Blogalongabond #3: Goldfinger

Donuts, The Doctor & Dicks

Hang on, wait a minute; it’s 2011? You’re kidding, right? Well fuck my fat aunt, it’s well over ten years since I graduated. Besides getting married and spawning two pint-sized duplicates, I’m not exactly sure what I’ve done with all that precious time. It’s safe to assume I’ve probably spent an unhealthy proportion of that period dedicated to self-abuse, be it sporadic illicit revisits to my former habit as a smoker, heart-threateningly heroic intakes of saturated fats and lastly but most likely, pummelling my fist into my groin like a man possessed by the spirit of Onan. (Of which, I’ve never been quite sure why masturbation is classed as “self-abuse”. Who’s being abused exactly – the tissues?)



Dressing like a twat in my 20's



All of which have taken variable tolls on my external appearance; whilst you could in no way describe me as fat, I’m certainly not thin any more. Subsequently, dressing for my age (early thirties) has become something of a sartorial minefield. Let’s be clear: I’ve never been cool. Hardly a revelation, more an acknowledgement of reality but there it is. Being in my twenties was fairly easy however –new media had made ironic cartoon t-shirt-wearing pricks of us all, and a pair of battered Converse All Stars would cover any embarrassment to the point where they made a perennially-uncool character like Doctor Who the epitome of chic for about five minutes sometime in the middle of the decade. A minor point to note here – I had a letter published in the official magazine for said television programme circa 2003 pointing out that their recent photo mock-up of what they believed a “cool Who fan” looks like was troublingly spot on in my case.*





Tim Bisley - 00's style icon. Sort of.



But should thirtysomethings still wear ripped jeans and prints of Futurama characters? Does that not belie the perceived maturity a man of stature is supposed to convey? But I’m not spiritually mature, just physically so and as mentioned above, verging on a cliff labelled “chubby”. A cliff made of Battenbergs, Bournvilles and Belly Pork. And the only other person I know my age who dresses as a misunderstood goth just out of sixth form looks like a dick. But then just as equally, fitting into comfortable jeans and v-neck sweaters from Man at Next just screams dick too. It seems whatever I do, I’m destined to walk around like a baffled, weather-beaten phallus that’s just jizzed his load. Again.



One mighty prick flanked by his symmetrical balls






*yeah, you'd think I would have remembered to scan this image and a photo of me at the time to fully illustrate this point, but then you'd be mistaking me for someone who knows what they're doing.





Blogalongabond #2: From Russia with Love

From Russia with Love. 1963. d. Terence Young

From Russia with “love”? Love? Really? I associate Russia with many things (vodka, communism and those furry little hats mainly) but not love. But we shouldn’t equate success by name alone, else popular polyp-petting paste Anusol wouldn’t have sold so much as a squirt of its red-ring bum balm in its crapper-calming lifetime.

So, without further resort to cheap remarks concerning chapped cheeks, let’s move beyond the title for this film, the second entry in EON’s James Bond films.

Whilst Goldfinger mops up the broader public acclaim (but let’s not get ahead of ourselves) it’s often From Russia with Love that trumps it in fan estimation. And before you ask, I have no empirical evidence of this - what do I look like, Wikipedia? You’re reading the words of a man who for most of his adult life thought that the Only Fools & Horses theme was sang by Rodney.  So, assuming I’m right about everything ever, From Russia with Love is one of fandom’s favourite children (you know, the one with the grades and the table manners) and from the initial outlook, it’s not hard to see why.



#Stick a pony in your pocket#
"Zip it Lyndhurst"



For one, it’s aesthetically stunning. The colour grade has been pinched to picture postcard perfection, every single frame whispering sweet nothings to your eyeballs for the film’s duration. Even the back projection somehow belies its cheap production method. Secondly, the film is less broadly comic book than its immediate forbearer. OK, so it’s got a cat-stroking villain who runs an assassin school, just accept it. Beyond these fantastical trappings, however, lies a fairly straightforward spy story; there’s no tangible sense of threat to the greater world, just the reputation of one nation’s espionage department.

A languid pace but rarely dull, it often comes across as the eventful video diaries of a secret agent on a European inter-railing jaunt. Of whom, Sean Connery is even more at home in the role than his inaugural performance. In fact, at times he looks a little too comfortable; he spends the first fifteen minutes of his screen time barely stifling a giggle, like a smirking teenager who’s just broken wind and waiting for it to register. I can’t blame him though; he could wear a toothbrush moustache and Boob Inspector cap and still have thousands of women queuing up for a quick check of their waps. Even the wallop he administers to Tatiana somehow comes across as a stern bit of concern for her welfare, rather than a brutal act of domestic abuse.



"Oh James, I love it when you punch me."



The supporting cast are uniformly excellent, Terence Young’s squeezing of performance evident with every line of dialogue uttered. Benard Lee, Lois Maxwell, Vladek Sheybal and Robert Shaw work wonders with the material given to them. There’s some guy called Desmond Llewellyn too (wonder if he’ll crop up again, eh?) but he’s yet to really play the role for which he became famous. Especially entertaining is Lotte Lenya’s playing against type as amphibious sadist Rosa Klebb; it would take some twenty five years before a lesbian would seem quite so sinister, and Pam St Clement’s no Russian assassin, is she? Yeah I know, cheap shot…

The score is much more consistent than Dr No’s, given that it’s now John Barry at the baton rather Monty Norman (although over-zealous use of the theme is all too evident when used completely superfluously whilst Bond calmly checks his hotel room). The plot improves on the novel’s narrative by introducing SPECTRE, and tightening up the tension between Bond and Grant whilst dispensing with the typical Fleming info-dump of the novel. It may have lost some of the less-than-subtle “bromance” (or homo-eroticism for the less squeamish) between 007 and Ali Kerim Bay in translation, but such melodrama felt unnecessary anyway. It could even – if you’re in generous mood – take the credit for inventing that staple now more normally associated with the horror genre: the villain’s unexpected final reprise and last stand. Plus, with its sniper-though-the-Saltzman-produced-film-poster sequence, achieves a tiny modicum of post modernity, a phrase I hope never to have to type again.


"My tea towel! So, that's why all my crockery tastes like penis."





Uh oh Ripley, here we go again.



"Less fuzz Mr Bond?"

Its weaknesses are sparse. The gypsy fight is a plot-redundant ode to wanking that does no further to develop the narrative than if Victor Kayam were to waddle onto set extolling the virtues of the Remington Fuzzaway. And of belly-dancing, whenever I see an undulating tummy, I don’t get turned on. Moreover, I fear that said stomach is about to burst open in a spray of blood by a slimy cock-shaped creature with a serious cob on. Thanks a lot Ridley Scott. Finally, whilst lauded for simplicity, the actual plot is a massive McGuffin runaround, doubtlessly mentioned by every other blog on this subject, all of whom managed to finish their entries on time (bloody squares).



In short then, From Russia with Love has a great blowjob joke and is mostly brilliant whilst I, dear reader, just plain suck.

9/10

NB: "Next" month will probably be a video, so less reading entirely.



Harry Potter & The Stewart Lee of Cliché



Don't do it Stewart, I'm sure you were only joking!



Not that long ago, in Stewart Lee’s sometimes brilliant television stand-up show the comic trotted out one of the most well-worn comedy observations of recent years; that adults have no business reading the Harry Potter books as they’re principally written for children.

This is, frankly, bollocks.

Ignoring my enjoyment of said novels, what I find so galling about such a statement is not only the assumptions it makes about children’s literature in general, but also the limitations it places on the reader as to what suddenly becomes acceptable to read. Hurrying past the library’s brightly-coloured books section lest we should endure derision from the furrow-browed intellectual snobbery of our peers doesn’t show intelligence, it displays conformism and fear. It also reinforces the absurd notion that said genre, with its imagination and verve and, on occasion, timeless quality, is somehow less ‘worthy’ than that of its older brother labelled simply “fiction”. I struggle to see why the sneers of those who have abandoned an entire field of literature just because of time’s inevitable progression should have any say in the choices of those who remain open to storytelling of all forms.



Go on, you know you want to.


Well-written “children’s books” (as they can be so disparagingly titled) transcend the need for an upper age restriction and fire the imagination of all readers. The stories of Judy Blume, David Tinkler, Anthony Horowitz, Roger Hargreaves, Dick King Smith and the incomparably brilliant Roald Dahl all still resonate with me today, regardless of my age when I first read them. Neither should the immediate trappings in appealing primarily to the young have any adverse effect on the story told. Because we are no longer young ourselves, why should we read about only adult protagonists? You might as well argue that women shouldn’t read car manuals or skinny people cook books.

 I’m not debating the quality of any of these authors’ writing (and god knows, Rowling herself has shoehorned in more than her fair share of clunky expositional dialogue in her time), I’m arguing for the right to read them without sanctimonious reproach from the repressed. Neither, I should add, am I asking for an academic recognition of the above authors’ work. Mr Bump isn’t a morality tale on the fragility of human life in its physical form; it’s about a blue accident-prone spherical man. And why not? He’s a calamitous idiot who smashes into trees, causing their apples to fall to the ground - he’s brilliant!

A calamitous idiot, yesterday.

Can’t we have Harry Potter sat alongside Harry Palmer* on our personal bookshelves? Yes, of course we bloody well can. So, to the disdainful scoffs of the literary elite, we’re not reality-ignoring thumb-suckers waiting for someone else to turn the page, close the book, tuck us up and kiss us goodnight (although admittedly that sounds quite nice). We’re simply still open to the imagination and awe of the genre that turned us onto reading in the first place.



"Once upon a time..."
"Oh get on with it Mum, I'm bursting for a wank"


*Yes, I know he was only called that for the films, but it works aesthetically. Look, I’m not getting paid for this you know.

Music Review: Thundacub

And to a somewhat delayed review of pop singer Thundacub, the answer to the question, “What if Snog, Marry, Avoid had a house band?”.

Thunder & Lightning

Pop music’s conceit trades on the complex emotion of love, but is far more successful when whittled down to its most primal urge: desire. Electro outfit Thundacub stands, ahem, firm on such issue with this track of wanton needs and weather analogies. It’s a belting blast of confidence that’s drenched in dancefloor. All it needs is some sort of needless club mix to go with it and we’re there. Ah, there’s one.

Cheer up mate, you've just got a good review

Baby Let Your Hair Down

The insidious stomp of disco reverberates through this tune like intolerance through a tabloid, but happily, we’re in far tastier territory than The Daily Tits. Unfortunately, that early promise is gently deflated when the drive ducks out of the chorus; it should be ripping the song’s guts out in a snarling celebration of all that glitters, not meekly reigning in the tune like a man gently pulling on his dog’s choke chain. A production problem then perhaps, as the melody itself had me humming after a mere two minutes. A not unimpressive feat giving my legendarily short attention sp...oh look a Hula Hoop.

I Know:We Know

Defying expectations, Thundacub deliver a gentle and earnest track of wistful balladeering that’s remarkably cynicism-free. The structure may have been forged in cliché (will that chord progression ever depart from the budding musician’s toolkit?) but it rises above such foundations, and is wholly commendable in resisting histrionic X-Factor-style bellowing for the climax. It’s every band’s “gentle song” ever, and you’ve heard it possibly a million times already by now, but I genuinely don’t care; it’s fantastic.

Web: myspace.com/thundacub

Twitter: @thundacub

So I bid you the reader a fond goodbye,

as my eyes grow damp but my crotch stays dry.

Blogalongabond # 1: Dr No

Thank The Incredible Suit's brilliant idea for this; to chronologically blog about each of the 22 official James Bond films on a monthly basis that will take us neatly to the release date for the next installment. Fantastic, yes? Now, I can only guess that by Thunderball I will have reverted to my usual sweary smartarse self but for now, here's my relatively simple assessment of the first film in the canon, Dr No. Enjoy.

Dr No. 1962. d. Terence Young.

To chronologically review the entire Bond back catalogue I initially considered emptying my memory cache of said films, Spotless Mind-style, thus able to greet each film with fresh, unfettered expectations. I reversed this decision almost immediately for the same two reasons you can’t fix wheels to clouds; it’s impossible and pointless. I can’t deny the rich history of Bond films even if I try hard enough to shit myself. The iconography of said franchise is so ingrained in our culture that just by wearing a dinner jacket a man believes himself to be the spitting image of 007, and surreptitiously locks his fingers into a pistol shape at any given opportunity (honestly, a rotting gibbon’s corpse could be thrust into a tux and bowtie to achieve a favourable comparison with the suave super spy).

Think he's James Bond.                                               Is James Bond.

So it was with cosy familiarity that my eyes settled on Bond’s first big screen outing Dr. No. Familiarity was a word then unknown to the franchise as began Terence Young’s often violent and always glamorous foray into filming the British agent’s adventures. Bob Simmons’ brief turn as 007 in the opening gun barrel sequence neatly encapsulate the film as a whole; in the black and white we have the mundane monochrome (the loose version of reality against which the narrative is set with its lung-troubling civil servants and gloomy London) instantly transposed by Bond’s appearance. Therein the blood runs red and the psychedelic insanity of the credits sequence tips its porkpie hat to the fantastical exploits to come. All to the tune of Monty Norman’s triumphantly brassy James Bond theme (although his oft whimsical calypso-lead score might be best described as a better geographical, than a cinematic fit).

Of course, the film’s biggest weapon was probably also its cheapest: Sean Connery. In just five words (and one of those is repeated) the “Glaswegian Lorry Driver” (©Ian Fleming) delivers James Bond with dazzlingly underplayed panache. Exuding a magnetic confidence, Connery inhabits the part with an air of detached humanity that befits someone used to killing for Queen & Country. Witness the way he dispassionately fires a volley of bullets into would-be assassin Professor Dent; he gets the job done and makes no bones about it. How very British! Not the everyman of Hitchcock thrillers, this is the lady-laying lawman with whom the men don’t empathise, but aspire to be.

The plot, such as it is, starts out as the relatively traditional fare of slain agents and international top secrets but soon eschews these elements for pulpy 1950’s comic book nonsense. Just as Doctor Who’s TARDIS is a vehicle to excitement, here the spy genre serves as a convenient pretext to far greater hi-jinx involving an absurd but visually impressive sci-fi base courtesy of Ken Adam. And rather cheekily, although world political dichotomies are acknowledged and he’s acting on behalf of the western free world, Bond is crucially positioned as a world-saver, not a Commie crusher. Labelled as “The 1^st James Bond Film” producers Saltzman & Broccoli were clearly mapping out a plan that involved sequels and the worldwide market. You don’t get much more lucrative than the entire world’s population…

Dr. Not nostril-deep in aviary muck

Ludicrous though the story is, just be grateful that its literary ending, in which the titular villain drowns in a heap of bird crap, was abandoned in favour of a fiery round of fisticuffs (not an easy task when your opponent has steel claws). Of whom, Joseph Wiseman’s nefarious nemesis is lent a gravitas hitherto undeserved of the material given to him, effectively writing the blueprint for every megalomaniac that follows; two thirds menace to one wonky-eyed charm.



Some woman or other



Relatively slow pacing aside, the film’s weakest link is one that shall continue throughout much of the franchise’s lifespan; its depiction of women. Honeychile Ryder’s seashore introduction might be an enduring image, but it’s an unbalanced trade-off for Rizla-thin characterisation. Arguably, all of the film’s subsidiary characters are little more than narrative ciphers, but the females really get the short straws in terms of disposability. Look at them, use them, overpower them and patronise them by all means, but give them satisfying roles to fulfil within the plot? Don’t be stupid mate, look at the pretty ladies and grab a hold of your PPK, phwooar! And the less said about the credulity of the Caribbean’s superstitious natives the better…

But 1962’s sexual and racial politics into 2011’s perceived equality doesn’t go; I might as well criticise Henry VIII for not going to Relate. With Bondian tropes established so successfully in this initial entry it’s hard to fault this film's sheer brio. Whilst yet to achieve the giddy highs the series would come to expect, Dr No is still an assured and audacious movie that easily accomplishes its own remit to launch James Bond as it intended to carry on.

7/10

Patriots, Nationalists and a Little White Lie

I consider myself a patriot you know. Really. There's so much to admire and love about our nation - be it geographically, industrially and culturally - I wouldn't know where to start (well alright then, perhaps the Beatles). I can enjoy and celebrate our national identity, but I'd argue that a large part of it – as in ALL cultures - is fabricated to a certain degree. The consequence of this is rigidly fixed iconography and a romanticised idea of nationality, often to the detriment of reality. A patriot recognises this. He or she will wallow in fictional fancies of patriotic pride full in the knowledge that postcard perfect idealism is just that. A patriot takes pride in their country, a nationalist takes the credit, and the first thing to suffer is their humanity.

Britain’s dominant religions, creeds, beliefs and of course, royalty has constantly evolved over the centuries (as an island nation this is somewhat inevitable), out of which the “British” caricatures have been carved. The bowler-hatted businessman, string-vested working class pub-frequenter and the tea-drinking toff all represent the British as an exclusively white English man. And it’s this cartoon vision from which the insidious notion of the “indigenous British” was born, a disingenuous term that attempts to intellectualise plain old racism as some kind of tribal struggle.

Fervent nationalism, since its inception in the 70's, has sought to "return" our country to a time that never even existed. And should it succeed, we all lose.