They're making an A-Team movie. Finally. After all these years, waiting, coming up with the all kinds of cast lists (here's my big star/indie star ideas)

Hannibal: George Clooney/ Phillip Seymour Hoffman

Murdoch: Jim Carrey/Steve Buscemi

BA: Ving Rhames/Ving Rhames

Face: Ryan Reynolds/Ryan Gosling

Oh how I wanted this movie to happen. Ever since my dad banned me from watching the show ("But no one gets killed dad, they shoot the ground"), the idea of a team, and A-Team, on the run from the army, but still finding time to help people out, well, it was cool. Watched now and it's pure shit. All 80s TV is. You can't watch Knightrider anymore. And unless you're a layabout student you certainly say how good it was ("in a post-modern way man, it's like, totally rad"). 

But I did think I'd always give a shit when they finally made it into a film. Not least because Joe Carnahan is directing (he behind visceral cop film Narc and the messy but sometimes fun Smokin' Aces). It's a solid choice, and the actual line-up of actors is spot on, bringing with them bankability and acting chops (with the exception of BA, but the cage fighter they've got to play him looks hard as fuck).

I don't care though. And going by the complete lack of interest elsewhere it would appear no one else does either. It's missed the TV show-remade-into-a-shit-action-blockbuster window by a good 10 years - Charlies Angels, The Mod Squad, The Avengers all came out in the late 1990s - and people have grown tired of Hollywood smearing its shit-stained fingers over their beloved childhood favourites. 

That, and maybe I'm just too old for this shit and couldn't give a fuck if this plan comes together.

(boom boom)

Not a bad issue this fine Thursday. Not bad at all. A well-researched piece on drama series du jour Mad Men. A caveat though, they insist on putting on the front cover “12 reasons why you must watch Mad Men” or words to that effect. Why 12? And why, when I read the feature is there no list? I’m glad there’s no list because, to labour the point, lists are for imbeciles. I actually want to read something with heft in the morning, but why dumb down on the front cover? Are they so scared that no one will read if they don’t suggest there will be bite-sized nuggest of fun inside?

Still, I’m writing about them, and still obviously jealous cos it’s still very, very slick. And every now and then they have something worthwhile to read. Why can’t it always be like that?  

 

Another Thursday, another underwhelming flick through of the pretty but brainless Shortlist. Why do I expect anything else? It’s like chatting to a big-titted blonde bird, you hope she might have something interesting to say, but is too dazzled by the bright sparkly lights and colours of the world. Not that Shortlist is big-titted. Or blonde. But then it doesn’t hate women like I do, so it does have me there.

And what do they have this fine Thursday as a cover feature. Why it’s a list isn’t it? Because men love lists don’t they?

20 film lines any self respecting modern man should know. 

Thanks Shortlist! What would I do without you? 

This is a lazy, tired, clichéd, dreary, soggy, boring excuse for an article, but they could have given it some pep, they could have been a bit leftfield and interesting. They could have even brought us something new and inspired to the table. But no. What we get is a shite rerun and summary of films so obvious, to describe what happens in them is more pointless than the Daily Mail.

Back to the Future. The Godfather. Terminator. Top Gun. Star Wars. The Shining. Scarface. Swingers…

If you don’t know what happens in these films or are sick to death of people killing all the best lines then you don’t deserve eyes to read.

This is worse than those Top 100 Films Where a Girl Bends Down and You See Her Bottom compilations, because at least you get to see a girl’s bottom, here, you’ve got to read (READ!) the quotes and listen to some witless monkey’s interpretation of why it’s important or funny or clever.

Quoting films is stupid, pointless and wank anyway, to write an article about it is even more so (and to write an article about and an article about quoting films is the shittest of them all).

Guest Post - Words by Richard Young

There’s nothing quite like a good retrospective. Looking back, my favourites are Newsround’s Review of the Year 2005 (how about that bird flu, eh?) CNN’s Year in Review: 1997 (we still miss you, Diana) and The Times’ Reflexions on 1746 (nice one Dr Johnson, I knew you’d get the dictionary gig). Here’s one for 2008.

Death

Of the many people who died in 2008, surely the one most deserving of an Oscar is Heath Ledger. No disrespect to Jeremy Beadle (who by all accounts was a bloody nice man), but Ledger nailed his performance in The Dark Knight harder than he nailed Jake Gyllenhaal in Brokeback Mountain. Also, Beadle has never even been in a film – but he did once have a small part in a pair of mittens*. Ledger and Beadle were both tragic losses to the world of the arts – perhaps more so in life than in death. Both of them pushed the limits of their craft with unsettling, sadistic performances, which raised questions about identity, cruelty and man’s capacity for evil. I always loved it when he took off his false beard to reveal a real beard underneath. Genius.

Other people of note who died this year were Alain Robbe-Grillet, the creator of the Nouveau Roman; Yves Saint Laurent, the creator of the trouser suit; and Edmund Hillary, who spat in the face of nature by climbing Mount Everest. Don’t feel too despondent though the weather’s getting cold, so hopefully Thatcher will be dead by Christmas.

Power

Watching recent political events in the US is enough to make people back here in Blighty feel like the kid who was sent to Butlins on holiday instead of CenterParcs. They get inspiration from the greatest orator of his generation and light comic relief from Michael Palin’s retarded bitch sister-in-law. We get a man whose idea of having a big time is pouring an extra helping of skimmed milk onto his porridge and a hapless former PR clown whose attempts to reinvent himself as a man of the people are about as convincing as Bugs Bunny’s occasional bewildering efforts to pass himself off as a hooker. And it smells like someone’s pissed in the shallow end.

Barack Obama’s victory has given hope to Americans and non-Americans alike. No longer do tourists from Missouri have to pretend to be especially brash, stupid Canadians when visiting London. No longer does anybody with an Iranian surname have to worry about taking a mobile phone charger through US customs without spending the next six years having their bollocks electrocuted in Guantanamo Bay. It represents a victory for optimism, compassion and intelligence we are unlikely to see any time soon over here.

Media

If you’re going to phone up a 78-year-old man and taunt him with abusive messages about shagging his grandaughter, just make sure he isn’t a National Comedy Treasure. Make sure it’s not being recorded. Above all, make sure it’s not going to end up being broadcast on national radio.

If you’re going to make a complaint to Ofcom, make sure you’ve heard the offensive material in question. Make sure you’re not just regurgitating the manufactured self-righteous ire of the Daily Mail. Above all, get some sense of perspective: ITV News is committing broadcasting atrocities every night of the fucking week, with their newsreader-in-a-basket platitudes, their coverage of film premieres and their Attack-of-the-Clones recruitment policy. Nobody’s leaving abusive messages on Trevor MacDonald’s answer phone. There’s no point trying - he doesn’t even have 1471.

The best thing to happen this year in the media arena is the inception of the BBC iPlayer. Now you can dredge through its entire output, realise within a matter of minutes that it’s all a load of shit, and pick up a book.It’s reassuring to know that the BBC is there, in the same way as it’s reassuring to know that street sweepers are out there plying their trade. It doesn’t mean you want to invite them into your home and have them stinking the place to buggery though, does it?

Horror

What is it with Austrians? Have they not got PlayStations over there or something? As shocking, depraved and unfathomable as Joseph Fritzl’s actions were, you have to raise the issue of wilful suspension of disbelief on the part of his wife and other family members. Surely they sensed something was amiss when the first child turned up on their doorstep? What about the second? THE THIRD?! I’ve seen more believable things in episodes of Wacky Races. Add to that the amount of “me-time” Mr Fritzl was having in his basement, and the plot thickens. We all like hobbies, sure, but he was just taking the mickey.

And what about the grocery bills? If I had a family of four living in my cellar, I’m sure I would spot the inconsistencies when it came to the weekly shop; questions like “Who’s eating all the fucking Monster Munch?” would be first on the agenda.

It is a sobering thought that right now, somewhere in the world, there is somebody locked in a room against their will, being forced to undergo unimaginable acts of humiliation and degredation. In all likelihood it’s Joseph Fritzl – he’s bound to be an unpopular guy, even in Austria. Let’s just hope that 2009 for Elizabeth Fritzl and her kids is the best one yet. Admittedly it wouldn’t have to be that good for it to qualify – a nice meal out in a Nandos would probably swing it – but it doesn’t hurt to dream.

The fret board fills the screen, five strings disappearing and sliding into a haze of pomposity. My fingers hover and caress the green, red, yellow, blue, orange buttons on my black axe, right hand poised over the strum button. It’s easy. Press the requisite coloured button and strum to play a note. The crowd screams in anticipation. A blue then yellow, then red green red, then blue, then a long yellow note that a whammy all the way... and then... and then an untold combination of long and short hark into my vision, there is no time for thought, my fingers will have to dance over these damn keys if I am to get close to pleasing these spiritely rock hordes.

The notes explode and life is breathed into the song with every deft move… a slip of the fingers, a discordant strangle and a murmur of disapproval, I miss a beat and everything that follows jars and is off by a second. The crowd turns ugly, I pause, spot a long blue and hit to get back in the groove. I'm no longer relaying orders to my aching fingers, they move independently, hitting a flurry of notes, while my mind hits a new state of calm and understanding, thought dispensed with, worries falling away. 

The song fades away and I'm told I rock. I matter. I hit 96% of the notes and I'm worthy of four stars. 

It doesn't seem good enough. I must go again, maybe if I hit 100% of the notes I will finally meet God...

Neil La Bute provocative new play is in town. Adam Richmond has a roll in the mud with his latest, Fat Pig

Neil La Bute doesn’t do things by halves. Having slowly built a reputation as dangerous, vital and challenging playwright and filmmaker, he decided to stick his neck on the line by remaking The Wicker Man. It was an inexplicable choice for a writer who’d concerned himself with intimate and scabrous insights into human relationships. Why make a horror film? More importantly, why remake a British classic that most considered untouchable? Because like his work, La Bute is fearless and unapologetic. Alas, the resulting Nic Cage starrer was an unmitigated disaster, both critically and commercially. Despite such a public misfire, La Bute’s track record has seen him return with knives firmly put away.

His latest play, Fat Pig, is familiar, but bold territory… a scalpel like excoriation of male weakness and conniving. This time he takes on the fear of what people think and America’s obsession with body image. Skewering the everyday inarticulacy and half truths of personal relationships, the story itself is straightforward and direct (almost well worn). But La Bute’s keen eye for dialogue and throwaway one liners keeps the drama fresh. Character’s sentences peter out, they um and ah, “It’s, you know, whatever.” In La Bute’s hands, funnily enough, you always know what they mean, and the nuances that the characters give this phrase throughout the play is as revealing as it is pleasing. The familiar cast of TV faces do well, segueing smoothly from cutting humour to flayed emotion at the drop of a hat. Ella Smith, as the (ahem) big boned woman of the title, in particular shines. As the heart of the play she is warm, funny and sweet.

The character may be something of a cypher, but Smith turns Helen into a fully fleshed out character who wins your heart. Robert Webb plays Tom, the weak-willed, sweet ‘hero’ of the piece to great effect. While his American accent slips, he nails the main character, torn between happiness and what everyone thinks of him. His assured comic timing lightens and undercuts the looming darkness. La Bute likes to unsettle, and it’s apparent that he’s putting  the audience at ease for the more subdued and

ominous second act. Kris Marshall’s goofy turn robs Carter, Tom’s workmate, of any malevolence, but perhaps it’s intentional, La Bute grounds the story in the everyday and is perhaps tired of alpha males with a hidden agenda (men that populate his early films In the Company of Men and Your Friends and Neighbours). The lack of tricks or twists is refreshing and results in a story that always rings true. Most effective are the shades of truth La Bute paints, and the yawning chasm between just saying what you think (as the ebullient and foul-mouthed Carter frequently does) and being emotionally honest (as the milquetoast Rob rarely does). If you’re a man Fat Pig can be uncomfortable viewing, but anything that takes on male inadequacy with such wit is always welcome.

 

A course in controversy:

Bash – a series of monologues that includes one man’s recounting how he beat up a homosexual. The Mercy Seat – a man sits in an New York apartment as his mobile phone rings. Outside the immediate aftermath of 9/11 is filtering through. He is at his mistress’ apartment, and should have been in the second tower. As his wife continues to call to see if he is OK he faces a decision, should he use this disaster for his own gain, leave his wife and runaway with his mistress? In The Company of Men – La Bute’s first film made certainly made waves, as two recently dumped men decide to take revenge on all women kind by both dating the same woman and then dumping her at the same time, so “she’ll be reaching for the sleeping pills in a week.” That they choose a deaf woman as their target is neither here nor there… Your Friends and Neighbours – his most assured and biting film, this film follows the interconnecting relationships of three men and three women, and the battlefield of sex and deceit.

Click the band links to check get a myspace taste of the best bands of the weekend! 

Adam Richmond heads to the Brighton for a three day gig crawl, fish and chips and end of the pier zombies. Take heed for the best live acts of the summer and a seaside getaway only an hour away

Let’s go to Brighton at the weekend... if it’s good enough for Kele from Bloc Party it’s good enough for me. Better yet there’s a three day music festival to hang the trip together. Laying on over 200 bands in 30 venues, The Great Escape serves up the chance to see

the best, most exciting bands in the country, and you don’t have to stand in a field. If you missed out you can still catch other  big name acts at the myriad other festivals on this summer (see p17) or at gigs in good old London...

THURSDAY

Of course the sunny weather the start of the week had promised dried up by the time we arrived in Brighton, a thick gloom hanging in the air. No matter, we got our wristbands and set about charting the best course to see as many of the bands as possible. It’s tricky stuff and soon you realise that you’re going to miss some of the bands you came for. Broken Records, Fanfarlo, Late of the Pier and The Black Angels fell by the wayside and we hadn’t heard a note played.

With fish and chips lining the stomach it was down to the pebble beached seafront for the first gig of the weekend. Eugene McGuinness served up a solid set of throwaway acoustic delights, with a strong falsetto and pop hooks impressing the crowd. Two doors down The Boxer Rebellion’s dense, ethereal rock impressed, but failed to excite.

Now the charm of a gig crawl (even the Camden one) is catching a band you weren’t expecting, and so it was at the next venue, with Jim Gipson and The Runaway Sons, a countrified Jeff Buckley, belting out rousing, bluesy Americana to pleasing effect. A highlight of the week, AA Bondy followed, plucking out affecting and heartwarming blues to a hushed crowd. With echoes of Ryan Adams and Bob Dylan, his dark, bruised, lived in lyrics cut to the core.

Two man band No Age made more noise than I thought possible. Feted by taste maker Pitchfork, the duo’s vicious thrust sucks you in, their unstoppable riffs and insistent drums grabbing your nuts and squeezing for good measure. A joyous racket, if that’s your bag.

Dog tired, there was room for one more.Channelling the spirit of Rage Against the Machine, Future of the Left’s thick, jarring riffs rumbled to the very core – contrary, vital and altogether pretty great. With ears ringing, legs aching, it was back to the shoddy B&B (with walls so thin we could hear the guy next door snoring).

FRIDAY

Morning and a jaunt up the pier, jellied eels, oily donuts, those slidey 10p things that keep on taking with the promise of... more 10ps, but the overhang never dropped, so I shot zombies instead. I didn’t realise how much I missed seaside arcades and the smell of rock. When I have kids this will be our first low rent British holiday, that’s for sure.

Nostalgia ringing in my ears it was time for more music. Jonny Flynn’s rich golden voice and pop country stylings started the evening off nicely. Through chance, we caught the end of a truly mental French electro pop duo (think Junior Senior), dressed in tight tennis shorts called Curry & Coco. When they belted out Girl’s Just Wanna Have Fun I was won over by their sheer excitement. That they were playing in a quiet church just made things stranger. The band we’d come to see weren’t on for some reason, so we bailed.

A bit of improvisation ended with the truly shite Electric City, but we finished strongly with the mighty Strange Death of Liberal England. Comparisons with Arcade Fire are unfair and they’ve failed to capture their raucous energy on record, but live the five-piece achieve a momentum that is hard to beat. It was a rousing finish to the day.

SATURDAY

Taking a punt on Cheeky Cheeky and the Nosebleeds (yes, that is their name) could have gone either way. The NME seem to rate them, and there was a time when that meant something. As it was we were faced with a gang of spotty 12 year olds (well, maybe they weren’t that young) churning out the usual jangly indie pop that everyone is thoroughly bored of (except the NME clearly). Singing about girls and going out can be fun, but here it just seemed cynical and bereft of wit or good tunes.

The band of the day, perhaps the week, was Bon Iver - fragile folk has never been better. Frightened Rabbit managed the difficult trick of being both epic and immediate, something The Twilight Sad failed to do in their set. Their album was one of the best last year, but apart from the lead singer’s best efforts, the rest of the band plugged along uninterestedly. Which is a shame, given their music on record is powerful, gripping and stirring.

 

Alas, the rest of the night was a downer, Reuben had cancelled and everywhere else was queued up beyond belief, so big name acts like Lightspeed Champion and Glasvegas were both no goes. A damp squib of an ending to an otherwise top weekend.

I got a chance to see a preview of Gone Baby Gone, Ben Affleck's directorial debut, based on the Dennis Lehane book of the same name. Guess what? It's pretty damn good. Mature, solemn, funny and gripping, raising difficult questions and giving no easy answers... this from the guy who was Armageddon.

Now I've always liked Ben Affleck, I don't get the hate, but people at work assure me it's because of his "smug face" and "arrogance". I never got that, perhaps it's the fact he banged Jennifer Lopez and was in a turkey of a film with her. After that debacle he's shrunk from the public gaze, and more impressively he's written and directed one of the best crime thrillers I have seen in a long while.

 Starring his brother Casey (who recently blew Brad Pitt off the screen in Jesse James), the film follows the fall out from the disappearance/kidnapping of a 5 year old girl. Delayed for a year because of the Madeline McCann (superficial) similarities, this is a film that should be seen by a wider audience, not least because of the dark script, gritty direction and exemplary acting.

  

this is in no way spoilerific...

Indy 4 starts of promisingly, but is soon scuppered by a shite macguffin and too many characters left with not a lot to do. The dirty Ruski Commie baddies could have filled in nicely for the Nazis, but they never really step up, Indy barely cracks a whip and the "plot" lumbers along awkwardly from one set piece to another. Lacking gusto, wit, imagination, childlike awe (all the things Raiders, and to a degree the last two, had in spades), Crystal Skull is not the rape of childhood that Phantom Menace was, it's just not good enough. One character swaps allegiances three times! That's just lazy writing. And the less said about the plot device driving this rickety cash mobile along the better. I could just swallow the Christian jiggery pokery of Raiders and Crusade, it was silly, but grounded in something, this, this? Well, it beggars belief, and it's pretty obvious what the big secret is long before anyone dares say it out loud. 

 What did I expect, it's just an Indy film right? Well, given that Raiders is pretty much perfect and the template for most action adventure romps, is it too much too ask for Spielberg and Lucas to up their game and try something different. Indy 4 is nothing more than a box ticking exercise of things Indy has done before and unfortunately that doesn't fly anymore.

  

Saw Romero's latest zombie flick t'other night... maybe not a wise choice for the last thing at night, what with the end of civilisation and zombies tearing chunks out of people's necks and stuff. Still, a zombie's eyes got melted out of its face by one of those hospital thingys that start people's hearts, so that was good. Of course, it wasn't all about elaborate deaths, it was all about the youtube culture man, bloggers and the useless on the ground reportage that we civilians do (like this!). You see, it puts a wall up so we don't get affected by the horrors of life - tsunami? again? Earthquake? It barely rocked my world... and zombie films get such a bad name. You get less social commentary on the news.