Blogalongabond 8 & 9: Live & Let Die and The Man with the Golden Gun

Vicious VHS Viscera!

Film Review: Don’t Go In The Woods (1980)

Director: James Bryan

How to make a horror film poster lesson #1: try not to make your victim appear as if she's enjoying being murdered

Sounding more like advice to someone badly needing a shit in a forest rather than a horror film title, Don’t Go In The Woods is James Bryan’s notoriously amateur slasher for which I could no longer provide excuses not to watch. Having bedded down for the night amongst the conifers and carnage, read on to find out if my sanity survived the slaughter...

Another victim to the DPP’s seemingly arbitrarily blacklist, …Woods was a condemned “video nasty” of the early 1980’s moral outrage that saw horror films rapidly disappear from VHS stores amidst prosecutions and even jail terms for those supplying said tapes. (Ever get told that the Tories are basically libertarians? Just point to the 1984 Video Recordings Act and allow yourself a hollow, grim laugh).

Having seen it for myself I now wonder if the government hadn’t been acting as kindly yet over-stern film reviewers with a draconian approach to enforcing their opinions.

Slightly better, though still leads people to erroneously
call it "Don't Go In The Woods...Alone!", which it's not.

Because it is, of course, awful.

I mean, never less than entertaining in its purest sense, yet Don’t Go in The Woods is still utterly inept filmmaking in every respect. You could write the plot summary on the back of a stamp and still have room left over for “also by the same author”. To elaborate, four hikers go camping in the woods. They are pursued by a feral madman. He also kills several other woods-dwelling visitors who have nothing to do with anything. That in itself is an unnecessarily convoluted explanation.

The photography is astonishingly amateur. Establishing shots are poorly-tracked pans of trees and scenery, the likes of which a tourist with a handycam would probably erase with shame from his travel videos prior to a family screening. The camera haphazardly wipes its lens all over the vistas like a teenage boy’s tongue on a breast. Every last bit of scenery is crammed into the film’s mercifully meagre running time when usually, a quite simple static shot would suffice.

More impartial reporting from our ever-vigilant tabloid press

The cast is a contradiction in terms. These people couldn’t have been cast. It’s simply inconceivable that the director would have held auditions in which lines were read and decisions made based on the sounds coming out of their mouths. It’s not simply bad acting; that would imply a judge-worthy level of performance. These are people being filmed whilst saying words, no more.

The most spirited, and consequently terrible, is the lead male I got to know as Pink Shirt Peter. His excruciating performance is pitched somewhere between hysteria and blind frenzy; as if an arachnophobe was forced in front of camera whilst the director dangled a giant spider just out of shot. Projecting facial expressions to a theatre full of blind and deaf kids, his ultra-caffeinated presence makes Barry Chuckle look like the master of understated nuance in comparison.

"Actor" Jack McClelland in sombre mood

And here he extends his range

Infuriatingly, the “best” characters get offed in the first reel, though admittedly naming your favourites in this film is a bit like nominating your least objectionable Nazi war criminals. There’s sleazy but endearing caravan couple Dick & Cherry (geddit?) and a female victim who’s both a roller-skating sun-kissed burst of cheer and a magnet to the lascivious affection of the blubber ball sheriff. Of whom, he’s not exactly what you’d call a reassuring presence in the face of danger thanks entirely to his excessively casual approach to personal fitness (the man would lose a race to a bronze statue).

Pistol-cocking Sheriff Fatman

The killer, a cross between Brian Blessed and a shot-putter’s armpit, is a sort of Bear-Grylls-gone-postal and at least a genuine menace to the inhabitants of the eponymous woods. His motivation for the butchery is never made clear, though his macabre corpse-laden dwellings are observed in a scene that’s more than a little influenced by the infinitesimally superior Texas Chainsaw Massacre. And if we’re to draw unfavourable comparisons even further, a wheelchair-bound character meets his grisly maker in a scene somewhat less harrowing than in the afore-mentioned masterpiece.

The score, a much-derided aspect of the film is, curiously, that which is most successful. An ugly and cochlea-kicking cacophony of Casio it may be, but its sheer relentlessness is genuinely unnerving. The powerful stab of electronica that accompanies every murderous attack lifts the often drab action to a level of near-competency. And that’s the best compliment I can possibly muster for the whole experience.

"What do you mean, 'shit'?!"

Is it shit? Hell yes. Is it watchable? Arguably. If, like me, you intentionally sit through a film because of, rather than despite its faults then yes, by all means, spend a further 82 minutes of your precious finite lifespan gawping at this primary school production of a movie. It barely has a script, yields sub-standard acting and contains gory lashings of improbably absurd violence, all set to the sonic insanity of a Bontempi being played by someone wearing boxing gloves.

Do bears shit in the woods? On the strength of this, certainly. And they don't clean up after themselves either.

3/10

Music Review: AGDK

Just recently, videogames journalist Andy Kelly, of PSM3 and being Scottish fame, politely asked Twitter to listen to his ambient musical offerings. Well, what with me being a cocky typeshite with ears on my head and time on my hands, I went one further and wrote of my experiences. Read on my friends…

Andy Kelly, clearly thrilled at being reviewed.

Smirk EP

First up is Threads, either a minimalist ode to post-apocalyptic dystopia or an instrumental tribute to, erm, clothes. If it is the former then the possibly serendipitous title befits its subject matter perfectly. Looped chords of triumph snapped back sharply by a rhythmic hiccupping coat the song in a layer of delicious irony; yes it’s the future alright, but it’s fucked.

Sticking with the future motif, Motivation heralds a time when the universe is grooving to a re-skinned version of the Chock-a-Block theme, in itself no bad thing, assuming we all get to drive around in natty little faux JCB’s powered by little more than a 9 volt battery.

Threads: future bad.

Chock-a-Block: future good.

Heliosphere is an exercise in restraint, a soporific comedown light in incident. An admirable sentiment, but one that stands pivotally between drawing the listener deeply in or nonchalantly minding its own business whilst the world carries on without it. It's an accusation that you certainly couldn’t level at Industry; aggressive swathes of discordance sonically assault the tune in an abstract mash of intentions. It’s the BBC Radiophonic Workshop furiously battling a club beat that shouldn’t really work but somehow absolutely does. Ultimately, the listener is the victor – it’s excellent.

"Hands-up who's a coked-up prick?"
See, to illustrate "Industry" I thought I'd bypass the obvious chimney stacks and go for the fiancial industry instead, yeah? Oh, suit yourself then.

In Circles EP

A simple purity lies within the heart of Alluvion that’s reflective of the ambient genre at large. In stripping away layers of unnecessary texture and crucially, lyrical content, the listener derives pleasure exempt from notions of pre-rendered authorship, thus free to accept music on their terms. Demonstrably, eliciting joy from this song depends entirely on whether you think what sounds like the aural accompaniment to a sci-fi videogame character selection screen is a wonderful or a woeful thing. NB: it is wonderful, so you’re wrong.

Metropolis: Fritz Lang gets all expressionist on yo' ass.

Away takes joyful relief and distils it into a two chord piano sequence. Tranquillity defined. Metropolis’ four click count-in drew a broad grin from my chops, synchronising as it did entirely with my expectations. Predictability in music is rarely a reason to celebrate, but if executed with skill as it is here, it comforts rather than offends the sensibilities. The melancholy chiming of a three chord build is no reinvention of the wheel but last time I checked, the wheel’s doing pretty fine without any refinements, thank you very much.

And finally onto Plane, the standout track by some distance. The most melodic of the bunch, it’s a genuinely cathartic listen that by law should be automatically piped to laptop and PC speakers everywhere to placate the often insane and always indignant fury of internet message boards. I guarantee we’d have online harmony in mere minutes.

Contrary to the terror being displayed here, the song "Plane" is beautifully relaxing. Good job I'm not a picture editor, eh?

In summary then, mostly brilliant.

http://soundcloud.com/ultrabrilliant

http://ultrabrilliant.co.uk/ep2/

Mail Order Middleton

By God, I love the Royal Family and by hell do I love showing it. By wearing absurd clothing, waving meekly at strangers or having sex with my relatives, I’m perpetually displaying my deference to Her Maj’ and co for all that they do for this great nation that I call “England & Friends”.

So imagine my delight (think Boris Johnson’s cum face, but slightly thinner) whilst skimming through my favourite middle class television listings magazine Radio Times, when my beautiful pale blues fell upon the following advertisement.

Katie W: the new definition of a "posh wank".

Yeah. I mean, wow. What better chance would I ever get to signify my love for the Prince’s lawfully-wedded shag than with this ceramic not-in-any-way-creepy tribute to the “Nation’s Sweetheart”, a hand-crafted 16 inches of pleasure? And how lifelike? Her breasts looked good enough to spunk on. At only £134 (plus £6 postage) how could I afford not to?

Thinking not of my overdraft, loan repayments or starving children I hurried right away to fill in the form, sending all methods of payment just to be sure to bag this “one-of-a-kind” commemorative item. I wasn’t certain that my card details, cheque, cash, postal orders or banker’s draft would be enough to secure one so my wife was kind enough to donate her wedding ring just to be on the safe side (I’m sure they’ll have better luck getting it off her finger than I did. She hardly ever used her left hand anyway).

Well, days went by and I heard nothing. Nothing at all. Surely this was no scam? This was Radio Times for crying out loud, not TV Quick. Anguished, I had started to make enquiries into contacting television’s Watchdog but in my haste had mistakenly written to Mick Hucknall rather than Anne Robinsons (it turns out that he’s the automatic recipient of any post marked “Ginger Twat”, not her).

Noel Edmonds, shortly before Atkins.

Luckily, consumer affairs telly tedium wasn’t required and the package containing my beloved porcelain Princess finally shat into my life like a burglar with a wrench. So I carefully pulled at the packaging, my trembling hands peeling back the adhesive tape on the Weetabix packet in which it was sent, and gently pulled out my Middleton miniature with sweaty-palmed anticipation.

And here it is.

Erm...

It was at this point I thought to consult the small print.

Shit.

Read All About Shit!

North Devon's weekly source of print news, the North Devon Journal, is an often entertaining read. By either wallowing in the banality of the region's lack of newsorthy stories or audaciously reporting worthless but incendiary piffle, it dances the journalistic jig of polarising press opinions for maximum effect; its letters page is rarely less than three packed pages long. Contrived and reactionary, it displays the best and worst excesses of the tabloid industry in a charmingly parochial capsule.

North Devon, not Royston Vasey. Honest.

But whoever writes the advertising hoardings for said newspaper is clearly taking the absolute fucking piss. And hats, scarves and cockrings off to them, for they've provided me with a much-needed chuckle on my daily commute for some years now. And whilst I've often  - to my eternal regret - neglected to capture these belief-defying snapshots of headline hysteria, these following piccies are those rare moments that I've managed to grab an indelible image of a bonkers billboard.

I don't know whether to be delighted that I live in an area of such incident-free inconsequence that the above triviality is the primary selling point of the local paper, or disgruntled that those responsible for it clearly aren't trying.

North Devon's well-meaning but ultimately flawed attempt at tackling diversity in the employment sector.

You can see his cock and everything.

Yes, the heating arrangements of a handful of
village pedants is apparently of vital concern to the entire region.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Barnstaple's mediocre
Just like this poem

Should have been frigging promoted.

Life in the hood.
Betty's accusatory stance regarding her missing garden ornaments was North Devon's #1 story that week. I can't tell you how it affected me. No really, I can't.

L.A. Nope

Rockstar, game developer par excellence, recently published a title to which I was very much looking forward; crime drama L.A. Noire. From the previews and teasers this was going to be as immersive and arresting as the series for which the studio had become rightly famous: Grand Theft Auto.

A 1940’s pulp detective yarn in which your character rises through the ranks of the LAPD solving grizzly crimes in California’s seedy underbelly? And it uses amazing facial mapping technology so that you can interview suspects and read their responses? Sorry, which member of my family would you like me to sacrifice just to play it now?

Eagerly pre-ordering at the earliest possible opportunity, I awaited those few months with increased anticipation as the release date drew ever closer, informing everyone who would listen – and several who wouldn’t – that L.A. Noire was the release to define this generation and alter the gaming landscape indefinitely.

So, what happened? Well, let’s just say that expectations and I are no longer on speaking terms…

Expectations and I, portrayed by two actors presumably trying to convey serious relationship issues (as all I did to get this image was type "divorced couple" into Google. Christ, these captions shouldn't be this long, surely?).

For a start, calling it a game is a contradiction in terms. A game should at least contain an element of challenge; there is no such thing here. Guiding hero Detective Phelps around crime scenes, stabbing ‘x’ to gather clues and then gently nudging the plot onwards is a laborious trudge through endless cut-scenes over which the player has little to no control. The much-touted interrogation aspect is initially thrilling, until I realised it didn’t matter how successful I was at said task – the game continues regardless. Player autonomy and consequences are entirely illusory concepts; I was told angrily by suspects that they’d refuse to answer any more of my damn questions only to inexplicably acquiesce at the next prompt. That’s not gameplay, that’s page-turning.

The game could really benefit from some light-fingered lifting from Quantic Dream’s despondent yet densely-plotted Heavy Rain. A sort of electronic version of a “choose-your-own-adventure” book, it’s an interactive drama that utilises a branching narrative and morality system moulded around player decisions and dexterity, as you struggle to discoverer both the identity of a child killer and your own kidnapped son (hey, gaming's not all giant mushrooms and AK’s these days). It’s an experience that reflects, to its best ability, player autonomy which consequently makes for a far more immersive ride than the virtual chapter selection of Rockstar’s latest.

Heavy Rain, a game in which player decisions significantly alter the narrative.

Mindful that I should appraise a game for what it is rather than what it could be, there’s simply not enough left to like. The plot around which the game is based is uninvolving and flat, not helped in the least by its lead, Detective Cole Phelps; he’s a blank-eyed exercise in buttoned-up sanctimony with all the engaging charisma of a tax return form. The shooting is merely functional and the pursuit sections an underwhelming attempt at shoehorning in a little more gameplay filler that fails to elicit any tangible sense of excitement. Even driving between levels can be delegated to your digital deputy, removing even the slightest hint of potential failure. Yes, there is the option to beat every case with a 100% success rate, but given that the process seems so disjointed from actuality, victory is entirely arbitrary. Feeling increasingly detached from the events on screen, the interactive parts feel like they’re encroaching on that which the developers are clearly more interested; hours of languid cut scenes.

Detective Phelps: dot-eyed stiff.

Yes, the facial animation is impressive and it’s gratifying to see a video game approach a plot as integral to the final product as say, headshots, but with such a casual approach to immersion, L.A. Noire never feels more like a half-finished technology demo. Just the ability to wield your weapon during interrogation would be a bonus, threatening to fire a volley of bullets into your suspect’s face and garner a suitable reaction would improve things (and believe me, I felt like doing exactly that four or so cases in). But sadly, just endless crime scene clicking and box-ticking blabbing that needs variety like Nick Griffin needs a kick in the bollocks.

Nick Griffin: swivel-eyed fuck. I'm not suggesting you kick him in the bollocks; I'm saying you definitely should.

I went from intrigued to indifferent to incensed and before I could emote any more with a word whose prefix is “in”, I ejected the disc and stuck it on PlayTrade for – tellingly – £13 less than I paid a fortnight prior on launch date. Sorry Rockstar. I wanted to love this, I desperately tried to. But it emptied a round of shells into my spine and left me for dead in a piss-soaked alleyway, my wallet gone and only disappointment remaining. Case closed.

Recycled Musical Musings

Lazy? Me? Question mark at the end of a sentence? Anyway, here for posterity more than anything are some music reviews I did ages ago from my soon-to-be-deleted MySpace account. For all I know every music artist contained therein has now retired, died or worst of all, released a "Best Of".

Jason Mraz ‘Make It Mine’

Mraz, proving that Jay Kay's not
the only hat-wearing twat in showbiz

Lighter than helium and breezy as a wind tunnel, Mraz’s sub-calypso jazz bollocks is ineffectual wine-tasting accompaniment; a dumb three minute paean to enforced jollity and 1970’s white-teethed US cheeseball movies. At least when Belle & Sebastian do it, they tell a good story. Despite Mraz’s blander-than-Ryvita vocals, I can just about make out some feel-good sloganeering that’s best left to self-help books and office posters rather than a recording studio. And take that fucking hat off indoors.

 

 

Drums of Death ‘Got Yr Things’

Oh nadgers, it started off so well. Until precisely the point at which the MC spews forth such witless blah he might as well be wiping his penis against the microphone. Which, for all the casual misogyny and priapic boasting, he probably is. File under “Vocalist, Lose the”.

Little Comets planning a lovely Sunday roast, probably.

Little Comets ‘Adultery’

Rumour has it, Little Comets have never heard of XTC, Orange Juice or The Futureheads. I’m being a twat of course, the Comets follow the strong line of jaunty angular spike that’s developed little since it first splintered happily away from punk’s limited remit some thirty years ago. They might possess all the originality of a permanent marker-drawn penis graffitied onto a toilet door yet they’re still as pleasurable and reassuring as seeing one, dotted spunk line and all.

 

 

Phoenix ‘Consolation Prizes’

I can’t blame an act for trying to entertain, can I? ‘Consolation Prizes’ rattles through sunbeam by-the-numbers on autopilot, a soundtrack to a mobile phone network fresh from the mixing desk. It might spark the deeply unattractive cynical catalyst in me but the tune’s artificial zesty brio outshines my natural ‘hate mode’ before I get a chance to protest. Plus I never could resist the unmistakable ringing chime of a Telecaster. These Stepford songsters will get us all in the end…



Phoenix. They're French you know.

  

www.myspace.com/jasonmraz

www.myspace.com/drumsofdeath4eva

www.myspace.com/littlecometsmusic

www.myspace.com/wearephoenix