Arthouse cinema has been defined as “serious, independently made film that is not aimed at a mass audience”. The inference being that it doesn’t pander to the tropes of Hollywood cinema and if the threat of subtitles doesn’t startle the audience into the queue for Transformers 4: Age of Extinction (promises, promises), then the possibility of having their understanding of the world challenged will.
I’m not going to get too preachy about it – if you reject a cinematic experience on the basis that you have to read text while you’re watching, you deserve to miss out on some truly great films – but it’s a sad indictment of modern life when our choice of entertainment reflects our inhibitions back at us.
Continue reading “Holy Motors: Here We Are Now, Entertain Us”
“For the first, maybe, 20 seconds of it, it had this real buzz. I’d say ‘Hey, hello,’ and it would say ‘Hey, how are you?’, and it was like whoa […] this is trippy. After 20 seconds, it quickly fell apart and you realized how it actually works, and it wasn’t that impressive. But it was still, for 20 seconds, really exciting. The more people that talked to it, the smarter it got.”
In this quote, Spike Jonze is describing an article he read explaining instant messaging with artificial intelligence. This was ten years ago, but it was this article that planted the seed of an idea that eventually evolved into ‘Her’. ‘Her’ has attracted numerous plaudits, including five Oscar nominations & a 94% approval rating on rottentomatoes.com, but as far as I’m concerned, he might as well be describing the film itself.
Continue reading “Movie Watch: Her”
If you had asked me in 2000, I doubt I would have gone so far as to call myself a fan of Lostprophets.
Their brand of pop metal, performed by photogenic, heavily modded and moulded boys, leaned a little too close to the accessible mainstream than I was comfortable with at the time, but thefakesoundofprogress was a decent enough album and Shinobi vs. Dragon Ninja still pops up on the odd playlist from time to time.
I don’t think I’m in the majority.
Continue reading “Fearne Cotton: Keep Quiet & Carry On”
That awkward moment when a woman who has won two gold medals (the universally accepted zenith of athletic achievement) admits on national television that she still feels worthless because the fact that she is not conventionally attractive is pointed out to her on a daily basis.
Well done, Western Society. Well done. *slow handclap*
The story of two hapless police officers who spot a goat on a roof during a routine patrol.
They approach the scene, only to be informed by neighbours that they should not attempt to get the animal down. Apparently, the goat “only respects one man.”
That man is
his owner Samuel L. Jackson.
Ok, so there’s a bit of padding required, a terrorist plot to work in (possibly the goat could have an agenda and be wearing an explosive vest?), but it’s mostly there. And it’s based on a true story.
Given the budgetary constraints the global financial crisis has forced upon the film industry, I’d be surprised if they didn’t snap this up.
The promo poster should have warned me off. It’s hard to take John Travolta seriously at the best of times, but when he’s cast in a movie that requires him to sport a beard/hair combo made of fuzzy felt, a homemade bow and arrow and an off-the-shelf Eastern European accent, it’s impossible to say the signs weren’t writ large.
Continue reading “The Viewer: Killing Season”
Oh god. What fresh hell is this?
The Viewer’s forays into the depths of dramality television are not new. I have repeatedly articulated my worries about her viewing habits, but intially I trusted her, accepting in good faith her explanation that the Jersey Shore thing was justified on the basis that it was at the forefront of a cultural zeitgeist involving the liberal use of confusion-avoidance lettering against colourful backdrops.
I let it go. I shouldn’t have.
Continue reading “The Viewer: The Valleys, Where Life Begins.”
I’m loving this random post
by Ben Greenman on the New Yorker website, entitled ‘Whatever Happened To Terence Trent D’Arby?’
It’s positively Bateman-esque in its scope and murderous intensity.
Do you use Timotei? Image: Marianna Massey/Getty Images.
Writing is a difficult business, fraught with self-indulgence, petulance and the kind of narcissistic navel gazing that should be punished with a hefty slap in a world where people are really suffering.
Thankfully, I’m over it, my hairdresser has sorted through the carnage my burnout breakdown inflicted on my bouff and I’m ready to tell you what I think about the telly.
It’s Broadchurch, baby!
Continue reading “Bitching, Bad Hair Days And A Bit Of Broadchurch”