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Censorship and its targets will always be the simplest way to construct an informed picture of the social and moral standards of any given point in history. Or is it that censorship reflects the fears and insecurities of those in power at any given point in history? The existing perception of censorship in the minds of the masses is a standardised and regulated system of analysis pertaining to the arts, media, culture and literature. This continual observation allows for the exclusion of certain materials from general circulation, on the grounds that they may be morally damaging, incendiary or a degenerative influence upon society itself. If there is nothing wrong with the concept of monitoring and taking action against such material if it falls into the aforementioned categories, why then, does contemporary censorship often seem to miss the point entirely?

In 1993 a toddler by the name of James Bulger was kidnapped from a shopping centre outside Liverpool and brutally murdered by two ten year old boys. This was a horrific event which the media (in its perpetual bloodlust) latched onto in it’s tried and tested methods of overstepping legitimate and constructive journalism with sensationalism and a well publicised witch hunt. When the focus should have been on intricately examining the way in which we care for our children, it was averted to yet another shadowy culprit; the horror film. It is human nature to find someone to blame in such tragedies, but it ia always equally important to remember where the ultimate responsibility lies. The film in question was Child’s Play 3, which emblazoned the cover of every newspaper in the UK and Ireland for weeks, under the old adage of ‘Ban this sick filth’. This called for the resurrection of the DPP Video Nasty list, first brought into play by campaigner Mary Whitehouse several years beforehand. This was such a successful resurrection of the cause that it led to the outlawing and severe censoring of many titles over the following few years (Natural Born Killers and Reservoir Dogs being two such examples). It was easier to blame the movies, than to blame ourselves. It removed any aspect of collective guilt, eradicating any ideas that we as a society might be failing, by imposing a tangible scapegoat.

I cite this case as a mere example and could list many others, horror films have always been associated by the conservative media with serial killers, social misfits and potential super villains. It is stigma such as this that has left the horror movie in a confused state, partially banished from the mainstream and for many years unsure of its own identity. A recent resurgence in quality horror is a sign that it is losing a certain amount of this stigma, but its reputation will be tarnished forever.

Music fell under similar scrutiny in this era, a nation of white middle class parents became terrified of the CD’s that their beloved white middle class offspring were listening to. Ice T and Snoop (Doggy, at the time) Dogg were particularly singled out. Ice T’s record label Time Warner came under government attack for its releases that apparently inspired racial hatred and violence. It was a well known fact that a significant amount of Gangster Rap (That’s what it was called at the time, kids) contained violent and sexual content, but there was a pantomime element to so much of it. Any individual who would have been significantly riled up by a Bodycount record to go on a killing spree would have an existing propensity for such things and once again, it raises the question of a society which leaves people feeling alienated and desperate enough to commit such crimes. Why do we seem so eager to shift blame onto entertainment, when what should be examined is the state of a culture which allows people to be left feeling alone, worthless and ultimately prone to extremist and damaging behaviour?

Living in Ireland for a significant part of my life, I have seen many examples of extreme censorship. It was only in the mid 1990’s that we were deemed grown up enough to be allowed Playboy magazine, which was allocated to the highest shelf in the newsagent and came free with a glowing neon badge which stated ‘I’m going to Hell’ with every purchase. The wearing of the badge was compulsory. Other items we were not allowed included Monty Python’s The Life of Brian (Banned until the late 1980’s), which showed the levels of insecurity which lay in both church and state. Just over a decade ago Ireland brought in its own form of video classification. In the UK they have the British Board of Film Classification; in the USA they have The Motion Picture Association of America. This was portrayed as a way to deem what was suitable for a mass Irish audience. Initially, all it served to do was to impose higher ratings on nearly all general release films and excluded many others completely. It was a few years after the introduction to this, when I was working in a business that dealt with the certification process, that I discovered the real reason behind the new system. It was imposed shortly after another large media expose on the damaging qualities of media and gave the impression of a caring and benevolent system, designed to protect and care for the citizens. The actual reason for imposing the system was the fact that the movie industry was an untapped source of government revenue. Now, to get a movie certified for an Irish audience, a film distributor has to submit their product for consideration, at quite a substantial fee. This has had a great affect on the availability of many titles in this country. The problems getting a movie passed in Ireland may now arise from budgetary constraints and not from any issues of content whatsoever. In fact, whilst running an independent DVD retail store, I found this to be the case with the vast majority of material. If you can afford to submit your film for consideration, there is a good chance it will also be heavily edited as well. Is this an example of constructive censorship? No, it’s merely another way for money to be generated, which serves only to generate questions on the entire issue of censorship in Ireland.

Last week in the UK, a coroners and justice bill was implemented, banning the publishing and ownership of certain graphic imagery. I have included two links below for you to follow on the subject, so I will not reiterate the content here. The furore over this bill is that it implements both comics and graphic novels. Any item that pertains to any form of sexual theme relating to any character under the age of 18 will be banned outright. On paper this sounds like a perfectly acceptable proposition, but it is the ambiguity and unspecific nature of the ruling that has left many writers, artists and even MP’s objecting to it. The aim is to eradicate a large amount of pornographic comic material that comes from Japan; however, the bill has not specified this. This has lead to comics such as Alan Moore’s ‘Lost Girls’ and several DC Vertigo titles being examined. Even Watchmen is under observation, due to the scene in which a young Rorschach witnesses his mother having liaisons with a ‘visitor’. In the context of the story, this is detrimental to the overall development of his character and an explanation to his demeanour and general psyche. To take it as a single panel, it could be manipulated to represent something entirely different and sinister. It is the lack of any contextual specification in regards to this bill that causes concern to the comic industry.

It is another example of a problem being identified and the clumsiest steps being taken to rectify it. There is a requirement for people who are knowledgeable on the subject to assist with such a task or the whole village will be burned to the ground in search of a single alleged witch. A draft such as this needs to be specific, due to the sheer volume of graphic art that exists today. What is being proposed now is that some friendly men will probably be paying you a visit in the near future to rifle through your comic collection. Without being contextually aware of what constitutes as acceptable within the graphic arts, it is an almost impossible concept to grasp. I would love to hear your thoughts on this.

We live in a culture of analysis. So much of our everyday lives are observed, noted and recorded. We are living in environments where the previous methods of censorship are becoming increasingly redundant. Concepts like this bill have the right idea at heart and that is commendable, but a more informed and specific legislation is called for before we see piles of books being burnt on Sky News and comic shop owners being dragged into the streets and disembowelled for being a threat to society. Be careful what you are reading.

See http://www.comicbookalliance.org.uk for more information.

Source articles: http://tinyurl.com/dfkghl

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From Twitter to Radio One, across all BBC channels and on the lips of many, Horne and Corden are here, and they don’t appear to be going away anytime soon. I was aware of them in Gavin and Stacey, which was a remarkable piece of television (in that it made Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps look like Blackadder). BBC 3 almost devoted their entire weeknight schedules to these two abominations for what seemed like most of its existence. Now that BBC2 is a primarily comedy free channel, this was seemingly, as good as it was going to get. Worry not sad public, for your wishes have been answered with ‘Horne and Corden’, the imaginatively titled sketch show, featuring Rowland Browning from Grange Hill and the plastic faced pederast from Lazytown. This involves the lovable pair, chumming around with a studio audience, interviewing c’lebrities, and showcasing previously recorded sketches. It’s a clumsy, awkward watch, which is apparently based on a single premise; ‘If they were your mates, you’d find them hilarious’. Well, I can confess to knowing neither of them, and maybe this is where I stand at somewhat of a disadvantage. For the outsider looking in, it appears to be a series of self aggrandising backslapping from two aging stage school graduates. One is fat, therefore funny. The other is androgynous, therefore funny. This in itself would normally be enough to evoke vitriolic hatred in any sane minded human, but does not serve as the main fault in their shtick. The worst part of all this is the writing and the execution, it is bum rupturingly atrocious. They take the most overused comedy targets (Homosexuals, the disabled) and use them in the most puerile unimaginative way imaginable. If you are going to cover ground that is considered taboo, there is no point in walking a well trodden path. The idea of the ‘character’ sketches falls flat on James Corden’s inability to keep a straight face while performing his own sketches. This smug showboating was never funny in the first place, but even when Ronnie Corbett would put himself in stitches with his own material, he would at least back it up by having an eloquent and witty anecdote behind it. This however, is a bit too close to Jim ‘Nick Nick’ Davidson to be comfortable for me. Matthew Horne spends the whole time looking like he’s thinking about how much sex being on the television will bring him, and spends the entire thing in some self-absorbed sex pest trance. They have just released a movie together entitled ‘Lesbian Vampire Killers’ which looks like nothing more than an embarrassment to the worlds of both Horror and Comedy. It’s the ‘chummy’, ‘blokey’ student humour that I never got, and never want to. Weakly written and generally pointless, I am beginning to see why they are so popular at the moment. We can do better than this people, I compel you all to write something of greater merit than this overhyped drivel, if this is this is the pinnacle of televised comedy in 2009, it’s time for a cull.

I am wary of so much current comedy. Before I was into music, there was comedy, my father’s Monty Python records and books fascinated me at a very young (and possibly mildly inappropriate) age. This was linked closely with affection for all the classic BBC material from the 1960’s to the 1980’s. As I got older there was a time in the 1990’s where comedy was prominent in the TV schedule; The Fast Show, Fist of Fun, The Day Today, Alan Partridge, Brasseye and later Spaced, there was no shortage of innovative and original programming, all of it hilarious and memorable. After 2000, comedy seemed to become scarcer with the onslaught of cheaper, less demanding material. There were certainly shows which gained massive followings; Black Books, The Office and The Mighty Boosh to name but a few. There was something about all of these shows which left me feeling a little hollow. Black Books started out with such great potential, but then the characters became diluted and it became nothing more than a vehicle for Bill Bailey and Dylan Moran to test their stand up material. The Mighty Boosh became (about two episodes into series one) the most horrendous case of style over substance I have ever witnessed. It is now the visual equivalent of having the cast of Skins scream the contents of the NME at you, while they tell you how great they are, and how shit your hair is. It also gained the infuriating tag of ‘Surrealist’ comedy, which is a fancy way of saying that it’s a series of non sequiters which circle around the main characters, who are ultimately the pointless focus of the whole thing. The misuse of the term ‘surreal’ has been rampant in recent times, almost as much as the terms ‘groundbreaking’ and ‘genius’.

The comedy from the USA began, possibly for the first time in history, to take the lead in originality, scripting and most importantly, humour (or should that be humor?). South Park, Reno 911, Frasier, The Daily Show, The rise of Adult Swim and many others grew stronger in their progression whilst simultaneously; Ricky Gervais was still making money from his smug c*** routine which he maintains is all an act and therefore ‘ironic’. Oh yes, we also got the ‘genius’ of Russell Brand, a screeching Dickensian transsexual with the talent of roadkill. If posing, wearing flamboyant clothing and being louder than everyone else is what constitutes comedic genius, then we can be assured that hundreds of current Art School undergraduates now have their futures secured. The two most consistent British comedy writers of the 00’s are Charlie Brooker and Chris Morris who have brought us Jam, Nathan Barley and Screenwipe, all of which are excellent.

It was only recently that I sat down with the collected seasons of ‘It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia’. It had been some time since I watched something back to back for so long and enjoyed it so much. The premise is a thin one, four reprehensible people own an Irish Bar in dilapidated southern Philly, and the business is almost non existent, leaving the main characters to get into loveable and hilarious scrapes in each episode. Sound horribly clichéd? It is, but the point is that it works. Each episode is nothing more than an improbable, ridiculous situation, complete with a jaunty classic comedy soundtrack. Adventures such as ‘Charlie Got Molested’, ‘The Gang Goes Jihad’ or ‘Charlie Wants an Abortion’ are examples of well written, stand alone 30 minute programming that are not cleaver, trendy or surreal but funny, very, very funny. In short, this is not genius, but entertainment and in my own humble opinion, that is what comedy should be.

I haven’t even bothered to mention Corden & Horne in all this, because they are about as funny as Justin Lee Collins, ‘nuff said.

As an odd little teenage hamster, I would happily pontificate for hours on the delights of Italian horror. Dario Argento, Lucio Fulci, Ruggero Deodato and friends showed me a new side of cinema that opened up so much for me. The juxtaposition of innovative and beautiful cinematography with extreme violence was a fascinating mixture for a young horror fan. From Argento’s heavy use of lighting to enhance the look of his movies (In particular Suspiria and Inferno) to Deodato’s social conscience that resided within the horrific imagery that he would portray in his work. This is not to say that the aforementioned directors didn’t churn out their fair share of duffers, but when they were good they were very very good and when they were bad they were, well, horrid. The Giallo genre fascinated me; the Giallo’s took their name from the yellow covered crime paperbacks, popular in post war Italy (Giallo being Italian for yellow). The movies fused suspense, intricately crafted storylines and blood, lots and lots of blood. The soundtracks were almost always worth mentioning, with Argento favourites Goblin (Dawn of the Dead, Suspiria) providing more revolutionary music than Kraftwerk ever would. Four Flies on Grey Velvet features the most amazing score by Ennio Morricone, a psychedelic jazz nightmare. It has been a few years since I have watched some Argento (With the exception of his most recent offering The Three Mothers, which was awful) and so I was excited to obtain a collection of untouched Italian prints of all his older movies. Last night the marathon began with Phenomena. This is a great introduction to Argento for any of those who may be interested; it stars Donald Pleasence, a very young Jennifer Connelly and a monkey. Connelly is shipped off by her movie star father to a Swiss boarding school for girls. She is subject to suspicion and abuse and seeking refuge, finds a friend in Pleasence’s handicapped insect expert, who discovers her special gift with insects. She has a telepathic gift with allows her complete control over the insect world (whilst rocking some fabulous caterpillars over her eyes). There is a return to the Giallo theme, with a serial killer picking off people all around her, she makes plans to escape the school as she realises that she is the next target. Highly original in execution, the performances are great for a film of its genre. The soundtrack is amazing, with Goblin, Lemmy and Bill Wyman all contributing. I can honestly say that this is one of Argento’s most accessible and enjoyable features, seek, watch, and thank me afterwards. Saving the rest of the Argento movies for later in the week, next up was Detour, which is basically The Hills Have Eyes, except its celluloid discharge. Notable for the fact that it features teenagers coming back from a rave in ‘Cyber’ gear, a laughable late attempt to make the film trendy and cutting edge. Watching a pink haired Cyber Goth run about the desert in big black boots and a long cardie was amusing; the rest of the movie was not. Predictable, uninspired and boring, this is one to avoid when you inevitably see it for sale in the 2.99 section of your local DVD store. The final movie in this triple feature was the woeful Kinky Killers. It was neither kinky, nor featured any killing worthy of mention. I had more fun at the dentist last week. To sum up, acquire a copy of Phenomena and have some fun with a monkey, if you get offered the other two, punch the person who did so in the groin and call them a fool. Film Noir and more Argento reviews to come soon.

Happy Mothers Day, especially to all those not of woman born. Who do they have to love?

Ah spring is here, when a young man’s mind turns to love and even the most jaded of us can find solace in……oh bollocks, who am I kidding. Spring is crap; it’s too cold most of the time and too wet the other. People just get overly excited because they haven’t seen the sun for five months, scrambling into the high streets like recently unearthed mole people. I think it’s the fact that from the first moment of sunshine you will begin to observe idiots walking around in shorts and sunglasses, t-shirts and other such gaudy summer wear. It’s still cold and wet you idiots, just slightly sunnier. As I type this, I am beginning to realise that I’m about two steps from getting a cane and twatting people on the ankles with it as I make my way through town. This would suit me just fine, but my good lady forbade it. Still, the seemingly endless wet afternoons are proving great for actually getting some solid work done, whilst leaving sufficient time in the evening to squeeze a few movies in. This brings us to our latest Trashy Triple Bill. Easing us into the evening was a bit of pseudo feminist fluff from 1958’s Attack of the 50 Foot Woman. You will probably already know the artwork for this, as it was recently hijacked and put onto handbags and sold in overpriced 50’s style shops where girls can buy lots of crap with Audrey Hepburn on it having never actually watched any of her movies. The film itself, however, is a delightful little slice of B-Pie. Running at just over 60 minutes, it reinforces the idea that you can tell a good story in less than a three hour running time (something that has been causing me great despair at the cinemas for years now). Introduced by a news bulletin giving reports of a satellite being spotted in several parts of the world, we are thrown into a suburban town in the Californian desert. A young woman, renowned as an alcoholic about the town, remains one of the most influential and affluent figures within the small community and so she is generally accommodated in her eccentricities. Her husband is a sleazebag who is having a bit of ring a ding with a local tramp, holding her in a dingy hotel room where he conducts his affair. His wife is very much aware of his philanderer’s ways and turns a blind eye as best she can. Taking off after an argument, she drives into the desert where she meets a giant orb, containing a giant hairy man. In fits of delirious screaming she returns to the town and is swaddled up and sent off to bed, the blame being put squarely on the sauce. Short story shortened, she takes off to find this orb again, is radiated and turns into, well you can guess. It is the underlying examination of a relationship breakdown and the roles of each character that makes this a truly remarkable piece of filmmaking, it harkens a time when a piece of bubblegum cinema could address issues with a certain degree of dignity. Top marks, onto the next picture. From the beginning of no budget Australian flick Lost Things, I was sceptical, it starred and appeared to be written by teenagers. Two horrible blond twats go a weekend holiday with two incredibly unfortunate looking girls (One resembles the imagined offspring of Charlie Brooker and Winston Churchill, I kid you not.) in the hope of catching some surf, sun and STD’S. The first half is unbelievable drek, but stick with it for the second part offers some nicely written ideas (albeit horrendously executed). It has some unique concepts and plays them up nicely, the violence is awful but the suspense and genuine intrigue that arises in the latter half means that I will go out on a limb and say yes, give it a go. A warning though, there is topless scenes involving the Brooker/Churchill thing. This proved very enjoyable and we even built a new desk during the shit half, so if you want a film that will spurn the desire for late night drunken DIY then you could do a lot worse than Lost Things. The final instalment of our latest trash triple was Switchblade Sisters (1975). This was just pure unadulterated fun, a gang of vicious teenage girls (including one with an eye patch!) swagger their way around the town beating up nasty men types. The real fun starts when you meet the gang’s male counterparts and then the film goes into weird Grease style territory. It all becomes about high school, except with gangs that chain whip people. As an exploitation piece, it’s very tame, so would make a good starting point for those who wish to introduce themselves or others into the genre. It would be far more successful than closing the curtains on a sunny day and making new visitors to the house watch the uncut version of Cannibal Holocaust with the sound turned on full. It’s a camp, colourful take on it, with nice cutaway techniques when any of the unpleasant stuff starts to happen. Not the best exploitation movie I have seen in a long time, but definitely one with the potential to entice and evoke curiosity in a newcomer to the wonderful world of trash. I’m having a bit of a Troma week here in the hamster’s lair, so some truly horrendous celluloid discharge will be reviewed over the next few days. Now, as it’s sunny I’m going into town, with my stick to see if I can trip up some young idiot with a haircut. Bye for now.

It’s hard to believe that ten years have passed since the release of Fight Club. One of the most intense, visceral and acerbic releases of ‘99, it became the defining film of the decade. The performances were more than memorable, the soundtrack was fantastic and the overall look of the film made us all think that David Fincher was going to make amazing movies forever. I don’t want to be one of those people but it is true to say that I had read the book several times beforehand and was instantly drawn into the world of Chuck Palahniuk. In the last decade, I have eagerly awaited the release of each of his books and there are very few authors who I can claim to follow with such undying enthusiasm.

What occurred to me during a recent viewing of Fight Club was just how subversive it was, I find it difficult to imagine a film being released today that explains how easy it is to manufacture home made explosives and attack multinational companies. Nor can I imagine one that encapsulates the feelings of impotence and disillusionment of an entire generation so well, for that matter. Beneath the surface, there is far more to Fight Club than bared knuckles and bitch tits. Palahniuk handles his agendas like very few writers can, he weaves them evenly across his novels and presents them for little more than your consideration. His message is never to tell you what to think, but to entice you to think for yourselves. He is a man who has a lot to say, but realises the pitfalls of standing on a soapbox for too long. If you discuss the socio political elements of fight club when removed from the context of the movie, it’s a bit like being stuck in an elevator with Zach De La Rocha while he reads to you from The Anarchists Cookbook. It is the humour and observations of Palahniuk which disassociate him from the rhetoric and mantras of the radicals. He does little more than place the ideas within his pages.

It has been widely publicised that Palahniuk is a nihilistic misanthrope, which couldn’t be further from the truth. This is highlighted in the documentary Postcards from the Future, which was made by Palahniuk’s endorsed fan site The Cult. Unfortunately, it is little more than a giddy student film, peppered with unnecessary interviews with the filmmakers buddies (who are screen smashingly irritating). The footage of the interviews, Q&A sessions and seminars more than make up for this though. He comes across as a man who knows how fortunate he is to tell his stories to people, and openly encourages people to do the same and better. He refuses to sign people’s body parts after it transpired that fans were getting his signature tattooed. When asked about this, he commented that he ‘Wanted to move people away from this form of music video hero worship, that if people wanted to show their appreciation that the greatest thing they could do is to create something unique.’ You can’t really disapprove of such a viewpoint. Chuck wants us all to regain control of our lives, to do something with them.

I also got to see Choke for the first time, which I am very pleased to say is a fantastic adaptation, bleakly funny and insightful all the way through. Again it is the stories effect to make us laugh, to entertain, whilst ultimately leaving some form of resonance with us. This is why as part of this overall recommendation, I am suggesting to you to seek out the books of Fight Club and Choke before you can see the movies if at all possible. Actually, seek out any of his books, because you will be rewarded with how accessible, thought provoking and well constructed they are. So much of his material wouldn’t transpire as well to film, his use of repetitive dialogue and the subtle connections between characters that exist within the novels is best left on the page. He can do everything from the gritty social commentary to the romantic gothic novel, often in the space of a few chapters.

In an age of perpetual cynicism, where we are all such wonderful critics and fit to judge everything so freely, it is refreshing to find someone who continually gives the message that if you’re not happy, you can change things yourself. That it’s no point complaining to a world that doesn’t care to listen, that if you really want to make a difference; you have to find a better way. This way is not incidentally, forming underground fight clubs and forming your own Project Mayhem. It comes from thought, from creation and from you being honest enough to ask yourself ‘What is the one thing you want to do before you die?’. I’d tell you mine, but I’m not supposed to talk about it.

In early 2006, Zach Snyder met with studio heads at Warner Bros to discuss the pre production of Watchmen, possibly one of the most highly anticipated comic book adaptations of all time. To comic fans everywhere, Watchmen was the most intelligent and significant comic piece of its epoch, it was when comics got smart. These are lifted from the recently leaked minutes from that fateful meeting, brought to you exclusively, for your approval.

Warner Bros Lot 52 Section 42:A March 24th

Meeting Concerning the conception and pre-production of Watchmen.

Okay, so, like, I got given this comic book, only like it’s huge but the person who gave it to me told me that it’s like totally life changing and shit, so I was looking at the pictures for like, days and I thought to myself “Wow, Zach Snyder, you should like totally make this into a movie. It looks awesome.” It was like, totally deep too, all about like super heroes, only their not all super anymore ‘cos like, the Keane act told them to stop being super. Anyway, that bit was all kinda confusing, and there was some shit with pirates, but we’ll totally cut all that shit out. So, I call up this English dude, and he was giving some serious negativity towards the project, and so we were like screw you, we don’t need you. He says he told us to go jump first but we know the truth, right guys. So, we’ll get Rorschach and we’ll give him a silly voice, yeah, a silly voice, just to show how crazy he is, like Clint Eastwood and Christian Bale, trying really hard to do a shit impression of themselves. Yeah, then we’ll get Robert Downey Jr to play the comedian. Hey, can we get a really blonde dame, y’know like one from the Hills and dress her up like Silk Spectre; only she won’t smoke, only the Comedian smokes, that way we know he’s a bad guy ok. Oh and there’s a skanky hooker in it too, she can smoke, because she’s a hooker. Then like we get to meet Dr Manhattan, who’s like all blue and glowy, ‘cos he went all like the Hulk n’ shit and now he’s like the American super weapon, and we’ll show him like blowing up loads of non American’s and it’ll be awesome. He’s also got an amazing wang, and it’s all blue, so we can show it, so loads of screentime for the wang ok? So, for music, I think like Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Simon & Garfunkel, ‘cos when you go see a movie, you wanna be able to sing a long to songs you know, am I right? It’ll be super cool, there’s a funeral and I know this really emotional Simon & Garfunkel track we can use, shit’ll make you cry bro. So, we’ll make it really long, but we can take out all the bits that made my head hurt, oh and it’s like totally violent too so we’ll have like really sick ass action, and we’ll take loads of shots straight from the book and so it’s like a totally faithful adaptation. Oh yeah man, Leonard Cohen for the tittie shot. I think we got ourselves a movie! Whooooo! *(Sounds fade out to the sounds of chopping, sniffing and goats having their throats cut)*

Last week, Snyder’s vision was realised, created and unleashed upon the world. As you read this, scores and scores of idiots are forever going to associate this wonderful piece of socio political storytelling, with this bloated, misconstrued recruitment film. At no point in Watchmen do I remember the twin towers featuring in almost every cityscape, nor do I remember the dystopian element disappearing completely only to be replaced by “Whoooo! America! Fuck Yeah!” I had no idea that they were capable of doing this, but they have. This is the dead dog in the road, with the tire tracks on its burst stomach. I don’t know about you, but I’m off to read for a while.

Just as an attempt to prove to you all that I don’t spend every hour of each day watching insufferably bad horror movies, I present to you a French Triple Bill. I was waiting for quite some time to get my hands on a copy of Julian Schnabel’s Le Scaphandre et le Papillion (The Diving Bell & The Butterfly) which is based on the autobiographical book of the same name by Jean-Dominique Bauby. The book was written after Bauby (an editor of Elle magazine at the time) suffered a stroke, resulting in a rare condition known to the layman as “locked in syndrome”. He was left completely paralysed except for the use of his eyelids. Infection claims one of his eyes early on and leaves him with only one to communicate with. The majority of the first half of the movie is shot from a first person perspective. This only helps to accentuate the fear, confusion and frustration that he is feeling. The effect is haunting, as we discover that his thought process has not been damaged at all. Building from “Once for yes, twice for no.” his speech therapists use an alphabet, structured by frequency of use, to which he must blink when he has reached the letter of choice, as they are called out to him. By this painstaking method a basic communication form utilised and over time, Bauby decides to pursue with a book that he had been planning before the accident. The subject matter will be altered to reflect his current condition and the results are both memorable and heartbreaking. I can strongly recommend this to anyone with a soul.

Following this magnificent film was going to be a difficult task, and so it was very fortunate that the subsequent offering was equally magnificent. Philippe Claudel’s Il y a longtemps que je t’aime (I have loved you so long) is released this week and is worth every one of your heard earned pennies. Kristin Scott Thomas plays a woman who has just been released from prison after 15 years; she is housed with her estranged sister, with whom she had no contact with whilst in lock down. Details of her crime transpire over the course of the movie and the effect that it has on each individual character is a marvelous thing to observe. Its subtleties are juxtaposed with some truly harsh and emotionally wrenching scenes. Each character brings their own purpose for this tale which will leave you thoughtful and ponderous for many hours after the credits have rolled. Scott Thomas gives the best performance I have ever seen her do onscreen. I am afraid of giving too much away and so will move on, because this truly is a film that the less you know going in, the more you will bring from it, along with your own analogies, interpretations and opinions. For this you will thank me.
And finally, as the predecessors were both on the heavy side, we have Kim Chapiron’s Sheitan (Satan), which is slap bang in the middle of House of 1000 Corpses and Human Traffic. My favourite Frenchman Vincent Cassel (La Haine, Dobermann) plays a slightly odd goat farmer, who is visited by a group of roustabouts that his sister had picked up in a Parisian nightclub. The yobs all arrive down in a drunken post club haze, driving a boy racers GTI. They proceed to poke about the house making fun of things, much to the dismay of the family. Some extended (but I cannot imagine too distantly) family join in the fun and in one particularly odd scene there is a “Red Rocket” moment. South Park fan’s will know what I’m talking about, if you don’t, I’m not explaining it, watch the movie. It’s violent, funny and has a great soundtrack as well. I am partial to a lot of French hip hop, so the b-boys really filled me with delight. Main character Bart is a cross between Mike Skinner and Danny Dyer, except much better than both, and French. Seek, watch, enjoy.
So we ended up with a horror movie but you know what? The French do their horror like most of their cinema, more visceral, more biting and better written. Zach Snyder take note. Actually don’t; just stop making movies instead please.

Sometimes, when the world seems at its bleakest and there is a cartoon cloud over your head raining down live frogs and rabbit poo, nothing is as wonderfully distracting as a trashy triple bill. Three back to back movies can do a lot for one’s demeanour. Bear in mind I did use the word sometimes. First up in the hamster’s lair was The Midnight Meat Train, which is released this week. Adapted from a Clive Barker story which was either written on the toilet, or scrawled on the side of a Cenobite figurine package at a comic convention. I am unsure which and life is too short to bother researching it. In this glossy offering, a struggling photographer finds a magic door, constructed entirely of human fingers and boudoir biscuits, eating his way through he tumbles down a stairway onto a hidden railway platform, deep within the earth’s core. His natural instinct is to flee back to his girlfriend as it is almost tea time, but his angst-ridden artistic curiosity brings him further along the train tracks until he finds two demonic carriages, Annie and Clarabelle. A& C are made from sinuous muscle tissue and chewed up Wham! Bars (or Roy of the Rovers, I can’t quite remember). Inside these spooky demonic trains, Vinnie Jones and Brooke Shields pirouette endlessly to the sounds of the Czech Symphony Orchestra, whilst reciting previously unheard EE Cummings poems, backwards. Something happens with rainbows and all is well, I think there was a landscape of unicorn carrion as well. Actually, this is all a rough guess due to the fact that it was such an entirely preposterous, badly acted, cliché ridden piece of flaking dangleberry cinema that it put me to sleep halfway through. Stop giving Vinnie Jones work people. It’s really about a magic train where Vinnie Jones hits people with a hammer, and then he cuts up the bodies and sells them back to the public. Vinnie’s a butcher see! You see! If you do decide that you wish to bring death a little closer and hand over 90 minutes to watch this constipated garbage, then you will surely agree that my original version is better. At least it had unicorns. Oh, here’s the only good shot from the movie, when an unsuspecting passenger gets clouted in the back of the head with a hammer and his eye’s pop out! Wheeee!

Before you ask, I watch this stuff so you don’t have to! With dampened spirits and the increasing realisation that I must have spent most of my life so far watching the unwatchable, I dove head first into the second movie of the evening, and rather than finding an empty pool and opening my skull on the concrete below, I found a pleasant and interesting surprise. Zzyzx is the unpronounceable 2006 movie from no one you or I have ever heard of. It looks like it was made on dreams and favours and is all the more wonderful for it. I have not been so instantly drawn into such a film in a long time, the plot is so simple that I would spoil it by entering into detail, all I will say is that I can highly recommend you track down a copy for yourself and give this one a go. I found certain scenes to be so realistically handled, that the sheer lack of budget only went to emphasise the nastiness of it all. Root out a copy, it’s also one of the few movies I have seen that handle hallucinatory magic mushroom scenes with any sense of realism, grisly beautiful stuff. Oh, it has eye gouging in it as well.

Last up was Dead Heat, which was pure, unbridled fun. I love both Treat Williams and Joe Piscopo and as this was billed as a “Zombie Buddy Cop Movie” how the hell could I resist? It also stars Vincent Price, which is a bonus to any film, what with him having the best voice in cinema and all. Treat Williams character is called Roger Mortis, there’s zombie baddies with Uzi’s! What more do you want from a film? If you need more convincing at this point, there is no hope for you. It’s also got loads of great 1980’s monster makeup and that blue electricity special effect which made all movies look spectacular way back when. I am considering starting a petition to bring back blue electricity effects in movies, who’s with me?