Tuesday, October 28, 2003
The Rules of Attraction (some spoilers)
Really, really, didn’t like this. I was prepared to look beyond the Beek, but no, it was so so crap. And I can normally cope with reeeeallly crap films.
Two minutes into this film it was obvious that it had been written by a male hand. I’d never seen it to be signposted so clearly. That the rape is depicted in a non-disturbing way is disturbing in itself. Even Gossip’s rape storyline was less insulting.
I found virtually none of the events in the film affecting because it didn’t feel like they had actually taken place. This ambiguity works in American Psycho, the most easily comparative movie, but in Rules, “shocking” scenes aren’t so shocking because of this unreal sheen. Is the casting of 2-dimentional actors intentional or not? Either way, it doesn’t work. To compare, see Christian Bale’s performance of Patrick Bateman in Psycho
Much of the whimsy rests on it being believable that grown women would find old Fivehead attractive. And yo, James? Staring out from beneath furrowed brow does not equal sinister, okay?
There’s an incredibly annoying soundtrack, including self-conscious choices of The Cure and Blondie.
There are so many scenes that finish with the abiding air of “and the point of that was...?” I could treat Rules of Attraction with the same theorising that I applied to Vanilla Sky which involved ironic casting and high piss-take but really it doesn’t deserve it. It wishes that it had an ounce of the wit and class of Heathers.
The story cries out for a director with some emotional substance beyond his superficial style. Avary makes Tarantino look deep. The only scene that affects is the bath suicide, and this is not because of the lead-up, but because of Avary’s one successful stylistic and actor choices. As such, it was incredibly incongruous. Even seeing an attempted hanging didn’t get to me, and I hate hanging scenes with the fire of a thousand suns.
Technically, it is impossible to fully make out the content of many of the lines because the delivery/recording is so duff.
And what is with all the naked females on display? Is this Eyes Wide Shut all of a sudden?
You know that when your best performance comes from Fred Savage in a cameo role, you’re in trouble.
Really, really, didn’t like this. I was prepared to look beyond the Beek, but no, it was so so crap. And I can normally cope with reeeeallly crap films.
Two minutes into this film it was obvious that it had been written by a male hand. I’d never seen it to be signposted so clearly. That the rape is depicted in a non-disturbing way is disturbing in itself. Even Gossip’s rape storyline was less insulting.
I found virtually none of the events in the film affecting because it didn’t feel like they had actually taken place. This ambiguity works in American Psycho, the most easily comparative movie, but in Rules, “shocking” scenes aren’t so shocking because of this unreal sheen. Is the casting of 2-dimentional actors intentional or not? Either way, it doesn’t work. To compare, see Christian Bale’s performance of Patrick Bateman in Psycho
Much of the whimsy rests on it being believable that grown women would find old Fivehead attractive. And yo, James? Staring out from beneath furrowed brow does not equal sinister, okay?
There’s an incredibly annoying soundtrack, including self-conscious choices of The Cure and Blondie.
There are so many scenes that finish with the abiding air of “and the point of that was...?” I could treat Rules of Attraction with the same theorising that I applied to Vanilla Sky which involved ironic casting and high piss-take but really it doesn’t deserve it. It wishes that it had an ounce of the wit and class of Heathers.
The story cries out for a director with some emotional substance beyond his superficial style. Avary makes Tarantino look deep. The only scene that affects is the bath suicide, and this is not because of the lead-up, but because of Avary’s one successful stylistic and actor choices. As such, it was incredibly incongruous. Even seeing an attempted hanging didn’t get to me, and I hate hanging scenes with the fire of a thousand suns.
Technically, it is impossible to fully make out the content of many of the lines because the delivery/recording is so duff.
And what is with all the naked females on display? Is this Eyes Wide Shut all of a sudden?
You know that when your best performance comes from Fred Savage in a cameo role, you’re in trouble.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
I managed to catch Hanson on RI:SE the other morning (shuddup, my tv was left on Channel 4 from the night before). It scared me. And I couldn't stop thinking of Jon Stewart's A Very Hanson Christmas.
Friday, October 24, 2003
The HMV sale
The HMV sale is much like the Old Navy sale. You know you don’t need anything, you know that you have no money to spend, but somehow you are convinced that you are getting the best deal of the century on a DVD that you don’t really want.
Quote of the night
Den to Drunk!Lisa: "Your shift has just hit the fan." Bravo, Eastenders' scriptwriters.
Things learnt from watching Superstars last night
1. Between the ages of 9 and 14, Iwan Thomas was in the top five of BMX riders in Europe.
2. Athletes may well have the big old musculature, but that doesn't mean that they're not crap at the gym tests.
And finally...
Yesterday's discussion at work, inspired by this week's Heat: how can you call a baby Nigel?
The HMV sale is much like the Old Navy sale. You know you don’t need anything, you know that you have no money to spend, but somehow you are convinced that you are getting the best deal of the century on a DVD that you don’t really want.
Quote of the night
Den to Drunk!Lisa: "Your shift has just hit the fan." Bravo, Eastenders' scriptwriters.
Things learnt from watching Superstars last night
1. Between the ages of 9 and 14, Iwan Thomas was in the top five of BMX riders in Europe.
2. Athletes may well have the big old musculature, but that doesn't mean that they're not crap at the gym tests.
And finally...
Yesterday's discussion at work, inspired by this week's Heat: how can you call a baby Nigel?
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Today has been Quite Famous TV Presenter spotting day. Oh, and Lewis from Hollyoaks. You can't have everything in life.
Jamie Theakston, barrelling along Broadwick St.
Paul O'Grady, looking happy, at the top of Carnaby St.
Kate Thornton, as I suddenly got a fit of the giggles and so had to avoid looking at her.
Derren Brown, not looking mysterious in any shape or form.
Jamie Theakston, barrelling along Broadwick St.
Paul O'Grady, looking happy, at the top of Carnaby St.
Kate Thornton, as I suddenly got a fit of the giggles and so had to avoid looking at her.
Derren Brown, not looking mysterious in any shape or form.
Monday, October 20, 2003
In praise of the cheap Gap: Old Navy
We like a shop where a medium is too big on me.
Old Navy became the holy grail on our days off from the up-state NY camp where I worked one summer.
“But it’s just $10!” “But it’s just $5!” “I could never get this as cheap in Britain. OK, I might never have chosen to buy this in Britain, but hey, it’s FIVE DOLLARS!”
My Old Navy pyjama bottoms are the comfiest thing known to man. I want to go back to North America just to get another pair. And guess what, they were cheap too.
We like a shop where a medium is too big on me.
Old Navy became the holy grail on our days off from the up-state NY camp where I worked one summer.
“But it’s just $10!” “But it’s just $5!” “I could never get this as cheap in Britain. OK, I might never have chosen to buy this in Britain, but hey, it’s FIVE DOLLARS!”
My Old Navy pyjama bottoms are the comfiest thing known to man. I want to go back to North America just to get another pair. And guess what, they were cheap too.
Sunday, October 19, 2003
On occasion I look after a small clothes shop in London. A typical day of not much work:
9.00am: Try to will stationary bus into action by shooting an evil at the bus driver who has been sitting on his ass for the past 10 minutes doing the crossword.
9.30am: Get to the station and berate all British rail companies for being crap and for frequently lying through their teeth. Berate myself for being a train commuter for the past four years and knowing enough to know that they are lying through their teeth.
10.15am: On arrival in London, beat day-trippers to train door so that I don’t have to suffer their painfully slow movement. Sidestep tourists and daytrippers on way to the tube. Clomp loudly with stiletto boots behind dolts standing on left hand side of escalator.
10.20am: Hop, skip and leapfrog the non-commuters to get on to the platform before the train doors beeeeep and the carriages disappear.
10.27am: Contemplate walking up escalators at Oxford Circus as cursory gesture of physical exercise.
10.30am: Contemplate possibility of a tour of Topshop (once, if not still, the largest womenswear store in the whole of Europe) and Border’s in the space of 5 minutes before having to get to the shop.
10.43am: Laugh at Gary Wilmot’s mug on Chitty Chitty Bang Bang posters outside The Palladium.
10.45am: Pick up the crack cocaine that is a Pret a Manger tuna sandwich and dodge charity people with clipboards. Contemplate strategies for looking like a), someone who works on Carnaby Street, and, b), someone who has had to suffer the charity clipboard slalom for the past 3 years in London. Both of which I am, and both are factors which the clipboarders ignore. Contemplate battering charity workers with their own clipboards.
10.46am: Unlock shop and clean up.
10.58am: Realise that there is no small change in the float and dash to Barclay’s.
11.01am: Open shop. Realise that the lights are not on. Rectify the situation.
11.15am: Start reading newspaper.
11.30am: Wonder how early a time I could conceivably call lunch. Decide that 11.45 is fair.
11.35am: Eat lunch.
11.45am: Entertain possibility of going out on to Carnaby Street and dragging people into the shop.
11.50am: Someone comes into the shop. Am slightly annoyed that they have interrupted my reading.
1.05pm: Friend visits just as there is a freakish rush of customers.
2.27pm: Give directions to Covent Garden for 57th time this day. No one will ever remember directions because it is not that simple to get from the midst of NW Soho to Covent Garden.
2.43pm: “Where is the Zebra Bar?” “No idea. I’m in here all day, not exploring the local area.”
3.05pm: Obscure celebrity walks past shop.
3.07pm: Text friend with news of obscure celebrity spotting.
3.36pm: Pulverise obstinate steamer into action.
3.52pm: Card swipey machine beeps repeatedly in a menacing way.
4.23pm: Swap Heat-reading for shop-diary-reading in a pretence of professionalism while customers are in the shop.
5.30pm: Shoot evils at drinkers from next door pub who are spilling out in front of the shop and wafting cigarette smoke indoors. And being generally happy with their cold pint of beer. Mmmmmm, cold beer.
6.15pm: Lock up while butt waves in face of drinkers from next door pub who refuse to move their arses from the doorstep.
6.20pm: Throw myself over heads of day-trippers in attempt to get down Oxford Circus’s one eastern entrance.
6.45pm: Hurtle up escalators in attempt to catch train.
6.48pm: While weaving across station concourse wheezing and puffing, discover that train is delayed.
6.15pm: Train sits motionless in the outskirts of London. Am going to miss about four buses in a row.
7.54pm: Narrowly miss another bus.
8.30pm: Get home and flollop on couch.
9.00am: Try to will stationary bus into action by shooting an evil at the bus driver who has been sitting on his ass for the past 10 minutes doing the crossword.
9.30am: Get to the station and berate all British rail companies for being crap and for frequently lying through their teeth. Berate myself for being a train commuter for the past four years and knowing enough to know that they are lying through their teeth.
10.15am: On arrival in London, beat day-trippers to train door so that I don’t have to suffer their painfully slow movement. Sidestep tourists and daytrippers on way to the tube. Clomp loudly with stiletto boots behind dolts standing on left hand side of escalator.
10.20am: Hop, skip and leapfrog the non-commuters to get on to the platform before the train doors beeeeep and the carriages disappear.
10.27am: Contemplate walking up escalators at Oxford Circus as cursory gesture of physical exercise.
10.30am: Contemplate possibility of a tour of Topshop (once, if not still, the largest womenswear store in the whole of Europe) and Border’s in the space of 5 minutes before having to get to the shop.
10.43am: Laugh at Gary Wilmot’s mug on Chitty Chitty Bang Bang posters outside The Palladium.
10.45am: Pick up the crack cocaine that is a Pret a Manger tuna sandwich and dodge charity people with clipboards. Contemplate strategies for looking like a), someone who works on Carnaby Street, and, b), someone who has had to suffer the charity clipboard slalom for the past 3 years in London. Both of which I am, and both are factors which the clipboarders ignore. Contemplate battering charity workers with their own clipboards.
10.46am: Unlock shop and clean up.
10.58am: Realise that there is no small change in the float and dash to Barclay’s.
11.01am: Open shop. Realise that the lights are not on. Rectify the situation.
11.15am: Start reading newspaper.
11.30am: Wonder how early a time I could conceivably call lunch. Decide that 11.45 is fair.
11.35am: Eat lunch.
11.45am: Entertain possibility of going out on to Carnaby Street and dragging people into the shop.
11.50am: Someone comes into the shop. Am slightly annoyed that they have interrupted my reading.
1.05pm: Friend visits just as there is a freakish rush of customers.
2.27pm: Give directions to Covent Garden for 57th time this day. No one will ever remember directions because it is not that simple to get from the midst of NW Soho to Covent Garden.
2.43pm: “Where is the Zebra Bar?” “No idea. I’m in here all day, not exploring the local area.”
3.05pm: Obscure celebrity walks past shop.
3.07pm: Text friend with news of obscure celebrity spotting.
3.36pm: Pulverise obstinate steamer into action.
3.52pm: Card swipey machine beeps repeatedly in a menacing way.
4.23pm: Swap Heat-reading for shop-diary-reading in a pretence of professionalism while customers are in the shop.
5.30pm: Shoot evils at drinkers from next door pub who are spilling out in front of the shop and wafting cigarette smoke indoors. And being generally happy with their cold pint of beer. Mmmmmm, cold beer.
6.15pm: Lock up while butt waves in face of drinkers from next door pub who refuse to move their arses from the doorstep.
6.20pm: Throw myself over heads of day-trippers in attempt to get down Oxford Circus’s one eastern entrance.
6.45pm: Hurtle up escalators in attempt to catch train.
6.48pm: While weaving across station concourse wheezing and puffing, discover that train is delayed.
6.15pm: Train sits motionless in the outskirts of London. Am going to miss about four buses in a row.
7.54pm: Narrowly miss another bus.
8.30pm: Get home and flollop on couch.
Dude, when getting home very tired after suffering from the actions of the sunny-day-skiver train drivers, it doesn’t half mess with your head to read “Wimbledon moves to Milton Keynes” on Teletext.
Friday, October 17, 2003
Yay! New blog. Let's try my bodging linking skills:We Want Your Soul.
