
Image via twitter.
George Orwell warned us this was going to happen.

Er… Steve? Image via discovery.
Before yesterday evening I would have sworn, in a document written using my own blood if necessary, that I had sat through every conceivable televisual extrapolation of man’s fascination with Great White Sharks.
I’ve watched Robin Reliant sized members of this extensively toothed species launch themselves out of the water in pursuit of Styrofoam seals, force their way into pitifully inadequate dive cages and literally hundreds of hours of footage of them swimming in the vicinity of divers armed with cameras and inadequate poky sticks, the expressions on their pointy faces suggesting they’re as bored and pissed off with the whole charade as I am.
But that was the old days, before Steve Backshall.
Continue reading “TV Review: Swimming With (Empathetic) Monsters”

There’s been a great deal of speculation as to why Argo should have been awarded the Oscar for Best Picture, while Zero Dark Thirty just about got their grateful hands on the Best Sound Editing gong, only to have one slapped away and to be told they had to share it with the guys who did Skyfall.
The general consensus seemed to be that Zero Dark Thirty failed to engage viewers because it challenged them to confront the reality of American foreign policy. Argo, on the other hand, sought to retell the heroic story of a CIA agent who busted six American citizens out of Iran using a just sci-fi movie script and a great moustache.
Hollywood, eh?

Image via hitflix.com.
In a world where political correctness, guilt and ignorance conspire to make abstract debate on virtually any subject impossible without offending someone, a humorous ultra-violent movie about a slave in America’s Deep South of 1858 should not have made it past the studio slush pile. Apart from the obvious issues surrounding guncrime in the US, there’s something inherently tasteless about aisles of middle-class people snickering into their popcorn as that word is joyfully hurled about like so much blood and gore.
It’s a testament to Quentin Tarantino’s irrepressible talent and guile that he not only got the green light to make Django Unchained, but he pulled it off, made an epic and, in a knowing nod to all the haterz, blew himself up during his inevitable cameo.
The man brings new meaning to the word irritating.

From this… Image via theoccidentalobserver.
It’s a film about a plane crash. It’s directed by Robert Zemeckis, of Castaway, Forrest Gump and Back To The Future fame. It’s got Denzel Washington in it. It’s called Flight.
How much harm can it do?
However, if you’re a feminist, bored and looking for a reason to be pissed off today, take a look at the woman introducing the model and the geek. She’s Danica Patrick, the most successful female racing driver in the history of the universe. She races on an equal footing with the guys and counts a fourth place in an Indy500 race as one of her biggest achievements to date.
She’s potentially one of the most positive role models young women have in society today – an object lesson in how self-belief, hard work and stubbornness can propel you straight on through those glass ceilings to the penthouse view of your choice. Which makes her decision to take part in such a moronic, outdated and genuinely embarrassing advertising campaign all the more depressing.
You think feminists are a bunch of miserable cows? With this kind of provocation, it’s hardly surprising, is it?

If you’ve been avoiding watching Les Misérables, the chances are, it’s for the same reasons as The Viewer.

Image via hitfix.
The Viewer is a huge fan of crime fiction and police procedurals. What she chooses to do with the vast amount of knowledge she has gained from this predilection has evaded me to date, but I do occasionally feel that allowing her to watch them may in the future make me an accessory to any crimes she commits.
Just putting it out there.
Continue reading “The Viewer: The Following, Six Degrees Of Serial Killing”
Image via galaksi.
In times past, going to see a disaster film involved sitting through a number of scenes designed to make you bond with a main character so you cared when a building collapsed on them in spectacular fashion. While the narrative was an essential device to place your characters in the path of mild peril, an emotional commitment wasn’t required as long as the White House blew up in the first twenty minutes.
For a while, it looked as though CGI would provide the answer to all our questions. What would it look like if a massive tsunami hit New York City? Could John Cusack outrun an exploding volcano in a camper van? Is it possible to render an alien unconscious with a single punch? The only limit to what we could watch was the imagination of Roland Emmerich. What could possibly go wrong?
According to a report in the British Medical Journal, people with mental health issues in medieval England were cared for by the Crown, who worked in conjunction with the local community while “the best interests of the subject remained a prime concern“.
In 2013, we either ignore them completely, or if something really bad happens, we place them in a high pressure environment with desperate strangers whose best interests are served by manipulating imposed situations. When we’re done laughing, crowds gather to boo them when they are released.
I’m going to Skype Charles Darwin. Somewhere along the line we’ve managed to completely balls up this evolution business.