All Done. Bye Bye

Yes, this post bids the end of the Musings from my Black Hole.

...

You don't care, do you? I'm not surprised. I've barely blogged in months. BUT... this is the start of something else, something new...

Let's just say, my blogging exploits are moving on to pastures new. Can't give detailage yet as they're still being worked out but expect The Black to be blogging again soon at a new home, a redirect of which will be posted here.

Until then... adieu. Adieu. To you and you and you and you.

See you on the other side.

Leia Mais…

Twitter? Or shall I just fuck off?

Have you ever really hated the premise of something but found yourself unable to not enjoy it, in some twisted variance of cosmic malarkey? Of course you have. It's the only way to explain why Gossip Girl is still on the air.

It also explains the appeal of Twitter.

I'm on it every day now and have you any idea how much that annoys me? Do you? Well, jiggle my testes, you're about to find out. Because I seriously struggle to fathom the point of this new phase of social networking, unless you're keen to find out what train Stephen Fry is about to get on in Lowestoft or what Barack Obama had for breakfast. WMD on the cob? Who gives a flying fuck?

BUT... I can hear you saying. BUT... it's a good way of getting updates on various events/things etc.., an interesting quick way of communicating thoughts and ideas over the medium of blah blah blah blah bollocky jugs! MSN has been doing this for years and the only advantage of Twitter is that you don't get annoying idiots constantly assaulting your desktop every two seconds wanting to 'chat' whenever you log on. Or webcams - which are a recipe for compromising disaster, but that's another story.

I'm a hypocrit though, surely? I hate what Twitter is but I love posting on it. Oh, absolutely. I'm a massive hypocrit. I hate people for doing things I do every day. Which probably invalidates this entire post. Is that the sound of me caring you hear? No.

Turns out it's actually a damn good vehicle for conversatzione with my chums in the VS world and for that, I like it. But I shall forever despise the concept of being limited to saying something in less than 150 words so by the time you're just getting interesting, you're cut--

Leia Mais…

WHAT IS THE POINT OF?... Last of the Summer Wine

A new bit of bloggage in which I regularly question the point of... something.

LOADS of things in this spacial orbit with us make absolutely no fucking sense so it's about time someone pointed that out, with words, pointy diagrams and fancy graphics. Well... words, at least.

Item #no 1 on the agenda - Last of the Summer Wine.

If you're British, there's no doubt you'll be familiar with this. It's been on our TV screens since, roughly, 740 BC, and the remarkable part is with largely the same cast. Sure, a few have died or fossilised themselves on screen and are now actually part of the set, but most are still involved and likely will be until the machines take over the Earth - what date does SkyNet go online again? Anyway, what is it? That's what anyone not British will be asking. Well... how best to explain it?

Larry David once described the greatest American sitcom, Seinfeld (pay attention), as a 'show about nothing'. Clearly, he'd never seen Last of the Summer Wine. Basically, the premise concerns a trio of doddery old men wandering around a Yorkshire village trying to recapture their youth, while escaping their harridan female wives/neighbours/tea shop owners/brothel madames. Ok, maybe not the last one. Anyway, the plot is thus: they walk about, they bump into people, they get into some kind of madcap scheme (unusually involving a bike or tin bath) and at the end, the same old man ends up crashing said thing after falling down a hill in it. AND THAT'S IT. Every. Single. Week.

It's actually got to the point now where the cast are literally, I suspect, in the middle of decomposition on screen. Infact, I no longer think they WILL die. I think that they will undergo some kind of skin-shedding process and be reborn young with the bodies of, maybe, German bodybuilders. At which point the show will re-invent itself and become about a group of ex-Chippendales trying to actually make their living in a small northern village. Given I'm literally background watching one on G.O.L.D right now that involves them trying to make contact with aliens at a mini-Stonehenge, I don't think as a twisty-plot device it would actually be all that far fetched.

Plenty of people would make the point that it's aimed squarely at the elderly given it's all ABOUT the elderly. Fair enough. But I'm sorry, when I'm old I really think I'll be wanting to watch something better than this. Granted, I'll probably be blind in both eyes and only be able to hear the vibrations of mice against the skirting board, but even so - I'd still expect a programme on TV that doesn't patronise and insult the intelligence like this twaddle. Not all old people have to be written as cuddly buffoons or harpies - look at Dad's Army. 40 years ago they were writing largely about the elderly in a much sharper, much more accomplished way than this. How a show which basically has repeated the same plotline for 300 episodes has survived beggars absolute belief.

Watch it, obviously, judge for yourself. In case you're not quite sure, it's apparently a comedy.

Leia Mais…

Where the fuck have YOU been?

It's a good question, in fairness.

Not one directed at you, of course. I'm sure you've spent the last three months frolicking in the sporadic Sun, eating the fruits of nature and bathing in the milk of human kindness. Or avoiding swine flu. That's probably more likely.

No, that question is purely aimed at myself because I've neglected this blog since the end of April. I've sometimes thought about posting... but meh, I've been too knackered. Or I've gone out. Or played Guitar Hero. Or fellated an elephant. Any excuse but to put finger to keyboard and say sum fin.

Is that about to change? Welll... maybe. I can't guarantee there won't be another three month lull but I'll at least try to do one a week. The next question is: do you care? Probably not but just like no-one cares about Big Brother contestants once they leave the house, I shall carry on regardless. Like the film. Only not.

Ta ta.

Leia Mais…

Nothing lasting forever

I lost a friend yesterday.

Well, I didn't lose him. He didn't die. We didn't fall out. But he did move, and I'm not just talking about up the road, I'm talking about 70 miles down south. Which in fairness is quite a bloody long way, not exactly somewhere you can just pop in between nipping to the shops for a paper, a bag of Skittles and some poppers.

So yeah, by Monday he'll be gone.

And it's just got me thinking about the passage of time, how life changes, all that philosophical stuff most folks don't ponder day by day because of how quickly life travels by. Adam is one of those mates I thought would always be around, you know? We've been buds now for nearly 6 years and (though I dislike the term), I'd count him as one of my three best male friends. 9/10 we were going out, it's assumed he'd be there. For ages we were 'cinema buddies' and saw copious films. Sometimes I'd just pop over to Wolves in the day to have a pint and play some pool. I can't do that anymore now because he's not there. To me, that feels like a loss because despite the fact we'll always be mates, it's never going to be the same.

This sounds awfully selfish of me, to be fair. I'm actually supporting his decision to go south (sexual pun intended!) because it'll really benefit his future. It's the right choice for him. For those he leaves behind, it just highlights the old adage that nothing lasts forever. I always used to hear that from my mother growing up - how friends change, people move on. I never really believed it until the last few years. Now, I've started seeing people travel or get engaged or uproot and move away and I realise the journey of life is all about adapting, isn't it? About enjoying the moment, the now, because good times and good people aren't going to be there forever.

I'm very happy with my circle of friends right now. Last night - in a big night out seeing Adam off - a good 20 of us were out and they're all great people. So in Adam going, I'm reminded to make the most of them as much as I can because the day is going to come when they move to Wycombe or Manchester or the moons of Saturn and I won't be able to. It's a lesson maybe we should all learn.

Leia Mais…

Is it safe?

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Leia Mais…

DOCTOR WHO: Planet of the desert that looks suspiciously like Dubai

I used to hate Doctor Who.

No, really. There would be re-runs on UK Gold as a kid of probably episodes from the 70's and by Christ they bored the arse off me. They seemed to be endless and go precisely NOWHERE, plus they looked shit. And not in an ironic, Red Dwarf-y kind of way.

In fairness, I think I'd like them a lot more 15 years on if I tried them again. I do like so-called 'NuWho' - the reimagining by Russell. T. Davies which since 2005 hasn't so much dominated and changed the TV landscape as raped it's entire family in one go and sired lots of mutant, giant-sized children. My clumsy metaphor basically means it's EVERYWHERE now and given it's actually pretty damn good, that's by no means a bad thing.

Unless you get an episode like this Easter's 'Planet of the Dead aka desert that looks suspiciously like Dubai'.

Now, I didn't hate it. NuWho has done worse episodes, definitely. 'Father's Day' for example, or perhaps 'Rise of the Cybermen' - both of which couldn't have stank less if a gigantic fat man with incontinence shat on the Earth for 7006 days none stop. In some ways, it wasn't half bad and was diverting fun - a London bus in the desert, the superb HD visuals, Lee Evans remarkably being funny and not annoying the living crap out of me as usual, David Tennant just being possible one of the most likeable people ever on TV and to top it all, 60 minutes of staring at the so-gorgeous-I-want-to-rip-out-my-eyes, Michelle Ryan.

Who, to be fair, is the main reason this special was mostly a big letdown.

Yes, she's stunning. Yes, I'd happily spend an age dancing for ha'pennies in her shadow just for a glimpse of her regions nether. But sweet O'Quinn... she cannot act to save her life. It's no wonder Bionic Woman tanked (though it was hardly The Wire, in fairness to her). Our Michelle is a talentless, charisma vacuum that should be seen (preferably naked) and not heard. Putting her alongside a charisma machine like Tennant makes it all the more apparent - nor does saddling her with a character in Lady Christina that aims for a young Lara Croft but infact gives us a woman so annoyingly smug I'd like to strap her into a led-lined missile tied to ten thousand anvils and fire her into the Bering Sea. She was my biggest problem with this and my biggest source of torment. My eyes want them to write her a spin-off show. My brain wants, therefore, to burn my eyes in their sockets.

The trailer for the next one in most likely November, 'The Waters of Mars', looks better. Here's hoping. I'm now off to try and erase several years of EastEnders the lovely Ms Ryan starred in from my memory before my brain and eyes declare mutual-assured destruction.

Leia Mais…

LOST 5x12 - consider the bald guy now in charge

Previously on Looooooooooast...

Last week (given tonight is a BRAND NEW EPISODE!) wasn't all about timey-wimey, DHARMARAMA-stuff but instead shifted le focus onto the present day Island shenaninanigans. And it was about bloody time!

I think we'd all been dying to see what came next for John 'I'm the Daddy now' Locke and Ben 'the man with a plan that never works' Linus for weeks. Enough of all this love-triangle nonsense, I heard you cry. Stop showing us those dull DHARMA hippies, we all shouted. Give us the bald guy and the fella with the bug eyes!

So they did with 'Dead is Dead unless of course your name starts with L and finishes with E'.
It's fair to say it was rollicking stuff from start to finish. Terry O'God aka Quinn and Michael Emerson Lake & Palmer are the grand statesmen of the show and they simply outclass the rest of the cast on every level - even Jeff Fahey, who's awesome in one of those hard to pinpoint ways. He just is. It's fact. The whole thing continues the power struggle between Locke & Ben, one which has now wonderfully flipped on it's axis - Locke is very much the custodian of secrets, of where to go and what to do and Ben HATES it. So would I, if I were him: 'who's this slaphead who's only been here five minutes to tell ME what to do?'. Shame the inexplicably alive Island very much considers the bald guy now in charge, innit?

Yes, because this all concludes with Ben atoning for his sins after falling through a conveniently weak Temple floor. Thinking about it, the writers have a wonderful 'get outta jail' card whenever something credulity-testing happens (and it does every week). They can simply say 'the Island works in mysterious ways...'. Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse should sell Bibles, they'd make gazillions! Anyway, this floor fall gives us a reappearance by Smokey once again - you know, the totally normal cloud of smoke that sounds like a New York taxi cab, lives underground, can't get past sonic fences, scans peoples memories then judges whether or not they should live and if they don't, squishes them violently like a bug. Like I say... totally normal. And seemingly ancient if the Egyptian mural showing Smokes chumming up with Anubis, the GOD OF DEATH, is owt to go by.

Luckily for Ben, Smokey gives him a renewed subscription to the Island and all it's attractions, but with a warning: try and kill the slaphead, I'll kill YOU - or at least, the creepy yet still sexy visage of your dead not-daughter will. How long exactly Ben will obey ze orderz remains to be seen, but I'd bet... err, not very long!

Tonight, the Adventures of DHARMAVILLE continue with the gloriously named 'Some Like it Hoth'. If you don't know the meaning of the title (and it's associating bit of punnery), you are clearly neither a geek or appreciate classic cinema. There may be hope for you yet.

Leia Mais…

Fashion and adamantium-encrused shit

There are a great many things in this world I hate doing but shopping for clothes has to be number one on my list. It's even edged past eating carrots or watching Heroes.

I was looking through my wardrobe today and realised the two pairs of jeans I regularly use were almost coming apart at the seams I'd had them for so long. They were almost threadbare, stretched beyond proportion. Used within an inch of their creation, like a book you love and read again and again until the binder creases and the pages become stained. Or back in the VCR days, a video you loved and wore out by constantly hitting that damned infernal rewind button. DVD's spoil us.

So... I knew I had to go out and buy a new pair, is the long and short. Not out of choice, rather necessity. Much as I despise 'fashion', I don't however wish to look like a hobo who's just let a stray dog piss all over him. I'm sure you don't either.

I therefore head into town with a creeping sense of dread at the task ahead, much like a man on Death Row walking towards the room for his last meal. I determinedly will go into one shop and one shop only - Burton's menswear. It's near the bus stop. It's reasonably priced. And you don't have to move through a gaudy women's sectioned with a floor stained with countless knickers to reach it. The thought of going to numerous shops to do this sickens me - I'd rather fellate a cucumber dipped in arsenic. I'm in Burton's, I'm looking at numerous jeans. All respectable, all fairly 'trendy', all not too expensive. I'm never 100% on my size/length so I take a few in the changing rooms, try them on. Average. They don't stand out. I sigh. Do I accept anything or do I keep on looking? I don't WANT to keep on looking. I want to go into HMV and dive into a big pile of 4 for 20 movies, but I can't. I did that last week and the police were called, it was a messy old business...

Anyway, I am reattaching my original apparel as I listen to some tedious mother bleating onto her son in another cubicle, asking how he looks. I've almost got my trousers fully up when the curtain flies open and the mother enters! 'Oh, I'm sorry!' she protests. I yank the curtain across with one hand (the other cupping my fly), only hearing her repeating apologies between asking her son where she is. Sure, she apologised. Fair enough. No harm done. But the stupid bint should be able to tell the direction of her son's voice when he's down THE OTHER END OF THE FUCKING CHANGING AREA!! But no, she'll pull open any closed curtain willy-nilly. Who cares if it ain't my son? Fuck it, I'll just go anywhere I please. Why don't I just go through the staff restricted door and leave a crap on the carpet? Ignoring her, I hastily retreat with the several pairs of jeans I don't want and have a swift look around, grabbing a dearer pair that look better and buying them simply to make this ordeal end. £35 they cost. Thirty-five pounds. That's two box-sets of The Shield. And I just spent it on something designed simply to hold my tackle in. Madness.

I left the shop and quelled my torment by looking around Borders at all the lovely books. I saw some I wanted but didn't buy them, I have enough to keep me going. I passed numerous young people who've embraced 'fashion' - you know, the kind of men who spend six hours in places like Urban Outfitters trying to decide what kind of cardigan to buy. Will it be Lacoste? Or maybe Hilfiger? You know what? I don't give an adamantium-encrusted shite what you look like, you preening twat. If I had my way, the government would assign you clothing and that'd be it. We'd all wear boiler suits with a state logo and a barcode with a number designating who we were. George Orwell would be both proud and terrified.

I fully intend to go as long as possible without suffering this ordeal again. Fashion? You can keep it.

Leia Mais…

WATCH THESE FILMS! - The Mist / [REC] / There Will Be Blood

Most movies you watch, however dark or grisly or frightening the subject matter, the audience are left with some kind of hope by the end, something to reassure them the world isn't a Godless equation where nothing happens for a reason.

Not so The Mist. It'll leave you so depressed you might just want to place your head in a boiling deep fat fryer and end it all right there.

It's actually a very good film, in many places. Based on Stephen King's novella and directed by the supremely underrated Frank Darabont (he who, y'know, wrote a ten times better script for Indy 4 which George Lucas knicked EVERYTHING from - but that's another story). It's horror but not your usual stock type - less about the horrific creatures inside strange mist that covers a small American town trapping much of it's community inside the supermarket, more about how these trapped characters survive as they face up to seemingly inevitable death. There's little incidental music, plenty of character beats, but when the action takes off it's thrilling. A nice ensemble cast help too - Thomas Jane is pretty bland as the everyman lead, but Marcia Gay Harden is indomnitable as a religious zealot first denounced crazy for believing this the End of Days, but who's words gradually gather steam.

And the ending. Man, the ending. I won't ruin it but... suffice to say, it's one of the darkest - and bravest - conclusions to a Hollywood film I have ever in my life seen. Just make sure you have something funny, like a midget doing the Time Warp, on standby to cheer you up afterwards.

Onto now much more of a conventional horror with [REC] - possibly the best Spanish import since Fernando Torres.

It's a simple idea wonderfully executed - a film reporter recording a normal night on the job of a fire crew joins them on a routine rescue operation that goes VERY wrong. They become trapped in an old apartment building as the government seal off the inside and people start dying... horribly. There's something evil in the building... something that wants them all... imagine me saying this with gravelly movie guy voice for full effect.

Anyway, the key here is that it's shot, guerilla-style, through a solitary hand-held camera. You're thinking Blair Witch, right? Good, because it's in that vein. No stars, improvisation - there is a fair amount of blood and gore but it's not directly in your face for schlock value. When these guys see people ripping chunks out of each other, they do what we would do. They fucking run and leave the screams behind. It's a blisteringly short piece - 75 minutes - but it does as all good suspense tales do: starts calmly and steadily builds to a truly nerve-jangling climax and a final shot you really won't forget in a hurry. Along the way, I guarantee you will have jumped out of your seat/off your bed/through your protective plastic bubble more than once.

And don't be put off by the subtitles, either. Just because it's Spanish, doesn't mean it ain't good. Don't believe me? Look at this.

Finally in this odyssey of films wot I just wotched (misspelling intentional for the less mentally flexible out there), There Will Be Blood - which I can't help but say with a cackling accent it's so ominous.

Paul Thomas Anderson is one of those filmmakers you don't get anymore. He's Robert Altman by way of Martin Scorsese, yet has his own distinctive original voice and never seems to do the same thing twice. This is nothing like Boogie Nights. Or Magnolia. Or Punch-Drunk Love. Infact, it's nothing like I've really seen before. You might think it a western given the setting. It ain't. You might think it a drama about business given it's about oil prospecting. Not really. So what is it? Basically, it's about madness. About how a man gets rich from finding oil in arid land, makes his fortune, and goes totally and utterly bonkers as time passes.

Daniel Day-Lewis is probably the only man who could play Daniel Plainview, the lead who's on screen for 2 1/2 hours almost solidly. Let's face it, DL is a bit bonkers himself, ain't he? You have to be to undertake 'method' acting. At the same time, such devotion to a piece leads to a staggering performance of ego, power, strength, fear and even comedy (especially in the darkly funny climax - you'll be shouting 'DRAAAAAAAAAINAGE!' for a while afterward, trust me). Equally good is Paul Dano as Eli Sunday, a young preacher who's devotion to his church gets in the way of Plainview's plans, and their conflict charges through the spine of the film - as does Plainview's relationship with his young son HW. All the rest is incidental - Anderson shooting the whole thing with an epic yet eerie feel, backed up by Jonny Greenwood's marvellously offbeat score. It's a slow-burn piece yet moments such as an oil spill are shot with such tension, blockbuster actioners could learn a thing or two.

It's powerful stuff, won't be easy to grasp or digest on first viewing, but it's hard to deny this is a modern masterpiece. Movies like this don't happen often anymore. I'm not sure they ever really did.

Leia Mais…