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.

Game Rage

It’s inevitable that something designed to test your skill is also going to try your patience. Great gamers remain calm under pressure to ride out the onslaught of challenge and succeed where lesser mortals’ temper has betrayed their ability. But what of those titles that reprimand you regardless of your expertise, where perseverance is endurance, and your soul devoured by the same repetitive spirit-crushing action again and again and again until you’ve exhausted every last known swearword in the universe?

These are those which have done just that to me.

Mirror’s Edge – Multi Format

Ironically, for a game based on “free” running, you are anything but. The levels fascistically funnel the player into one ludicrously rigid path from which you stray by one pixel at your own stupid peril. Bright open rooftop vistas belie your lack of choice as you hurtle through a hailstorm of bullets tearing your skin and hopes to shreds, desperately searching for an escape route.

All of which would be just about bearable were it not for the schizophrenically unreliable physics. Faith’s 1st person control is like performing gymkhana on the back of a pissed uncle at Christmas; at one moment the leaden feet of an ox, the next a twitching hypersensitive ragdoll with electrodes to the gonads.

Tiptoeing precariously across pipes requires the most dexterity – to successfully traverse them you’ll need the navigational skills of a micro surgeon. One imprecise movement, no matter how miniscule, and you’ll come crashing down faster than a concrete-clad Anne Widdecombe on a bungee rope. And the worst part of this? It’s completely arbitrary.

Following my sixtieth attempt or so I was ready to punch out my own eyeballs and set fire to my controller. As such, I finally concluded that I could nimble across scaffolding no more and consigned the game not only to the bin, but future therapy sessions.

GoldenEye 007 – N64

I’ve never enjoyed chaperone levels; guiding a semi-autonomous cretin through hazardous scenery whilst shielding them from harm feels less like a game and more like responsibility. And inevitably, your infuriatingly nonchalant ward will somehow have a knack for forgetting why they're there, and wander into danger like an insect towards light. This otherwise superfluous title contains said bothersome babysitting; cardigan-donning computer programmer and Bond bedpost notch Natalya became a walking bullet-sponge to hordes of poorly-accented heavies with artillery. Exasperatingly, if one of your shells accidentally flew her way, she’d sulk off and refuse to help. This would leave you amidst a shower of gunfire with no hope of advancing whilst constantly yelling the word, “bitch!”.

Harry Potter & the Philosopher’s Stone – PS1

“Eh? It’s a bloody kid’s game!” I hear you bellow through lungfuls of incredulous hot air.

Well, yes it is, which is why it’s all the more hateful. Don’t pity me. No, in fact do, because a soothing dose of sympathy would go down better than a pint of Butter Beer from the Three Broomsticks to accompany this title’s punishing peacock feathers collection stage. It’s a mistake made by many a developer who don’t think to impart some basic informative instruction to the player. I wasted hours firing magic sparks at the plucky fowl before finally working out that I was supposed to be treading on its tail. At that point however, I felt like going all Bernard Matthews on its ass. Angrier than Voldemort that time everyone forgot it was his birthday.

GTA: San Andreas – PS2 / Xbox

In many ways, this is a standard GTA mission; drive alongside a vehicle (in this case, a train) and maintain a sufficient distance so that your comrade can fire volleys of ammo’ into your enemies’ vitals. A standard mission which was inexplicably impossible. I reached a pad-smashing plateau of frustration to the point where I vowed never to go near this game again. Even now, I can recreate perfectly the sentence, “All we had to do was follow the damn train, CJ”.

Hard Drivin’ – Spectrum

How about “Fuckin’ Impossible Drivin’”? Set in the atmosphere vacuum of Planet Sinclair, this was spooky enough without the additional feeling that your car was possessed by the spirit of James Dean after a few sherries. Like steering a supermarket trolley through a river of effluence and only half as enjoyable as that sounds, the gruelling manoeuvres required to get the car through its fabled loop-the-loop section could have a monk snapping the joystick in two and calling the track a cunt.

Worms – PS1

They say that politics and religion are that which divides us as a race.

They lie.

It’s bloody Worms.

Call of Duty: Black Ops

In the otherwise condescendingly simple world of Call of Duty (“shoot everything – you win”) the Vietnam level in Activision’s latest blockbuster stuck out like a cumshot in a Disney movie. Untypically, the game chose not to guide the player by the AK47 and explain in simplistic detail how to advance. By contrast they ramped up the firepower, set the enemies to infinite respawn and let you sweat it out for a baffling ball-ache of ballistic proportions.

Right, enough fury. I’m going to have to de-stress with a quick go on breeze-‘em-up Flower.

Fucking petals, I’ll show them who’s the boss.

Music Review - Spectres: The Beast

For an outfit that produces ethereal and haunting music, Spectres’ Ronseal-style method of say-what-you-hear band naming is entirely laudable. If only Gary Glitter had been called PaedoGlam, he might have staked a greater claim to accurate trade description. As it is, the band’s moniker encapsulates perfectly their darkly celestial chime. And so with track The Beast from forthcoming EP Limbs, Spectres deliver four minutes of cochlea-fellating wonder, itself broadly representative of their greater output.

So, if they’re evocative of the spirit world, it’s shoegazing’s reverb-soaked phantom that they’re summoning. As if straight from the plectrum of Thurston Moore, The Beast’s opening bars lend an apparent carefree casualty of melodic abandonment; a sonic devotion to the dirty hallowed feedback of a six string. Craftily, this method belies the meticulously structured framework of a richly-focussed rock song, a driven paean to love lost and subsequent obsession. Frontman Joe Hatt’s voice blends wistfully into the mix, gleefully conspiring towards the song’s lush orchestration.

And whilst it’s nice that he’s reaching into his inner poet to express his pain over an ex-girlfriend, it’s even more refreshing to hear him reference her tits. Brooding erudite troubadours may be better at elucidating their thoughts, but their base desires remain the same as thickies such as me.

Let’s face it, you’re never going to slip on Spectres to celebrate your team’s victory at the cup or as a method of seduction (unless Sylvia Plath’s popped up from the dead and gagging for it), but that’s to miss the point entirely the purpose of learning to love alt-rock’s off-kilter sensibilities. The Beast is a sharp thunder crack of cerebral gloom that deserves a listen, especially as an aural accompaniment to tearing up pictures of former loved ones.

Spectres on MySpace
The Beast video
Spectres