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As a proper summer is apparently not making an appearance anywhere I may wander for the next few months, I’ll just have to sit in and pretend. Although with the perpetual greyness, rain and humidity which seems to alter the effects of gravity itself, comes the perfect setting for claustrophobia and discomfort. Someone who does these like no other is the playwright Tennessee Williams (Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, The Glass Menagerie). His works are standout amongst the southern gothic genre and for the purposes of this piece; I would like to draw your attention towards two very fine film adaptations of his plays.

The first in tonight’s double feature being ‘Night of the Iguana’ which whilst sounding like a Robert Aldrich film noir, is in actuality an astonishing exercise in blame, redemption, fear, hatred, persecution, escape and love. Richard Burton plays Reverend Shannon, a man who lost his post as minister due to some indescrepancies with a young schoolmistress. Now living in Mexico and working for a tour guide company, he has the misfortune to be landed with a group of middle aged women from deep within the southern Bible belt. Even more unfortunate for Shannon is the presence of 17 year old Charlotte Goodall (Sue Lyon – The original ‘Lolita’ from Stanley Kubrick’s masterpiece) the dangerously flirtatious young girl develops an instant crush on him. With temptations (and suspicions) escalating in the stifling Mexican heat, the girl’s chaperone and aunt Judith Fellowes (Grayson Hall) instantly berates Shannon for what she sees as a precarious situation unfolding.

Charlotte’s advances are plentiful and as subtle as a 17 year old’s can be, although there is a dangerous and troublesome element to her, an attribute that she clearly retained from her time spent filming Lolita. Her aunt finds her in Shannon’s room in the dead of night, and accuses him of statutory rape. This leads the distraught and more significantly, innocent minister hijacks the tour and brings the gaggle of discombobulated and panicky old spinsters to a hotel run by his old friend Maxine Faulk (Ava Gardner). The reasoning behind this is to but time and hopefully favour. It is not long after when they are joined by Hannah Jelkes (Deborah Kerr) and her grandfather, a well renowned poet, who have come to Mexico so that he can write his final perfect piece.

The tension escalates as visibly as the heat. The screen almost shimmers as Gardner swans barefoot through the mountainside hotel, with an allure, elegance and grace that simply does not exist today. Burton is as enigmatic as I have ever seen him, every inch the tortured soul, wrestling with his faith, his desires and above all himself. The passion and skill that went into this picture not only keep the viewer’s undivided attention throughout, they command it.

To allow you undisturbed viewing if this stupendous and rarely cited piece of cinematic delight, I need give you no further indication as to the events which transpire within. Needless to say that when you do partake in a viewing, the occurrences, performances and sublime dialogue will leave you as exhausted and sweaty as any of the performers within. It’s unmercifully harsh for its time, which is also part of the movie’s appeal and nothing short of cinematic euphoria. You don’t watch this movie, you revel in it.

How can I possibly follow up such a magnificent movie? With Marlon Brando and Vivien Leigh sizzling it up in New Orleans, that’s how. A Streetcar Named Desire is one of Tennessee Williams better known works and justifiably so. A tale of two sisters Blanche (Leigh) and Stella DuBois (Kim Hunter) and the latter’s husband Stanley Kowalski. Blanche arrives on the screen distraught and confused, putting up the façade of the fragile southern belle, when underneath lays a cracked and damaged woman on the brink of self destruction.

Stanley, a boorish and crass individual, makes no qualms about using his brutish gait and forceful nature to intimidate his wife’s trembling sister from the time of their fist encounter. The sexual tension is once again on par with the 100 degree heat. Stanley is both imposing and abusive towards Stella, who not only tolerates, but seemingly feeds off it. Blanche’s feigned reservations and delicate sensibilities are brought under suspicion by Stanley, who begins a terrifying emotional assault on his sister in law. Tearing through her luggage, citing the ‘Napoleonic Code’ as the basis of his claim to all her property, he is certain that she has some kind of secret witheld from him.

The tension builds as the thick dialogue drips from the screen like the closeness of the air upon it. Brando is on fire in this picture as are the leading actresses. The three way relationship quickly spirals out of control, resulting in a memorable experience similar to a sucker punch straight into the stomach.

One continual theme in Williams’ work is that of homosexuality, with both films touching on it (in albeit diluted forms in comparison to the plays) several times. This was a remarkable and rather uncommon thing to arise in such works of the time, especially those of southern origin.

In conclusion, the work of Tennessee Williams is something that reaches far beyond the classroom or the chin stroking movie aficionado. They are real stories featuring very real people, expertly written and structured in a manner that will leave you marvelling at the creative abilities of this astonishing author. The films are a testament to the now almost redundant idea that with thought, precision and a talented crew, it is possible to make a worthy and quality literary adaptation.

When a relationship has passed through the nursery period it can be commonplace for it to become somewhat tumultuous. Once it’s getting further along and you realise that you truly know very little about the person, you begin to ask questions. Some of which can be more damaging than others.

Julie Delpy (Before Sunrise, Killing Zoe, Three Colours Trilogy) has clearly had some experience in these areas, significant enough that she felt compelled to write, produce, direct, star in and edit 2 Days In Paris.  She also found time to compose and perform the soundtrack as well. Such commitment may be cynically viewed as an exercise in grotesque vanity, but there is nothing about this movie that would leave the viewer with such an impression. It is without a doubt a carefully thought out, well executed movie that is a lot more intelligent than it lets on.

Adam ‘Oh I know him from stuff, he was y’know, and he was in Friends, yeah, but what was the name of that other one I saw him in?’ Goldberg plays one of his best roles as Jack, an interior designer and amateur photographer. Delpy plays Marion his partner, both left their home of New York to make a small excursion to Venice and then on to Paris, to spend time with Marion’s family.

Goldberg’s paranoia is inimitable; the language barrier offers a far subtler take on most ‘fish out of water’ movies and the free spirited parents (Delpy’s actual mum and dad) threaten at some points to steal the entire film from under the leads. From his inadvertent faux pas concerning Jim Morrison (not realising his prospective mother in law’s not so clandestine liaisons with the notorious frontman) to the father’s perverse artwork, it’s clear that Delpy is taking a playful jibe at her own colourfully bohemian upbringing which brought considerable fame to her at a very young age.

On particularly interesting scene is where Marion (and Julie’s) mother tells Jack that she was one of the ‘343 Bitches’, this was actually the case. The infamous 343 were a group of women who all made a public declaration via manifesto that they had an abortion in 1971. In the France of the time, this made them criminals. The manifesto was written by Simone de Beauvoir (she also signed the document itself), who was arguably a better writer than her long standing partner Jean Paul Sartre (but we’ll save that debate for another day, shall we?), other famous signatories included Catherine Deneuve (Belle Du Jour).

The humour that is to be found in this movie feels genuinely fresh. It seems to have been mistakenly packaged as some sort of romantic comedy, although it leans substantially closer to darkness than the viewer initially expects. The recurrence of abhorrent taxi drivers, the sheer torture that Jack puts himself through upon meeting Marion’s flamboyant and sexually predatory exes and the overall strain put between the couple are all very real, perhaps this is why it can seem both acerbic and assertive in equal measure.

Seek. Watch. Enjoy.

There are good movies, there are bad movies, mediocre and brilliant and crap movies. There are movies that make you want to poop out from your eyes; there are movies that bring tears and joy with only a passing thought of their magnificence. Then there’s Troma. For the uninitiated, Troma is one of the longest running independent movie studios in existence. Over the past 25 years, the brainchild of Lloyd Kauffman has given us the splendorous ‘Toxic Avenger’ (All five of them, with a stage musical now opening on Broadway), ‘I was a Teenage TV Terrorist’, ‘The Class of Nuke-Em High’, ‘Tromeo and Juliet’, ‘Rabid Grannies’ and ‘Redneck Zombies’ all of which I can highly recommend not only as completely unique and hilarious pieces, but they also make the perfect introduction to this twisted and wonderful universe.

One of the more up to date offerings is ‘Julie Strain’s Tales from the Crapper’. Julie Strain is of course the B-Movie actress who was in the Heavy Metal remake and numerous straight to video fantasy epics. Here, Kauffman plays the ‘Crapkeeper’ who introduces the segments adding his own personal brand of terrible acting and satirical approach to the movie industry. Kauffman highlighted many of his views on Hollywood in the remarkable ‘All the Love You Cannes’ documentary which was released several years ago. It shows approximately fifty followers who volunteer to assist with the Troma campaign every year at the lavish French Movie Festival. To watch the commitment of these individuals who are willing to all sleep in a one bedroom apartment, humiliate, strip and dehumanise themselves for the good of a movie studio is a rare thing. It is a testament to the nature of these films. Troma is always offering the fans a chance to get involved and this only serves to build the connection that exists between them.

All of this is definitely an attributing factor to the fact that we allow films like ‘Tales from the Crapper’ to be made. This film is horrible in almost every sense of the word, but it’s also fantastic. These movies are meant to be fun, something that is greatly lacking from most cinema, they are too lame to be funny, to cheap to be scary, proper no budget cinema the way it should be. Admittedly, if you are to partake in too many Troma movies in close succession, you may find that your thought capacity is greatly minimised. It’s not my fault if they find you after the Bank Holiday weekend, bloated and dead on the couch because the movies were so terrible that they actually shut down your nervous and respiratory systems. This isn’t my fault, you have been warned.

Anal probes, strippers, zombies, more anal probes, aliens, hobos and more strippers. ‘Tales from the Crapper’ is one to add to the list. Pay a visit to the Troma website too for a quick peruse of their titles and back catalogue, it makes for good reading in itself. Expect a few more Troma reviews in the near future.

Find out more at http://www.troma.com/

As I have mentioned here on several occasions, I am a ridiculously early riser. I am also not fond of going to bed early, but at least I have gotten part of the nursery rhyme correct. Usually between the hours of 6.30 and 8am, I allow myself to wallow in the coffee/internet wilderness stage of the day. Your standard fare really, several news websites, loathsome social networking websites which are more addictive than sugary crack, you know the score. Sometimes though, that section of the day can extend, yesterday was one of these instances.

It was after lunchtime before I managed to slap myself around the face several times and gather the momentum required to actually do something. The trouble was, I didn’t appear to have a useful thought in my brain. I tried writing, but the erroneous and facile drivel that I managed to produce only served to irritate and frustrate me even more. I went to walk into town, to purchase some coloured inks for a monster comic that I have been working on. As I put on my coat, the skies turned black and the heavens opened. Now rain may not be the most common deterrent to leaving the house, but need I remind you that I live in Galway. In Galway, you get freak rain, heavy bullet like downpours which not only leave you soaked, but also manage to give you a good hiding at the same time.

Films were unappealing, it was too early, and I scanned the bookcase to see what was on the ‘unread’ shelf. I picked up a copy of Chuck Palahniuk’s ‘Snuff’ and began to read. Four and a half hours later, I had finished ‘Snuff’ and felt all the more accomplished for doing so. It is a unique book in that I didn’t particularly enjoy reading it at the time. I love Palahniuk, he is one of my favourite authors, but there was something so formulated about this, that in its structural transparency I was left feeling a little cheated. Today, however, when I reflect on the book, I am left with a far more satisfied and contented feeling in relation to it. Could it be that Chuck has discovered some form of literary attack device that infiltrates the mind and seeps out gradually over time in waves of revelation?

The premise of ‘Snuff’ is a simple one, middle aged porn legend Cassie Wright is planning to go out with a bang, a gang bang. Preparations have long been in place for the filming of her new opus ‘World Whore Three’ in which Cassie will ‘take on’ 600 men for the camera. The story is told from the perspective of three men, waiting for their turn to ‘perform’ in the crowded stinking basement. The men are comprised of an aging porn veteran, a washed up TV star, recently spurned from television due to a publicised sex scandal and a young man who believes he is Cassie Wright’s son. They all have reasons for being there that stem beyond plain sex.

There is a hilarious account of the young man becoming obsessed with Ms Wright, hunting down all her movies online and even purchasing her mail order sex toys. When his adopted mother catches him in flagrante with a blow up version of Cassie Wright she yells at him in absolute horror and disgust: ‘That’s your birth mother! That’s your birth mother!’

It’s clear that we are in familiar Palahniuk territory. The tension and questioning escalate as the men’s turn gets closer. It is a short enough book and so there would be no joy in dissecting the plot for you here, it would only ruin the surprise. Let’s just remind ourselves of the basic information that I have given you, the books title and use your imagination.

There are some great recurring themes in the novel, the first being a succession of anecdotes relating to Hollywood stars of days gone by. (E.g. about how Marilyn Monroe’s lifetime of bronchitis and pneumonia could have been attributed to her propensity for sitting in a bathtub full of ice before she would appear in public, so that her backside and breasts would remain pert and firm throughout any shoot she may have to do.), there is a truly graphic and knowledgeable insight into the world of hardcore pornography and just how successfully it has integrated itself into mainstream America.

Palahniuk talks of how pornography shaped the internet, of how it was the initial surge of online porn purchases and the developments therein that paved the way for the likes of eBay and Amazon. There are also some of the most wonderful titles for Porn movies in this book, such as: ‘The Gropes of Wrath’ ‘A Tale of Two Titties’ ‘To Drill A Mockingbird’ ‘The Wizard of Ass’ ‘Black Cock Down’ ‘Butt Pirates of the Caribbean’ and ‘Smokey and the Ass Bandit’ to name but a few (Believe me, there are dozens more to be found between the covers)

The ‘climax’ of the novel is as ridiculous as the minds of all the characters within. There is not one redeemable or even remotely likeable character in the whole thing. This is almost signatory of Palahniuk’s world though. The social commentary is nicely executed, if slightly blatant, but that’s not a major complaint.

With Palahniuk’s new book ‘Pygmy’ out this week, this may be a good time to reacquaint yourself with the man who, despite all the criticism, remains one of the most entertaining, intelligent and genuinely progressive authors in literary today. I have included a recent interview where Chuck discusses some of the upcoming movie projects associated with his work.

I have also included a link to Chuck’s most recent interview with Time Magazine, which can be read HERE

I forgot to mention in my review that amongst the introductory videos that were played at the Morrissey show on Wed, this was one of them. Sparks ‘Lighten Up Morrissey’. Not only is this a fantastic video and a great track, but the fact that Morrissey chose this to be played before the show says it all. This will never fail to make me smile.

There are certain advantages to living in the bog arse of nowhere. Tonight was a vivid display of one of them. In regards to gigs, it is rare that any show in Galway cannot be described as ‘intimate’. Morrissey’s performance this evening was no exception. For some reason, the only time that you would imagine to see Morrissey in a leisure centre would have been back in the 80’s when the Smiths were touring the working men’s clubs of the UK.

Amongst the stench of chlorine and sweat, the hall was filling up early with eager fans young and old. It almost seemed like a competition for a while as to who had the oldest Smiths T Shirt, but the friendliness of the revellers was a pleasant reminder of when gigs were social accumulations of like minded people. Talking to others before the show really emphasised the commitment and love that Morrissey’s supporters possess. One guy who I was speaking to approached me to compliment my clothes, saying that it was great to see that ‘Some people still made the effort to dress up for a gig’ it transpired that he was there on his own, his ticket being a gift from his girlfriend, who whilst supporting his love for Morrissey, refused to accompany him to the show. The delightful Lady P had previously maintained a similar stance on Mozza, but tonight definitely changed her mind. It’s a shame that this guy’s good lady didn’t give herself the same chance.

The setlist was everything a long-time listener could have hoped for. Bursting onstage to ‘This Charming Man’, Morrissey seemed in fantastic form. He was quite short on banter, making up for it in the power and delivery that he put into each individual track. He did find time to get a nice dig in at HMV though: ‘Just to let you know that HMV Galway wouldn’t stock our new single. I guess the moral is that it never gets any easier.’ This brought a particular smile to my face. He played very little new material, preferring to stick to Smiths songs and favourites from ‘You Are the Quarry’.

His stage presence is still second to none. It was as if he felt more at ease with the tiny venue and the basic setup and stage. He relished the opportunity to be this close to his fans, and his accentuated gesticulation is such a joy to witness a few feet away. ‘Ask’, ‘Girlfriend in a Coma’, ‘Some Girls Are Bigger than Others’, ‘How Soon is now?’ and ‘There Is a Light That Never goes out’ were personal highlights. With ‘Irish Blood, English Heart’, ‘Let Me Kiss You’ and ‘First Of The Gang To Die’ becoming stronger assets in his arsenal than upon their initial release (can it be five years already?). ‘Throwing my arms around Paris’ is soon becoming an equally anthemic track. The band was note perfect, aside form a brief mistake with the drumming, to which Morrissey quipped: ‘Was it me that made a mistake? No? Well, then that’s all that matters then.’

In short, I converted my good lady wife with this show, she reminded me of the time, almost a decade ago, when we first moved in together. She mischievously hid all my Smiths Cd’s so I couldn’t listen to them. It was so nice to see just how much she enjoyed tonight’s performance. With so many Morrissey hater’s in the world, it would be great if some of them would just try a live show, and see if their opinion remains by the end.

It was a long time coming, but every moment of this evening’s show was masterful and highly memorable. To see such a musical giant, stripped down to the bare essentials, with raw and uncomplimentary sound only adding to the atmosphere, was a great pleasure. It’s not often such things happen. For old Smiths fans who I spoke to after the show, it was like seeing him twenty years ago. As good a compliment as I could imagine. In short, if he’s coming near your home town, Morrissey’s ‘Refusal’ Tour is one to catch.

Support was by ‘Doll and the Kicks’ who were a fantastic warm-up. At first sight, they serve as a reminder that you haven’t been in Topman for a while, but their music quickly detracts from their ultra cool image. At times they sound remarkably like ‘Siouxsie and the Banshees’ and Kate Bush and then Tori Amos and then, they just sound like themselves. A really interesting and exciting new group, who have remarkable potential. Fingers crossed for them, they have a great opportunity and here’s hoping they do well, as they deserve to.

A great show, it was such a rarity for an artist who would more likely be seen from the rafters of the gargantuan O2 Arena, or at a crowded festival. This small town comes up trumps once in a while, and it has done itself proud tonight. One of the best shows in a very long time, Morrissey is truly on top of his game right now, and you would be doing yourself a disservice by missing out.

Setlist:
This Charming Man
Billy Budd
Black Cloud
How Soon Is Now?
Irish Blood, English Heart
How Can Anybody Possibly Know How I Feel?
Girlfriend In A Coma
I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris
Mama Lay Softly On The Riverbed
When Last I Spoke To Carol
Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others
Let Me Kiss You
The Loop
Something Is Squeezing My Skull
Seasick, Yet Still Docked
The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores (Not Played)
I Keep Mine Hidden
Sorry Doesn’t Help
Ask
I’m OK By Myself
First Of The Gang To Die

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.

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.

I never thought that I would ever get to see Tom Waits. Not the most profound introduction to a review, but it was as simple as that. He just seemed to play so few concerts, with his tours over the last decade being sporadic, to say the least. The announcement of the Glitter and Doom tour filled me, as I am sure it did many, with great excitement and hope of attaining a ticket.

Paris was exceptionally hot and the id requirements for entry to the concert provided several logistical problems. The main drawback was the endless queuing. The day before the concert, we went to pick up our pre booked tickets, thinking that this would be the sensible time saving thing to do. After waiting for an hour, we managed to acquire them thinking that entry on the following day would be a swifter affair. Wrong. More hours were spent waiting in the blistering heat before the show. The doors didn’t open until an hour and a half after the announced time. Then when inside, where there was no bar, the show was late starting. However, none of this could really detract from the event that followed.

Waits captivated all within seconds of his arrival, his sideshow hawking, demented ringmaster persona in full effect tonight. Taking place on a customised podium, rigged with several foot pedals which set off a thundering percussion through the rows of tannoy speakers that hung from the ceiling, he stomped on the wooden panelling of the podium, sending a cloud of sawdust into the air, emphasising his silhouette in the harsh primary coloured spotlights. Stomping and barking, gesticulating wildly and doing some rather nifty things with his hat, he dove into a set, lasting two hours in length, with only one break of a few moments.

This was all accompanied by further percussion, thanks to his sons Casey and Sullivan, with Seth Ford Young on upright bass, organs and lots of saxophone. The primary sound of the night was that of Waits’ recent material and style, more Blood Money and Orphans than Mule Variations and Big Time. The heavy gospel howls exemplified by the clunky blues riffs, dreamlike organs and thundering drums. Stomping his way through an earth shattering Rain Dogs, followed by a beautiful rendition of Falling Down, I was already bleary eyed and perfectly happy to sit and quietly revel.

His trademark banter and fantastical stories were as amusing and ridiculous as ever. His proclamation that he was going to show us all his glass eye, then bounce it around the stage, led into an eerie Eyeball Kid. Gods Away on Business, Lie to Me and Hoist That Rag left a shattering effect. Waits showed no signs of his 58 years, ever the showman; this was theatre at its best. The show was truly magnified by the decadent and intimate settings of Le Grand Rex, an old cinema and vaudeville joint, this could not have been more perfect for Waits. Cantankerous and wry, he stopped a song halfway as the crowd were clapping off time and putting him off. “It’s clear to me that none of you come from a musical background, you will clap when I signal. See this hat, this means I’m in charge. Now I feel that we’ve all come a little further in our relationship, we shall proceed.”

After almost an hour of intense lighting and booming renditions, the band retired, leaving Waits solo on piano, for a short performance of some of his quieter songs, namely Tom Traubert’s Blues, Johnsburg, Illinois and conducting a beautiful sing along version of Innocent When You Dream, not one person could complain that the set was not varied enough. He took quality selections from his entire back catalogue. What I cannot wait for is to see if he will ever do a tour of playing his individual albums, like Sparks did. That would certainly be worth seeing. After the piano, it was back to the clomping around, his dusty work boots epitomising the junkyard vagrant side of the man. Dirt in the Ground was sad, Make it Rain was scary; Jockey Full of Bourbon was sublime. Very few artists can do all these things, let alone well.

So, after over a decade of affection, the man who has seen me through so many late nights, sparked so many conversations and evokes so many memories, was no longer just an idea, it was a joy to behold and an experience that I hope to achieve a few more times round at least. Here’s hoping the touring experience for him is a good one, for in a musical world so full of mediocrity and predictability, it’s a comfort to know that there are still men like Waits about, just to keep rattling things up.

The complete set list was as follows. Pictures to follow. Although cameras weren’t allowed and we nearly got booted out for using it (even with no flash), but we got a few!!!!

Lucinda / Ain’t Going Down To The Well No More
Rain Dogs
Falling Down
The Other Side Of The World
Lucky Day
God’s Away On Business
Hold On
Eyeball Kid
Jesus Gonna Be Here
You Can Never Hold Back Spring
Johnsburg, Illinois
Tom Traubert’s Blues
Innocent When You Dream
Lie To Me
Hoist That Rag
Heigh Ho
Lost At The Bottom Of The World
Hang Down Your Head
Poor Edward
Black Market Baby
Dirt In The Ground
Make It Rain
Way Down In The Hole

Jockey Full Of Bourbon
Anywhere I Lay My Head

All signs indicate that summer is indeed upon us, vast quantities of our inhabitants have taken to the streets, intent on displaying all of their purulent, pasty flesh for all to see. As ruffians turn pinker on one side whilst driving around in Honda Civics with additional plastic adornments, listening to what I believe is known as “Hardstyle” from my brief but informative encounters with such creatures. (It’s different to Hardcore, more Trance-y, with helium based vocals.) Anyway, discussion of the listening habits of scallys is not why I write today, we’ll save that for a more bilious post.

Despite the good weather and general inclination towards congregating with the masses in the standard meeting places to partake in drinking Buckfast with the student’s, posers and hobo’s that make up the majority of the population of this city, I have managed to restrict any outdoor activity to pleasant excursions in good company, to locations were there is less dense activity of public drunkenness and tomfoolery.

Also, nearly setting my apartment on fire in the process. Yes kids, don’t try and use a disposable barbeque on the third floor balcony of your apartment. Height, Wind & Fire= Bad. In fact, I think that Height, Wind & Fire is now the name of my new band. All was well in the end, George Forman came to the rescue and the food was saved! Joy!

Human nature has once again been at the forefront of my thoughts. I fear that we move ever closer to an age were we will soon be almost incomprehensible to each other. Communication on the most basic of levels is a disintegrating attribute and it is always dismaying when avoidable incidents occur which could be so easily resolved with conversation. However, if we do not learn from such situations, a just view on the human condition will never be reached.

I don’t wish to appear despondent in any way, merely thougthful on the matter of late. If one reflects on every argument or unpleasant situation that one has been in with those close to them (Friends, family or otherwise), it would appear that reason and communication are the two factors that are usually absent from the preceding events and this is a crying shame. It seems commonplace to be more effort to vocalise ones grievances, rather than to share them constructively.

Enough on that, for I am here to talk about movies, believe it or not. Due to a recent turnaround in my employment schedule, I have found myself readjusting to night work and so am now generally pottering about until the dawning hours. This has been marvelous for several reasons. The first being that I have all those serene, midnight hours to peruse books at my leisure, both of improvement and entertainment. Secondly, I have had much cause to sit and enjoy movies, without disturbances and have gone through quite a number in the last week. Some worth mentioning, others less so.

The two that have really taken my attention are one new and one not so new, Doomsday is the new film by rapidly ascending Descent and Dog Soldiers director Neil Marshall. Online perceptions of this movie have been far from complimentary so far and I feel that they are a little too harsh, for a brief examination of the film, could leave a viewer very rewarded indeed. For a start, it all depends on what you want to get from the movie. It is important to remember that there was an aspect of humour in his last offerings, that counteracted the extreme gore onscreen, in horror, this is the most difficult of tasks, one which most American horror’s fail to do at an extraordinary rate. From this humour, one gets glimpses into the excitement that resides in Marshall as he unleashes his work upon us. This excitement is parallel to the humour in Doomsday.

Taking his love of 70′s and 80′s cinema and shying away from the solid genre lifts the like of which, Tarantino & Rodriguez have been offering up of late, we are presented with a veritable selection of genre slices. It is these drastic and blatant shifts that keep a unique turn on these well-trodden tracks. The characters are ridiculous, shallow and vacuous, and they serve the feature splendidly. For, any attempt to deepen the stereotypes displayed would confuse and distract from the sheer madness that is occurring around them.

Considering the absolute tosh that is released under the guise of comic book adaptations, this has been the closest thing to a decent comic book adaptation that I have seen in quite some time. The car chases, Bob Hoskins, post-apocalyptic Scotsmen (Hilarious), Frankie Goes To Hollywood, Medieval Knights, Malcolm McDowell, Zombies! C’mon people, complaining about character depth in such situations is like saying that your Big Mac was a little overdone. This is a welcome addition to both the horror / exploitation genre and also to Neil Marshall’s increasingly expanding portfolio. We can only hope that for our benefit, they give him even more money for the next one.

Obviously from some previous indiscretions in a past life, I was made to watch Cloverfield. All I can say is, don’t watch Cloverfield. It is watchable but the sheer annoyance factor is way, way too high. It will also annoy you more after you have watched the movie. You have been warned. Watch The Host (2005) instead, it is a far superior movie in all senses, with a better monster, less infuriating cast and an actual story. For, what passes as a plot in Cloverfield, is, well, it is a waste of time to convey, so I won’t.

Also on a bum note, I was naive enough to give yet another of Judd Apatow’s terrible, terrible movies a chance. Apatow, has become synonymous, with overstretched, gratingly banal comedies, where his college buddies and himself have a jolly old time apparently, but forget to make a movie in the process. Superbad and Knocked Up were painful to anyone familiar with comedy, wit or common sense. His latest tainted passing, is known as Walk Hard : The Dewey Cox story, (I know, I know, look, I watch them so you don’t have to) is a really weak pastiche on Walk The Line and whilst the bad taste of subject matter may have contained some amusing spoofs, it just fails to deliver at every turn. In fact, it just hurt after a while and when it clearly would not end, despair takes a hold and as the jokes dry up a good half hour before the film starts to wind down, one is left a much more damaged individual at the closing credits. Damn you Apatow, Damn you Seth Roegen, damn you all to hell.

I have seen more but I’ve been thinking about Walk Hard for the last ten minutes and so that’s a good time to stop and go do something else. I will follow up with some more intriguing movies shortly. Oh, in movie development news. They are now making a Magnum PI movie, with Matthew McConaughey. Wow. William H Macy as Higgins, no none for you Higgins, you’ve had yours.