Renner whilst shooting S.W.A.T.

THE UGLY

• Martin and Baldwin's Paranormal Activity skit, meeting stifled laughs that double up on showing a) it wasn't funny; and b) nobody remembers that movie enough to find it relevant.
• The John Hughes tribute. I loved Hughes as much as the next 80s child, but that was excruciating - particularly a terrified-looking Molly Ringwald and a smug twat in the shape of Macaulay Culkin.
• Sky Movies' ad-break patter, with cryptmaster Claudia Winkleman shepherding a bemused David Baddiel, a vacuous Ronni Anacona and a smug, actually-knows-fuck-all-about-movies-for-a-so-called-expert Mark Dolan.
• Sean Penn, using his fleeting introduction for Best Actor to talk about his favourite subject: himself.
• Ryan Seacrest. He's America's answer to Vernon Kay - as long as the question is "What is the transatlantic equivalent, measured in cuntishness, to Vernon Kay?"

And... I'm spent.

From Mr Potato Head, With Love

I don't get John Travolta. Or to be more precise, I don't get post-1978 John Travolta. He's infrequently handed in decent turns in heavyweight movies (Pulp Fiction; Get Shorty; Primary Colors; the underrated Mad City), but he's managed to offset that with a career chocked full of banal clag. It would appear every time a casting director offers him the olive branch of a potential resurrection, he lets it slip out of his grasp in favour of films like Lucky Numbers. Or Look Who's Talking Now. Or Wild Hogs. Or Ladder 49. Or Shout. Or Be Cool. Or Basic. Or... Well, you get the idea.

He can mark up another clanger with new release From Paris With Love, which takes misguided pride in proclaiming to be from the director of last year's abhorrent Taken. Pairing up unorthodox government spook with straight-laced Jonathan Rhys Meyers (so bland I can't really say anything else about him other than that he's... bland), it's little more than an excuse to have Travolta (looking remarkably like a potato with a goatee drawn on it) run around some scenic Parisian locations, spout some obscenities, snort some gakk from an antique vase, and beat up a few ethnic stereotypes. It's a movie that desperately wants to mimic early-90s John Woo, but alas JT is all Fat and no Chow Yun. The star seems keen to rekindle the appeal of his manic turns in Woo's messy Broken Arrow and startlingly-overpraised Face/Off, but no amount of lingering slo-mo shots of the one-time Danny Zuko shooting Asians in the face manage to come close to even those middling heights. Action movies never used to be this dull, surely?

"Dull" isn't a word that can be leveled at a film which offers up profane razor-teethed grannies, demented spindly ice cream men and angels who prefer to wield rocket launchers over harps - and those are just some of the delights Legion has to offer viewers stupid enough to buy a ticket for it. Essentially a rehash of 1995's The Prophecy with all the thematic debate (i.e. the interesting bits) removed, Scott Stewart's debut pic seems so desperate to please the Friday night crowd that he just throws everything that comes to mind onto the screen and hopes that some of it will stick. Occasionally, it works - a stoic Paul Bettany keeps a commendable straight face delivering his shitty angelic dialogue; it's gleefully OTT with its fetishizing of weapons hardware; Charles S. Dutton's in it for a bit - but by the time the third act arrives, fatigue sets in and the denouement is so ridiculously weak, you can't help but feel short-changed.

If you're thinking of remaking something from George A Romero's back catalogue, it's worth your while remembering that opening the proceedings with a Johnny Cash track will work wonders in your favour. Zack Snyder's 2004 Dawn of the Dead retread did it and achieved some success; the 2008 redux of Day of the Dead didn't, and was a steaming load of cack. Thankfully The Crazies adheres to the rule, and the result is a watchable zip through the Government-sponsored decimation of a small Iowa town by its increasingly-crazed (Hey! That's like the title!) residents. Director Breck Eisner wrangles some terse set-pieces, and while the film never really reaches the all-important heights of actually being scary, it's a cut above other recent horror remakes thanks to both a (none-too-subtle) politically-analogous plot and actual grown-up leads (take a bow, Olyphantastic and genre-staple Radha Mitchell). Although poor show for setting up what could have been some wonderful farm machinery-induced carnage, and then settling for a simple house fire instead. Didn't the climax of Universal Soldier teach us anything?



The Crazies and From Paris With Love are in cinemas now.
Legion opens on Friday 5th March.

Hey, Oscar! You dropped these!

So at the risk of this turning into an awards blog, let's do the whole Oscar nomination shuffle (I hear this is how Tom Sherak gratifies himself) and do something wholly unique for this whole internet fandango: bitch about what's been left out.


M.I.A: Any trace of a nomination for "Where The Wild Things Are".
Alright, Max Records for best actor was a long shot, as was Jonze for best director. But no adapted screenplay? Come on - they turned a 40-page picture-book into one of the warmest, most heart-wrenching movies of the year. Shocking oversight. And don't even get me started on why Karen O's magnificent soundtrack was deemed ineligible. Fools.


M.I.A: Mélaine Laurent for either of the acting plaudits.
That single static shot of Laurent's face as she realises, over lunch, that Hans Landa has entered the room behind her? Best bit of acting in any movie last year, regardless of gender. Not a word uttered, but a spread of emotions spilled across the screen nonetheless.



M.I.A: Peter Capaldi for Best Supporting Actor.
I love Christophe Waltz in "Basterds". Love him - it's a blisteringly good performance. But the addition of Capaldi's Malcolm Tucker would have made this a two-horse race for me to care about. "In The Loop'"s adapted screenplay nod was well-deserved, but it's a shame the Academy couldn't extend their good taste as far as a blissfully sweary spin doctor.



M.I.A: Michael Stuhlbarg for Best Actor.
Anyone who's listened to me rant about Terrence Howard losing to Phillip Seymour Hoffman back in '05 will know my stance on biographical portraits. They're just impressions, based on a wealth of pre-existing material for research. I value original interpretations far higher, and as such I'd rather see Stuhlbarg's awfully-oppressed Larry Gopnik on the list ahead of Morgan Freeman's Mandela.



M.I.A: The Academy's balls, via Haneke and Von Trier
Alright, alright, I get that these guys are divise to extreme measures (and yes, I'm aware "The White Ribbon" did get two nods), but seriously - I'd much rather see some filmmaking with great big cajones - like "Antichrist" - walk off with the golden baldie than safe, fuzzy fare like "Up in the Air" or "The Blind Side". I suppose the upshot is we'll get to see Jason Reitman's grumpy expression trotted out again when Bigelow spanks him to Best Director.

"Looks like you won't be attending that hat convention in July."

When I was eleven, and faced with another rainy childhood weekend on the west coast of Scotland, I happened upon something in the local general store - a video rental rack. Previously, our household VHS renting habits were restricted to three-a-week-for-a-fiver from the Video Van that parked up outside the station every Saturday. Great as Mr. VV was (he never batted an eyelid as I handed over cash for such age-restrictive titles as Total Recall and New Jack City), he lacked immediacy. And sat there on that rental rack of Loch Awe Stores was something I needed there and then in my life - "Hudson Hawk."

And so began an eighteen-year affair with what some people perceive as one of the worst movies of the twentieth century. I couldn't get enough of those snappy, sweary one-liners. I never ceased to marvel at that Swinging On A Star heist set-piece. And I found myself strangely attracted to Sandra Bernhard (which, to this day, is still a far more reasonable proposition than Andie McfuckingDowell). Bad feelings were frequently aimed in the film's direction, and I was always first to dive in front of those scathing word-bullets.

Late last night, after a weekend spent in forced isolation, I decided to switch off my tiny brain and succumb once again to the wonders of the '"Hawk." Imagine my abject horror 91 minutes later, upon discovering that - newsflash - "Hudson Hawk" is fucking terrible. Like, utterly catastrophically bad.

I'm sure this won't come as bombshell to most. The film's been dogged since production began, and it failed to recoup even a modicum of its overinflated budget. But as this weird, juddering vanity project unfolded before my eyes, I started to question if my ever-dedicated love had been some kind of mental fever dream. Even "Hudson Hawk"'s own mother couldn't love it, if it had a mother, which it doesn't, because it's a film.

Instead, it has conspirators. Chief of whom is a Mr. Bruce Willis. That smirk's a trademark, for sure - yet here it stops being a knowing smile and here turns into a full-blown Smuggest Cunt Of The Century tic. Bruce seems DEEPLY amused by what's unfolding on screen, in some kind of vague hope that you will be too. He rattles through the script (so desperate to please you that every line has to be either a joke, a pithy insult or outright nonsensical) with precisely zero effort, and it shows.

Danny Aiello - so fucking good in "Do The Right Thing" that he blows my mind every time I see that movie - looks simply baffled. I'm not even sure he knows he's in-shot for a good portion of the proceedings, as he just kinda grins aimlessly at Bruce and occasionally murders a tune. Bernhard and Richard E. Grant must be in competition for the Lamest Villains ever, committing little in the way of true dastardliness and instead just fannying about with their outdoor voices on at all times. The less said about James Coburn and his band of candy-named spooks (including, in a career highlight, David Caruso*), the better.

The whole thing unravels at lightning-quick speed, to the extent that I felt like I was missing set-ups for jokes throughout. Turns out I wasn't - it's just a good majority of the lines are completely non sequitur to begin with. Take the very headline of this blog, uttered by Willis after he lobs the nasty butler's bonce off - why would he have been attending that convention anyway? Why is it in July? And he still has a whole head (albeit one detatched from his body). Surely that joke only works if the top part of his head - the hat-bearing part, as I like to refer to it - was severed? It makes NO FUCKING SENSE. And yet somehow, it's synonymous with the rest of the movie.

It pains me a little to have to say this, but I'm divorcing you, "Hudson Hawk." The light that once shone brightly from you has been extinguished, and my love for you likewise. You are, quite frankly, shit.


*actually, Brad Anderson's "Session 9" is the highlight of his career. Fact.

James Cameron: You've got a lot to answer for (Annoyed Director Edition)

James Cameron: You've got a lot to answer for.

I made a shocking discovery about myself this week, and this time it wasn't even a rash . Rather, I was crushed to find out that - as it turns out - I'm not actually a fan of anything, at all. Ever.

Even for a grouchy misanthrope like myself, this came as quite a devastating blow. I've considered myself a genre connoisseur in the past; hell, maybe even a lower-level geek. Meeting Nathan Fillion gave me a thrill; I once squawked with delight when I glimpsed Hurley from Lost at a memorabilia fair. And don't get me started on the ever-expanding array of Street Fighter merchandise that's slowly taking over my house.

Yet all of this pales in comparison to the rabid bleatings of what nowadays constitutes entry into fan-dom. In this day and age, you've got to be willing to change your entire species just to be considered worthy of carrying out a little adulation.

Take this whole crazy-as-a-shithouse-rat phenomenon currently surrounding Avatar. Film Drunk ran a piece last week about the film's fan forums, where people are laying claim to experiencing post-Pandora depression, and are wistfully bemoaning that it's a total bummer the planet doesn't really exist. One of them - as referenced in FD's article - even suggests inducing a coma, so they can continue to live on in a dream world populated with big blue Catsmurfs.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. WHAT? Run that by me again? A coma, you say? You're telling me that no matter how poxy your current existence is, you'd prefer a vegetative state in the off-chance your cortex decides to conjour some shit-hot 3D IMAX visuals? That your rapid eye movement might just rustle up a Na'vi for you to poke your tail in until the end of time - and by the end of time, I mean the moment when someone in full possession of reason decides you're wasting our oxygen and yoinks the fucking plug on you.

This kind of talk scares me. And it's not fear born out of lack of understanding - it's fear born out of pity for the increasing decline of mankind, and its burgeoning need to retreat into some lame-ass fantasy world because out here "shit," as Martin Lawrence would so succinctly put it, "just got real."

Think I'm being overly-harsh, and wrecking people's fun? Let me point you to a past example of this nonsense spiraling out of control: in 1950, a pulp sci-fi writer published a vaguely new-age self-help manual, that suggested other worldly influences were the key to maintaining a righteous lifestyle. Skip ahead half a decade, and countless poor bastards have had to sit through Battlefield: Earth. Oh, and there was some other dodgy stuff going on as a result, too. Sure, maybe it's a churlish analogy, but it still frightens me all the same. If this shit keeps up, then expect a Holy War to ensue within the remit of this century. I can see it now - the Avatards versus the Twi-hards. It'll all be a blur of blue body-paint and those plastic fangs you get from Poundland at Halloween.

I can name countless movies where I felt a coma might have been the soft alternative, but none of those desires were from outright love. Fact is, there is nothing in this world - certainly not in the medium of entertainment - that is ever going to inspire that level of churlish devotion. Hell, I'd even commend it if it wasn't so damn knee-jerky - the fucking thing hasn't even been out for a month yet. Come back in six months, and if you still feel the same way, I have a tyre iron that'll be more than willing to help grant your wish.




With thanks to Film Drunk and the posters of those stupid Avatar forums for fuelling my indignation.

Golden Globes: Predictions

I don't really care about an awards ceremony that was originally conceived back in the 1940s by, of all things, the Daily fucking Mail. If Nikki Finke (and countless others) is to be believed, then these puppies are easily bought - which renders them pointless, really.

That said, predictions are always fun - especially when people get to launch a rebuttal and tell me how utterly clueless I am. As such:


Best Picture - Drama: Up in the Air will probably bag this, but don't think for a second the voters are ignoring the international numbers for Avatar. Or the fact that they're made up mostly of those new breed of furries that get all boo-hoo about Pandora not being a real planet. Ugh.

Best Picture - Comedy or Musical: Nine leads what is an incredibly shitty handful of noms. Of course, it made the shortlist before it tanked and got roundly hated on by everyone (even Felini telegraphed the Weinsteins a "WTF?" from beyond the grave), so perhaps they'll just give it to The Hangover.

Best Actor - Drama: Clooney walks off with this one, and as such pretty much locks in Jeff Bridges' Oscar chances at the same time.

Best Actress - Drama: Sandra Bullock for the win, possibly because Globes voters are riddled with guilt for not giving her one last time she was nominated - for Miss Congeniality. Fuck my life.

Best Actor - Comedy or Musical: Justice would see Michael Stuhlbarg win for A Serious Man, but the Hollywood Foreign Press Association are not a just or fair mistress. So, Daniel Day Lewis.

Best Actress - Comedy or Musical: Probably Meryl Streep. She's nominated for two movies, after all. I haven't seen either, but that's because Streep to me is a bit like my hoover is to my cat - disorientating and frightening.

Best Supporting Actor: Tucci. Why not, he's a talented guy and I just love the way he creepily rolls his eyes in the What Dreams May Come 2 Lovely Bones trailer.

Best Supporting Actress: Vera Farmiga. Again, haven't seen Up in the Air, so I can only base this on the fact that I'd quite like to have sex with her. Educated picks, these.

Best Director: Give it to Bigelow, but build it up so it's like Cameron's won it. Maybe announce, "Kathryn Bigelow for Avatar!" So they both get up at the same time. There's nothing like ex-spouses thrown into confusing turmoil at shit awards ceremonies. Nothing.

Best Screenplay: What, we get twenty lead acting nominations, but they can't even be bothered to split this into "I thought it up myself" and "I copied it out of a book"? Give it to Basterds; I want another Tarantino tantrum a lá '95.


Check back Monday to see if I'm right. Or don't. In fact don't, I probably won't even follow this up. That's how much you matter to me, Golden Globes. I'm a giant fucking loser, and even I can't be bothered to blog about you.

In which the world ends, anonymously

If there's one thing cinema has taught me, it's that sooner or later we're going to face one almighty fuckaroo of an apocalypse. And if it's taught me two things, then the other is that not knowing how the planet buys the farm is a far scarier prospect than being clued-in to our imminent demise.


Take "The Road", for example. All we're given is a bright orange glow through Viggo Mortensen's window, and then BLAM. It's toe-tag time for 99% of the populous. Were the film not so rigidly stuck to Cormac McCarthy's original prose, then you could maybe accuse the film-makers of being cheapskates and skimping out on showing us wanton global destruction. Fact of the matter is, I don't know what happened prior to enduring (and as good as the movie is, you do endure it rather than enjoy) two hours of Aragorn and his whiny brat traipsing towards The Coast. And for that reason, it's an ultimately more terrifying situation.

Far too many movies are geared towards finger-wagging as they bring about The End of Times. Roland Emmerich has had the bare-faced cheek to scream "Finish him!" at the planet twice in the last decade alone, and both times it was our own damn fault. I'm very aware that global warming is an ongoing threat, but showing me just how fucked we really are is less likely to encourage good recycling habits, and more likely to make me spend the next thirty years cowering under my bed.


One of the greatest apocalypse movies I've seen is Don McKellar's 1998 film "Last Night." A character piece through and through, it takes place during - hey! - our last night on Earth. Eschewing any kind of explanation, instead it gives us vignettes of how ordinary people are spending their final hours. By keeping the apocalypse as a backdrop rather than making it the central plot of the movie, it keeps things constantly uncertain and perpetually intriguing. At times I even questioned if the world really was about to end. Spoiler alert - it does, or at least the film ends right when it's supposed to.

"Donnie Darko" employed a similar tactic, although the later director's cut went someway to unraveling any air of mystery. Compare and contrast with a film like "28 Days Later..." - okay, pretty gripping throughout (save maybe the third act, when it derails horribly), but the whole time I'm thinking, "All this? From monkeys?" Not exactly the most fear-inducing catalyst for the apocalypse, surely?

Point being - unless you've got Bruce Willis and a space rocket on hand to fill out your plot, then don't bother explaining why exactly it is we're doomed. Things are far scarier that way. It's the end of the world as we don't know it, and I feel terrified.

2009 was so last year...

Oof. Just realised that, despite blurting it all over the various other web-hovels I hang out at, I never actually upped my top twenty of 2009. So here it is, at a juncture where precisely nobody cares about end-of-year lists any more.

1. Where The Wild Things Are (Jonze)
2. Inglorious Basterds (Tarantino)
3. A Serious Man (Coen)
4. In The Loop (Ianucci)
5. Antichrist (Von Trier)
6. Synecdoche, New York (Kaufman)
7. Fish Tank (Arnold)
8. Milk (Van Sant)
9. Coraline (Selick)
10. The White Ribbon (Haneke)
11. Up (Docter / Peterson)
12. Slumdog Millionaire (Boyle)
13. Avatar (Cameron)
14. Pontypool (McDonald)
15. The Hurt Locker (Bigelow)
16. Zombieland (Fleischer)
17. Looking for Eric (Loach)
18. Away We Go (Mendes)
19. An Education (Scherfig)
20. District 9 (Blomkamp)

Eight Film-y People You Should Follow On Twitter

I love Twitter. It's like Red Bull for the ego. And it's particularly great for ensnaring the random burbling of various film-type people, as well. Here are eight that may be worth your attention.

• @johnaugust - the screenwriter of the brilliant "Go", as well as the brain-twisting "The Nines" (which he also directed), and - um - the "Charlie's Angels" movies. Frequently provides updates related to his rather ace writing blog, too.

• @diablocody - another screenwriter (who'd have thunk they made good tweeters?), this time behind the Oscar-winning "Juno" and the - dare I say it - under-rated "Jennifer's Body."
  

• @LWlies - updates from the UK's best movie magazine, including heads-ups about Q&A's, screenings and their latest reviews.

• @wittertainment - the official feed for Simon Mayo and Mark Kermode's radio film show, currently airing on Radio 5 at 2pm on a Friday.

• @devincf - currently the head writer for CHUD.com. Comes complete with a refreshingly-snarky honesty that most line-toeing web critics daren't utter.

• @jrichardkelly - he wrote and directed "Donnie Darko", you know. And "Southland Tales."

• @ebertchicago - quite possibly our greatest living film critic. Tweets range from focused to bafflingly eccentric.

• @david_lynch - look! He really is bonkers! In quite a brilliant way!

Of course, you can just shrug off all these people and follow me instead - @nethknowles - because I'm funnier than your crazy uncle at your sister's wedding.