three films, paris, milan, boredom

For the first time in three weeks I have a few spare seconds at work. Since I can't spend this time watching You Tube clips of Shaun White tearing up the 2010 Winter Olympics or listening to Rinse FM podcasts my only options are Redissue, The Guardian website and Blogger.

Another great result on Wednesday despite a relatively average display. I love Italy and have a great respect for AC Milan supporters who have always shown solid backing for their team whilst mixing well with United fans. Can't help but feel slightly deflated however, five years ago a victory at the San Siro would have felt amazing, but without wanting to appear spoilt the whole Champions League format now feels staid and repetitive. With the same teams, the same city's featuring every year much of the mystique and allure of European competition has been extinguished by overly long group stages and the dominance of top clubs. The premier European competition has created a gulf between the haves and have nots in domestic leagues and UEFA should focus more on spreading the financial rewards throughout European football.

Last night I watched three films because I'm a boring fuck and had nothing else to do whilst waiting for my washing. The Hughes brothers' Dead Presidents was an evocative portrayal of New York in the 60's and 70's highlighting the effects of the Vietnam War on black soldiers returning to their increasingly fraught neighborhoods. Ridley Scott's American Gangster clearly riffed off the themes explored in the movie, and Chris Tucker's performance as a syphilitic junkie was particularly intriguing. Think Rush Hour crossed with Boys in the Hood, with a sprinkling of Apocalypse Now.

Next up was The September Issue, a documentary charting the creation of Vogue Magazine's most important publication of the year, coming as it does in the wake of various fashion weeks heralding the transition of Summer to Winter. This was more a character study of the notorious editor Anna Wintour than a serious analysis of a magazine's inner workings, and in many ways it played well. Wintour herself was portrayed as a deceptively ironic version of her media self whilst her large band of sycophants and pretentious no-marks struggled valiantly to satisfy her starchy demands.

One telling line however, exposed the limitations of the entire project whilst also highlighting the narrowness of subject matter. Sienna Miller (who eventually featured on the subject's front cover) remarks on entering Vogue House: "This is like some kind of girlie heaven" and indeed, if you actually enjoy watching slightly nauseating women drinking Starbucks, folding dresses and getting angry with over hyped Italian photographers then you're either a twenty something female or two pennies short of an eight bob note. Ultimately The September Issue acts as a celebration of all things banal and petty, a fashionistas dream, in which a host of drama-queens and annoying feminists flit between a series of iconic cities, deluding themselves into believing the fantastical web of lies it is their job to spin.

Finally, and because I'm in Paris, it was La Haine. Perhaps the antithesis to The September Issue, this was the second time I had watched the hard hitting French snapshot of life in a Parisian 'hood.' Some of the scenes in the film continue to blow the mind, especially the aerial ride out of an estate window, over a courtyard and then soaring up towards the city skyline set to KRS-One remixed with Edith Piaf. Director Mathieu Kassovitz apparently used a hot air balloon to achieve this mesmerizing shot, which if true is an extremely cool method of moving between separate dimensions and environments.

Anyway, I'm acting in the film tomorrow so best be on my way, look forward to getting back on the blog once I'm home next weekend. Tootle pip...

the land of 8 euro beer and making a film

Am two weeks into my 25 day stint in Paris winging it as part of a film crew. Keeping things close to the chest...it's long a fuck but in some senses hugely rewarding. For instance I've got just enough time at night, before I settle in for three hours sleep, to watch an episode of Trailer Park Boys, a genius American television show that has somehow eluded my eagle-eye until now. It's pretty excellent and has restored my faith in the cynical capabilities of the pseudo-doc comedic style. It follows two faintly ridiculous petty criminals through the daily grind of getting fucked up in their Trailer Park. Particular highlights include a deputy warden who's always half naked, the mindless celebration of guns, crime and inebriation and the fact that the lead character is never without a crystal glass of rum and coke, even when robbing a supermarket for crisps and bananas. Watch it.

Anyway, so Paris eh...what the fuck is this city all about. Firstly, to dispel an unfair myth the people are actually pretty safe despite a penchant for letting their dogs shit everywhere. But more importantly a beer is 8 euros in anywhere half decent, they eat way too many carbs and the whole place just reminds me of a bland London. The weather is the same, the vibe is not markedly different, the buildings are slightly nicer...but honestly why women quiver at the very enunciation of those two syllables is beyond me. I'm writing this on Valentine's Day, just as thousands of men sit glumly on the Eurostar heading back to London through Kent, wondering why they parted with a weeks wages to service their better half in a two star hotel behind the Gare du Nord. Sickening.

Big week coming up, what with United off to Milano (a trip I've been forced to miss...will I ever get to the San Siro?) more film making and probably some other shite that's going to be interesting. On a side note, I'm reading 'The Longest Race' a blow by blow account of the Presidential Election in 2008. Both riveting and terrifying in equal measure it truly makes you wonder where the US of A is heading and how the people contending for leadership of the nation manage to find themselves in positions of such importance. Most of them make the Trailer Park lads look sophisticated.

Happy Days, Dad of the Year, trip to Paris.

Great week really. Wednesday night was something else. I've missed two games at OT that I shall forever regret: the night of the 50 Mibs when we beat Roma 7-1 and spent half an hour pre-match tossing full beer cans into their away following and now the Carling Cup Semi Final 2010. After a week of bragging and remarkable feats of public delusion (could Garry Cook make himself look like any more of a twat?) the Red half of Manchester reclaimed their throne from the blue pretenders. A truly excellent atmosphere at OT inspired a fantastic United performance, and it was all the more heartening to see swathes of Green and Gold scarves whistling around the Strettie after Wazza's 90th minute winner.

Closely followed by a terrific victory over Arsenal yesterday and United look focused and confident for the first time this season. I can't help thinking that the fruition of the Anti-Glazer movement is partly responsible for the improvement on the pitch: United fans have been galvanized and the thought of loosing to an economically buoyant ciddy on Wednesday was simply unthinkable. There will be dark days ahead, so it would be foolish to get giddy after two admittedly brilliant results, but it is heartening to see the likes of Rooney, Evans, Evra, Fletcher, Scholes, Giggs and dare I say it Nani, playing with pride and total commitment to the cause.

Two players currently in the public eye are Carlos Tevez and John Terry. Both have a taste for money (don't we all) and both have had tough encounters with United fans in recent times. Unfortunately one is a complete and utter cunt, the other merely a product of modern football. I've joined in with the fairly moronic anti-Tevez chanting this season, but despite his public spate with Gary Neville in the press and some superb performances against us in a lazer blue shirt, I still find it difficult to dislike the tenacious Argentinean striker. He was an excellent player during his short time with United and he scored some vitally important goals. It was the combination of Glazer induced debt and the worrying influence of his poisonous agent Kia Jorcabim (can't be bothered to look up the spelling) that precipitated his departure from OT in the summer and who can blame him for taking the rejection personally. Those United fans who have forgotten his performance in the 2008 Champions League Final in Moscow, merely confirm the sense that modern football fans are as fickle as they are thick.

On the subject of that epic night in the Russian capital 19 months ago, who can forget John Terry's treatment of Tevez during the fraught final minutes of extra time. Caught on a slow motion replay the Chelsea captain can clearly be seen spitting into the Argentine's face, hiding his mouth behind an upturned collar. Has ever such an insidious man walked on the football field?

As I write this I'm off to Paris for my first film shoot. Should be top.

Will keep you updated from afar. till then x