Saturday, September 10, 2005
38 - 69
38. There was just no need for Coffee And Cigarettes to be made. It's a nothing. It's a nowhere. Except for Cate Blanchett's bit where she plays two cousins, which would make a good short on its own. Same goes for Steve Coogan and Alfred Molina which was at least sort of about something. Iggy Pop and Tom Waits are just wrong. RZA, GZA and Bill Murray disappointing. It wants to be this stylish ode to the inconsequential but it's just. . .blank. And self-satisfied.
39. The Descent on the other hand was quite something. Made by same guy who did Dog Soldiers, which was OK but had so much of the British-film disease, horrible cod-ironic macho funnies. The dialogue in The Descent was rotten in that stilted these-are-words-on-a-page this-is-a-British-film way but it gave way to some genuinely brilliant, genuinely horrifying horror. And it somehow managed to breathe new life into the whole 'it's your FRIENDS who are the REAL scary ones, maaaaan' rigamorole. It didn't flinch from carrying that all the way through, either. Some great unabashed visual references to Carrie. Just unexpectedly really very good. And incredibly gory.
40. Land of the Dead is going to have to be very good indeed to avoid lots of people whinging very loudly and boringly. They'll whinge anyway, some of them, it's just a matter of numbers and volume.
41. Horror fans aren't quite as bad as Star Wars fans but they can be awfully pretentious AND nerdy at the same time. Ick.
42. It's terribly sad that Nick Drake is dead.
43. And Elliott Smith.
44. He did it rather more violently. Nick Drake, you get the impression, just wilted and flopped and gently decayed without the light of approval to keep him going.
45. Music by people who've committed suicide or died in some tragic or semi-self-inflicted way may carry greater emotional resonance (although perhaps not where INXS are concerned - although 'Never Tear Us Apart' can sound quite wonderful), but the music of people who shouldn't be making music at all sounds even worse in the knowledge that these others aren't there to kick their sorry arses anymore.
46. To wit, Goldie Lookin' Chain should be turned out into the Antarctic in their fucking 'ironic' boxers.
47. Just acting stupid in a vaguely knowing manner does not count for biting satire. And it does not make you The Beastie Boys. And we are quite capable of snickering at a Welsh accent without being forced to do so in some faux-multi-layred way. The joke is that there is no joke. The drama is that there is no drama. Haw! Haw! Steaming knobheads.
48. There's no sense even getting riled about this.
49. They fucked their manager over when they made it big.
50. Cunts.
51. Idiotic, inane, smirking Welsh cunts.
52. It's almost impossible to do something like this without mentioning yourself, since everything you digest is filtered through your own critical faculties and whatever else there is through which to filter.
53. This doesn't make you terminally self-centred. It makes you, like, human, man.
54. Worse if you're some sort of critic or commentator, really.
55. And if you just watched The Doors.
56. Which is flawed but appropriately so, really.
57. It's giddying making all these bold statements without qualifying it with an end bit pointing out that it's only one person's opinion. This way, it all looks like Fact.
58. Here is a fact. Sort of.
59. The spider looks pregnant.
60. Doesn't she?
61. Baby spiders are amazing, they form this perfect round golden cluster like a Fererro Rocher and then they scatter like tiny beads.
62. This country's weather is so very mean-spirited.
62.1 I'm going to have to interrupt myself here.
62.2 I don't feel very well.
62.3 Quite surreal in fact.
62.4 Disassociated and nauseous.
62.5 It's probably fucking flu or something.
62.6 Fucksakes.
62.7 I need to spend more time talking to people.
62.8 And looking after myself, and drinking water, and etc.
62.9 Never mind.
63. Tara Reid's implants are terrible, but not as bad as her liposuction which was done by a lunatic with a Dyson.
64. There really is something amazingly calming and soothing about nasty, scurrilous, dead-eyed gossip.
65. It's a modern malaise.
66. Why isn't there a band called Modern Malaise?
67. Or Modern and the Malaises?
68. Anything's better than Juliette and the Licks.
69. Yes.
39. The Descent on the other hand was quite something. Made by same guy who did Dog Soldiers, which was OK but had so much of the British-film disease, horrible cod-ironic macho funnies. The dialogue in The Descent was rotten in that stilted these-are-words-on-a-page this-is-a-British-film way but it gave way to some genuinely brilliant, genuinely horrifying horror. And it somehow managed to breathe new life into the whole 'it's your FRIENDS who are the REAL scary ones, maaaaan' rigamorole. It didn't flinch from carrying that all the way through, either. Some great unabashed visual references to Carrie. Just unexpectedly really very good. And incredibly gory.
40. Land of the Dead is going to have to be very good indeed to avoid lots of people whinging very loudly and boringly. They'll whinge anyway, some of them, it's just a matter of numbers and volume.
41. Horror fans aren't quite as bad as Star Wars fans but they can be awfully pretentious AND nerdy at the same time. Ick.
42. It's terribly sad that Nick Drake is dead.
43. And Elliott Smith.
44. He did it rather more violently. Nick Drake, you get the impression, just wilted and flopped and gently decayed without the light of approval to keep him going.
45. Music by people who've committed suicide or died in some tragic or semi-self-inflicted way may carry greater emotional resonance (although perhaps not where INXS are concerned - although 'Never Tear Us Apart' can sound quite wonderful), but the music of people who shouldn't be making music at all sounds even worse in the knowledge that these others aren't there to kick their sorry arses anymore.
46. To wit, Goldie Lookin' Chain should be turned out into the Antarctic in their fucking 'ironic' boxers.
47. Just acting stupid in a vaguely knowing manner does not count for biting satire. And it does not make you The Beastie Boys. And we are quite capable of snickering at a Welsh accent without being forced to do so in some faux-multi-layred way. The joke is that there is no joke. The drama is that there is no drama. Haw! Haw! Steaming knobheads.
48. There's no sense even getting riled about this.
49. They fucked their manager over when they made it big.
50. Cunts.
51. Idiotic, inane, smirking Welsh cunts.
52. It's almost impossible to do something like this without mentioning yourself, since everything you digest is filtered through your own critical faculties and whatever else there is through which to filter.
53. This doesn't make you terminally self-centred. It makes you, like, human, man.
54. Worse if you're some sort of critic or commentator, really.
55. And if you just watched The Doors.
56. Which is flawed but appropriately so, really.
57. It's giddying making all these bold statements without qualifying it with an end bit pointing out that it's only one person's opinion. This way, it all looks like Fact.
58. Here is a fact. Sort of.
59. The spider looks pregnant.
60. Doesn't she?
61. Baby spiders are amazing, they form this perfect round golden cluster like a Fererro Rocher and then they scatter like tiny beads.
62. This country's weather is so very mean-spirited.
62.1 I'm going to have to interrupt myself here.
62.2 I don't feel very well.
62.3 Quite surreal in fact.
62.4 Disassociated and nauseous.
62.5 It's probably fucking flu or something.
62.6 Fucksakes.
62.7 I need to spend more time talking to people.
62.8 And looking after myself, and drinking water, and etc.
62.9 Never mind.
63. Tara Reid's implants are terrible, but not as bad as her liposuction which was done by a lunatic with a Dyson.
64. There really is something amazingly calming and soothing about nasty, scurrilous, dead-eyed gossip.
65. It's a modern malaise.
66. Why isn't there a band called Modern Malaise?
67. Or Modern and the Malaises?
68. Anything's better than Juliette and the Licks.
69. Yes.
