One-Shot (31/01/09)

Arguing about Unionism vs Republicanism (even with a friend) is about as fun as bobbing for Anthrax.

Also, Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots rules. Great to have you back, Snake.

One-Shot (30/01/09)

Two things:

1. Another treat today - Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots. C'mon, at just under 23 notes, tell me you wouldn't!
2. Had my "getting asked out by Katherine Heigl" dream again, with a colleague instead. I am such an open book.

15: Review - Role Models

Role Models = deja vu. On August 31st 2007, I went to see Knocked Up after work. It was that rare 15-rated comedy: an agreeable marriage of warmth and filth. When my cackles at Jason Siegel's spot-on Arnie impersonation* started ringing around the theatre with grating alacrity, I learned (not for the first time) what it is to be alone in great numbers.

Cut to: Today... and more of the same; more seemingly cookie-cutter comedy about coming of age/any place you can; more lonely laughs. Wheeler (Sean William Scott) and Danny (Paul Rudd) are co-workers who attempt to ween kids off black-market drugs with canned ones for the Minotaur drinks company ("Taste the beast.") The former is in his element, working hard and playing even harder. But the only thing Danny cares about is his lawyer girlfriend, Beth (the ever-likeable Elizabeth Banks.) After he losers her during "one of those days", he and Wheeler find themselves in trouble with the law. If they can't complete 150 hours of community service, it's off to jail for certain anal invasion.

A few good moments and more than a few great lines** aside, the first act is as ordinary as it sounds. Everything from turning points to characters are well-defined but familiar. Rather than detract from the experience, though, the film's greatest strength is its willingness to forego invention in favour of sheer-laughs. Wheeler is Ben Stone with Stifler's mojo. It's a perfect match, Scott sprucing up an archetype with his affability. Danny is his curmudgeonly foil, the disapproving, mature brother.

When this odd couple are paired with their young charges Ronnie and Augie (Bobb'e J. Thompson and Christopher "McLovin" Mintz-Plasse, respectively) it's easy to bemoan the outcome's predictability. Sturdy Wings (a "Bigger Brothers" style child mentoring service) is their quest for booze, their plane they must land, their getting Katherine Heigl up the duff: without it, there is no story. Fortunately, it carries its weight in laughs, even if many of them are sniggers rather than out-louds. And of course, it helps everyone get their act together and bestows happy endings aplenty.

Jane Lynch does her best to steal the film as their reformed but forever damaged junkie turned child enthusiast boss.*** The real break out, however, is Thompson's Ronnie. Whether ribbing Danny for his Ben Affleckness or swearing at a Richard Pryor-level, he's delightful. With any luck, this'll be his Superbad. This is not to belittle the fine Mintz-Plasse who, in two films, has arguably shown more range than Michael Cera has in years.

A fortunate result of such strict adherence to script structure**** is the opportunitiy it presents director David Wain. Thankfully, he seizes it with all the conviction Augie does his hand-crafted "sword." Any dissatisfaction left from the breezy opening is banished once the rising stakes/laughter reach their crescendo in a gloriously o.t.t. final set-piece where fantasy meets rock 'n' roll.***** Thankfully, the result is more "Ramble On" than Mastodon.

See it: 'cos the thought of a Porky's remake gets you hard/wet/both.
Don't see it: 'cos laughing at other's expenses is something only children do.
Rank: 7/10 (Lieutenant)

* "Dammit Cohagen, get da people da aiiiir!"
** "Hey Wheeler, she's tasting your beast."
*** "Ya know what I used to have for breakfast? Cocaine. You know what I used to have for lunch? Cocaine."
**** Is there anything Paul Rudd can't do?
***** Yes, that is Knocked Up's Ken Joeng as the less than regal "King" and yes, he should get more work.

--

Ian Pratt couldn't respect Paul Rudd any more.

One-Shot (29/01/09)

Another Tevez-esque performance on the artificial grass tonight. An unglamorous player doing unglamorous things: leading the line, chasing down, snapping at heels, tracking back, winning the ball, laying it off, and putting it away. It's not about the goals (at least, a brace), though. It's not about carving the opposition open like so many holiday birds (some lovely wee 1-2's.) And it's not about winning (being a bad loser is nothing like being a bad victor). It's about the look on your brother's face that says "this could go either way."

One-Shot (28/01/09)

Good News:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/eng_prem/table/default.stm

Beautiful, isn't it? And for so many reasons, but mostly:

1. United's record-breaking defence steering them to a three point lead. Go, team!

And...

2. Martin O'Neill guiding Villa to second, ahead of Chelsea, and hot on Scouse tail. Ulster "represent."

Bad News:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/northern_ireland/7848697.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/northern_ireland/7855035.stm

Horrible, isn't it? And for so many reasons, but mostly:

1. It's the latest in a long list of reminders that change and forgiveness left our building long ago.

And...

2. Mike Nesbitt summing it all up - "Once again, the old hurts are aired, but not resolved."

"News:"

Punisher: War Zone arrives this Friday, cheering me and hopefully you too, up.

14: In Defence of Girls Who Say "Gat", Not "Got"

Finding most of Girls Aloud attractive makes me feel basic. But this isn't about sexual apathy, for once. No, today, I bring you consternation (GASP!) with one of my national brethren (DOUBLE GASP!)

I hear Nadine Coyle* is preparing to make a real go of acting in L.A. Fair play to her. I wish her all the best. She's young and beautiful so she's sure to find work, whether she's good or not. Plus, she's Irish in the Land of Opportunity. Anything that sets actors apart right?

Or not. Apparently, "our Nadine" is drafting in a voice coach to smooth out her Derry accent, presumably to replace it with something interchangeable with any number of American actresses.

Needless to say, what the beg? Setting aside the contentious issue of patriotism here (someone from Stroke City who went on the Irish version of Pop Idol first didn't go to bed in Union Jack sheets that's for sure), why bother? On a practical level, her brogue could easily be adapted for a role as a character from the United States. Irish actors have exploited this for years**: Cillian Murphy being a fine example. Dude's invisible as Americans. In short, don't throw the beautiful baby out with the bath water.***

Isla Fisher understands the art of keeping one's native tongue while on the job. So too does Rachel Wiesz.**** Rather than suck the viewer out of a film, identifying the performer behind the mask can enhance viewing pleasure. Nadine would doubtless prove the same, if she can:

1: put on a half-decent American accent.
2: leave her work at the office.

And I don't buy the whole "she's only doing it so they'll understand her" thing.

As it's not very gentlemanly to buy a lady a beer, I'll adjust. Nadine, if these trends continue, you'll leave me no choice but to ask another lady to join me in a c'yar-e-okee rendition of "Yer Stull La Wun." You have been warned.

* http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=eVemNzcMkUo
** File Gabriel Byrne's "Koy-Zer Sow-Zay" readings under "Mixed Results."
*** With some work, you too could be pimp enough to talk like T from Swingers.
**** Clive Owen and Naomi Watts would be the power-couple, though.

--

Ian Pratt needs to confront his love for culchys, one of these days... whatever the cost.

One-Shot (27/01/09)

When you "peep" this "sweet" video, you'll know why today's One-Shot has arrived so early.

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=23806812

I'm no Eli Roth fan, but this goes some way to changing that. Congratulations E, you're officially on my "I'd buy you a beer" list. You too, Josh.

One-Shot (26/01/09)

All those sick of hearing non-news about Jonathan Ross say "aye!" If he's not tracking down Steve Ditko with Neil Gaiman, approach with caution.

One-Shot (25/01/09)

How not to relax after a hard "shift"* at "work"**: watch*** 'The Hills.'

* Does it still count as a shift, when you're shafted into unpaid overtime?
** An embarrassment to the term.
*** To paraphrase Nick Nunziata, you don't watch 'The Hills', 'The Hills' happens to you.

One-Shot (24/01/09)

Unexplainable obstacles to online gaming got you down? Manchester United hits rage in the goods!

Take one lashing of vintage Paul Scholes and add a dash of Dimitar Berbatov finesse for full effect. It's your one-stop-shop for removing Spurs from the F.A. Cup and getting on with your life.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/fa_cup/7842634.stm

Manchester United... kills stress dead.

13: Just One More Thing...

Think I exaggerate employment apathy?

http://uk.encarta.msn.com/encnet/departments/college/?article=GuardianGraduateEmployment

This pretty much says it all.

--

Ian Pratt pretty much says it all.

One-Shot (23/01/09)

One week on and going wrong...

The man in the song says "Someday, you will be loved." Interesting, no? I wonder if he means it.

12: Review - Milk

In February's Empire magazine, Gus Van Sant addresses the timeliness of Milk, his latest film. Although there are inevitable parallels to be drawn between the film's controlling idea and the recent flurry of Obamamania, this is just a case of good timing.

Harvey Milk (Sean Penn) moves from New York to San Francisco with his lover Scott Smith (James Franco.) He becomes a local figurehead in "the Castro", and later the first ever openly gay man to be elected to U.S. public office. As City Supervisor, he takes his crusade for gay rights nationwide, standing up against conservative intolerance, breaking new ground and boundaries along the way.

What seems like your conventional us vs. them crusade flick on paper becomes a stirring love letter on-screen. Penn more than justifies yesterday's Best Actor Oscar nomination. Rare is the performance which balances an actor's ability and enjoyment, making the leading man all the more impressive. The other principals all turn in fine work, especially Emile Hirsch as Milk's understudy Cleve Jones. And Josh Brolin proves himself, once again, to be the go-to-guy for credible, upper crust undersirables.

Van Sant confidently eschews linear narrative, giving the film an airy but never wayward feel. Building around Milk's recordings allows all the intimacy of voice over narration with none of the "cheese"* risks. Whether detailing Milk's troubled, on-again, off-again relationship with Smith, or his growing accomplishment as a politician, everything clicks. Justin Lance Black is a writer to watch... hopefully, picking up a Little Gold Dude in the process too.**

Milk's message will not be lost on Anti-Flag familiars. You can, indeed, kill the protester, but you can't kill the protest.

Watch it: to feel Eiffel Tower high.
Don't watch it: to prove you have no soul.
Rating: 7.5 (Lieutenant Commander.)

* Stand up and be counted American Beauty.
** I'd prefer it were Martin McDonagh for In Bruges, but what are you gonna' do?

--

Ian Pratt wishes a Michael Cera or a Jay Baruchel would play him in All Quiet on the East Antrim Front: The Ian Pratt Story, but he knows in his heart it would be D. J. Qualls.

One-Shot (22/01/09)

Songwriting is liking dating. When it doesn't work, it stinks. When it works, euphoria. I've been working on a few songs, on and off, since last May. Usually, they bring chugging, distorted guitars and overactive bass together in an unmitigated squall. Recently, though, I discovered Allison Weiss.* By the time "I'm Ready" finished it's umpteenth spin, Skeletor** was back in action.

Little over a week later, I'm well on my way to completing my first song in months. Not bad going for someone who struggles to marry verses and choruses, eh? Unlike so many of its predecessors, it could easily work as the pop/folk/rock ditty it began as or morph into a roaring stadium anthem. I forgot how good this part is.

Now, if only I could stop thinking about Susie Dent long enough to write some lyrics. Hang on...

* http://allisonweiss.tumblr.com/
** The guitar.

One-Shot (21/01/09)

When I get that time machine, I'll buy George Washington a beer.

After reading Rupert Cornwell's excellent essay on him in part one of the Independent's 'The Lives of the Presidents' series, I have a lot of time for the Old Fox. It's hard not to like the Virginian. He was an Ordinary Man with extraordinary power. Though not the smartest or warmest President, nor the greatest strategist, he was substance over style. He may not have had the teeth to boast J.F.K. appeal, but Washington's stern demeanour - a symbol of his conviction - continues to capture the American consciousness today. He had the kind of charisma that can't be taught, and modesty uncommon to such an esteemed leader. "His election - "the event which I have long dreaded" - was less an opportunity for a self-aggrandizing fanfare than the price to be paid for greatness.

"Labour to keep alive in your breast that spark of celestial fire called conscience." A man after my own heart.

Broken Dream Theatre, Part 2: Footballer

Today, you’re getting the goods. Never has there been a better marriage of messenger and message than this weightily-dubbed series. To say that this series is the blog’s magnum opus is an insult of I Am Legend-proportions. This is its Magnum Force, its unloading a pulse rifle clip into the face of indifference.

We’ve all had dreams. Some have more than others. I fall into the latter category. Over the course of the coming posts I aim to prove beyond all doubt that I am living evidence that a jack of all trades masters none.

Note: as I am, at the time of writing, still alive (and 22), it’s problematic to decree any dream “broken” as in permanently caput, defunct, or dead, even if it feels justified in my current state of pessimism. For this reason, the list shall take the form of a prosaic hospital ward with me, the ‘doctor’, ushering you, the ‘reader’, through the ‘ward’, assessing the dire straits of its many ‘patients.’

--

Broken Dream: Footballer
Dream Breaker/s: doubt, fear, other interests, my lack of the goods.
Dream Status: Coma’d.
Heartbreak rating: World-Class

This post has easily been the hardest to write. Strange, as it’s not my number one “broken dream.”* I realize that football isn’t a passion shared by all of my peers. That said, I present a harsher than usual edit, the Aliens theatrical cut of Ian articles.

If you grow up in certain places, football becomes more than a game. It is part of you. Northern Ireland is one such place. From the time kids here are old enough to stand, they’re kicking. They’re kicking everything in reach, until they’re old enough to stroke a ball around the street, local park, or nearest school. Anywhere decent. Anywhere cars or neighbours aren’t constantly interrupting. Even when many of these same kids start kicking other kids around the street on alcopop induced highs, they’re still at it. The game’s beauty lies in its simplicity. If you’ve got a football, you’re away. There’s no need for extraneous equipment or players. When the ball’s at your feet, all that separates you from the theatre of your particular dreams is imagination.

1998 was a big year for me. I started high school. Amongst other things, I fell in love with football. I’d enjoyed it before then (mostly playing it personally or watching international matches) but never like that. I haven’t thought about in donkeys, but, for a time, I was poised. A rare John Hughes moment saw me rushing to tell my family how I’d “made the team.” That said team was “B” is irrelevant. If school squads were regulation size I might well have snuck onto the A-team bench for “the championship game” or some equally Rudy/‘One Tree Hill’ moment.** Even though my football career proved more Diego Forlan than Wayne Rooney, I’ll always fondly regard that moment, both for the possibilities it represented and the fantasy wiggle room it provides.

You know when you’re in the company of real football fans. I’m not talking about the kind of track-suited numpties who exist only to glower and menace society. I’m talking about the football nerds, the kind of cats who can tell you where the Scudetto is headed or who’s managed Red Star Belgrade for the last three seasons. In their company, you will become fast-friends. You will discuss clubs, bonding regardless of shared allegiances, you will argue over Pro Evolution and FIFA, and you will talk about your own ‘career.’ Not your day job, your other career.

While writing, a number of potential career trajectories and mirror universes amused me. Ever the jugular grabber, instinct first led me on a path of unparalleled glory. I was a Manchester United striker. And a prolific goal-scorer at that… for club and country. Northern Ireland were making it to World Cups on my back. Endorsement deals were landing on my doorstep enough times to give Rod Tidwell a heart-attack. And on and on.

Before long, blue-sky casting got old. Playing for an Irish league team would’ve more than sated this soccer ambition. Had I got my freshman finger out way back when, it wouldn’t have been beyond the realm of possibility either. I’m no Spike Ferguson, but then again, not everyone has prompted an opposing player to remark “he doesn’t miss!”*** I may be lightweight, even for a “forward”, but I mix it anyway. More than enough to pose a threat to some of the chancers who ply their trade in the local game. And physicality you can always work on, build up.**** The seed of a half-decent player was/is there. It just never got watered.

Alas, that gap in the market for a poor man's Dennis Bergkamp goes unfulfilled.

If a blue-skinned Robin Williams offered me the world in a hand-cart, I’d see what else he had in the trolley. I would. When the sky’s the limit, who wants to live with their head in the clouds? Hollywood endings are a blast for pub-chat purposes, but restraint is where its really at. Leading a less than box-office life for long enough will do that to you. Unlike Bright Lights Big City summer transfers and all that jazz, 5 a-side on waterlogged astro turf never loses its luster.

* See part one for all your wallowing needs.
** Fans of the latter should watch the former immediately.
*** Stephen Maxwell, I thank you.
**** I hope you’re taking notes, Kyle Lafferty.

--

Ian Pratt could regale you with the tale of that lob he scored two weeks ago, but you’ve suffered enough for one post. Anyway, it was a beaut.

One-Shot (20/01/09)

Some people dislike America's penchant for the theatrical. Oftentimes, they hail from less interesting lands. Today's inauguration for President Barack Obama would, no doubt, draw their ire. I loved it. What little I got to see was a glorious testament to the indefatigable warmth and confidence I associate with the U.S. and many of its citizens.

If only local politics weren't such a ball-ache.

11: I 'Seacht' You Not

Non-shocking opening remark: I am a patriot. Some early posts have touched on this and at least one more is due to follow. Like my more enlightened fellow citizens, love of The Province doesn't exclude the other 28 counties. So when a new Irish language programme comes along, aimed squarely at my demographic, I'm more than a little interested. A practical application for those with a bit of Gaeilge? Go raibh maith agat!

'Seacht', according to the Irish Film & Television Network, is a new drama following the lives of students in a fictional Belfast arts college. It features young local actors and has an interesting pedigree behind the curtain. The D.P. from Once, for example. The show's producer, Ferdia MacAnna, "wanted to create something different, something people hadn't seen before."

Ferdia - 0, Humanity - 1.

Not to put too fine a point on it, 'Seacht' is absolute malachite. It's inherent concept is trite and as uninspired as the original chocolate fireguard. Unlike 'Gavin and Stacey' or 'The I.T. Crowd', flair, charm, or wit can't bring it home. Even if they could, they shouldn't. 'Seacht' doesn't deserve saving. It's a derivative televisual ballbag fit only for the knackers yard.

Of course, these things come in pairs: Armageddon/Deep Impact, Capote/Infamous, Yes Man/Bring Me The Head Of Alfredo Garcia. With 'Skins' pulling in the T4 crowd, 'Seacht' was inevitable. It's bland cast, comprised mainly of unknowns (with good cause) fall from one histrionic hissyfit to the next, never showing anything approaching complexity or a third dimension. Five minutes tells you all you need to know about the all-too-familiar subjects covered and the faux-Trainspotting style it's served in. If you do stick it out for an episode or two you'll:

1. Find all the usual boxes ticked and reticked.
2. Weep. If not literally, then inside.

You've seen it all before and so much better. This isn't the show you're looking for. Move along.

There is something great about having a prime-time "drama" in Irish. Take that away, though, and you've got McSkins. Nothing more, nothing less. Sure, MacAnna and his cohorts would no doubt defend the show's linguistic approach. When I first watched it, I thought Irish was being used as a metaphor. The whole "kids have their own language, these days" thing. If that was their intention, they failed. Anyone who says otherwise is backpeddling, retconning a job so bungled and botched as to warrant immediate destruction.

If you've ever handled a Bank of Ireland tenner, you will recognize Queen's as the backdrop. When the sole redeeming factor of a programme is recognizing the locations, well... you get the gist.

A similar level of tat can be found on the show's Northern Ireland iPlayer page. Suffice to say, you'll want to tune in, at their behest, to see what it's like when people lead emotional lives. An emotional life? Man that'd be something. But they are right about one thing. It is ground breaking. See the ground beneath my feet? It's breaking.

--

Ian Pratt recommends 'Blas Ceoil' for all your blarney needs.

One-Shot (19/01/09)

Sometimes, the words of Mark Eitzel are more suitable than your own; "I'm sick of food, so why am I so hungry?"

One-Shot (18/01/09)

Never sleep that long again.

One-Shot (17/01/09)

When you're looking over your shoulder, you probably shouldn't be.

10: Review - The Wrestler

‘Tis the season for Oscar-bait. Fear not. This lumbering, empty breed are easily spotted. They hail from royal blood. Perhaps, a Coen, Mendes, or Haggis. They boast impressive performances, usually from ensemble casts or faded stars, and - above all else - they’re art. So when a film comes along sending out all the signals, caution is advised. Fortunately, The Wrestler passes inspection.

Robin Ramzinski (Mickey Rourke) is a wrestling legend eking out a meagre existence working retail in small town New Jersey. Randy, as he prefers to be called, is living a charmed life. His best days are long gone. The Ram’s a walking cauliflower ear, wearing every cut and bruise as rightful badges of honour. Every weekend, he goes back for more, tangling like an 18 year old trapped in his father’s aching frame. With a good 20 years on his peers, he just keeps going. Like all good Hollywood Men, it’s all he knows how to do.

So far, so familiar, yes? There’s more. Outside the ring, our protagonist is alone. All he has left are memories of former glory, an estranged daughter (Evan Rachel Wood), and a tentative friendship with Cassidy (the excellent Marisa Tomei), a local stripper.

From the outside, it’s easy to write off The Wrestler. The story is, well, storied. Every beat is safe and familiar. Movies like this fly or die on the strength of their particulars. Good thing Darren Aronofsky does details like Debbie does Dallas. The jittery, hand-held visuals get you there, whether lending vital immediacy mid-grapple (bright lights and brighter tights sparkle) or bringing the gloom of Randy’s Spartan day-to-day alive. This proves vital, when the gentle pace remains steady during the middle third. Dialogue is excellent. Seldom does a script, especially for a largely low-key drama - feel so natural and easy.

Despite fine work from Wood, Tomei's performance shines second brightest. When, in a very Knocked Up juxtaposition, Cassidy and Randy's paths converge, she lends the role a weight uncommon in leading ladies.

For all its flair, The Wrestler could stand to ratchet up the drama. Even when Randy vomits painfully, post-show, and winds up in hospital, the danger never grips like it should. Heart-attacks are serious business and Randy “giving up” his trade on Doctor’s advice pushes the emote button, but it’s not all bad. He’s lived it, made it to the top of the ropes and looked down; it’s a price he’s happy to pay. His straits aren’t poverty-dire. At worst, he’ll carry on working the deli counter ‘til his heart finally gives in. Hardly a finale fit for “The Ram”, but it could be worse.

Aronofsky defies conventional, William Goldman thinking. His relaxed approach to tension doesn’t hurt the film so much as it highlights a weak-spot. Every limping on-screen warrior needn’t live constantly on death’s door. It would surely have been a less involving beast had Randy been forced to go back into the ring rather than choose to, but then, we wouldn’t have a prestige picture on our hands, would we?

How you’ll feel walking out of this one depends on how much you’ve heard before going in. It’s a confident, well-crafted film, no question. Mickey Rourke is sublime, and not everything about the ending is paint by numbers. That said, it’s less the transcendent masterwork you’ve heard about than a very good keep believin’ yarn.

Watch it: because you know it makes sense.
Don’t watch it: ‘cos Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 is starting in 5 minutes and that’s, like, totally better.
Rank: Lieutenant (7/10.)

--

Ian Pratt has no beef with Traveling Pants or their related Sisterhood. He just doesn't like to see Alexis Bledel's considerable charms taken up with middling fare.

One-Shot (16/01/09)

If you read this blog, you'll notice two things:

1. Posting is, occasionally, erratic.
2. Thank you.

This post relates to the former point. Unlike most blogs, we at Low Standards are all about the finesse. If we can give you a box of pre-packed B.L.T.'s or a fine hunk o' dining, you best believe we'll serve you the latter. With a smile too. This might seem contrary to the stream of consciousness style thought-bombardments readily found across the 'net, but it's just our style. It suits us. That and there was never really any reason to defy our unwritten quality not quantity rule.

Until now.

Behold, our latest, DAILY feature: One-Shots!

A One-Shot, as the comic readers amongst you will know, is a stand-alone opus, a chance to break the confines of continuity and explore new ground. Well, not every post needs the thousand-plus words Ian treatment. See where this is going? If you lay awake in bed at night wishing for bite-size mind-dumps, get kipping, kiddo! After you read this, of course. One-Shots are free-form, express musings. They will bridge the gap between us and the average blog, as well as provide an extra incentive to make your trip to Grandiloquent Vagaries & Other Miscellany a daily one.

Without further rambling...

One-Shot
(16/01/09)

--

The world has music indigestion.

9: Review - The Spirit

The Author makes no apologies for the delay of this review. He'll assess things if and when he feels like it.*

Frank Miller must be gutted. The director’s gone from the comic writer/artist Premiership to its Sunday League within a year. What happened? He underestimated how fickle fanboys can be. Alan Moore must be pleased: that’s one less name on his list of illustrious peers.

Arriving on the coat-tails of some very unflattering buzz, The Spirit comes as a welcome surprise. Despite what every my-two-cents critic from Ballymena to Bangladesh says, it’s no debacle. It’s self-indulgent, yes. It’s gloss does little to disguise its modest budget and a more focused approach to the script would have doubtless helped. But it’s still no Underworld. Depending on your view of Sin City, you’ll be drinking in every pulp flourish or zoning out. This isn’t Will Eisner’s Spirit. This is Frank Miller’s.

An in-depth plot analysis is superfluous, such is the nature of the flick. Denny Colt is a “boy-scout” cop who gets killed on the job. He returns as the Spirit, a mysterious masked ace up the police’s sleeve. Crime happens, he punches it in the face. Oh, and women spice things up.

Tonally, the vigilante’s relationship with the Law is very telling. In The Dark Knight, Chris Nolan goes out of his way to establish the legal conundrum Batman causes Jim Gordon. Miller has fun with this same notion by flipping it. The Spirit loves his city and his city loves him back. Women and children adore him, as one very Robocop moment illustrates. This hero’s no shadow-skulker. He’s so public it’s a little weird. How often do we see Spider-Man or Wonder Woman walking around with cops in the clear of day?

The blood splattered chiaroscuro that so divides genre fans returns. You know, the one that everyone loved in 2005? Well, it’s back and blacker than ever. It’s gorgeous. The overwhelmingly dark palette does takes a while to get used to, but it works like a beast. Once the eponymous crime-buster (a spot-on Gabriel Macht) starts leaping off rooftops and thwarting muggers, it becomes apparent it was the only choice. Miller’s decision to substitute Eisner’s blue for black paid off. It would’ve been Dick Tracy all over again, if he hadn’t. Moreover, certain moments - for all the director’s unmistakable stylings - are pure Eisner. The first act swamp scrap between the Spirit and Sam Jackson’s** Octopus pops with every glob of slime and, yes, smashed toilet. It’s slapstick, minus the laugh-track. Make of that what you will.

Every woman on show - and they are on show - is impossibly beautiful. The Spirit loves every woman he meets, as his former beau Ellen Dolan (Sarah Paulson, steady) observes. Given that every woman in his world looks like a Hollywood pin-up, he can be forgiven. In a film full of near-misses and cheap laughs, this is Miller’s one masterstroke. Women, for the purposes of this movie, are no more “true” or “characterised” than men. It’s a fantasy yarn of agony and ecstasy that anyone (male or female) who’s ever been 16 knows and, hopefully, appreciates.***

When Michael Mann eschews conventional structure, he gets applauded. When Christopher Nolan takes an unlikely queue from Mann with a comic book movie, he’s a genius. Well, it’s obvious from his solo directorial debut that Frank Miller is neither Nolan nor Mann. What The Spirit lacks in composure, though, it more than makes up for in conviction. There’s no belated apology on its way from Miller, because he hasn’t made a mistake. He’s made a movie for himself and everyone with room in their heart for the best fever dream they never had. He probably has a lot more fun than he should in his Central City playground and will likely find his leash tightened in future. This isn’t a good thing, despite what his defectors say. Taut, straight-laced movie-makers are all too prevalent these days. Now, more than ever, we need a voice as noncommercial, unrestrained, and uncompromisingly bubblegum as Frank Miller. To paraphrase Silken Floss “you’re taking it all too seriously, nerdlingers.”

Watch it: ‘cos you like to watch.
Don't watch it: ‘cos you find Dane Cook funny.
Rank: Ensign (about a 5/10.)

* Maybe you should look forward to a forthcoming review of Alien 3, maybe you shouldn’t.
** If you enjoyed Al Pacino’s work in Heat, you’re gonna love Sam set to Ham.
*** There’s an essay or two in there for every link between femininity and death, psychoanalysis fans.

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Ian Pratt wants to see what Frank Miller has in store for Buck Rogers. Yeah, he said it.

8: Get Hi

At the risk of being the guy in 1993 who tipped his friends off to this hot new three-piece band from Seattle, I’ll be faster than usual*. This is the part where you breath a sigh of relief.**

Last July, I graduated from university. It still seems so fresh, which makes the 6 months or so that have since passed all the scarier. I’ve been back home since May, so it’s really been about 8 months since my circumstances changed. The transition was rocky. Being home for more than 3 weeks (or a few months in the summer) for the first time in 3 years was different entirely with no end in sight. Being away from friends, with no real sense of purpose bar looking for jobs that don’t exist wasn’t easy so much as soul destroying. Throw in shop work and you’re a few notches shy of a Falling Down moment.

Then Annual Gift Man brought a PlayStation Mach 3 down the chimney. It rocks. Boy, howdy, does it rock. Since about 1996, I’ve been pretty faithful to Sony. Not quite a monogamist (hello, N64), but a dedicated follower nonetheless. The PS2 was fairly instrumental in much of my home entertainment from 2000 through 2005. Even when Microsoft staged their coup de main, I was never seriously tempted to defect. Other things were going on. Uni, for one. But with my studies finished, (and no prospect of putting them to good use) my thirst for games recently reawakened.

I conducted reconnaissance, trying to catch up with what had taken place in my gaming sabbatical. What had I missed? How would I know which machine would be right for me now that so much time had passed?

My attraction to the PS3 was never really in doubt. I realize that there are probably 360 users already formulating the inevitable “X-Box is well better” response. To them I say, “each to their own.” The 360 may well be “better” for a multitude of reasons. The N64 was twice as powerful as the original Playstation (or “GreyStation”, as Nintendoids dubbed it.) Did this stop Sony’s underdog wiping the floor with it? No dice. These things happen. I don’t know for sure that the PS3 is my gaming “soul-mate” (I’m not sold on the whole “one Mr/Mrs Right” thing) and it needn’t be. Like the rebound relationship that leads to long-term happiness, I’m happy to see how it goes. It’s right for me, right now.

How do I know this? Well, if, like me, you regularly read movie sites/magazines, then you’ll be aware of the rise of a new power in the home cinema domain. It promises 5 times the resolution of standard DVD, true HD 5.1 Surround Sound, and web-based special features content. It goes by the name of Blu-ray. If I hadn’t studied away from home, I wouldn’t have appreciated the jump to HD nearly as much. When your only experience with HD is the occasional glance at a screen while shopping or at a friends or relatives, up-scaling hits you like a drop-kick to the nerve-centre from Kimbo Slice.***

The Dark Knight, which Santos also saw fit to bestow upon me, is stunning on Blu-ray. In fact, superlatives barely cut it. The vertigo-inspiring highs of the Hong Kong sequence, the Joker’s hospital boom boom scene, and Two-Face’s face, all amaze. Regardless of your view of the film, see also Transformers. This is to say nothing of Call of Duty: World At War which is just about the most playable game since, well, Modern Warfare or no. 3. If you don’t squeam/squeal/dump your cargo the first time a Banzai attacker rushes you, you’re doing it wrong.

Throw a Panasonic 1080p Viera TV into the mix for maximum oh, baby, yes.

I could go on. When I started getting DVDs, it was already the standard. Full-page ads in movie mags enticing people to eschew VHS were old hat. To feel fairly in sync is a welcome change.**** After a largely lukewarm second half to ‘08, HD’s arrival was just what I needed: a reminder that sometimes, it’s the little things that make life worth living. That and flame-throwering evil into submission on the sands of 40’s Japan. And sending out global shock-waves with a Northern Irish brand of total football…

* fner.
** fner fner.
*** http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=VbSP0tLzHtw&feature=related
**** so anyone about to post their “err, I’ve been buying Blu-rays for my jumbo-tron telly for two years. Pff! Where were you?” comment, feel free to swivel. Conversely, if you identified with me, make the leap. Go on, do it. You know it’s right.

--

Ian Pratt fully expects the impending Aliens: Colonial Marines game to be Call of Duty Lite in Space. Like every other right-minded individual, this excites him.

7: Confessions of a Libido Slave

Sometimes, I wish I weren’t a man. No, it’s not like that. Sometimes, I wish I were neither man nor woman nor freakish freakish hybrid of both. I’d rather be a eunuch: me and yet not me. Sure, school would’ve been somewhat problematic, but isn’t it always? For some time now, I’ve wondered what life would’ve been like for me without a member. Invariably, beautiful women are the catalyst for this adverse reaction.

For the most part, I enjoy heterosexual masculinity. Habitual attraction to a certain type of woman can be enjoyable in the same way as a Big Tasty*. But stepping outside the box can be better. There’s a reason the first strawberries of spring are the best you’ve ever had. Enter Elly Jackson:

http://entertainment.uk.msn.com/music/spotlight/gallery.aspx?cp-documentid=12060982&imageindex=9

Like all good inciting incidents, she disrupted my status quo. She upset this protagonist’s life, throwing his world into imbalance. Then Taylor Swift appeared:

http://entertainment.uk.msn.com/music/spotlight/gallery.aspx?cp-documentid=12060982&imageindex=12

I was the First Act, she was the Turning Point. She spun me in a different direction. She made me undertake the arc, confront inner conflict, learn something, etc. Her overpowering cuteness demanded it.

There are others. Ashley Tisdale, for one. But this isn’t Ian’s 100 Hottest List.**

Years - almost a decade - of fancying a certain “type” of woman just started bothering me. There was a time (1999-2001) when nothing pleased me more than Sarah Michelle Gellar’s Buffy grunting her way through paranormal fisticuffs. Or Alyson Hannigan’s Willow stammering her way to adoreability. In puberty’s halcyon days, I did… things… dubious, lamentable things. Magazines of a gentleman’s nature were not alien to my hormonal hands.

Over time, I honed my craft. No, really. That wasn't a euphemism. First, any marginally attractive woman to whom I wasn’t related demanded my attention. And you thought beggars could be choosers? Over time, my focus narrowed. I became primarily obsessed with the aforementioned “type”: mostly, but not exclusively, petite, slender women, be they blonde, brunette, ravenette, or otherwise. You know the sort. The dime-a-dozen variety currently found in your local city centre aping Ellen Page or Katie White or Little Boots or all three. If they happen to rock a garage band look, all the better. If she loves W.B. Yeats, dead on. If she loves W.B. Yeats and has red hair, will she marry me?

By 20, my art was mastered. This provided an extra incentive to go into town*** . Only on Tuesday, when I discovered Jackson and Swift did my epiphany dawn. These achingly-sweet gamines gave me the kick up the Khyber I needed. This is boring. These girls all look the same. Sure, they’re all hot. But when you get past the initial “wow” moment, they’re as empty as the calories from that Venetian Grande Saporito. They’re unremarkable. It’s sexual painting by numbers. This is so boring. What else is on?

Now, I know how Rivers Cuomo felt. Sex shouldn’t be such a ball-ache. Should it? We’re all meant to be dragged into senility tugging at our pieces or whatever saying “please, one more for the road!”, are we not? I fully expect to go on repeating myself, fancying the fanciable and not really thinking much about it. Most guys and gals (regardless of persuasion) would very well file this under “if it ain’t broke...”, if the thought ever occurred. Maybe, they’d be right to. All I know is I’m the T-Rex behind the security fence: I’m done with bloody goats. I want something more. I want to surprise myself, in a good way. I want to be surprised, in a good way.

Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe not. Auch, who cares? It’s boring, anyway.

* The best thing about a trip to Venice, depending on your tolerance for excessive amounts of tourists, keek-dropping pigeons, and local ignoramuses.
** If you demand it, it will come…
*** Like Manchester, Belfast has an embarrassment of attractive women.

--

Ian Pratt doesn’t just like the first track off Pinkerton. He enjoys all of Weezer’s misunderstood sophomore album.

It is such a good night

I feel stupid. No, really. Really, really fucking stupid.
Are you wondering why? Don’t blame you if you aren’t. I’m not, I’m just aware, constantly reminded by life’s innocuous coincidences, kept up by the thought of it. Bah.

Ian should have warned you. I’m always like this.

Some introduction huh? Well, I’m angry. Can you tell? Could two and two possibly make four?
I’m angry that I’m watching someone I love slowly kill themselves. Can you fault my anger? It is the most crippling thing to watch someone die, albeit slowly when all you can do is offer to top up, rack up and light up for them because it’s easy, it’s friendly and it’s all you can do to avoid the legitimate and obvious recourse you know has to be enacted.
I’ve been hesitating to post. Can I be blamed?

I’ll try not to ask so many questions but I fear all I’ll do instead is rant, blubber and shout. I’ve been in this position for so many years now and the worst thing from my limited perspective is the fact that I’m creeping towards the very same state. As cathartic as this article ought to be, it feels like an exercise in the unloading of one’s personal burden. Guilt again, I am surprised.

Alcoholism is one of many addictions people can suffer from and none of them are any worst than another. Fact.

Heroin, Bullying, Cocaine, Depression, Cigarettes, Sex, Social Vampirism, Alcohol. Okay they are all very different addictions, some of them could be argued to be frames of mind. Then, what is addiction?
Of the three I have listed that would veer towards that categorisation, they are red herrings, inserted with the sole purpose of clarifying the idea that they are all frames of mind and the users/victims/(appropriate terminology here) all suffer from a mental infliction that consumes every waking moment of their lives. They are capitalised because they are all conditions, if not medically called so, they are all inflictions which can either be medically explained or they all have the hallmarks of an irrefutable medical condition, addiction. Mental, physical, or otherwise.

I presume that some of you are expecting an answer, some of you are wondering whether or not there is a point to this diatribe. The truth is there isn’t. What could I possibly say to ease the pain of people in this very situation. What advice could I give them? I know nothing about my situation other than appeasement. No questions, yeah hold me to that later.

6: Al Murray isn't Funny and Glorifies Inanity

Al Murray isn’t funny and glorifies inanity. Like any right-minded individual watching Jools Holland’s annual ‘Hootenanny’ last night/this morning, I was appalled by Murray’s involvement. His quasi-omnipresence cast a pungent funk over the otherwise enjoyable shindig. From the off, continued exposure of The Pub Guy flecked out from the screen like a child scattering snot on your lunch.

I am a long-time viewer of Mr. Holland’s annual opus and, as such, know the drill. Lenny Henry, Annie Lennox, Jo Brand, et al are to be expected. So too is the inevitable “alternative” music choice (that’ll be the Icelandic harmonica quartet, then.) Some features, however, are best left behind. Some people remind us all why New Year’s resolutions endure, despite continued neglect. Al Murray is both the former and the latter.

“Everybody loves a joke, but no-one likes a fool.” So sayeth Billie Joe Armstrong. Clearly, Murray missed the memo. That he has long been considered a one-note joke is nothing new. Well, last night, Murray’s performance aimed to prove us all wrong. Unfortunately for those watching, he couldn’t hit a cow’s posterior with a banjo. First, viewers were subjected to cut-aways of his bland responses to the musical performers. These continued with suspicious regularity. The hashing of my buzz had begun.

All efforts to concentrate on Duffy’s sensuality failed. Murray’s rampant uselessness pervaded, culminating in arguably the most egregious shark-jump of our time. Holland granted Murray the most trumpeted one-on-one chat during his customary between-song walk and talks. Playing on his already exhausted Middle Ing-Ger-Land shtick, Murray responded to Holland’s every remark with one word: “hootenanny.” The name of the show, you’ll recall. As many people enjoy a drink on New Year’s Eve, Murray - in a brilliant deduction - spotted an opportunity to further shoehorn his mono-character into any scenario. Clever, no? It’s like the Pub Guy was on the show. And drunk. Brilliant.

Not since John Culshaw has a “comedian” so outstayed his welcome. When Britain’s second best one-punchline-wonder showed up later (to unveil his Bush - sorry - Barack Obama impersonation), the universe was fortunate not to crumble from such Herculean mediocrity. Compare this to Dara O’Briain who, after being ignored for much of the show, outclassed his peers in a few moments. Actually, there is no comparison. O’Briain, who may well have been legitimately hammered, needed only his wit and the involuntary involvement of Dizzee Rascal to impress.

Pity would probably not be high on the list of feelings I’d be expected to bear towards Al Murray. It is, though. I’m no hoot (see above), but at least I know my limits. In the words of Seymour Skinner, “if life has taught me one lesson repeatedly, it’s to know when I’m beaten.” If Murray could say the same, I’d give the guy a break. But no. He’s manchester city, a small club with delusions of grandeur. And, like all fish out of water, the sound of his feeble flapping is unavoidable. Witness his child-like glee at the embarrassed, perfunctory laughter of Holland and guests at his antics. He was even more stunned than I was that one word got so many laughs. Though rather than use this valuable moment of limelight to branch out, take a risk, or just enjoy himself, Murray chained himself to his comfort zone. And leched shameless after Duffy. The nerve...

I doubt anyone can study at Oxford if they aren’t intelligent. I also doubt that anyone could sustain a successful TV and stand-up career without talent. However, to follow-through on the man city metaphor, it’s only so long before someone or something shows up the sub-par’s inadequacies. The league table doesn’t lie. Lest Murray fully inhabit the city model and find himself stranded in mid-table obscurity or, worse yet, relegated to dreaded Bravo, Danny Dyer/Ross Kemp territory, why not give it a rest? Shape up or ship out, before Frankie Boyle or Sean Lock finally tear you a new one.

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Ian Pratt will start capitalising manchester city’s initials whenever they become a big club... and not a moment sooner.