"Think from outside the box, collapse the box and take a fucking sharp knife to it."
- Banksy
This is an extract from the diary of Lieutenant Colonel Mervin Willett Gonin DSO who was among the first British soldiers to liberate Bergen-Belsen in 1945.
"I can give no adequate description of the Horror Camp in which my men and myself were to spend the next month of our lives. It was just a barren wilderness, as bare as a chicken run. Corpses lay everywhere, some in huge piles, sometimes they lay singly or in pairs where they had fallen. It took a little time to get used to seeing men women and children collapse as you walked by them and to restrain oneself from going to their assistance...
"One had to get used early to the idea that the individual just did not count. One knew that five hundred a day were dying and that five hundred a day were going on dying for weeks before anything we could do would have the slightest effect. It was, however, not easy to watch a child choking to death from diptheria when you knew a tracheotomy and nursing would save it, one saw women drowning in their own vomit because they were too weak to turn over, and men eating worms as they clutched a half loaf of bread purely because they had to eat worms to live and now could scarcely tell the difference.
"Piles of corpses, naked and obscene, with a woman too weak to stand proping herself against them as she cooked the food we had given her over an open fire; men and women crouching down just anywhere in the open relieving themselves of the dysentary which was scouring their bowels, a woman standing stark naked washing herself with some issue soap in water from a tank in which the remains of a child floated.
"It was shortly after the British Red Cross arrived, though it may have no connection, that a very large quantity of lipstick arrived. This was not at all what we men wanted, we were screaming for hundreds and thousands of other things and I don't know who asked for lipstick.
"I wish so much that I could discover who did it, it was the action of genius, sheer unadulterated brilliance.
"I believe nothing did more for these internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the post mortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick.
"At last someone had done something to make them individuals again, they were someone, no longer merely the number tatooed on the arm. At last they could take an interest in their appearance. That lipstick started to give them back their humanity."
Sunday, 2 December 2007
Thursday, 4 October 2007
First look - The Kingdom
Out on Friday, The Kingdom is bookended by two set-piece action scenes that are truly exhilarating - up there with the final shoot-out in Children of God and the opening minutes of Saving Private Ryan. If you liked the street-war of Heat, you'll like this.
This intelligent, emotionally-satisfying action flick is directed by Peter Berg, a protoge of Michael Mann whose influence can be seen in the ear-thuddingly percussive soundtrack and nervous, energetic camera movement.
The film goes places few others dare to tread. At one point our hero - a moody, chiselled Jamie Foxx - shoots a 14 year old boy in the neck. Even John McClane would have a think before doing that. And when the comic sidekick starts to have his head sawn off you know you're watching something a bit more daring than the Hollywood norm.
There is a scene of simple beauty where we see two Arab policemen at home with their families. It is at once familiar and strange, and Danny Elfin's score contributes to what becomes the film's most effective call for cross-cultural unity. The political message - that we're all pretty much the same - is horribly over-played at the end but the fact it's there at all in what is essentially a revenge thriller is to be applauded.
There are gripes. Jason Bateman - he of Teenwolf Too - falls flat as the comic relief and Jennifer Garner seems to serve no other purpose than to annoy the locals with her breasts. But these are minor faults. The Kingdom is an interesting, technically-accomplished movie that will appeal to fans of the Bourne series and police procedural thrillers.
Similar to Bourne, it's a kick-ass action film with whoop-out-loud stunt sequences and ear-shattering noise. But on top of this it adds a nuanced political commentary on America's involvement in the Middle-East. That this survived the studio cut is the biggest surprise of all.
This intelligent, emotionally-satisfying action flick is directed by Peter Berg, a protoge of Michael Mann whose influence can be seen in the ear-thuddingly percussive soundtrack and nervous, energetic camera movement.
The film goes places few others dare to tread. At one point our hero - a moody, chiselled Jamie Foxx - shoots a 14 year old boy in the neck. Even John McClane would have a think before doing that. And when the comic sidekick starts to have his head sawn off you know you're watching something a bit more daring than the Hollywood norm.
There is a scene of simple beauty where we see two Arab policemen at home with their families. It is at once familiar and strange, and Danny Elfin's score contributes to what becomes the film's most effective call for cross-cultural unity. The political message - that we're all pretty much the same - is horribly over-played at the end but the fact it's there at all in what is essentially a revenge thriller is to be applauded.
There are gripes. Jason Bateman - he of Teenwolf Too - falls flat as the comic relief and Jennifer Garner seems to serve no other purpose than to annoy the locals with her breasts. But these are minor faults. The Kingdom is an interesting, technically-accomplished movie that will appeal to fans of the Bourne series and police procedural thrillers.
Similar to Bourne, it's a kick-ass action film with whoop-out-loud stunt sequences and ear-shattering noise. But on top of this it adds a nuanced political commentary on America's involvement in the Middle-East. That this survived the studio cut is the biggest surprise of all.
Friday, 20 July 2007
I've never been so proud of my government
The question of what makes a man fit to govern has been a staple diet of political commentators and, to a lesser extent, the electorate since, well, forever. The past foibles of the men and women that would lead us are laid bare – often at the most inopportune moment and in excruciating detail – in the interest of allowing informed voting decisions to be made.
Of course, a desire for newspaper sales and personal advancement have nothing whatsoever to do with these eyebrow-raising revelations.
As early as 34AD, Seneca the Younger was almost killed by Emperor Caligula for revealing that they had both smoked pot behind the Colisseum as students. And just four years later, he was banished to Corsica by Emperor Claudius for revealing lurid details of the latter’s wine-soaked antics on his son Brittanicus’ stag do.
How today’s politicians must rue the fourth’s estate ability to publish and be damned in these less-deferential times.
Which brings me to today’s fantastical headlines about the Cabinet’s jazz-fag toking personal histories. No fewer than nine senior members of cabinet have fessed up to smoking the herb.
From Waccy-Baccy Jacqui to Blunt-loving Blears, Doobie Denham to Homegrown Hutton, it appears Britain is in the hands of people who a few short years ago were staring at the wall and remarking on their newfound ability to orgasm, like, mentally.
Of course, they weren’t all at it. The Millibands didn’t do drugs (come on lads, lighten up! What’s a few million less cells in brains the size of yours?), nor did Jack Straw, Ed Balls and Douglas Alexander.
And of course our Great Leader didn’t go near the stuff. Well, duh! Who the hell would have invited HIM to a half-decent party?
Still, there’s enough of an influence left to make me wonder what those Cabinet meetings are really like. The quality of Optrex has improved to the point that no one’s going to be able to tell you’re stoned from the red eyes anymore. So, all I want to know is – who’s the first to go for the biscuits?
http://politics.guardian.co.uk/homeaffairs/story/0,,2130973,00.html
Of course, a desire for newspaper sales and personal advancement have nothing whatsoever to do with these eyebrow-raising revelations.
As early as 34AD, Seneca the Younger was almost killed by Emperor Caligula for revealing that they had both smoked pot behind the Colisseum as students. And just four years later, he was banished to Corsica by Emperor Claudius for revealing lurid details of the latter’s wine-soaked antics on his son Brittanicus’ stag do.
How today’s politicians must rue the fourth’s estate ability to publish and be damned in these less-deferential times.
Which brings me to today’s fantastical headlines about the Cabinet’s jazz-fag toking personal histories. No fewer than nine senior members of cabinet have fessed up to smoking the herb.
From Waccy-Baccy Jacqui to Blunt-loving Blears, Doobie Denham to Homegrown Hutton, it appears Britain is in the hands of people who a few short years ago were staring at the wall and remarking on their newfound ability to orgasm, like, mentally.
Of course, they weren’t all at it. The Millibands didn’t do drugs (come on lads, lighten up! What’s a few million less cells in brains the size of yours?), nor did Jack Straw, Ed Balls and Douglas Alexander.
And of course our Great Leader didn’t go near the stuff. Well, duh! Who the hell would have invited HIM to a half-decent party?
Still, there’s enough of an influence left to make me wonder what those Cabinet meetings are really like. The quality of Optrex has improved to the point that no one’s going to be able to tell you’re stoned from the red eyes anymore. So, all I want to know is – who’s the first to go for the biscuits?
http://politics.guardian.co.uk/homeaffairs/story/0,,2130973,00.html
Monday, 18 June 2007
Gordon Brown in a foxhole
The results of the latest poll from YouGov are in. In a fascinating piece of political analysis, we learn that in the face of enemy fire more of us would share a foxhole with Gordon Brown than with David Cameron.
Well, that's that then. Davo might as well go home, little fox-tail between his legs. But before Andy Coulson sends up the white flag from their lonely little ditch, let's take a closer look at this.
First, what do people expect Gordon Brown to do in this situation? To my knowledge he's had no formal military training (and I have googled his name along with 'military training' just to be sure). He certainly seems to have a bit of a temper on him, and he can sulk with the best of them, but, as far as I know, a surly glare doesn't trump a kalashnikov when it comes down to it.
Second, exactly how much room will there be for you in that foxhole?
Third, what about when the shelling stops? What are you going to talk about? Have you brushed up on your fiscal policy in post-war western democracies recently? Thought not. Just like he'd have naff all to say about Liverpool's chances of signing Et'o.
I don't think people think very hard before answering these questions. And nor would I if some earnest woman with too many teeth and a clipboard stopped me in a shopping mall and asked a load of stupid questions about whether I'd prefer to go to war with a monosyllabic Scot with bad teeth or a trumped up Hoorah with a quiff the size of a stepladder.
So, Dave, don't be too disheartened. Your manliness may have taken a knock but these days it's all about your feminine side anyway and there you win hands down. The same poll puts Cameron way ahead in the “agony aunt” stakes: apparantly more people would take a problem to him than Brown.
Let's face it, given a choice of a wet night in the mud being shot at, the electorate is always going to choose a good chat about themselves.
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/politics/article1942971.ece
Well, that's that then. Davo might as well go home, little fox-tail between his legs. But before Andy Coulson sends up the white flag from their lonely little ditch, let's take a closer look at this.
First, what do people expect Gordon Brown to do in this situation? To my knowledge he's had no formal military training (and I have googled his name along with 'military training' just to be sure). He certainly seems to have a bit of a temper on him, and he can sulk with the best of them, but, as far as I know, a surly glare doesn't trump a kalashnikov when it comes down to it.
Second, exactly how much room will there be for you in that foxhole?
Third, what about when the shelling stops? What are you going to talk about? Have you brushed up on your fiscal policy in post-war western democracies recently? Thought not. Just like he'd have naff all to say about Liverpool's chances of signing Et'o.
I don't think people think very hard before answering these questions. And nor would I if some earnest woman with too many teeth and a clipboard stopped me in a shopping mall and asked a load of stupid questions about whether I'd prefer to go to war with a monosyllabic Scot with bad teeth or a trumped up Hoorah with a quiff the size of a stepladder.
So, Dave, don't be too disheartened. Your manliness may have taken a knock but these days it's all about your feminine side anyway and there you win hands down. The same poll puts Cameron way ahead in the “agony aunt” stakes: apparantly more people would take a problem to him than Brown.
Let's face it, given a choice of a wet night in the mud being shot at, the electorate is always going to choose a good chat about themselves.
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/politics/article1942971.ece
Sunday, 17 June 2007
Why can't we all be Friends?
I have recently learned to embrace something about myself that I - and many like me - have hitherto kept hidden beneath a (thin) veneer of pop cultural cool.
I like Friends. Wait, scratch that. If you're going to fess up, do it properly. I love Friends. I watch it every week night that I'm in. I find it cleanses the palate between work and home - the melon sorbet of my life, if you will.
It happens like this: I arrive home, take off my work clothes and hide my them inside a closet. I turn on the tv to the Channel 4 News and feel good about myself for 53 minutes as I nod earnestly in agreement with Jon Snow as he harangues the latest liberal hate-figure.
Following straight after is the earnest but generally unwatchable 3 Minute Wonder series of user generated twaddle. You can see Channel 4's thinking: "no one advertises during the News so we might as well look like we give a toss about our viewers seedy, sad little lives while we're at it."
A few ads, then Friends: Fun. Funny. Friendly. Fluffy. Disengage brain and leave it by the side of the bed. You ain't going to need it for a while. Hope to God no one calls. There's the opening gambit and the punchline (the best of the show); always worth a chuckle or even an out-and-out belly laugh if it's one of your favourites.
And you're down in your armchair, singing along to the theme tune (scientific tests have shown that this lyric will stay with you long after you've forgotten your bank account number, passwords, your wife's name, etc.)
You relax. Good Friends. Nice Friends. Hypnotic Friends. Yes, I will conform to the social norm. Yes, I'll buy some Appletize or whatever is sponsoring it this month. Just programme me, wind me up and watch me go. Just give me my fix.
For a long time I denied myself. It was a secret that would forever be denied, like listening to Virgin Radio late at night, buying tickets to a Keane concert or thinking your best mate's a really good looking bloke.
I know I risk ridicule or worse at the hands of my cooler friends who would drop me quicker than a fuck-buddy with syphilis if I asked them which season they thought Rachel looked fittest throughout (the second of course) or which of the boys you relate to the most (Ross, to my further shame).
I, though, have come out of the closet. I now feed my inner middle-Englander/American with shameless abandon. In a world with Iraq, Afghanistan and whatever else the folks at Channel 4 have uncovered, I think we all need Friends.
You know, I think there's a 3 Minute Wonder in this.
I like Friends. Wait, scratch that. If you're going to fess up, do it properly. I love Friends. I watch it every week night that I'm in. I find it cleanses the palate between work and home - the melon sorbet of my life, if you will.
It happens like this: I arrive home, take off my work clothes and hide my them inside a closet. I turn on the tv to the Channel 4 News and feel good about myself for 53 minutes as I nod earnestly in agreement with Jon Snow as he harangues the latest liberal hate-figure.
Following straight after is the earnest but generally unwatchable 3 Minute Wonder series of user generated twaddle. You can see Channel 4's thinking: "no one advertises during the News so we might as well look like we give a toss about our viewers seedy, sad little lives while we're at it."
A few ads, then Friends: Fun. Funny. Friendly. Fluffy. Disengage brain and leave it by the side of the bed. You ain't going to need it for a while. Hope to God no one calls. There's the opening gambit and the punchline (the best of the show); always worth a chuckle or even an out-and-out belly laugh if it's one of your favourites.
And you're down in your armchair, singing along to the theme tune (scientific tests have shown that this lyric will stay with you long after you've forgotten your bank account number, passwords, your wife's name, etc.)
You relax. Good Friends. Nice Friends. Hypnotic Friends. Yes, I will conform to the social norm. Yes, I'll buy some Appletize or whatever is sponsoring it this month. Just programme me, wind me up and watch me go. Just give me my fix.
For a long time I denied myself. It was a secret that would forever be denied, like listening to Virgin Radio late at night, buying tickets to a Keane concert or thinking your best mate's a really good looking bloke.
I know I risk ridicule or worse at the hands of my cooler friends who would drop me quicker than a fuck-buddy with syphilis if I asked them which season they thought Rachel looked fittest throughout (the second of course) or which of the boys you relate to the most (Ross, to my further shame).
I, though, have come out of the closet. I now feed my inner middle-Englander/American with shameless abandon. In a world with Iraq, Afghanistan and whatever else the folks at Channel 4 have uncovered, I think we all need Friends.
You know, I think there's a 3 Minute Wonder in this.
Saturday, 16 June 2007
'Wipe those tears away' - an inventor's life
Driving in the pouring rain without the use of windsreen wipers is, generally speaking, not to be encouraged. I learned this while driving back from a particularly messy festival when I thought it would be a good idea to let The Force guide me home. I haven't been insured since.
The point is, without windscreen wipers, driving is like turning on the charm with your neighbour's daughter down the local: you never get anywhere and invariably have a tough time explaining it to the police afterwards.
Which is why part of me is really happy they've decided to pay homage to Robert Kearns, inventor of aforementioned automotive rain banishers. After all, it follows a rich vein of Hollywood hokum celebrating the power of creative science: from the Goonies to Hudsucker Proxy, not forgetting the mother of all inventor movies - Back to the Future.
But then I got to thinking: why stop with Kearns? Why not commit the lives of other inventors of similar historical prestige to celluloid immortality?
In 1982 Richard Penley was involved in the fight to preserve the humble American clothespin industry from cheap Chinese imports. Wouldn't that make a great film?
Eugen Baumann, a German living in the C19th, was responsible for PVC. He must have had a colourful life.
And let's not forget the crazy world of Thomas Edison, the most famous of all the modern inventors who nicked almost all his ideas off other people and ran off down the street to the patent office before they could say 'lightbulb'.
So I'm all for celebrating the life of Robert Kearns, not that I've ever heard of him nor, for that matter, previously given a toss about where windscreen wipers come from.
I do know, though, they do help with driving in the rain - with our without The Force.
http://film.guardian.co.uk/news/story/0,,2103970,00.html?gusrc=rss&feed=16
The point is, without windscreen wipers, driving is like turning on the charm with your neighbour's daughter down the local: you never get anywhere and invariably have a tough time explaining it to the police afterwards.
Which is why part of me is really happy they've decided to pay homage to Robert Kearns, inventor of aforementioned automotive rain banishers. After all, it follows a rich vein of Hollywood hokum celebrating the power of creative science: from the Goonies to Hudsucker Proxy, not forgetting the mother of all inventor movies - Back to the Future.
But then I got to thinking: why stop with Kearns? Why not commit the lives of other inventors of similar historical prestige to celluloid immortality?
In 1982 Richard Penley was involved in the fight to preserve the humble American clothespin industry from cheap Chinese imports. Wouldn't that make a great film?
Eugen Baumann, a German living in the C19th, was responsible for PVC. He must have had a colourful life.
And let's not forget the crazy world of Thomas Edison, the most famous of all the modern inventors who nicked almost all his ideas off other people and ran off down the street to the patent office before they could say 'lightbulb'.
So I'm all for celebrating the life of Robert Kearns, not that I've ever heard of him nor, for that matter, previously given a toss about where windscreen wipers come from.
I do know, though, they do help with driving in the rain - with our without The Force.
http://film.guardian.co.uk/news/story/0,,2103970,00.html?gusrc=rss&feed=16
Love film, hate scratched discs
I have recently swallowed my pride, recognised my role as a bottom-feeder in capitalist society, and resubscribed to Amazon's dvd rental service.
I had cancelled my subscription in a self-satisfied grump six months previously, haven been driven half mad by scratched discs skipping, slowing and just plain crashing during a key scene.
Exercising my consumer 'power', I jumped ship to Lovefilm.co.uk - the largest of the internet rental players and Amazon's arch rivals. I fantasised about Jeff Bezos staring at customer service reports, re-reading my farewell f*ck you email and kicking arse all around Seattle.
There would be melodramatic wailing, recriminations and counter-accusations. There would be an immediate, top priority investigation into the scratched-disc culture and heads would role. All too late for me, of course, but it was of some consolation.
Then Lovefilm let me down, too. No scratched discs this time. Just a complete inability to send me anything remotely resembling the dvd I had asked for.
Like all the sites, they ask you to populate a list of the top 20 films you want to borrow. 20 films? Now, I consider myself a card-carrying film buff but ask me to name 20 films that I want to see and haven't seen (anything I have seen and would want to see again I already own) and I start to flounder after half a dozen.
So you start naming films you thought were cool when you were seventeen. Or an Iranian movie about the plight of women in society that Philip French said was better than the director's debut effort. Or 1941, because nothing Spielberg could have done could ever be as bad as they said that was and you want to see for yourself.
After a while you finally make 20-odd. You weight it up - the list has the right mix of arthouse, cult and Hollywood Movies It's Ok to Like. The list looks good.
Your first package arrives in the post. It's not the latest release that came out on Monday that you missed at the cinema. Nope, it's Kar Wai Wong's latest low-budget snore-fest. Looks beautiful apparantly but I wouldn't know because I started reading a magazine after the first act and gave up any pretence of being interested soon after.
You see,Lovefilm doesn't believe in sending you any of your top five films. That would be far too predictable. No, they say, if you want to see a recent movie then go buy it, or see it in France where it's just coming out. Lovefilm's about watching all those movies you weren't sure you wanted to see at all until you saw them when you realised it really is the hopeless, overrated tat you thought it would be.
So I'm back at Amazon. I'm embracing the scratched-disc policy - it's a good opportunity to put the kettle on or go for another beer (and the disc-cleansing kit).
Somewhere in the upper echelons of Amazon's executive headquarters champagne corks are popping all over the place.
I had cancelled my subscription in a self-satisfied grump six months previously, haven been driven half mad by scratched discs skipping, slowing and just plain crashing during a key scene.
Exercising my consumer 'power', I jumped ship to Lovefilm.co.uk - the largest of the internet rental players and Amazon's arch rivals. I fantasised about Jeff Bezos staring at customer service reports, re-reading my farewell f*ck you email and kicking arse all around Seattle.
There would be melodramatic wailing, recriminations and counter-accusations. There would be an immediate, top priority investigation into the scratched-disc culture and heads would role. All too late for me, of course, but it was of some consolation.
Then Lovefilm let me down, too. No scratched discs this time. Just a complete inability to send me anything remotely resembling the dvd I had asked for.
Like all the sites, they ask you to populate a list of the top 20 films you want to borrow. 20 films? Now, I consider myself a card-carrying film buff but ask me to name 20 films that I want to see and haven't seen (anything I have seen and would want to see again I already own) and I start to flounder after half a dozen.
So you start naming films you thought were cool when you were seventeen. Or an Iranian movie about the plight of women in society that Philip French said was better than the director's debut effort. Or 1941, because nothing Spielberg could have done could ever be as bad as they said that was and you want to see for yourself.
After a while you finally make 20-odd. You weight it up - the list has the right mix of arthouse, cult and Hollywood Movies It's Ok to Like. The list looks good.
Your first package arrives in the post. It's not the latest release that came out on Monday that you missed at the cinema. Nope, it's Kar Wai Wong's latest low-budget snore-fest. Looks beautiful apparantly but I wouldn't know because I started reading a magazine after the first act and gave up any pretence of being interested soon after.
You see,Lovefilm doesn't believe in sending you any of your top five films. That would be far too predictable. No, they say, if you want to see a recent movie then go buy it, or see it in France where it's just coming out. Lovefilm's about watching all those movies you weren't sure you wanted to see at all until you saw them when you realised it really is the hopeless, overrated tat you thought it would be.
So I'm back at Amazon. I'm embracing the scratched-disc policy - it's a good opportunity to put the kettle on or go for another beer (and the disc-cleansing kit).
Somewhere in the upper echelons of Amazon's executive headquarters champagne corks are popping all over the place.
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