Notes of a Dirty Young Man

It's a longish story of interest to few, but the end result is a short interview with Brian Henry Hooper by yr obnt srvt.

http://www.fasterlouder.com.au/features/19907/Brian-Henry-Hooper.htm

If you haven't heard from other sources, this here's the heads up for my birthday apocalypse, this Saturday, August 8th, at 146 Brisbane St, Perth. Kicks off about 7-8pm. Featuring the musical stylings of Limpin' Dave Foley and the Straight Legged Freaks.

If you can read this, you're invited. Wear your drinking pants.

Genre tropes rise and fall in popularity. Of course, there are only so many to go around, so the process is cyclical. It’s like the Mayan calendar for geek clichés. Right now we’re at the tail end of the zombie craze, and vampires are the latest horror paradigm to get dusted off and thrust back into the (non-UV) spotlight. Having said that, is there anything new to be said about the old blood suckers? Apart from making them sparkly, non-threatening emotional eunuchs for teenage girls and unfulfilled housewives to get wet over, I mean?

Thankfully, Swedish horror gambit Let the Right One In proves not only that there’s still life in what was fast becoming a hoary staple, but that the modern horror genre itself still harbours works of profound complexity and disturbing beauty.

In wintry, early 80’s Stockholm, twelve year old Oskar (Kåre Hedebrant) is deeply alienated from both his separated parents and his bullying classmates. This is no typical child protagonist; when we first meet him, he is enacting fantasies of violent retribution like a pale-skinned Travis Bickle. It is also in this scene that we are introduced to Eli (Lina Leandersson), a young girl recently moved into Oskar’s apartment block with what appears to be her guardian Hakan (Per Ragnar). Although at first standoffish and guarded, the two children slowly develop a friendship that soon grows intimate. And why not? Oskar may be a budding spree killer, but (and I’m not giving away any spoilers here) Eli is a vampire, centuries old and supplied with blood by Hakan, who acts as a sort of surrogate Renfield.

As the film progresses and Oskar and Eli’s relationship deepens, Oskar’s emotional separation from his family and peers also grows. Meanwhile, the middle-aged Hakan is no longer adept at serial murder, and as the number of bodies mounts up, the risk of Eli’s discovery increases. The climax, when it comes, is both bloody and inevitable. It is also open ended, not so much leaving room for a sequel as hinting at the cyclical nature of Eli’s long existence. It is a fitting and haunting conclusion to a strange and elliptical film.

It’s also a film open to multiple interpretations. The characters are opaque; we are not witness to their inner lives (no voiceover here, thank Christ) so we’re compelled to divine motivation from the scraps of information the film doles out. Of particular interest is Eli’s intent with Oskar. The film is already confronting in its themes of childhood sexuality, yet it becomes even more disturbing when Eli’s possible chronological age is considered. Add to that her relationship with Hakan, where we must consider not only how old Hakan is now but how old he was when they met, and the child vampire figure, so lonely and strangely innocent, starts to seem perversely predatory.

Layered and challenging, Let the Right One In is easily the finest vampire film to come along in a good long while, and one that will stay with you for sometime after viewing.

Oh, and fuck Twilight. Fuck it right in its pallid, Mormon ass.

I deleted this journal, along with my facebook, in an attempt to focus my energies more on my writing than on what, at times, can be pointless and counterproductive socialising.

I also shaved my head as a symbolic act. More Kambei in Seven Samurai than Hando in Romperstomper, if clarification is necessary.

And then my grandmother died, and I reaised that I needed the support of my friends, even in such an ersatz form as this.

So, to nutshell it, I'm back.

Trying to hold true to my original intention, I won't be on here as much, but please understand that I value and appreciate your friendship, especially those of you who have reached out to me in my recent period of distress.

Vays con Dios, kemosabes.

I believe that I share with Neil Marshall some crucial formative experiences, namely growing up in an area with piss poor free-to-air television and a video store where they weren’t too diligent when it came to checking I.D.s. The inevitable result of such a confluence of circumstances is a childhood spent watching hundreds, maybe even thousands, of movies, some great, most terrible, where the only selection criteria were some kind of sci-fi, action or horror element, and a rating a notch or two above what you were legally allowed to view.

That’s why Neil Marshall woke up one portentous morning and said to himself, “You know what was fucking great? Mad Max 2, The Warriors and Escape From New York. I’m gonna make that movie!”

And so he did. The result is Doomsday.

It’s not great; that would imply that it’s some kind of life-changing, medium defining masterpiece. It’s not exactly good, by the strictest definition of the word. The plot is ludicrous, and the suspension of disbelief required to sustain it is immense. But so what? It sets out to do one thing and it does it well: it wants to sit on the shelf next to the abovementioned films and not look out of place. It’s Marshall’s tribute to the films that shaped him as a kid. As a result it’s stunningly violent, moves at a hectic clip, boasts a killer retro soundtrack, and doesn’t make a lick of sense. It’s awesome.

In the near future (and you just know that if this thing had been made in the 80s, it would have been set in 1997) Scotland is devastated by the Reaper virus, which turns people into puddles with amazing efficiency. The English, being bastards, enact a policy of containment, fortifying Hadrian’s Wall and leaving everything north of it to die in a shitfit of violence, cannibalism and necrotising fasciitis. Of course, twenty-five years later London experiences a fresh outbreak, so nasty politicos Alexander Siddig and David O’Hara coerce avuncular top cop Bob Hoskins into sending his best agent Rhona “call me Snake” Mitra up into the Cursed Earth, where satellite images of primitive civilization hint at the possibility of a cure.

And plotwise, that’s yer lot. Sure, plenty of things happen afterwards, but their order or causal relationships don’t matter a jot. What does matter is kinetic motion, gut-wrenching violence, mohawked cannibals on bikes and SCA lunatics on horseback. You get gunfights, swordfights, car chases, torture, Sean Pertwee being cooked alive and eaten, and Malcolm McDowell chewing the furniture as a post-apocalyptic mediaeval warlord. It’s all spectacularly silly, and by the same measure, spectacularly fun.

Really, there’s almost no point reviewing this film; it does exactly what it says on the box, and so you know whether you’ll like it or not just by looking at it. I loved it, and men of a certain age and disposition – meaning most everyone likely to read this – ought to love it too. Recommended.

Unlike other mealy-mouthed fags of my acquaintance, I'm detoxing again this year, starting today so as to leave the 31st free for Eastwood Day celebrations.

Fairly warned be ye, says I.

It’s easy to knock Ben Affleck. Hell, in recent years it’s been difficult not to. A cursory examination of his filmography reveals far more misses than hits. That, coupled with the kind of tabloid notoriety normally reserved for Elvis clones and slumming Grey aliens, made him an easy target for comedians and social commentators of every stripe for a good long while. The poor bastard’s been infamous longer than he’s been famous.

And yet there was that Oscar win – shared, for the record, with Matt Damon - for Good Will Hunting tucked into the back of his CV. For me, that was more problematic than anything else you might mention. The thing is, regardless of your personal opinion of the subject matter, Good Will Hunting is a tightly written, well observed film. It demonstrates an understanding of the screenwriting process and an appreciation of the form that is not easily come by, and certainly not easily faked. For a first screenplay, it’s remarkable.

The hot rumour was that it had been ghost written by William Goldman. Even though Goldman’s output in recent years has been less than great, I kinda half believed the rumour, for an odd reason of my own. I found it hard to believe that a couple of guys capable of producing work of that calibre could just stop doing it. The longer Affleck stayed on the lens side of the camera, the easier it became to believe that he was a fraud.

In a way, Affleck’s lucky his acting career has slumped so dramatically. I won’t state explicitly that the situation has forced him back to the production side of the cinematic equation, but it is hard to not draw parallels between his box office freefall and his return to work behind the camera. Whatever the reason, it’s become clear that Affleck should maybe stick to writing and directing, and give the whole matinee idol thing a pass, because Gone Baby Gone is an excellent film.

It’s also a mystery, so given a choice between describing what you’ll see and why you’ll see it, I’ll try to lean towards the latter.

Adapted from Dennis Lehane’s 1998 novel, the film follows private investigators Patrick Kenzie (Casey Affleck) and Angie Gennaro (Michelle Monaghan) as they are hired by the distraught extended family of a missing girl to aid the police in their investigation. The police, represented by Morgan Freeman’s statesmanlike Captain Doyle and the bulldog pugnacity of Ed Harris’ Sergeant Remy Bressant, resent the intrusion but come to grudgingly accept the insights the protagonists provide; as lifetime residents of the film’s working class Boston setting, Kenzie and Gennaro can talk to sources who would never open up to the police. The strongest resistance, however comes from the missing child’s mother (Amy Ryan in a deservedly Oscar nominated role), who’s history of drug dependency and petty crime may have more than a little bearing on the kidnapping.

The acting is uniformly excellent, with only Freeman coming across as a little stale in a role too similar to the vast majority of his previous work. Casey Affleck, in particular, does well. Although not physically imposing, his character’s refusal to be intimidated by anyone, coupled with an uncompromising personal code, make quite an impression. Indeed, these characteristics influence the entire direction of the third act, raising the film above its generic crime drama roots and lending it a complexity that sets it apart from similar works. As the mystery is uncovered, difficult choices must be made by all the characters involved, and the outcome that is reached will not be agreeable to everyone in the audience. I myself yelled at the screen a couple of times, but I was somewhat the worse for liquor, so you may have a different reaction.

The film’s sense of place is also worth remarking upon. Affleck is a Boston boy, and you’re left in no doubt that he knows the town well. This is a film that could not have been set elsewhere; there is a palpable feel of location and community that is more tangible here than in other similarly set films. Yes, even more than Mystic River or The Departed. Affleck has a native’s eye for detail, and he shows us telling nuances that another director would have missed.

While not in the same league as such iconic crime dramas as Chinatown or LA Confidential, Gone Baby Gone is a solid and engrossing thriller. The committed performances and nuanced script put it ahead of the pack, and anyone with a penchant for the genre would be doing themselves a disservice by not checking it out.

Who the hell is petsvuh and why have they added me?

Hola, my Victorian amigos.

I'll be hitting the tarmac early on Friday morning, and departing late on Monday afternoon. I'm hitting s metal club with an old mate on Friday night, and planning on drinking at the Pony at some juncture, but other than that my schedule is open. Comment here or message me on facebook if you want to catch up.

I have very mixed feelings about the Watchmen film, and the more I think about it, the more my attitude slides towards dislike. This may be Adaptation Syndrome, but I don't think so. Watchmen doesn't really fail as an adaptation, if your idea of a good example of the process is Cliff Notes, it fails as a film.

I'm going to ponder this and post a longer, spoiler-rich critique later. Meanwhile, watch this:

Yesterday was the fourth anniversary of the Good Doctor's suicide. So here's a clip of him shooting guns and drinking whiskey with Conan O'Brien.

http://www.flyingdogblog.com/

Seems I'm gonna be in Melbourne in mid-March for a horror convention.

Anyone got a spare couch for the 13th - 15th? I can cook!

This made me very happy:

Schmendy, you're less annoying than a bullet wound. Shrydar, you're a cunt.

Two down...

Taken from the entry on... well, it's obvious:

Nutri-Grain is a brand of breakfast cereal and breakfast bar made by the Kellogg Company.

In Australia and New Zealand, Nutri-Grain is a popular Kellogg breakfast cereal made from corn, oats, and wheat. It was first introduced to the United States in 1981 as breakfast cereal, but was later discontinued. There are various Nutri-Grain Bars made from the breakfast cereal bonded together, available in the markets where the cereal is available. In the United States the Nutri-Grain Bar name is used for the soft golden baked crust breakfast bars made with wheat, whole-grain and soylent green filling, similar to a Fig Newton. The bars became popular in the 1990s as "on-the-go" foods because women are stupid.

Merry Christmas, happy Hannukah, have a crazy Kwanzaa, and a solemn and dignified Ramadan.

Here's a live clip of Fairytale of New York:



I hope to see as many of you as possible on Boxing Day.

Peace out.

I share an incept date with John Huston - I'm pretty happy with that.

I give a lot of stick the the showtune afficionados we share our world with, and some people mistake that for homophobia.

Negative, ghostrider. The chip balanced on my shoulder is called misanthropy - to me, you are all equally worthless.

Having said that, the emphasis is firmly on the "equal". Prop 8 is fucking retarded. Everyone should have the freedom to shackle themselves to a protracted, hellish, legally binding sham out of fear of dying alone.

Even the fudgepackers.