Bad Blogging, a trip to Greece and the Massives.

Fair fucks to the lad who wrote a comment below my last post, it was on reflection a badly written and faintly boring article but then again the title of my blog might give the game away. Will try to do better this week. 

Managed to swap London for seven days in Greece on the spiritual Ionian island of Zante, an absolutely beautiful place with proper food, shimmering seas and cloudless skies. Stayed in a quaint villa with my family but we were informally connected to a bizarre beach club called the Peligoni, which is a kind of Eton on sea. The entire complex was run in a similar manner to a boarding school: staff who were all suitably plummy and universally hailed from the home counties were like prefects trying to control consistently pissed lawyers, doctors, bankers, lords and their trophy wives whilst their teenage offspring chased down their craftily hidden Marlbro Lights with bottles of neat Ouzo. It was an entertaining time. 

Away from the madness of Zante all kinds of fucked up things have been taking place back in Manchester. It's been some time since I've alluded to anything 'football' and frankly this summer has been a particularly tedious one as soulless clubs like Real and City, blinded by delusion and ambition, have destroyed the last vestiges of morality and parity that might have remained in the game. Watching the Barcodes getting thrashed by Leyton Orient and playing to 16, 000 fans at St. James' against Leeds has been welcome relief. The thought of those two clubs playing in the Third Tier of English football in a years time is a beguiling prospect.

Despite all this embittered angst I actually couldn't be more excited about the forthcoming season, primarily United's game against City in mid-September. United fans have for a long time laughed at City's bitter resentment fueled by our success and wearily ignored their constant stream of lies and claims that our entire support hails from south of the M25, knowing full well that the majority of those who used to walk down Kippax Street hail not from Manchester but from Stockport. Their actions this summer however, especially that fucking poster of Tevez in the centre of town, has merely highlighted everything that is wrong about their club. Fuckheads like Gary Cook, City's chief executive and definitive cunt, can't resist petty sideswipes at United, building upon the misconceptions and blatant untruths dreamt up by the hoards of desperate loosers gloating from over the wrong side of the M60. As a result City are made to look stupid, Sir Alex who has little time for local rivalry and fan division at the best of times is forced to remark on City's 'small time attitude,' and most importantly this year's Derby promises to be nastier, edgier and more passionate than anything for years with the exception of the 50th Anniversary game two seasons back. Fingers crossed City keep their shenanigans up because without them the following season would feel about as hollow as Gary Cook's skull.  

Oasis, rain, being jobless and Bungalow 8.

Ok so a pretty bizarre week of mixed experiences and emotions. On the one hand the early summer sunshine that spread through most of June has now given way to hail storms, grey skies and general misery. Add to this the fact that getting a proper job is almost impossible at the moment and you can understand why I'm pining for the sunny beaches of Columbia and Miami, instead of the utterly shite place that is a recession hit London in the middle of an utterly miserable July. On the other, more positive hand I had some pretty good nights out on the town last week to get over these mid-summer blues! (Is there such a thing or am I just a depressive fuck?)

So firstly the action packed night that was Oasis at Wembley last Thursday. Despite the fact that I have never seen them live previous to the gig, they are possibly, actually no definitely, my most favorite of bands, despite the fact that both Liam and Noel support Manchester City and have been known to make rather disparaging remarks about their red neighbors. In short I had been looking forward to this night for about two months and it didn't disappoint. 

There were inevitably various shit aspects to the day: I was hungover, there wasn't much sun, beer inside cost £4 a pint and the crowd was generally full of cunts from Hertfordshire who kept singing 'OASIS, OASIS' like moronic plebs who thought going to a concert was akin to going to watch England play football. Despite these disappointments it was without doubt a fucking class day out, with a few pleasant surprises along the way. Perhaps the biggest was Wembley itself, which proved to be a far better concert arena than atmospheric football ground. Having only previously attended the new version of our National Stadium for last season's Charity Shield encounter with Portsmouth, which proved beyond doubt that United's support contains some of the world's biggest tools, I was not really holding out much hope for an evening of atmosphere and passion. That afternoon back in August had to be one of the most disappointing of my life, forced to watch a terrible game of football in a soulless concrete bowl, sat next to a middle aged couple from Watford dressed in replica kits and some bizarre red and white jester hats. 

Oasis could not have been more different, for a start we were standing on the pitch itself, which was absolutely bloody brilliant as being stood right in the middle of a 90,000 stadium is always going to be awe-inspiring, whatever the occasion.  Then there were the warmup acts, amongst the best rock bands in Britain today; namely The Enemy and Kasabian. Now I'm definitely no kind of expert when it comes to indie music or whatever people choose to call it, but if there was one thing to admire in both of these acts, it was the laddishness and thuggery they exuded.  Their attitudes and stage presence go hand in hand with the very essence of a form of masculinity that in many ways feels slightly outdated, yet much missed in the Brave New World of Coldplay, Razorlight and god-help us the Blur reunion. Both The Enemy and Kasabian mirror the best elements of early Oasis, with their Stone Island Jackets, Madchester haircuts (a la Ian Brown) and great anthemic tunes which all run along the lines of getting really fucked up on a combination of booze, drugs and pretty girls. They got the crowd going, the cups of piss and random shoes flying around and generally made sure that by 8:20pm when Oasis took to the stage, everyone was absolutely buzzing. 

So then the headliners themselves. From the frankly mental opening rendition Rock n' Roll Star, which basically ended up causing a vast mosh pit with lads jumping on each other and kicking fat birds in the face right through to the soulful rendition of  Champagne Supernova it was everything you wanted from an Oasis concert and more. Yes there were a few sound problems, yes some overeager cunt almost ripped my Armani leather jacket (never wearing that on a night out again!) and yes maybe there were slightly too many people but the general consensus was: 'Fucking Yes what a night, still the best band in the world!' 

So anyway Thursday over the following night saw me and a few mates manage to get into Bungalow 8 in central London. I only mention this because the guy who got us in had to be the biggest fuckhead ever, a fact illustrated by his ridiculous fucking fringe and his insistence on telling his mate: "Last night was propa messy!" It's a general rule that anyone who says that must a) Be a flid who was bullied at school and b) Someone who actually likes Skins and c) Thinks the painfully forced 'lingo' characters use in the show should be reproduced in real life conversations. As for the club itself it was nice but full of high class hookers, snooty, hatchet-faced promoters and bald lads wearing trendy clothes. But I'm not having a go, cos I would like to go back!

So all in all a boring week made good by Oasis and a twat who liked Skins. In the words of Liam and Noel: 'You gotta roll with it!'

FILM REVIEW: THE FALL dir. Tarsem

This week I'm introducing a new blog feature to tie in with my passion for film and overtly critical disposition, the first of what I hope will be a long series of online Film Reviews. More often than not I will try to focus on contemporary releases; hopefully not involving Transformers, Hugh Grant or anything to with Sarah Jessica Parker, but there might be the odd oldie or a minor film from a few years thrown in along the way. 

Before I begin and in much the same style as that whacky kook Rafa Benitez I believe I should state a few facts. Firstly I'm not a film snob and I like big budget blockbusters that are actually good and not purely aimed at becoming a season tent pole that studios use as an excuse to make a lot of money. In the same way I can't stand 'arthouse' independent films that wallow in mediocrity, pretension and weird sex scenes. 

Secondly I'm not here professing in any way to being an expert. I know comparatively little about film compared to many, and my tastes are far from broad. But I feel that I have watched and read enough about the medium to offer worthwhile critiques of films I feel passionate enough to write about. 

Thirdly I hope this is the last time I ever write using a numbered list as its really not a very enlightened way of writing and feels a bit too Daily Mail for my taste!

So anyway, the honor of becoming the subject of my very first online review is bestowed upon the surreal, inspiring, multi-faceted, somewhat confusing, far from perfect second film from the enigmatic American/Indian director Tarsem Singh, known publicly simply as Tarsm. Entitled 'The Fall' it is a visual masterpiece that has effectively been twenty years in the making and establishes its creator as one of the most inventive and insightful cinematic directors around, due to his astonishing use of natural landscape and  artful blending of physical reality with a sort of semi-mythic magical-realism. In short it is a compelling and thoroughly original film, worthy of much more interest and praise than it has hitherto received from audiences and reviewers alike.

Ostensibly, perhaps the most important and interesting aspect to this film is its visionary creator and director rather than the script, the story or the actors. Tarsem is quite simply a maverick, a figure who has distilled every ounce of his incredible skill, vision, passion and artistic flair into creating a highly personal labour of love, and a sonnet of sorts to the arresting natural beauty of his native India. In a refreshing departure from the gluttony of many powerful figures in the upper echelons of Hollywood he financed the film largely using his own funds and created a deliberately socialist style of cast and crew remuneration by paying everyone involved in the film equally. Whilst his background in producing adverts for Nike and Coca-Cola, to name but a few, might seem more Michael Bay than Ken Loach it is clear from the very outset that this is a film about as far removed from convention as a priest who doesn't have a penchant for children and alcohol. 

The basic plot outline is rather complex; riffing off ancient myths involving conquistadors, warriors and slaves and stories such as The Wizard of Oz, Tarsem uses the relationship built in a sweltering LA hospital, between  an injured stuntman and a young Latino girl who picks California's golden oranges for a living, to delve into the mysterious enigma of human imagination and the dangerous intersection between the world we inhabit in our dreams and the painful realities that bite when we wake from them.

Our stuntman hero Roy (Lee Pace) is trying to recover from a heavy fall off a horse, as well as a painful breakup from his actress lover, while the wonderful Catinca Utaru, playing Alexandra his young companion, is unwittingly learning to cope with the death of her father, as well as her plaster encrusted broken arm. In a bid to win her trust and eventually steal the dulling delight that is morphine for him, Roy creates a surreal fairytale that takes over the primary thread of the film.  Set in an anonymous but stunning realm it follows five distinct heroes, including a fantastic and highly stylized version of a young Charles Darwin, as they all try to avenge the murderous violence of the tyrant conquistador Odious. As his drug abuse and despair deepen however, Roy's tale, which at first seen through the eyes of Alexandra seemed so distant and magical, takes a darker turn; drawing characters from Roy's life into its depths and eventually threatening to spill over into reality itself. 

The truly special moments here arrive in the spell binding landscapes and locations Tarsem transports his five heroes to, through the potent imagination of Alexandra. From Butterfly Reef, nestled in the tropical sea surrounding Fiji, to Jodpurh the 'Blue City' of Rajistan, 'The Fall' utilizes over twenty of the world's most startling and naturally striking locations to create a fantasy that seems every bit as distant from physical possibility as the now highly ubiquitous and often tedious use of greenscreen to create bland landscapes and 'artistic' cinematography. 

Of course the film won't be to everyone's tastes, though no great work of art ever is. There are plenty of faults at the heart of 'The Fall' ranging from a definite imbalance between plot and style through to a lack of clarity and plausibility when it comes to determining Roy's increasing angst and despair before his sudden rejuvenation in the final scenes. Shot entirely in digital there will be many who pine for the depth and feel of ordinary film, but as far as I'm concerned the clarity of Tarsem's vision is clearly and perfectly captured by the refined quality of digital technology.

David Fincher and Spike Jonze, two of Tinsel Town's more inventive and interesting directors, both lent their support to this production and it is easy to see why. 'The Fall' is quite simply an assured and daring attempt to amalgamate the vast complexities of the human subconscious and imagination with the dull predictability of physical boundaries and personal suffering.   Despite its originality, pastoral beauty and vivid script however, 'The Fall' was only a minor blip on the Hollywood radar on its release in Autumn 2008. I can imagine that for its creator and visionary Tarsem, this is a point of minor importance. He has achieved something special with this film and so long as his audience feel the same way about his achievements as I do, then he will have succeeded in his desire to conjure intense emotion and passion for the art of storytelling as well as a deep affection for the succinct and startling magnitude of nature's greatest vistas. 

Please take my word for it and watch this film. 

Being nice

Ok so re-reading last weeks blog I feel slightly foolish, I sound really quite sour and embittered. So to all the people I have lambasted over the last few weeks I'm sorry for giving into the temptations of internet anonymity and acting like a Heat gossip columnist. This week I'm going to do three things: try not to swear, try harder not to criticize people and hopefully avoid mentioning Michael Jackson too much. All I will say is that as I completed my entry last week, news began to filter in about his death and I thought about making a joke. But I didn't. 

One group of people who still rile me are those incompetent, vain, vacuous individuals who continue to update their facebook status' with completely 'random,' highly tedious snippets of banal information. My favorite web forum: Red Issue, a place for United fans to congregate and get angry ran a brilliant thread on this particular group of numpties. Here is my favorite anecdote: "A 'mate' who i now actually consider to be a complete f***k keeps updating his facebook status with tales of shopping trips in Manc city centre. His new profile photo shows him posing with an empty Vivienne Westwood shopping bag and is coupled with a status reading: 'Andy has just spent £600 on T-shirts." What. A. Twat.

In many ways this continual obsession with publicising one's personal life is indicative of society's obsession with outward projection and the trappings of wealth and fame. I'm no hypocrite, I will gladly hold my hands up and admit that I use Twitter and write a self-infatuated blog which no one reads, but I think there is a serious problem with people living their lives and making decisions based on how it will look on internet portals. When we come back from holiday the first thing we do is rush to 'the book' and upload our smugshots. When we begin a holiday our first move is to find a computer and update our status: 'Celia is in Goa and dancing to psy-trance.' Really, are you? No your fucking around on a computer in an internet cafe without air-con. Or possibly on a blackberry.

Ah yes the joys of the 'crackberry.' That's another addition to my arsenal of networking tools since I've returned from South America!  And it is a pretty beautiful piece of technology, far snappier than the I-Phone in my opinion, though clearly a very different piece of kit. By far the most important feature of the berry is the Instant Messaging application, allowing you to Ping fellow 'crackers' and then begin a totally free exchange of meaningless Hello's, What are you Up too's and Let link up's. Brilliant and completely awful at the same time. 

So basically life is becoming an endless stream of twaddle, friendships are constructed through artificial technology and the world's most famous man died alone in LA pumped to the brim with pain killers, opiates and alcohol, only to be mourned through social networking sites and television channels devoted to the cult of 'celebrity.' It's all very J.G Ballard and Philip K. Dick but everyone seems cheerful enough and if I wanted to I could have written and posted this wonderful encapsulation of the post, post-modern world via my mobile! Happy days!

Until next week, General E!!xxxx

P.S Apologies to Georgie Greig, who I discovered today is in fact editor of the Evening Standard and no longer manning the desk at Tatler. My bad but I was away for 5 months. I'm sure however that he will still be forced into attending the awful summer season parties and wankathons and will probably end up having to watch Tracy Emin creating artwork out of her toilet after a night on the tiles. Oh to be a successful media man in 2009!