Last night I found myself watching a much heralded little British film called Happy-Go-Lucky on FilmFour, directed by Mike Leigh of Secrets & Lies and Vera Drake fame. It wasn't very good, to be honest: a pointless non-journey with a terrible script and an incredibly annoying soundtrack (think when Lottery-funded films have 'quirky' scenes). Without stellar performances from Sally Hawkins and the ever-brilliant Eddie Marsan, it would have been a complete waste of everybody's time.
But even though it wasn't going anywhere, I wanted to know what happened at the end. I'd been sitting through this film for two and a bit hours waiting for something to happen (caveat: a film can be good, even brilliant, without anything happening; it's just that this was not an example) and finally it was petering out to an inevitably saccharine conclusion. Still, I wanted to hear what the final words were. It's the end of a film, isn't it? Of course you do.
Then, over the final scene: "And next on FilmFour, blah di blah di blah di fucking blah."
What? You're joking, right? Now? Right now? Over the final words of the film?
But no - it happened, and in the film's closing scene. Not over the credits, which immediately followed. Over the film itself. The last bit we heard, after the voiceover, was two characters laughing. What were they laughing about? I don't know.
This is absolutely inexcusable. In fact, it's unthinkable. Further than that, it's mental. Completely, utterly mental. I can't think of any way of justifying this argument because, surely, surely, it's just so bloody obvious. YOU DON'T TALK OVER THE END OF A FILM. Even I know that, and I used to talk over films all the time.
And yet this isn't even the worst example of plugging the next show during the current one. On Christmas Day, I was watching one of the many millions of A Christmas Carol adaptations that always turn up. In fact, through circumstance more than judgement, I think I watched four or five that year. Patrick Stewart, Jim Carrey, Michael Caine and the muppets, the cracking Alistair Sim... thank Dickens I was saved from the Kelsey Grammar musical shocker.
ANYWAY, the film was drawing to its close and we all know what's going to happen. Still, we've had 90 minutes of misery and here comes the big ending, right? The closing speech in which we find that Scrooge went on to be a good man and Tiny Tim, who did not die, etc. etc. etc.
Nope.
"And next on BBC1, blah di blah di FUCKING BLAH BLAH."
Unbelievable. I mean that. I couldn't believe it. It's not just one of the most famous endings of all time in any medium, it's the whole point of the fucking story. It's the fucking moral. What the HELL is a child meant to take from that film without the final monologue? Did Tiny Tim die? They'll never know, but at least they'll know that Sue Barker's wearing Christmas holly for a predictably shit seasonal edition of Question of fucking Sport.
This has to be stopped. Now. If you're running late (these weren't) and have to - HAVE TO - talk over the credits, do it. But you don't talk over the end of a film. You just don't. I mean... that's it. No argument here. You just don't.
This says a lot about society, I think. We find ourselves accepting this And next week on Huw Davies' Week Spot, your not-so-intrepid occasional blogger rants about the BNP and asks, how can we let ourselves be in such a position that this party can exist? Make sure you stay tuned to www.weekspotblog.com for intellectual discussion end up dying in a fucking sewer with pokers in our eyeballs.
'O Brother, Where Art Thou?' The Soundtrack - Various Artists [2000]
The record that launched a thousand careers.
This compilation, soundtrack to what I personally think is the most perfect film ever made (but let's put that aside for now because that's another list no one will agree with), collected the finest crafters of folk and bluegrass the world has to offer, and in return for their rewarding viewers and listeners with unbelievably good music, rewarded these masters of their art with recognition not before known or appreciated.
Sorry, that was a sentence more unnecessarily long than Nelson Mandela's. Heigh-o!
Legends such as Alison Krauss (God, I love her voice), Gillian Welch and even Emmylou Harris do feature, it's true, but it was wonderful to see some appreciation for producer T-Bone Burnett, Dan Tyminski and, yes, Ralph Stanley. On his 75th birthday, he sang O Death - a capella - at the 44th Grammy Awards. I'm sorry, but I just find that unbelievable. In retrospect, it's a miracle Kanye West didn't turn up promising to let them finish but first adding by gum, Bob Dylan was robbed.
Yes, Dylan lost out to the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack for Album of the Year. I imagine he was very happy about it, actually. Fellow losing nominees OutKast and U2 (hah!) were probably less thrilled.
The award, and Stanley's, were just two of five Grammies won by the record - and deservedly, fully deservedly.
Anyone who knows the Coen brothers' films know they care deeply about their soundtracks, and each song fits its moment in the film perfectly, but it works so well in its own right too. To hear modern legends recreate classic bluegrass songs and make them their own is no less than incredible in effect.
Highlights? Ooh, not easy. The Soggy Bottom Boys' acoustic and full band recordings of Man Of Constant Sorrow both go down as classic versions of the song, and rightfully so, thanks to Tyminski's artful arrangement and damn fine singing.
The aforementioned O Death is another fantastic song, crooned with such fragility by Ralph Stanley it's like hearing his soul be ripped apart with his ageing body. But, y'know, more cheerful. Stanley also turns up on album and film closer Angel Band, which is just bloody lovely.
What else? Down To The River To Pray and Didn't Leave Nobody But The Baby are much-admir'd thanks to Alison Krauss' involvement, and they are both beautiful renditions, but credit must also go to Chris Thomas King for his heartbreaking version of Hard Time Killing Floor Blues.
John Hartford is responsible for two gorgeous string-laden instrumentals, there's a brilliant rare 1920s recording in Harry McClintock's Big Rock Candy Mountain (corking song) and actor Tim Blake Nelson has a more than decent stab at In The Jailhouse Now. Give that man a recording contract.
To be honest, there's only one recording on this 19-track album I would call any less than wonderful, and that's because it's excruciating - three pre-teen girls murdering In The Highways. Still, they're young. I'll forgive them.
What an album. What bluegrass. What gospel. What brilliance.
So I suppose the final question is: does this count? I wasn't going to include the album on my list because I wasn't sure if a soundtrack created by various artists should be included on an albums of the decade list. But then I took away the rules and thought about it simply: it's one of the best records of the decade. Simple as that.
How nice. My 100th post on this silly little blog, set up well over a year ago, and I get to celebrate my favourite film as well as one of my favourite albums.
Tomorrow, I'll probably pick the Being John Malkovich soundtrack (does it have one?) just so I can drone on endlessly about the film.
Ah, the importance of reading a whole story before drawing conclusions.
My first reaction to this little piece of gold (originally seen on the Bad Science forums) was, in my head, "Has the world gone mad?" and verbally something I probably shouldn't repeat here. Rest assured it was along the lines of "Oh for Puck's sake".
But then you read the facts behind the conspiracy and you realise that you can agree with some aspects of taste and even political correctness if, y'know, they actually make sense.
The problem with the film Righteous Kill being advertised in Stockwell tube station, the site of the de Menezes shooting, is not that it's a violent film - if that was the issue, you'd be justified in calling me a Daily Mail reader (incidentally, did anyone see the tabloids yesterday screaming 'IMMIGRANTS HAVE STOLEN ALL OUR JOBS'? Sigh). But no, the issue is the film's tagline, which takes on wonderful irony in context of de Menezes' tragic death.
"There's nothing wrong with a little shooting as long as the right people get shot."
More than anything else, it's very funny. But then not everyone has the same dark sense of humour as I do. If it was deliberate marketing, it's a work of genius but also more than a little sick; if it was accidental, it was stupid.
OF COURSE people were going to be offended. I think removing the poster would be completely justified.
Either that or people get a darker sense of humour, but given that de Menezes lies dead for a crime he didn't commit, I can forgive them for not plunging those depths just yet.
News has been singularly... singular this week, focusing on very little more than the fact we're all going to die. Sorry, I meant in relation to the credit crunch. Money isn't everything, people will tell you, but you can guarantee those people don't have investments in Iceland. People are justifiably terrified. And so it is that everyone equates losing their money with ultimate doom, on a personal as well as a global scale.
And no more so than the media, which has used this financial meltdown to give a masterclass in epic reporting – epic not just in the apparently apocalyptic situation, but in the sheer amount of space devoted to reporting it ("Read our coverage on pages 1-9!"). It's impressive, it's arguably necessary and it's definitely an opportunity worth taking if you're an editor, but the dramatic approaches taken by tabloids and broadsheets alike have made the mayor of New Orleans, clearly auditioning for a role in a disaster movie, look positively small-town.
I mean, I'd expect it from The Independent: if the Indy's front page isn't telling us we're all going to die it's because it's telling us to stop killing all the other species first. But The Guardian leading with the headline 'Staring into the abyss' was unexpected, especially when it came after a potentially encouraging bail-out proposal from the Government. They could have presented that very, very differently. Still, as much as people want to hear good news it's bad news that sells papers and at the moment, bad news is one of the few currencies in good stock. Even in the crunch, newspaper sales are booming. As far as the media's concerned, this is the Golden Age.
Banks not waving but drowning Mugabe in 'Bastard' shocker To Boo or Not To Boo Square Pegg Round Hollywood Banjo surgery
Banks not waving but drowning
Due to the nature of this once-a-week blog, it's actually incredibly difficult to comment on the current economic crisis because it develops far too quickly. Even during the course of a Government meeting people were losing money. There's not a lot I can add that will remain new by the time this goes live – but I do find it interesting that as I write, four major British banks have just asked the Government for up to £50 billion of taxpayers' money. With what I said above in mind, I look forward to Monday's headlines.
With an announcement being planned before the markets open on Monday, I won't attempt to predict nor evaluate the Government's response. The request itself intrigues me. It's highly unlikely RBS, HBOS, Lloyds TSB and Barclays would try to pull a fast one and capitalise on capitalism's crisis because the risk is just too great if the public ever finds out these banks were being charlatans with their hard-earned money. So they must actually need this money urgently. Nevertheless, you do wonder what they were expecting to have to do in return. Money doesn't grow on trees, even for the biggest branches.
Dear God, that was awful.
The Government is expecting to demand something back from these banks such as a curb on executive pay, although the terms will be decided individually. This is likely to have been predicted by the banks; either that or someone has made a monumental cock-up in the ideas department on the 17th floor. "Look, the Government's giving out freebies – let's get it in on this." "We heard back, and they said they'll give us the money, but you have to give up your bonuses." "Ah. Bugger."
It's more likely, though, that the banks saw this coming and still asked for the money, suggesting that they are, indeed, in trouble, or at least in need of a little shoring up (not that that is any more comforting to their customers). Such is the danger of getting loans from American banks in questionable financial situations. As a great Allied Dunbar ad once said, there may be trouble ahead for customers of RBS, Lloyds TSB, HBOS and Barclays. Not that it mentioned those banks specifically, 'cos, y'know, that's libellous.
There's also a danger that the Lloyds TSB-HBOS acronymic nightmare of a takeover might fall through, because Lloyds TSB wants to pay less now that HBOS managed to raise £12bn for the buy-out (more here). Sorry, guys. Read The Small Print. Try Before You Buy. Don't Save A Drowning Man If He'll Make You Drown Too. Look Both Ways Before You Cross The Road. Maybe not the last one. But yes, if they want to pay less money now because circumstances have changed then they should be told 'bad luck but that's life'. You'd think they'd know that right now.
Still, the Government might swing their way – and the ways of Barclays, and HBOS, and RBS. It'll be interesting to see what happens.
Disclaimer: I may or may not know anything about economics. And if you're wondering if I'm personally concerned about what's going on, don't worry – I'm fine. My money's with IceSave.
Mugabe in 'Bastard' shocker
A few weeks ago I expressed my concern over Morgan Tsvangirai, Prime Minister of Zimbabwe, admitting he would just "have to trust" co-leader President Robert Mugabe. Obviously Tsvangirai's not an idiot, and knew of what was in store when he agreed to share power with one of the most evil men to walk this earth (excuse the bias). Just a month later, however, the man Zimbabwe is relying upon has threatened to pull out of. It's all very well to mutter the words 'can't', 'stand', 'heat' and 'kitchen', but Mugabe's not just pulling funny faces – he wants to choose what government ministries his Zanu-PF party can control.
Were it a lesser offence you could claim, probably inaccurately, that Tsvangirai is just throwing his toys out the pram, but this negotiation over the division of ministries is one of the most important, and deadly serious, parts of the power-sharing deal. Mugabe is demanding that Zanu-PF is responsible for 14 of the 30 ministries, the main MDC 13 seats and the splinter faction of MDC, led by Arthur Mutambara, 3. Not so bad, you might think, but what ministries does Mugabe want? Defence, the media (i.e. Zanu-PF propaganda), foreign affairs (including aid) and, most terrifyingly of all, 'justice'. It would be funny were it not so tragic.
Tsvangirai, whose jurisdiction as leader of the MDC would include sport, the arts and the largely redundant ministry of constitutional affairs (the power!), has, thankfully, opposed this, but sadly he is not in a position to do much more than threaten resignation. This would effectively make governing Zimbabwe impossible, throwing quite a large spanner in the works, but it is worrying that he has to resort to this: threats to leave government himself, rather than threats to force Mugabe out. He is still very weak in this supposedly equal power-share, and although this is clearly a better situation than it was, it's not going to be enough for Tsvangirai to threaten a walk-out every time Mugabe tries his usual tricks, because he'll just keep doing it.
In short, if it's going to be a case of two steps forward, three steps back, then some sort of intervention is still needed.
(As a side note, has anyone noticed that Tsvangirai looks a bit like Guy Goma, the bloke mistakenly interviewed live by the BBC when they got the wrong man? Just me then.)
To Boo or Not To Boo
As much as I hate to sound like someone writing into Newsround, I think it's very sad that Ashley Cole was booed after his mistake led to a Kazakhstani goal in England's 5-1 victory at Wembley. I don't like the guy either – he cheated on Sheryl Crow! – but this was just one of those things. Everyone makes mistakes, and ultimately, it didn't matter. Picking out an individual player to harass because of one error when the entire team has spent the first half playing like lemons is a bit harsh, even if he is crap.
Square Pegg Round Hollywood
Since Americans supposedly love nerdy British charm, it's no real surprise that übergeek Simon Pegg has been welcomed into Hollywood. His new film How To Lose Friends And Alienate People, based on the memoirs of journalist Toby Young, has been a hit despite being, well, rubbish, and he's playing Scotty in the next Star Trek film. And now he has himself a book deal.
A three-book, seven-figure book deal, no less. The first will be an autobiography on his career, and the second and third will be non-fiction also.
Fair play to him, I suppose. But none of this seems right somehow. I know he's got to move on from Spaced and the like, but I've not been impressed by some of his recent career decisions.
There is definitely going to be a final part of the Edgar Wright/Simon Pegg/Nick Frost/Nira Park film trilogy, which is fantastic news, but I wasn't impressed that he apparently turned down the role of Rorschach in the new Watchmen adaptation – a nihilistic straight role in which he could potentially brilliant – then he appeared in a woeful romcom version of a true story about someone that nobody likes. Maybe he liked the challenge of trying to make Toby Young popular, but I don't think it's his responsibility to do that. He also alienated his good friend and co-worker Jessica Hynes somewhat when he took the departure into films; according to an interview she gave a couple of months ago, she felt she lost a friend. The book deal just seems to confirm that he's becoming less interested in making exciting new films, which is a shame.
Still, who am I, his mother? I'm sure he'll come good. The man's a hero for squares everywhere.
Banjo surgery
Finally, this is interesting.
I've always said banjos have a great purpose in life.
Two Indian child actors who helped the film Slumdog Millionaire to its Oscar success have been relocated from slums to new houses in Mumbai.
Azharuddin Ismail and Rubina Ali, who played the youngest versions of characters Salim and Latika in the film, had been living in the same slums as they were before being discovered by casting agents. Ismail's family home was recently demolished, forcing him to live under a tarpaulin on a busy road.
It has been suggested by critics that the move, paid for by the Mumbai government, represents a publicity-grabbing political manoeuvre months ahead of India’s general election, but Amarjit Singh Manhas, chairman of a Mumbai housing association, has said, "Since the children have made the nation proud, they must be given free houses."
My opinion? Yes, it is a publicity stunt. But who bloody cares, eh?
To release your 31st studio album is pretty impressive. To still be touring 300 days of the year aged 60 is quite an achievement too. To use those rare days off to record one of the best albums you've ever made in a 40-year career is just plain extraordinary.
And it is. It really, really is. With no exaggeration, I would genuinely place Love And Theft in a top five - even top three - list of Bob Dylan albums, with the legendary likes of The Freewheelin' and Bringing It All Back Home.
Dear God, it's a good record. Where to start? Dylan opts for Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum, a song that sets the tone and pace of the album with a rolling, rollicking delta blues rhythm. It's not the strongest song on the album, but it's great fun.
The desperate regret of Mississippi provides a superb follow-up, creating intrigue and empathy in the bars of an easygoing melody. Then Elvis takes over for Summer Days, at least if the opening guitar riff is anything to go by - except Elvis didn't reach 60 in time to sing:
Well, I'm drivin' in the flats in a Cadillac car The girls all say, "You're a worn-out star" My pockets are loaded and I'm spending every dime How can you say you love someone else when you know it's me all the time?
Teasing lyrics aside, Summer Days also shows off the work of David Kemper, easily the best drummer to accompany Dylan since Mick Jones in the '60s. His effect on the album is inestimable: while almost every one of Dylan's backing musicians is content to sit back and just be present, Kemper seems to have demanded to drive the songs, setting a frantic upbeat rhythm and pounding miniature drum solos. The rhythm changes on the sublime Cry A While are to be admired as well as enjoyed, as are its autobiographically ironic promise, "I'll die before I turn senile" and bitter opening words:
Well, I had to go down and see a guy named Mr. Goldsmith A nasty, dirty, double-crossin', back-stabbin' phony I didn't want to have to be dealin' with But I did it for you And all you gave me was a smile
Kemper's efforts can also be heard very much in full flow on High Water (For Charley Patton), which is quite simply Dylan's best song since the '70s. Hell, it's one of his best songs ever. Apocalyptic and doom-laden, it's pure perfection and also proof positive Dylan should involve the fella on the banjo much more often.
With a thumping bass drum, tambourine and deathrattle groans for backing vocals, High Water is musically stunning. It transfixes you. Indeed, it's so good the whole of the Richard Gere/Billy The Kid segment of the film I'm Not There appears to have been made just so this song could be included. Then you have Dylan's typically marvellous scene-setting, of course:
They got Charles Darwin trapped out there on Highway 5 Judge says to the High Sheriff, "I want him dead or alive. "Either one - I don't care." High water everywhere
Thanks to its rhythm and blues tone and often mischievous lyrics ("You say my eyes are pretty and my smile is nice / I'll sell them to you at a reduced price"), there's a tremendous sense of toe-tapping fun on the record - see Lonesome Day Blues and the riff-laden Honest With Me for two more excellent examples - but it's deeper than it may appear. Bye And Bye is much sadder on second listen, while Sugar Baby is particularly mournful and particularly brilliant too.
As for Dylan's love-it-or-hate-it singing voice, he finally seems to have found the husky old-timer's hushed whisper he's always wanted. Since the age of 21 he's done an impression of an old man with a whisky-sozzled blues croak; now he has it, it sounds damn good.
What with Love And Theft, modern classic Modern Times, the even better Together Through Life (in which his vocals hit their absolute best) and his incomparable Christmas album, this decade has turned out to be pretty fruitful for Dylan fans. Here's to another.
Spotify, you're really not impressing me at the moment - less, even, than YouTube, which has NO videos of songs from this album in their original arrangement (Dylan fucks about with them live).
Tomorrow: the album of the decade, revealed on its last day. Gasp in shock! Choke in horror! Roll your eyes in indifference!
Sorry, I know it’s been a while. In fact, it’s been so long that it seems barely worth apologising. Suffice it to say I’m back with something particularly blogworthy. To wit:
Mario Balotelli is going to spend a week in an Italian monastery.
More specifically, that’s the Santacittarama Buddhist Monastery in Frasso Sabino, which, as far as I can work out from Google Maps, is in the middle of nowhere (a good place for a monastery, admittedly). It’s not far from Rome, and seems to be happy enough to take people in for some brief religious guidance.
To be honest, the idea of Mario Balotelli, the man who fires toy guns at passers-by, breaks into women's prisons and throws darts at youth team players, meditating with Buddhist monks is incredible. When I first heard, I assumed it would be this kind of monastery – that looks much more up Mario’s street.
But no, apparently, he’s actually going to spend a week of his summer holidays trying to calm down a touch. No doubt someone at Manchester City has had a word in his ear.
An artist's impression
Don’t worry, I’m not turning this blog into a gossip column – I just love that this is Mario Balotelli’s next step towards salvation, after beating on school bullies and giving a homeless man £1,000. Can you have a midlife crisis at 20?
Strangely enough, I didn’t think a 140-character tweet would do this story justice. Hell, there’s a film in this.
Once again: Mario Balotelli. In a monastery. Meditating.
Look, I'm sorry. I am. I really am. But what with jobbing, blogging once or twice a week over here and moving house and indeed city, I'm struggling to find the time to visit this dusty corner of the web.
It's a shitter, really. There's so much I want to comment about in all areas of the news, but it inevitably ends up instead on my Twitter account, sandwiched between football ramblings and rants at Neighbours.
Today: the Budget. I'd love to talk about it in more detail, but I've become so innured to 140 characters that -
Sorry. Old joke. The Budget was fascinating, but more for students of politics than of economics. The main talking point, really, is Alistair Darling's decision to axe Stamp Duty on first-time home buyers spending less than £250,000 on their property. Seeing as it's currently 1% of the property value, it'll probably save them around £2,000. Good stuff. Not quite as good, obviously, for the owners of million-pound homes, who are seeing their Stamp Duty rise 5%.
That'll be 5%, please It's a move that sees Labour move to their traditionalist roots... oh, come on, we know that's bollocks. It's an appeal to their core voters, that's all, but what did you expect in a pre-election Budget? It's interesting, though, that penalising well-off southerners in the commuter belt whose homes have ballooned in value through no fault of their own may cost Labour as many votes as they win through helping first-time homeowners - who, by the way, won't be as poor as all that, since the move affects properties worth between £125,000 and £250,000. Basically, mummy and daddy's mansion tax pays for their first step towards their own mansion. What's that song? We are all bourgeois now?
Still, this Stamp Duty move will probably end up a votewinner rather than a voteloser, which is more than you can say for David Cameron's efforts with Gay Times. If you wanted proof the only principle this man has is that he should win the election, there you go. "What's my stance on gay people again? Wait, I know this one. Turn the camera off, let me get my crib sheet... "
Cameron: direct (well, not really) So in conclusion, I'm rubbish, Cameron's rubbish, the Budget happened and if you are reading this, thanks for sticking with me. Now I'm settled, almost unpacked and actually have the internet at home, I can start blogging on here a bit more often than once every Twilight film.
I'm back, I promise, and I'll start... oh, next week sometime.
I know Fabio Capello is a clever, clever man, but I'm not sure this is the mark of a strong leader.
And by that I mean Capello, not Terry. We all know about the Chelsea cheater's indiscretions, and the debate over whether he should be stripped as captain. It's not an unreasonable argument: dressing room harmony is so important in the build-up to a World Cup, and acting like you're on Hollyoaks doesn't help things.
Personally, I'm amused that Terry's target was the partner of Wayne Bridge, of all people - one Vanessa Perroncel. In terms of fame, she's not exactly Victoria Beckham or Cheryl Cole, is she? It smacks of bullying to me, as if Terry is the loudmouth jock in an American teen film, boasting he can lay the geek's girlfriend at the drop of a thong.
Also, the concerns over a void at left-back if Cole is injured and Bridge resigns shouldn't be too hyped. It'll give the talented Stephen Warnock a chance.
But back to the Telegraph article: should it be left up to Wayne Bridge, the man so wronged in this affair, to decide whether Terry should be dropped as captain? Bridge, a man whose own place in the starting XI is totally reliant on Ashley Cole's fitness? Bridge, a man who is easily one of the least integral members of the squad? Asking the ex-team mate to decide his captain's fate is arguably fairest, but it doesn't seem the most professional of moves by Capello. You need to take charge and be firm.
The Telegraph suggests that for better or worse, the final word will rest with Bridge. If Terry wants to keep that armband, he'd better hope his team mate decides it's water under the Bridge.
