Hello, my name is Paul-Ethan, and I'm...
This week's been a weird one, actually. The Bank Holiday weekend was... Well, it was. I've recently come out of an absolutely screaming depression, it's not something I'd advise you try for yourself.
I actually wonder whether I'm quite well. I've just been so down, worthless in abject misery. And not the kind of depression where one feels acutely sad, with a definite cause for upset, or a worrying about something yet to occur, no, that kind where one feels completely blank and empty. And, from what I can actually gather, for no real reason. Just... Ugh, what's the fucking point? It's not as if I haven't felt sad enough to feel empty in the first place as well. Various family deaths, relationship breakdowns and even watching those train carriages curl around the corner and out of sight have all been the root of episodes of a kind of existential ennui, that even being has seemed like an insurmountable challenge and that maybe nothing really is better than anything, so that's something at least.
People tend to forget that I still get bad. I suppose that must be to my credit, like they forget I'm autistic or that I'm lactose intolerant (there's some reminders for you, you're welcome); I live my life in such a way that it seems to slip the communal mind that I do not enjoy these obstacles, these problems that colour my daily life in order to keep me occupied and interested, paying attention to things that others need not. Things like elementary social interaction, not making an ass of one's self, speaking appropriately to people you've just met, not having to worry about running across a beach (not a joke, sadly), or even just the how much butter I can realistically spread on some toast (still haven't found the Lacto-free alternative butter, see). Ironically, it's things like this that raise the daily grind from simply boring to mindlessly distracting. It's the simple things.
As I've said before, I'm often loath to speak out too seriously about my depression for the simple fact that it reminds me that I am in fact, quite seriously depressed quite a lot of the time. Usually I kind of trick myself into not being aware of it, that I live my life in such a fashion that even I myself am blissfully unaware of the yawning emotional, hormonally imbalanced abyss inside of me. Looking back on these episodes is always the same: full of a special kind of disappointment, where I have allowed myself to fall prey to this foolishness, that I have almost indulged myself in this witless and groundless depression. It's tough. If you think I'm bad about lashing out and taking my frustration out on other people, then you should consider what I take out on myself first. I have stopped myself from taking all sorts of opportunities, personal and professional, just because I look at myself and I see a person - mostly I don't even see a person - who does not deserve to succeed. I'm sure my detractors are lapping this up, lining the streets and waving their palms, waiting for my inevitable self-destruction... Actually, I'm sure nobody is really. I like to kid myself.
It's so strange. I ride a knife edge of avoiding help even though I probably need it quite desperately. I won't even think about taking medication because I have a terrible relationship with pills; I won't even take sleeping tablest because I'm terrified of accidentally overdosing. One of my best friends in all the world whom I am nothing without hospitalised themselves last year. I don't want that. I choose life. I even look at writing as a means to escape singing: I still have a voice without having to make people listen to that ridiculous noise I make. I am just so... Afraid, I suppose, of actually succeeding, I mean Jesus Christ could you imagine if I was actually confident in my abilities? That I would want to put myself forward, that I would strike out and that I would grasp wildly at the chances in front of me? Pahahaha... I't's not very me though, is it? Stick to what yer know, kid.
So here I am, sat propping up a desk answering phones, sending emails and ordering stationery like a pro. I am regularly told I am good at this job. I am regularly told I am a pleasure to work with. I am regularly told how much they like seeing me. Do I pay attention? Not really. It feels rude saying that, because I'm not doing so to insult these people who pay me such lovely compliments. I just don't really think that I deserve it.
Anyway. I'm alright now. Improving. I'm fortunate to have some good friends who do more good than they even know. Maybe one day I might take that first step and have someone with a qualification in a frame on their wall talk me through all this. I already understand I really shouldn't think and act this way, but it's as if I can't do anything about it. I don't have any real control over it. It's like being in a madhouse sometimes.
Wait a minute...
Friday 29 August 2014
Friday 22 August 2014
The Alternative Welcome - an emeritus eye view
To highlight its dedication to the continued success of Choral Scholarships, Truro Cathedral is putting a welcome pack together for the new scholars this year. Being somewhat of a fixture around these parts, not only accepting invitations to stay in the choir but also to work in the office, I am obviously ideally placed to write a more... vernacular welcome. There'll be some images alongside the text in the official documentation as well. It's nice to have my name in print again!
{~}
As part of preparing this welcome pack, I was invited to
write a short introduction to Truro and its surroundings – not only was I
choral scholar for two years but now I’m one of the Lay Vicars. Sadly, this was all they got...
The terms of the job and services themselves are pretty
obvious, but what about the rest of the time?
Truro isn’t exactly the biggest Cathedral City in the world, but there’s
more than enough going on not only here, but around the rest of Cornwall to
help you enjoy your time between all the services, concerts and outreach
activities planned for the year.
Orientation and other practicalities
Stood on the Cathedral gate, the Scholary is in an ideal
location to access Truro. The train
station is at most 15 minutes by foot, while the bus stops on Boscawen Street and
the station on Lemon Quay are less than a 5 minute walk, with a taxi rank in
front of Coinage Hall. Surely one of the
first things you’ll want to do is get the kitchen kitted out with at least the
essentials, milk, tea, sugar and maybe breakfast.
Even though it’s the closest shop to the
house, the Co-Op is just a bit more expensive than it is convenient half the
time. There’s a Tesco just the other
side of Lemon Quay, a Sainsbury’s and Aldi up past the Train station, and ASDA
and Lidl in Penryn, on the way to Falmouth.
There’s plenty of choice for an individual shop, and it might even be
worth clubbing together and ordering online, especially if nobody drives. The Pannier Market is a great place to go for
a good butchers and local veg, with plenty of other market stalls too, like
clothes repair, a cobbler, and a record shop.
On the Town
There’s certainly more to life than making sure you come in on
budget for your groceries though. Truro
is packed with Restaurants and Cafes lining up to take your stipend away. There are two curry houses within seconds of
the Cathedral itself, while further into town is Sam’s in The City on Duke
Street, serving some of the finest seafood, steaks and burgers available. Chantek, on New Bridge Street, serves superb
Asian fusion cuisine, with Shanghai Lounge and the Mandarin Garden providing a
wholly Chinese experience. If you’re
looking for American inspiration in your restaurants, look no further than
Mustard and Rye on Calenick Street, with their speciality ‘Nuclear Hot Wings’,
or the HUBBOX in the old chapel on Kenwyn Street (opposite Burger King) with
its menu of handmade burgers, hotdogs and even a smoked Brisket. Discount codes for places like Pizza Express
or ASK aren’t hard to come by either, so it shouldn’t break the bank.
There’s plenty of drinking fare to be had as well. While it might not be awash with clubs or
stay open quite as late as larger cities, Truro’s full of Bars and Pubs. Vertigo has live DJs Thursday to Saturday
nights and The Old Grammar School serves tapas 6-9pm Monday to Saturday, both
of which are on St. Mary’s Street; even
the HUBBOX serves cocktails till late (well...late for here) on the weekends. Try Dowr, the local J. D. Wetherspoons
establishment has improved over the years as well, and The Old Alehouse, at the
end of Quay Street, is the Gentlemen’s usual port of call of a Sunday evening. Bunters Bar, further down Kenwyn Street show
sport during the evenings, and Zafiros and Vanilla on the Duke Street corner
have a more relaxed bar feel to them.
The Britannia Inn and White Hart aren’t exactly choir pubs either;
probably best to stick to the Alehouse for beer brewed in the city bounds, or
try the City Inn up the top of Pydar Street and ask for their ‘large serving’.
Or just stay in.
If you like film, head up to The Plaza, just up the hill on
Lemon Street. While they honour Orange
Wednesday codes, think about going on a Tuesday instead; Men’s rehearsal won’t
finish until 7pm (or half past nine, if you accept the invitation to join St.
Mary’s Singers) on a Wednesday, and The Plaza do all tickets for a fiver on a
Tuesday, no matter what time or film.
There’s also live Theatre, Opera and Ballet broadcast by satellite from
the ROH, RSC and the National Theatre, and the odd appearance put in by Mark
Kermode, all of which are worth booking ahead for if you’re interested.
When your Parents come to visit
When your parents come and visit, make them take you
somewhere nice, and importantly, out of Truro.
Restaurants like Hooked, on Tabernacle Street, or Saffron, on Quay
Street are really lovely places a bit more upmarket than some of the others I
mentioned earlier, but their visit is also a prime chance to get out and around
into the Cornish countryside and visit other towns. St. Ives is accessible by train as well (head
for Penzance and change at St. Erth), full of antique shops and art galleries
including the TATE, Penzance itself full of curio shops like Steckfensters to
visit before going down the road to Marazion and St. Michael’s Mount, the Eden
Project, brewery tours of Skinners in Truro and St. Austell Brewery in St.
Austell, Mevagissey, boat trips down the Fal...
Speaking of Falmouth, there’s the National Maritime Museum and its own
vibrant scene of restaurants and bistros.
Oh, and not forgetting the Cornish Camels on their farm down on the
Lizard.
Truro is as well served by Coffee houses and Tea shops as it
is by anything else. Right next door to
the Scholary is The Baking Bird, serving up 17 different flavours of cupcakes
and a range of cakes all made on the premises.
There’s Charlotte’s Tea House in the upstairs of Coinage Hall (above
Pizza Express), providing a more ‘traditional’ experience; Costa Coffee, Caffe
Nero and Starbucks; 108 Coffee House who will even deliver fresh coffee and
their handmade cakes if you’re working!
Further afield you can basically guarantee a cream tea wherever you go
in Cornwall.
Getting out of Truro
Finally, it goes without saying that Cornwall has some of
the most beautiful coastline to be found in Britain. Surf shops are on almost every beach,
especially on the north coast. There’s
more than just surf on offer though, what with things like the coastal path
between Gylly and Swanpool, walking up to Zennor Head (and lunch at The Tinners
Arms), Mousehole, Lamorna Cove just for starters. On Perranporth sits the UK’s only pub on a
beach, The Watering Hole, which runs a series gigs all through the summer,
including the Doritos Mariachi Band in 2015; they welcomed The Hoosiers and
even DJ Jazzy Jeff in 2014. In town
there’s the Victoria and Boscawen Parks to enjoy the sunshine in, but why waste
your time in the city when the beach is only a bus or cheap train away?
Tuesday 19 August 2014
Killer isn't Dead? - Songman's Redux
This was originally published last November as part of my previous blog, and I thought that really it ought to belong here, with some revisions, what with it being the best part of 2k on videogaming. I suppose it's a review of sorts, even though I never intended it to be that way...
Coming out of retirement to write about video games. It feels so cliched... How long has it been?
Recently, I decided to just take the plunge and buy a game brand new off the shelf. No, it isn't Arkham Origins (which we'll get on to in a minute), but instead the latest and greatest horse from SUDA51's venerable stable, Grasshopper Manufacture, Killer Is Dead. I followed all the development news and watched all the trailers that I could until its eventual release, which I then promptly missed due to the small matter of going on choir tour to Sweden. I finally purchased it last week (Friday, I think) and have been spending some quality, early morning hours working through the predictably incomprehensible story. Now, even though I've still got Flower, Sun and Rain somewhere with me, the last SUDA51 game I actually completed was Killer7, to which I will be making many comparisons, and also comparing with Platinum Games' seminal action comedy brawler, Bayonetta.
Killer Is Dead is the timeless tale of an amnesiac executioner, who after waking up with a robotic arm falls on his feet by finding employment with a state-funded assassination firm. The deeper we delve into the plot, the stranger everything becomes, with villains invading dreams, government cloning conspiracies, and the eternal battle between light and dark. Also, the Moon. Yes, the Moon has always been a prominent part of the Grasshopper oeuvre, and this game is certainly no different. In fact, you can't seem to get away from it this time. The game play itself is simplistic hack-and-slash, with a projectile secondary weapon, so no real surprises in store here. The levels comprise mostly of fighting through corridors of generic enemies who require their own specific strategies to defeat... but this mostly boils down to dodging, enteringwitch bullet time, and mashing the attack button. It's certainly more involved than Killer7, anyway. The protagonist's name in this case (just the one protagonist this time too) is Mondo Zappa, the stoic and duty obsessed, katana expert executioner. Originally named Mondo Smith(!), which in Japanese would have sounded just like Sumio Mondo from Flower, Sun and Rain, his name is doubtlessly inspired by Frank Zappa. Or possibly Moon Unit Zappa? DON'T FORGET THE MOON.
The graphical style of this game is much like Killer7's, cel-shading with three main colour tones, but improved for a HD generation. Of course, being a generation advanced (and far into the lifespan of this generation of consoles too), the lines are clean as you like, and the animation silky smooth. Looking at Mondo stood in a room with Wires (this game's Heaven Smiles) ambling towards you is possibly and lamentably as close to a High Definition Killer7 remake we're going to get. As mentioned above, and with most Grasshopper titles, the actual game play is a bit... tacked-on. It's just a means to an end, the end being to prove how utterly insane this all is. But there's a bit of a problem as well. It's almost as if this game is saying "Look at me! Look at me! I'm from SUDA51, and I'm CRAZY!", before leaping around the room...and not always with any real justification. Okay, I haven't finished the game yet, but it is sadly less compelling than previous efforts. It's almost too aware at times, especially when there's a pre-boss cut scene detailing that even though the characters could settle their differences amicably, the script will not allow it and there must be a fight as 'there would be complaints from the gamers' if there wasn't.
Thankfully, in a flash of much more familiar tones, Mondo is riding an elevator as part of a later mission and having a radio conversation with one of the other characters about ethics. He is asked whether he thinks the game is ethical, to which he replies it isn't his job to worry about that, just to execute the targets given to him. Don't get me wrong, I'm still enjoying the game very much, but it's exchanges like the former that are much more common than the latter, which doesn't really have much more than pure entertainment value, rather than actually making you think. Sure, you're controlling a merciless professional assassin killing numberless faceless grunts before the boss (which, tweaked, is every action platforming game ever), but just because you're funded by the state... Does that make it right? It's certainly not in the "What is a Nation?" stakes, but it's a shining moment in an otherwise dull scene. There's more than enough commentary been written about the infamous 'Gigolo Missions', which are a really odd addition to the game as they serve so little purpose. Basically, they're bonus missions that earn you extra subweapons or upgrades for those you already have. Badly scripted portals for teenage-style titillation, it's a shame something so directionless was included. The best thing about the whole sequences has to be the banging techno beat that starts once you equip the x-ray glasses.
Speaking of what a Nation is, let's look at Killer7 for a moment. 2005's insane supernatural future noir psycho-political horror thriller has got to be one of my favourite games ever made. It's violent. It's graphic. It's brilliant. It behaves more like a book or an interactive art exhibition rather than a game, with a control scheme pared down to the very bones, simple logic puzzles and set pieces all designed to do one thing and one thing alone: further the plot. Part first-person-shooter, part puzzler and all mind-bender, the stupefyingly simple controls actually help draw you in to the scenario. Rather than having to remember complicated buttons combos, it becomes almost reflex to draw your weapon, scan for enemies, fire and reload. Also, you have infinite ammo. Handy, eh?
It also contains some of the maddest things to ever be included that just seem to work: the pigeon that helps you win a boss battle, a Luchador who headbutts a bullet into submission (that's one thing that has disappointed me about Killer Is Dead, the lack of Lucha Libre), and of course, the dead man with all the answers from the very start (spoilers! lol), Travis. Seriously, I can't tell you how much I love that guy. There is so much that defies expectation that you simply have to accept it in order to move on - the suspension of disbelief. The setting, basically a modern cold war between the United States of American and Japan, is the theatre for conspiracy of the highest order, national identity, orphan trafficking, and of course, an assassin with an identity crisis. The Moon is featured here, but without explanation as a loading screen. It's never explained...like much of the game, in fact. It helps that it isn't an action game (in the conventional sense), that navigating the levels is basically done for you so you can focus on the matter of unraveling what is actually happening behind the scenes (make sure you speak to Travis every time you see him!). Killer7 is much deeper than your usual offering, 2005 or not, and it feels like Killer Is Dead wants this depth so desperately but just... Misses. The soundtrack helps, making every different level and area easily recognisable by sound alone, not to mention the bizarre sound effects when you solve puzzles or collect items.
What I really can't criticise Killer Is Dead for actually, is the audio. The voice acting is well implemented, even if the script oscillates wildly from overly serious to completely inane, and the actual soundtrack is sufficiently interesting and engaging in parts. As I said, the script is sometimes mad-cap, and other times takes itself way too seriously - the bizarre office scenes before and after each mission starring alien Doctors, a musician with no ears and a ghostly artist are just mental. Mondo's strict recitation of the game title at the start and end of the playable mission serve no purpose to remind you THAT THIS IS A GAME OKAY. Mondo's sidekick, Mika, is the comic foil to all this terminal seriousness brought about by our central hero, what with what must be the world's most annoying voice and quasi-school uniform.
Anyway. I want to turn to an action game from a different studio as a kind of...second opinion. Anybody who's seen Bayonetta in action can confirm how utterly ridiculous it is, in terms of setting, action, really dreadful casual sexual banter... Bayonetta is a game of extremes, right down to the button-mashing boss fights. While the fourth wall is far more sacred, its perfectly aware of its existence as a truly ridiculous game, and clutches this to its healthy (but not quite heaving) bosom. Alongside the main platforming sections, there are motorbike driving levels and even a rail shooter section to complement the high-octane action that's the mainstay. Having not only read all about, but also experienced the Gigolo Mission of Killer Is Dead, Bayonetta really knows how to play the the titillation game. Cheesy, sexually suggestive script writing, played for the most groans available, coupled with the scantily clad protagonist (that catsuit is made out of hair, don't forget), it rides a line of acceptability - if you take it too seriously, there's plenty to take issue with, but really, the entire premise is completely ridiculous that this is the level it should be taken on. The concise but effective combo system (dodge, vertical attack, horizontal attack) has enough timed strikes in it to make it better than your usual mash-a-thon (Killer is Dead, I'm actually looking at you), and worth getting used to for the Boss battles (especially Jeanne's). By dodging at the last second, you can enter a slow motion state known as "witch time", which of course aids your combos and avoids damage.
Bayonetta lives in a place of endless suggestive winks, nudges and nods, not to mention the lollipops... and triumphs because of it. Not only does it succeed as an action game, but it also succeeds in presenting an innuendo-charged atmosphere, which is where Killer Is Dead falls down flat. Instead of of being a classy, James Bond-esque kind of affair, the Gigolo Missions are all about mindless point scoring while staring at rendered lingerie.
I finally finished Killer Is Dead earlier. I say finally, but the main campaign isn't very long at all. Assessing it as a pure action game, it falls down compared to Bayonetta and even (or should that be especially?) the Devil May Cry series, the 4th of which I am most familiar with. As a Grasshopper Manufacture game however, it still holds its own at least. The reliance of chess symbolism and the centre stage placement of the Moon feels very heavy handed though, and it's more the memory of these elements being mindbending rather than the game presenting events that use these symbols (like the chess scenes from Killer7 being nigh incomprehensible) where other things are happening that carry you through instead. As a huge SUDA51 fan, I have enjoyed my first playthrough, and will play more, but I can see why somebody who isn't as great a fan would feel let down by the almost deliberately incomprehensible scenario, the less-than-helpful controls, and quite frankly, the voice of the main character's assistant. Even then, the lack of luchadors is simply disappointing.
In conclusion, I certainly don't regret my purchase... But only just. Having lived with both Killer7 and Flower, Sun and Rain, I'm used to the madness and often inhibiting controls. Maybe though I've been spoiled by the Arkham series, with its seamless combat that makes no demands on the player; 4 button combat has never been better. Well... Except for Origins. For some reason WB Montreal futzed the combat rhythm and collision detection slightly which can sometimes lead to Bats swinging wildly into thin air and losing your combo score and sometimes even getting shot.
At the end of the day, I have enjoyed my journey to the dark side of the moon and back, and maybe, just maybe, the next game from Grasshopper Manufacture can reclaim that sense of wonder and utter madness of previous titles without having to make compromises. Hell, even when you boil it all down, Super Meat Boy was one of the most addictive and rewarding games of this generation, the spirit of which was picked up on by Black Knight Sword, which added to the classic platformer recipe with its unique kabuki theatre art setting.
Oh well. Until next time... Tomorrow, it could be you.
~
Coming out of retirement to write about video games. It feels so cliched... How long has it been?
Recently, I decided to just take the plunge and buy a game brand new off the shelf. No, it isn't Arkham Origins (which we'll get on to in a minute), but instead the latest and greatest horse from SUDA51's venerable stable, Grasshopper Manufacture, Killer Is Dead. I followed all the development news and watched all the trailers that I could until its eventual release, which I then promptly missed due to the small matter of going on choir tour to Sweden. I finally purchased it last week (Friday, I think) and have been spending some quality, early morning hours working through the predictably incomprehensible story. Now, even though I've still got Flower, Sun and Rain somewhere with me, the last SUDA51 game I actually completed was Killer7, to which I will be making many comparisons, and also comparing with Platinum Games' seminal action comedy brawler, Bayonetta.
Killer Is Dead is the timeless tale of an amnesiac executioner, who after waking up with a robotic arm falls on his feet by finding employment with a state-funded assassination firm. The deeper we delve into the plot, the stranger everything becomes, with villains invading dreams, government cloning conspiracies, and the eternal battle between light and dark. Also, the Moon. Yes, the Moon has always been a prominent part of the Grasshopper oeuvre, and this game is certainly no different. In fact, you can't seem to get away from it this time. The game play itself is simplistic hack-and-slash, with a projectile secondary weapon, so no real surprises in store here. The levels comprise mostly of fighting through corridors of generic enemies who require their own specific strategies to defeat... but this mostly boils down to dodging, entering
The graphical style of this game is much like Killer7's, cel-shading with three main colour tones, but improved for a HD generation. Of course, being a generation advanced (and far into the lifespan of this generation of consoles too), the lines are clean as you like, and the animation silky smooth. Looking at Mondo stood in a room with Wires (this game's Heaven Smiles) ambling towards you is possibly and lamentably as close to a High Definition Killer7 remake we're going to get. As mentioned above, and with most Grasshopper titles, the actual game play is a bit... tacked-on. It's just a means to an end, the end being to prove how utterly insane this all is. But there's a bit of a problem as well. It's almost as if this game is saying "Look at me! Look at me! I'm from SUDA51, and I'm CRAZY!", before leaping around the room...and not always with any real justification. Okay, I haven't finished the game yet, but it is sadly less compelling than previous efforts. It's almost too aware at times, especially when there's a pre-boss cut scene detailing that even though the characters could settle their differences amicably, the script will not allow it and there must be a fight as 'there would be complaints from the gamers' if there wasn't.
Thankfully, in a flash of much more familiar tones, Mondo is riding an elevator as part of a later mission and having a radio conversation with one of the other characters about ethics. He is asked whether he thinks the game is ethical, to which he replies it isn't his job to worry about that, just to execute the targets given to him. Don't get me wrong, I'm still enjoying the game very much, but it's exchanges like the former that are much more common than the latter, which doesn't really have much more than pure entertainment value, rather than actually making you think. Sure, you're controlling a merciless professional assassin killing numberless faceless grunts before the boss (which, tweaked, is every action platforming game ever), but just because you're funded by the state... Does that make it right? It's certainly not in the "What is a Nation?" stakes, but it's a shining moment in an otherwise dull scene. There's more than enough commentary been written about the infamous 'Gigolo Missions', which are a really odd addition to the game as they serve so little purpose. Basically, they're bonus missions that earn you extra subweapons or upgrades for those you already have. Badly scripted portals for teenage-style titillation, it's a shame something so directionless was included. The best thing about the whole sequences has to be the banging techno beat that starts once you equip the x-ray glasses.
Speaking of what a Nation is, let's look at Killer7 for a moment. 2005's insane supernatural future noir psycho-political horror thriller has got to be one of my favourite games ever made. It's violent. It's graphic. It's brilliant. It behaves more like a book or an interactive art exhibition rather than a game, with a control scheme pared down to the very bones, simple logic puzzles and set pieces all designed to do one thing and one thing alone: further the plot. Part first-person-shooter, part puzzler and all mind-bender, the stupefyingly simple controls actually help draw you in to the scenario. Rather than having to remember complicated buttons combos, it becomes almost reflex to draw your weapon, scan for enemies, fire and reload. Also, you have infinite ammo. Handy, eh?
It also contains some of the maddest things to ever be included that just seem to work: the pigeon that helps you win a boss battle, a Luchador who headbutts a bullet into submission (that's one thing that has disappointed me about Killer Is Dead, the lack of Lucha Libre), and of course, the dead man with all the answers from the very start (spoilers! lol), Travis. Seriously, I can't tell you how much I love that guy. There is so much that defies expectation that you simply have to accept it in order to move on - the suspension of disbelief. The setting, basically a modern cold war between the United States of American and Japan, is the theatre for conspiracy of the highest order, national identity, orphan trafficking, and of course, an assassin with an identity crisis. The Moon is featured here, but without explanation as a loading screen. It's never explained...like much of the game, in fact. It helps that it isn't an action game (in the conventional sense), that navigating the levels is basically done for you so you can focus on the matter of unraveling what is actually happening behind the scenes (make sure you speak to Travis every time you see him!). Killer7 is much deeper than your usual offering, 2005 or not, and it feels like Killer Is Dead wants this depth so desperately but just... Misses. The soundtrack helps, making every different level and area easily recognisable by sound alone, not to mention the bizarre sound effects when you solve puzzles or collect items.
What I really can't criticise Killer Is Dead for actually, is the audio. The voice acting is well implemented, even if the script oscillates wildly from overly serious to completely inane, and the actual soundtrack is sufficiently interesting and engaging in parts. As I said, the script is sometimes mad-cap, and other times takes itself way too seriously - the bizarre office scenes before and after each mission starring alien Doctors, a musician with no ears and a ghostly artist are just mental. Mondo's strict recitation of the game title at the start and end of the playable mission serve no purpose to remind you THAT THIS IS A GAME OKAY. Mondo's sidekick, Mika, is the comic foil to all this terminal seriousness brought about by our central hero, what with what must be the world's most annoying voice and quasi-school uniform.
Anyway. I want to turn to an action game from a different studio as a kind of...second opinion. Anybody who's seen Bayonetta in action can confirm how utterly ridiculous it is, in terms of setting, action, really dreadful casual sexual banter... Bayonetta is a game of extremes, right down to the button-mashing boss fights. While the fourth wall is far more sacred, its perfectly aware of its existence as a truly ridiculous game, and clutches this to its healthy (but not quite heaving) bosom. Alongside the main platforming sections, there are motorbike driving levels and even a rail shooter section to complement the high-octane action that's the mainstay. Having not only read all about, but also experienced the Gigolo Mission of Killer Is Dead, Bayonetta really knows how to play the the titillation game. Cheesy, sexually suggestive script writing, played for the most groans available, coupled with the scantily clad protagonist (that catsuit is made out of hair, don't forget), it rides a line of acceptability - if you take it too seriously, there's plenty to take issue with, but really, the entire premise is completely ridiculous that this is the level it should be taken on. The concise but effective combo system (dodge, vertical attack, horizontal attack) has enough timed strikes in it to make it better than your usual mash-a-thon (Killer is Dead, I'm actually looking at you), and worth getting used to for the Boss battles (especially Jeanne's). By dodging at the last second, you can enter a slow motion state known as "witch time", which of course aids your combos and avoids damage.
Bayonetta lives in a place of endless suggestive winks, nudges and nods, not to mention the lollipops... and triumphs because of it. Not only does it succeed as an action game, but it also succeeds in presenting an innuendo-charged atmosphere, which is where Killer Is Dead falls down flat. Instead of of being a classy, James Bond-esque kind of affair, the Gigolo Missions are all about mindless point scoring while staring at rendered lingerie.
Hiatus
I finally finished Killer Is Dead earlier. I say finally, but the main campaign isn't very long at all. Assessing it as a pure action game, it falls down compared to Bayonetta and even (or should that be especially?) the Devil May Cry series, the 4th of which I am most familiar with. As a Grasshopper Manufacture game however, it still holds its own at least. The reliance of chess symbolism and the centre stage placement of the Moon feels very heavy handed though, and it's more the memory of these elements being mindbending rather than the game presenting events that use these symbols (like the chess scenes from Killer7 being nigh incomprehensible) where other things are happening that carry you through instead. As a huge SUDA51 fan, I have enjoyed my first playthrough, and will play more, but I can see why somebody who isn't as great a fan would feel let down by the almost deliberately incomprehensible scenario, the less-than-helpful controls, and quite frankly, the voice of the main character's assistant. Even then, the lack of luchadors is simply disappointing.
In conclusion, I certainly don't regret my purchase... But only just. Having lived with both Killer7 and Flower, Sun and Rain, I'm used to the madness and often inhibiting controls. Maybe though I've been spoiled by the Arkham series, with its seamless combat that makes no demands on the player; 4 button combat has never been better. Well... Except for Origins. For some reason WB Montreal futzed the combat rhythm and collision detection slightly which can sometimes lead to Bats swinging wildly into thin air and losing your combo score and sometimes even getting shot.
At the end of the day, I have enjoyed my journey to the dark side of the moon and back, and maybe, just maybe, the next game from Grasshopper Manufacture can reclaim that sense of wonder and utter madness of previous titles without having to make compromises. Hell, even when you boil it all down, Super Meat Boy was one of the most addictive and rewarding games of this generation, the spirit of which was picked up on by Black Knight Sword, which added to the classic platformer recipe with its unique kabuki theatre art setting.
Oh well. Until next time... Tomorrow, it could be you.
Friday 15 August 2014
Hercules
Thanks to the miracles that are Cardinal Sin and cheap ticket night at The Plaza, Truro, I've managed to see four major films this summer, which easily equals the last three years put together. Transformers: Age of Extinction, Dawn of the Planet of the Apes, Guardians of the Galaxy, and now most recently Hercules, starring none other than Dwayne Johnson, the world's henchest man. Some spoilers ahead.
As we drew into the final set piece, popcorn long finished and the ice liquidising in my medium Pepsi, it struck me that Hercules is probably the best Dungeons and Dragons or Fire Emblem film we're gonna get. Now, before you mobilise with pitchforks and torches, just hear me out, okay? I mean, think about how well received the actual D&D film was... I remember watching about half an hour of that particular debacle and deciding that perhaps we should leave it for dead, but no, the venerable institution of tabletop has thankfully survived... But the direct-to-DVD sequels have definitely disappeared without a trace. I'll go out on a limb here and assume that most people are familiar with the typical D&D set-up: character stat sheets, citadel miniatures, the Dungeon Master and of course, the Dice bag. FE, on the other hand...
Fire Emblem is one of Nintendo's oldest franchises, the first installment of which was released in April, 1990, and saw its most It's a turn based strategy game with a core cast of characters who stay with you the entire campaign. One of the abiding concepts in FE is permadeath - if a unit falls, that's it. Goodbye. The setting is always in the confines of the usual swords 'n sorcery, so knights, mounted cavalry and mages abound. You know, spells and shit. There's an element of emotional investment in these games as well, as even though you can end up with a grand cast, it isn't possible to field a large army. Instead, you end up with a core team of heavyweights and critical hitters, backed up by healers and perhaps even some kind of bard or dancer, that by the end of the campaign face an enemy force that can be up to four or five times the size. Instead of a DM, the narrative, following the usual kind of "deposed prince seeks justice for his murdered parents by overturning the corrupt warlord and their armies" thing is delivered by the script and progressed through out of battle dialogue. While I won't get into the nuts and bolts of the weapon system, suffice to say that each major weapon, spears, axes and swords, are represented in your party, with at least one archer for long range support.
Names for places, characters and items (especially magic tomes and weapons) are taken from legend, with Norse mythology being a particularly rich vein in recent years, but references to the tales of Ancient Greece and Mesopotamian Gods turn up just as much. The titular Emblem is a McGuffin. Sometimes it's a shield, upgraded by the addition of certain gems, other times it's a royal heirloom and key to an ancient shrine, and yet still it can even be a medallion that houses the soul of a dread Goddess. Your main character, a "Lord" is the protagonist of the show, who packs their own unique character model and weaponry, often with special stat bonuses. Instead of the dice roll, stats and battles are governed by a clever piece of robot brain called the Random Number Generator. What does all this have to do with Hercules though?
Personally, I thought Hercules was great. A really solid and entertaining Adventure film, the likes of which hasn't been in fashion for years and years. Beginning with a montage of a few of 'the' Labours, The Nemean Lion, the Hydra &c, the film opens with a battle against pirates who have been listening to the story as told by a young man trussed up, in certain bodily peril. The camera cuts to Johnson, stood backlit wearing loincloth and a lion's head, which immediately sets the tone. Battle ensues, and we see that Herc is part of a well oiled and tactically deployed team, each with their own personalities and fighting styles. The young storyteller is the ragtag group's bard, and Hercules' nephew, who struggles to find a place for his words in a decidedly physical outfit. The film continues with a short origin composed of the more well known elements of Hercules' early life, sired by the King of the Gods, and the strangling of snakes, sticking to the 12A classification, of course. Turns out that Hercules has retired from any kind of public celebrity, and is trolling around with a bunch of mercenaries to escape his troubled past (look, I didn't say it wasn't cliched), working jobs like removing pirates to raise enough to travel to the far side of the Black Sea, and live a life of solitude, away from his Demons. Classic solitary Hero story. Before the group can decide what sort of job to look for next, Rebecca Ferguson appears as Ergenia, an emissary from Lord Cotys, the King of Thrace, to employ this happy band.
Let's get this straight, Dwayne Johnson is enormous. There's no suspension of disbelief needed here. Thankfully, his ability to sell this kind of material seems to be improving as well, after such shambles as The Scorpion King and Doom. He was also, in my opinion, the best part of 2009's Race to Witch Mountain remake; if anything he was only half the man then that he is now, merely through muscle mass. He's a real pleasure on screen in this, almost tricking us in thinking that this is deadly serious, before another tightly choreographed action set piece kicks off and he gets to bust some heads. One particular battle is fought against an army of tattooed men painted green with huge beards. One can only imagine the casting call for that scene; System Of A Down impersonators need only apply.
The supporting rest of this crack team draw their names straight from the pages of myth too, their names and defining weaponry reading like a Fire Emblem roster even on Wikipedia: A knife wielding thief in Rufus Sewell's Autolycus; a wisecracking spear fighter with a sideline as a prophet of his own certain doom, and arguably the outfit's Jeigan/Oifey in Ian McShane's Amphiaraus; a female archer (arguably Sniper), complete with the dreadful and moulded breastplate from Ingrid Bolsø Berdal's Atalanta; Askel Hennie's Tydeus, the silent axe-wielding berserker; Iolanus the Bard, played by Reece Ritchie... And of course, our eponymous hero, the Lord, complete with his own perfectly ranked Club. Sorry, I'm way off point here.
Hercules is haunted by the spectre of tragedy that he can't quite remember, that resulted in him being banished from Athens on pain of death. Snippets are revealed to us usually in dreams or in particular an extended flashback scene, normally heralded by the appearance of Cerberus, the subject of the 12th classic Labour. It isn't until the final battle that we find out the truth, but I won't spoil it as it's part of what little character development Johnson has to deal with, rather than being the brutal giant he is in fights. Speaking of fights, the one with the green beardy men happens about halfway through, which is a decent 'this is how all of our unique and interesting warriors fight' sequence, complete with a simply hilarious chariot attack. The aftermath of this particular battle is less than successful for the good guys, which results in what can only be described as a training montage, while John Hurt's Cotys looks around for more scenery to chew as if hamming was going out of fashion (like it ever will). The training scene does actually work because it's an entire army being trained rather than one man, and at least the thrilling action movie score isn't overwhelming. Each of the characters leads a specific class though, and once you see the men hold a shield wall you know it's time for the next battle, although I was left wondering just how many soldiers portrayed were actually real.
Moving towards the final act, the tables begin to turn. No scene is left unmarred by Cotys' dentures here, as the corruption in the Tracian government is finally revealed, and our heroes must make a stand... But not before Autolycus does a runner. Herc and the gang are imprisoned in a castle dungeon, and the turning point comes when Amphiaraus encourages Hercules to embrace his destiny and destroy the three-headed dog that has haunted him thus far. I doubt that seeing Johnson tear iron divots out of rock to loose his chains had to be faked in any way. Freed and armed once more, the reunited band take the fight upwards through the castle, knocking out countless faceless grunts along the way. Even Iolanus gets a kill here, enjoying victory over an arrogant foe. Having already simplistically touched on my favourite question, "what is a Nation", the final battle is pitched, marked by heroic sacrifice. They fight to liberate a people from a corrupt king, hell bent on establishing a huge empire backed by a uniformed army of faceless grunts and titled generals. Autolycus suddenly reappears in a convincing but ultimately unsurprising reveal, and conveniently, a bottomless pit appears and then returns to nowhere as an easy disposal method; victory is assured for our heroes. They are our protagonists, after all. Well... The ones who had spoken lines, that is. The credits are a stylish rendition in 3D of how the Labours against the Hydra, the Lion and the Erymanthian Boar (all of which we saw conquered alone at the start of the picture) were won by the team working together.
I'm not sure if there was any real, profound message behind this film. There probably isn't. It doesn't matter. Clear themes of family, brotherhood, only the bad guys torture anyone... Oh, and that you too can be a man mountain, but only if you shut yourself away and train for eight months. It plays on the fact that actually this Hercules is mortal, and the team dynamic allows the supporting cast to bounce off Johnson's hero, without anything seeming too stodgy or really, forced. There might not be any great zingers in the script, but it's... It's okay, you know! Functional without being too workmanlike. It may be big, but it isn't that clever, and really I think it scores a higher win because of it. If you actually had to think about a Hercules film seriously, it would more likely sink under its own weight. In fact, without its lead in The Rock, even this outing may have suffered, but his charisma carries through, just. There are times when the more senior cast members must have ruined takes with their audible sighing and eye rolling, but the sheer entertainment value of watching Johnson punch a hay cart into three screaming men armed with giant gutting hooks is not to be underestimated.
Like I said though, the fact it doesn't take itself too seriously is the saving grace. It's what's wrong with major franchises being translated onto screen. When people hold the subject matter as sacred it starts to get a bit intense (although not even I can forgive the whitewashing of Khan Noonien Singh), making sure every single element is represented (which can simply make a film too busy) and people start getting angry, and it tends to get in the way of actually making an enjoyable and entertaining film, God alone knows how Marvel seem to have cracked it (even if they had to change Bruce Banner) for their fiercely-loved properties. Maybe this will get a sequel? Maybe not. The door for such is left ajar at the end, but it works as a little standalone thing, a summer blockbuster all in one, as they adventure off into the ancient Greek sunset.
As we drew into the final set piece, popcorn long finished and the ice liquidising in my medium Pepsi, it struck me that Hercules is probably the best Dungeons and Dragons or Fire Emblem film we're gonna get. Now, before you mobilise with pitchforks and torches, just hear me out, okay? I mean, think about how well received the actual D&D film was... I remember watching about half an hour of that particular debacle and deciding that perhaps we should leave it for dead, but no, the venerable institution of tabletop has thankfully survived... But the direct-to-DVD sequels have definitely disappeared without a trace. I'll go out on a limb here and assume that most people are familiar with the typical D&D set-up: character stat sheets, citadel miniatures, the Dungeon Master and of course, the Dice bag. FE, on the other hand...
Fire Emblem is one of Nintendo's oldest franchises, the first installment of which was released in April, 1990, and saw its most It's a turn based strategy game with a core cast of characters who stay with you the entire campaign. One of the abiding concepts in FE is permadeath - if a unit falls, that's it. Goodbye. The setting is always in the confines of the usual swords 'n sorcery, so knights, mounted cavalry and mages abound. You know, spells and shit. There's an element of emotional investment in these games as well, as even though you can end up with a grand cast, it isn't possible to field a large army. Instead, you end up with a core team of heavyweights and critical hitters, backed up by healers and perhaps even some kind of bard or dancer, that by the end of the campaign face an enemy force that can be up to four or five times the size. Instead of a DM, the narrative, following the usual kind of "deposed prince seeks justice for his murdered parents by overturning the corrupt warlord and their armies" thing is delivered by the script and progressed through out of battle dialogue. While I won't get into the nuts and bolts of the weapon system, suffice to say that each major weapon, spears, axes and swords, are represented in your party, with at least one archer for long range support.
Names for places, characters and items (especially magic tomes and weapons) are taken from legend, with Norse mythology being a particularly rich vein in recent years, but references to the tales of Ancient Greece and Mesopotamian Gods turn up just as much. The titular Emblem is a McGuffin. Sometimes it's a shield, upgraded by the addition of certain gems, other times it's a royal heirloom and key to an ancient shrine, and yet still it can even be a medallion that houses the soul of a dread Goddess. Your main character, a "Lord" is the protagonist of the show, who packs their own unique character model and weaponry, often with special stat bonuses. Instead of the dice roll, stats and battles are governed by a clever piece of robot brain called the Random Number Generator. What does all this have to do with Hercules though?
Personally, I thought Hercules was great. A really solid and entertaining Adventure film, the likes of which hasn't been in fashion for years and years. Beginning with a montage of a few of 'the' Labours, The Nemean Lion, the Hydra &c, the film opens with a battle against pirates who have been listening to the story as told by a young man trussed up, in certain bodily peril. The camera cuts to Johnson, stood backlit wearing loincloth and a lion's head, which immediately sets the tone. Battle ensues, and we see that Herc is part of a well oiled and tactically deployed team, each with their own personalities and fighting styles. The young storyteller is the ragtag group's bard, and Hercules' nephew, who struggles to find a place for his words in a decidedly physical outfit. The film continues with a short origin composed of the more well known elements of Hercules' early life, sired by the King of the Gods, and the strangling of snakes, sticking to the 12A classification, of course. Turns out that Hercules has retired from any kind of public celebrity, and is trolling around with a bunch of mercenaries to escape his troubled past (look, I didn't say it wasn't cliched), working jobs like removing pirates to raise enough to travel to the far side of the Black Sea, and live a life of solitude, away from his Demons. Classic solitary Hero story. Before the group can decide what sort of job to look for next, Rebecca Ferguson appears as Ergenia, an emissary from Lord Cotys, the King of Thrace, to employ this happy band.
Let's get this straight, Dwayne Johnson is enormous. There's no suspension of disbelief needed here. Thankfully, his ability to sell this kind of material seems to be improving as well, after such shambles as The Scorpion King and Doom. He was also, in my opinion, the best part of 2009's Race to Witch Mountain remake; if anything he was only half the man then that he is now, merely through muscle mass. He's a real pleasure on screen in this, almost tricking us in thinking that this is deadly serious, before another tightly choreographed action set piece kicks off and he gets to bust some heads. One particular battle is fought against an army of tattooed men painted green with huge beards. One can only imagine the casting call for that scene; System Of A Down impersonators need only apply.
The supporting rest of this crack team draw their names straight from the pages of myth too, their names and defining weaponry reading like a Fire Emblem roster even on Wikipedia: A knife wielding thief in Rufus Sewell's Autolycus; a wisecracking spear fighter with a sideline as a prophet of his own certain doom, and arguably the outfit's Jeigan/Oifey in Ian McShane's Amphiaraus; a female archer (arguably Sniper), complete with the dreadful and moulded breastplate from Ingrid Bolsø Berdal's Atalanta; Askel Hennie's Tydeus, the silent axe-wielding berserker; Iolanus the Bard, played by Reece Ritchie... And of course, our eponymous hero, the Lord, complete with his own perfectly ranked Club. Sorry, I'm way off point here.
Hercules is haunted by the spectre of tragedy that he can't quite remember, that resulted in him being banished from Athens on pain of death. Snippets are revealed to us usually in dreams or in particular an extended flashback scene, normally heralded by the appearance of Cerberus, the subject of the 12th classic Labour. It isn't until the final battle that we find out the truth, but I won't spoil it as it's part of what little character development Johnson has to deal with, rather than being the brutal giant he is in fights. Speaking of fights, the one with the green beardy men happens about halfway through, which is a decent 'this is how all of our unique and interesting warriors fight' sequence, complete with a simply hilarious chariot attack. The aftermath of this particular battle is less than successful for the good guys, which results in what can only be described as a training montage, while John Hurt's Cotys looks around for more scenery to chew as if hamming was going out of fashion (like it ever will). The training scene does actually work because it's an entire army being trained rather than one man, and at least the thrilling action movie score isn't overwhelming. Each of the characters leads a specific class though, and once you see the men hold a shield wall you know it's time for the next battle, although I was left wondering just how many soldiers portrayed were actually real.
Moving towards the final act, the tables begin to turn. No scene is left unmarred by Cotys' dentures here, as the corruption in the Tracian government is finally revealed, and our heroes must make a stand... But not before Autolycus does a runner. Herc and the gang are imprisoned in a castle dungeon, and the turning point comes when Amphiaraus encourages Hercules to embrace his destiny and destroy the three-headed dog that has haunted him thus far. I doubt that seeing Johnson tear iron divots out of rock to loose his chains had to be faked in any way. Freed and armed once more, the reunited band take the fight upwards through the castle, knocking out countless faceless grunts along the way. Even Iolanus gets a kill here, enjoying victory over an arrogant foe. Having already simplistically touched on my favourite question, "what is a Nation", the final battle is pitched, marked by heroic sacrifice. They fight to liberate a people from a corrupt king, hell bent on establishing a huge empire backed by a uniformed army of faceless grunts and titled generals. Autolycus suddenly reappears in a convincing but ultimately unsurprising reveal, and conveniently, a bottomless pit appears and then returns to nowhere as an easy disposal method; victory is assured for our heroes. They are our protagonists, after all. Well... The ones who had spoken lines, that is. The credits are a stylish rendition in 3D of how the Labours against the Hydra, the Lion and the Erymanthian Boar (all of which we saw conquered alone at the start of the picture) were won by the team working together.
I'm not sure if there was any real, profound message behind this film. There probably isn't. It doesn't matter. Clear themes of family, brotherhood, only the bad guys torture anyone... Oh, and that you too can be a man mountain, but only if you shut yourself away and train for eight months. It plays on the fact that actually this Hercules is mortal, and the team dynamic allows the supporting cast to bounce off Johnson's hero, without anything seeming too stodgy or really, forced. There might not be any great zingers in the script, but it's... It's okay, you know! Functional without being too workmanlike. It may be big, but it isn't that clever, and really I think it scores a higher win because of it. If you actually had to think about a Hercules film seriously, it would more likely sink under its own weight. In fact, without its lead in The Rock, even this outing may have suffered, but his charisma carries through, just. There are times when the more senior cast members must have ruined takes with their audible sighing and eye rolling, but the sheer entertainment value of watching Johnson punch a hay cart into three screaming men armed with giant gutting hooks is not to be underestimated.
Like I said though, the fact it doesn't take itself too seriously is the saving grace. It's what's wrong with major franchises being translated onto screen. When people hold the subject matter as sacred it starts to get a bit intense (although not even I can forgive the whitewashing of Khan Noonien Singh), making sure every single element is represented (which can simply make a film too busy) and people start getting angry, and it tends to get in the way of actually making an enjoyable and entertaining film, God alone knows how Marvel seem to have cracked it (even if they had to change Bruce Banner) for their fiercely-loved properties. Maybe this will get a sequel? Maybe not. The door for such is left ajar at the end, but it works as a little standalone thing, a summer blockbuster all in one, as they adventure off into the ancient Greek sunset.
Wednesday 13 August 2014
Matters of taste
When was the last time a movie, a book, or a television show left you cold despite all your friends (and/or all the critics) raving about it? What was it that made you go against the critical consensus?
Normally I'm for things that are raved against, so an answer doesn't immediately spring to mind. I always consider my options when it comes to books and television, and normally take recommendations under extreme consideration. I tend to research my potential cinema choices quite carefully so as to avoid disappointment - I may never have walked out of a film yet but it remains my ambition to do so, but not deliberately, if that makes sense? One stand out occasion was the film adaption of Michael Morpurgo's War Horse, where the only review I took any notice of was The Doctor's Facebook status about having to walk out. I reasoned if a man of such discerning taste was so disconnected from what was happening on screen, and that he had read it and seen it on stage (although perhaps that informed his decision to leave), and still wanted to leave, then I needn't even bother. I'm just looking forward to having a sense of outrage, the sheer indignation in paying good money for something I didn't want to see through. Anyway.
I guess really the last thing (or should I say things) that left me pretty cold were the Simon Bird comedy vehicles The Inbetweeners and Friday Night Dinner. I tried with the latter but found it boring in the end, and only found limited joy in the eternal rewatching of the Scholary (class of '13) of the former. I basically lost interest in Friday Night Dinner, finding that out of all the opportunity I had to watch it, I'd rather pass, so there isn't really anything left to say. I should have been at least interested in based on the concept but... Feh.
The Inbetweeners is somewhat of a special case though, I suppose. I wonder if there's just something wrong with me, that I found the majority of the show just so ponderous, except for Greg Davies' sadistic headmaster, whom I found vitally hilarious. There's something... Juvenile about Inbetweeners that just doesn't speak to me. The gags are too obvious, too crude or just plain crap. Lord knows this childishness speaks to plenty of others, and I really am a kind of odd man out for not liking it, it seems. I lived with a house full of them for God's sake! Mother always says she can see me and my circle of friends in the Inbetweeners cast, which none of us lads can see at all really. Maybe we were just too cool. Oh, who am I kidding? That's probably why I don't find it very funny though: I identify more with the bitterly cruel Mr. Gilbert than I do with any of the supposed 'heroes' of the piece, which probably says a lot about me
It must be a kind of comedy generational gap, rather than an actual difference in years, having grown up on years of BBC Radio 2 comedy that used to be on a Thursday night after Mark Lamarr's series on early Rock and Roll one year, and the original wave of Ska music the next. Eight Weeks of Steve Punt and Hugh Dennis, the lightning fast one-liners of The News Huddlines, or even that musical comedy show when I heard Flight of the Conchords for the first time ever years before they became cool or famous and it became unfashionable not to be a fan.
I really got into comedy when it was a little harder, illicitly watching the League of Gentlemen late at night on BBC2, or soaking up the acid put downs of Angus Deyton on Have I Got News For You, before he became the punchline, and the never-ending list of guest presenters - although my favourite still has to be when they got Bill Shatner in and everybody took the piss out of everything. I remember watching The Day Today, with Alan Partridge doing the sports reports, and not being sure whether I should laugh or if it was real (I was only a kid when I first saw it). Brass Eye, with its infamous Pedophile special (eternally available on 4OD), and Chris Morris's ultimate journey to madness and back, Jam. I also got into Spaced properly while I was at Uni, with dim recollection of maybe having seen the odd episode when it was actually on air. I bloody love Spaced, and will happily sit and howl with laughter at the whole run, which I periodically rewatch (normally while ironing to help it fly by).
Like I said to begin with though, I'm normally found loving things that get panned, and that almost universally. This is no more apparent than in my film tastes, actually. I used to go out with a girl who had an immense interest in foreign films, and we were lucky enough to have an Arthouse Cinema (just the one screen) nearby, that got a number of really good and often very touching films that we went to see. We also saw Quantum of Solace there, but that's neither here nor there. Yes, I was into foreign films, and still am. We saw La Vie en Rose, Bienvenue la Ch'ti (which I still need to track down), Mrs. Radcliffe's Revolution, Das Leben Der Anderen... I think that's it for The Ritz. Goodbye Lenin and Lola rennt got watched at School, and I now have Låt den Rätte Komma In at home. I hope this has established how much I like films that are actually good, because if there's one thing I enjoy more than watching some 2 hours of subtitles it's watching two hours of special effects kicking ten bells out of itself in the form of anything by destruction auteur Michael Bay. But that's another story.
Normally I'm for things that are raved against, so an answer doesn't immediately spring to mind. I always consider my options when it comes to books and television, and normally take recommendations under extreme consideration. I tend to research my potential cinema choices quite carefully so as to avoid disappointment - I may never have walked out of a film yet but it remains my ambition to do so, but not deliberately, if that makes sense? One stand out occasion was the film adaption of Michael Morpurgo's War Horse, where the only review I took any notice of was The Doctor's Facebook status about having to walk out. I reasoned if a man of such discerning taste was so disconnected from what was happening on screen, and that he had read it and seen it on stage (although perhaps that informed his decision to leave), and still wanted to leave, then I needn't even bother. I'm just looking forward to having a sense of outrage, the sheer indignation in paying good money for something I didn't want to see through. Anyway.
I guess really the last thing (or should I say things) that left me pretty cold were the Simon Bird comedy vehicles The Inbetweeners and Friday Night Dinner. I tried with the latter but found it boring in the end, and only found limited joy in the eternal rewatching of the Scholary (class of '13) of the former. I basically lost interest in Friday Night Dinner, finding that out of all the opportunity I had to watch it, I'd rather pass, so there isn't really anything left to say. I should have been at least interested in based on the concept but... Feh.
 |
| Me in 10 years, obviously. |
It must be a kind of comedy generational gap, rather than an actual difference in years, having grown up on years of BBC Radio 2 comedy that used to be on a Thursday night after Mark Lamarr's series on early Rock and Roll one year, and the original wave of Ska music the next. Eight Weeks of Steve Punt and Hugh Dennis, the lightning fast one-liners of The News Huddlines, or even that musical comedy show when I heard Flight of the Conchords for the first time ever years before they became cool or famous and it became unfashionable not to be a fan.
 |
| I'll see you in your nightmares, Dave. |
Like I said to begin with though, I'm normally found loving things that get panned, and that almost universally. This is no more apparent than in my film tastes, actually. I used to go out with a girl who had an immense interest in foreign films, and we were lucky enough to have an Arthouse Cinema (just the one screen) nearby, that got a number of really good and often very touching films that we went to see. We also saw Quantum of Solace there, but that's neither here nor there. Yes, I was into foreign films, and still am. We saw La Vie en Rose, Bienvenue la Ch'ti (which I still need to track down), Mrs. Radcliffe's Revolution, Das Leben Der Anderen... I think that's it for The Ritz. Goodbye Lenin and Lola rennt got watched at School, and I now have Låt den Rätte Komma In at home. I hope this has established how much I like films that are actually good, because if there's one thing I enjoy more than watching some 2 hours of subtitles it's watching two hours of special effects kicking ten bells out of itself in the form of anything by destruction auteur Michael Bay. But that's another story.
 |
| Optimus, We hardly knew ye. |
Bookish Choice
A literary-minded witch gives you a choice: with a flick of the wand, you can become either an obscure novelist whose work will be admired and studied by a select few for decades, or a popular paperback author whose books give pleasure to millions. Which do you choose?
But then again, I don't really write novels, do I?
Today's prompt reminds me of that whole press the button thing that suddenly appeared on Tumblr not too long ago, giving us impossible choices at insane prices. I just declined to press the button on "becoming a powerful Jedi in the Star Wars universe BUT I would be followed by an unkillable Jar Jar Binks." Eurgh. To be fair I think that one's pretty much a no-brainer (Or is it? Discuss for forty marks, without mentioning "the sanctity of life"). I was quite clear on that one. But what about this? Both are a kind of literary fame, but there's kind of an intellectual angle on here as well. And maybe immortality.
Being studied for decades, and even centuries confirms a certain immortality to people and things; Bach, Shakespeare, Donne, Galileo, Kant, Mendeleev, and Leonardo Da Vinci, to name but a few from major arts and sciences whose names are never far from even the everyday student's lips, never mind those engaged in serious study. Thanks to their achievements, they have secured a kind of human eternity, that as long as there are those who remember them, their lives and their works, they live on. Could Bright be added to this pantheon? My family name already has a few famous characters, with Sheffield goldsmiths, hymnodists, politicians, and one relative who was instrumental in the laying of Transatlantic Cables in the 1860s. Maybe I would prefer to step up in an occult fashion, and be known in hushed circles for my largely unknown but telling contributions to the literary canon, like some of my favourite composers who are hidden so firmly and darkly in the shadow of J.S Bach that it isn't even funny.
So anyway. Crunch time. There's definitely a life in peddling paperbacks to the masses, it's part of the industry that's vital to keeping up book sales, whether paper or pixels. I don't see myself as that kind of writer though, just looking back on this post rather than taking in the entire oeuvre (ha ha...), what with the programme notes and the crown and all posting every day and planning my travel to the other side of the pond and writing the travel diaries... I follow plenty of writers on both twitters who have paperbacks out on Amazon and make a keep from it, and I may even start following Stephen Fry on the ASW feed. You never know.
I don't really see myself as having the tools or training to become a popular enough writer to go through print runs, and I know that at least my last blog had a cult following, a following that's gradually coming back for this one. To my readers, I offer you thanks. Sometimes people telling me that they love my blog, or that they were moved profoundly (stop laughing at the back) is one of the highest compliments I can receive, so I'm happy. There is always plenty of praise for my programme notes after every concert, and in truth in makes me feel like I'm using my degree, because let's face it, singing in a Cathedral choir is not something that you train for specifically at University. I'd really like to get into writing programme notes and CD liners and whatnot professionally, because people always prefer to read things than hear countertenors on the whole, and as much as a life of singing services is likely to be my bread and butter for years and years, I'd like to have that as a sideline. Perhaps I should go back to university and do a history or English degree to get some credentials and contacts though? But that might entail leaving Truro, and that isn't something I want to do right now. It's on the cards, but... I told the Boss I'd be here for the next two years, so maybe I really ought to apply for something through clearing and have another life on the side. I mean, I might even get a real job... Ahahahahaaaa...
No, there's definitely place for popular stuff. I like how the prompt didn't say anything about quality, as there are many writers who sell millions because their books are excellent and they deserve success. Equally there's so much trash floating around, but the market for that is as strong as ever. I would want to stay here though, off the beaten track, and maybe one day I might just shell out and get my blogs printed, published and bound, bequeathed to the British Library or something as a snapshot of how a mind does, or more often doesn't work sometimes.
So anyway. Crunch time. There's definitely a life in peddling paperbacks to the masses, it's part of the industry that's vital to keeping up book sales, whether paper or pixels. I don't see myself as that kind of writer though, just looking back on this post rather than taking in the entire oeuvre (ha ha...), what with the programme notes and the crown and all posting every day and planning my travel to the other side of the pond and writing the travel diaries... I follow plenty of writers on both twitters who have paperbacks out on Amazon and make a keep from it, and I may even start following Stephen Fry on the ASW feed. You never know.
I don't really see myself as having the tools or training to become a popular enough writer to go through print runs, and I know that at least my last blog had a cult following, a following that's gradually coming back for this one. To my readers, I offer you thanks. Sometimes people telling me that they love my blog, or that they were moved profoundly (stop laughing at the back) is one of the highest compliments I can receive, so I'm happy. There is always plenty of praise for my programme notes after every concert, and in truth in makes me feel like I'm using my degree, because let's face it, singing in a Cathedral choir is not something that you train for specifically at University. I'd really like to get into writing programme notes and CD liners and whatnot professionally, because people always prefer to read things than hear countertenors on the whole, and as much as a life of singing services is likely to be my bread and butter for years and years, I'd like to have that as a sideline. Perhaps I should go back to university and do a history or English degree to get some credentials and contacts though? But that might entail leaving Truro, and that isn't something I want to do right now. It's on the cards, but... I told the Boss I'd be here for the next two years, so maybe I really ought to apply for something through clearing and have another life on the side. I mean, I might even get a real job... Ahahahahaaaa...
No, there's definitely place for popular stuff. I like how the prompt didn't say anything about quality, as there are many writers who sell millions because their books are excellent and they deserve success. Equally there's so much trash floating around, but the market for that is as strong as ever. I would want to stay here though, off the beaten track, and maybe one day I might just shell out and get my blogs printed, published and bound, bequeathed to the British Library or something as a snapshot of how a mind does, or more often doesn't work sometimes.
But then again, I don't really write novels, do I?
Epilogue
Of course, it is still impossible to move anywhere on the internet today without the tragic death of Robin Williams at every corner. Wherever you turn, there are tributes and photos and features on him, his career, and of course, depression. Everyone who suffers knows that there is no sorrow like unto their sorrow, and I'm sure there will be hundreds of analytical post-mortems on Mr. Williams' own struggles with financial problems or substance abuse as well as mental ill health, but as a man who has stared down that knife edge wondering just what is the point anymore, I can't help but wonder what his tipping point could have been. As much strength as it takes to decide to stay alive, it still takes a strength to go ahead with ending your own life. I may write about being depressed a lot of the time (because I am), but I tend to stay away from writing about suicidal tendencies, so you don't call out the men in white coats on me. The single thing that unites the articles I've read are to get out and get help and just talk to people. Sometimes I'm still too afraid to reach out.
Monday 11 August 2014
Just another Brick
I don't know whether I've hit a wall or if I've become the wall.
I haven't written for almost three weeks now; there's an unfinished draft that should have been out ages ago but lo and behold, time's marched on and I've basically missed the window. Maybe it's what I've needed though, this little mini-breakette from writing the same thing over and over, which must really be as boring to read as it is to think that it's what I've actually been doing. I suppose it was a necessary evil though, allowing me to process that I didn't want things to change but am completely powerless in the face of it. The word "devastated" got thrown around a lot because I couldn't think of anything more exciting or more accurate to describe how I felt: I am wasted and brought low; desolate and void. And really, because I think I am I know I am I'm sure I am, I'm not exactly sure what's going to have to happen to sort this out. I don't need to worry about the hows and whys of it being the summer vac and people leaving, more the... What?
I spend my days working, actually, sat at the front desk of the Cathedral Office, answering the phones and opening the doors and passing on messages for 7 hours a day, 5 days a week. It's steady but ultimately boring work, and recently I've also been preparing a database of local businesses which is every bit as soul destroying as it sounds. Things are pretty alright though! I'm working so money will be coming in, and I'm still going, still got my health, still got all my hair and teeth, but I'm still just... I dunno, unsatisfied? I often wonder what sort of great disservice I do to myself but then I've written more than my fair share of witless navel gazing already for one lifetime.
I've been thinking, as dangerous as it sounds. Thinking that maybe I have just been trying too hard to be a "well-rounded human being", spending too long trying to be an all-rounder and feeling failures too keenly because of that. I've been thinking that life isn't solely about mastering one's ability to process the world around us, but being able and willing to communicate to those who make up our world, as two parts together. I can sit and pontificate on my own as much I like or want to, but without an outlet, without dialogue, without a sounding board of some sort I am alone and then it doesn't matter how much I 'process' because there isn't really much point. This is why living where I do, and whom I live with is so important. This last year has been nothing short of a Godsend, like some sort of old-fashioned miracle living with the man I refer to as "Master" - referencing not only his position as Master of the House but also his former profession as English teacher - full of good humour and a genuine interest what I do, how and why I do it, and what I have to say about it as well; in short, an extremely communicative household. I like to "check-in" of a morning to get myself back in touch with a reality that doesn't really have anything to do with what goes off inside my head. For saying how terrible my social skills can be still, I have a remarkable need to be around people.
This isn't to say that I am completely alone otherwise; weekly film nights or crawling through town for dinner mean I still get out and about. I know I bang on about how much I miss the now departed throng of Scholars but so much time was spent knocking about with all of them that I really am at a loss. Even going down to The 'Front in Fal is decidedly less amusing without at least one aider and abetter (how many?). I'm in danger of starting to write the same thing over and over again though, so let's turn away from this. At least if I get it out on here it won't be stuck in my head. Let's talk about going to the cinema.
The best thing about having a week night where tickets are only a fiver is that a trip for a film no longer has to be the main expense or event, as the last two weeks have proved. Last week we managed to get a JD Wetherspoons sharing platter and a pint in before Guardians of the Galaxy (which was excellent), before tapas dinner and even more pints after, and the week previous, when we decided to hit Dawn of the Planet of the Apes, we... We, er, drank. I've never been to the cinema under the influence of alcohol before, because I live such a well-behaved life, and I just hope we didn't disturb the other patrons too much. It was fine really though, and if anything made sure I didn't take a film that was mostly composed of motion-captured actors transformed into Apes on screen talking in sign language overly seriously. Guardians, on the other hand, was hilarious. For saying how unfamiliar the world, and by extension my mates, might have been with the team, there was a screening full of raucous laughter and a general enjoyment had by the audience. I may not be too up on the whole Thanos stuff or just who Ronan has been Accusing, but knowing the recent run of Guardians from TPBs and lovingly remembering the Rocket Raccoon comic in the back of Marvel's Transformers run in the UK in the 80s, I'm probably in a better position to enjoy the in jokes more than most other film goers.
There are plenty of articles on Marvel Studios and universe building and how even they aren't too big to fail, and this blog isn't going to become one of them, but I will say that I'm looking forward to if and how this all fits in to Avengers: Age of Ultron, with Spaderman as the titular baddie. That and the constant muttering of "why isn't there a Black Panther film" and "When will Black Widow get a solo movie" means that whatever does happen, there'll always be people that they can't, and basically won't please.
I'm well aware that I'm a little out of practice again, so I'm going to try to get back into the saddle and write more often again. I still keep the little black Moleskine with me, so I don't forget absolutely everything, but there isn't much for publication in there these days. All the good stuff already got used. I am, however, going to write and publish once a day when we get to September, in a move I like to call #BEDDIS: Blog Every Damn Day In September. As of the 7th we'll be back to Choir, and if I get stuck, well, I've got a copy of the San Francisco Writers Grotto's 642 Things to Write About to work through yet, so I'm sure there'll be something. I might have established that I have a problem writing at the moment, but it's not like I've built myself up again before, is it?
I haven't written for almost three weeks now; there's an unfinished draft that should have been out ages ago but lo and behold, time's marched on and I've basically missed the window. Maybe it's what I've needed though, this little mini-breakette from writing the same thing over and over, which must really be as boring to read as it is to think that it's what I've actually been doing. I suppose it was a necessary evil though, allowing me to process that I didn't want things to change but am completely powerless in the face of it. The word "devastated" got thrown around a lot because I couldn't think of anything more exciting or more accurate to describe how I felt: I am wasted and brought low; desolate and void. And really, because I think I am I know I am I'm sure I am, I'm not exactly sure what's going to have to happen to sort this out. I don't need to worry about the hows and whys of it being the summer vac and people leaving, more the... What?
I spend my days working, actually, sat at the front desk of the Cathedral Office, answering the phones and opening the doors and passing on messages for 7 hours a day, 5 days a week. It's steady but ultimately boring work, and recently I've also been preparing a database of local businesses which is every bit as soul destroying as it sounds. Things are pretty alright though! I'm working so money will be coming in, and I'm still going, still got my health, still got all my hair and teeth, but I'm still just... I dunno, unsatisfied? I often wonder what sort of great disservice I do to myself but then I've written more than my fair share of witless navel gazing already for one lifetime.
I've been thinking, as dangerous as it sounds. Thinking that maybe I have just been trying too hard to be a "well-rounded human being", spending too long trying to be an all-rounder and feeling failures too keenly because of that. I've been thinking that life isn't solely about mastering one's ability to process the world around us, but being able and willing to communicate to those who make up our world, as two parts together. I can sit and pontificate on my own as much I like or want to, but without an outlet, without dialogue, without a sounding board of some sort I am alone and then it doesn't matter how much I 'process' because there isn't really much point. This is why living where I do, and whom I live with is so important. This last year has been nothing short of a Godsend, like some sort of old-fashioned miracle living with the man I refer to as "Master" - referencing not only his position as Master of the House but also his former profession as English teacher - full of good humour and a genuine interest what I do, how and why I do it, and what I have to say about it as well; in short, an extremely communicative household. I like to "check-in" of a morning to get myself back in touch with a reality that doesn't really have anything to do with what goes off inside my head. For saying how terrible my social skills can be still, I have a remarkable need to be around people.
This isn't to say that I am completely alone otherwise; weekly film nights or crawling through town for dinner mean I still get out and about. I know I bang on about how much I miss the now departed throng of Scholars but so much time was spent knocking about with all of them that I really am at a loss. Even going down to The 'Front in Fal is decidedly less amusing without at least one aider and abetter (how many?). I'm in danger of starting to write the same thing over and over again though, so let's turn away from this. At least if I get it out on here it won't be stuck in my head. Let's talk about going to the cinema.
The best thing about having a week night where tickets are only a fiver is that a trip for a film no longer has to be the main expense or event, as the last two weeks have proved. Last week we managed to get a JD Wetherspoons sharing platter and a pint in before Guardians of the Galaxy (which was excellent), before tapas dinner and even more pints after, and the week previous, when we decided to hit Dawn of the Planet of the Apes, we... We, er, drank. I've never been to the cinema under the influence of alcohol before, because I live such a well-behaved life, and I just hope we didn't disturb the other patrons too much. It was fine really though, and if anything made sure I didn't take a film that was mostly composed of motion-captured actors transformed into Apes on screen talking in sign language overly seriously. Guardians, on the other hand, was hilarious. For saying how unfamiliar the world, and by extension my mates, might have been with the team, there was a screening full of raucous laughter and a general enjoyment had by the audience. I may not be too up on the whole Thanos stuff or just who Ronan has been Accusing, but knowing the recent run of Guardians from TPBs and lovingly remembering the Rocket Raccoon comic in the back of Marvel's Transformers run in the UK in the 80s, I'm probably in a better position to enjoy the in jokes more than most other film goers.
There are plenty of articles on Marvel Studios and universe building and how even they aren't too big to fail, and this blog isn't going to become one of them, but I will say that I'm looking forward to if and how this all fits in to Avengers: Age of Ultron, with Spaderman as the titular baddie. That and the constant muttering of "why isn't there a Black Panther film" and "When will Black Widow get a solo movie" means that whatever does happen, there'll always be people that they can't, and basically won't please.
I'm well aware that I'm a little out of practice again, so I'm going to try to get back into the saddle and write more often again. I still keep the little black Moleskine with me, so I don't forget absolutely everything, but there isn't much for publication in there these days. All the good stuff already got used. I am, however, going to write and publish once a day when we get to September, in a move I like to call #BEDDIS: Blog Every Damn Day In September. As of the 7th we'll be back to Choir, and if I get stuck, well, I've got a copy of the San Francisco Writers Grotto's 642 Things to Write About to work through yet, so I'm sure there'll be something. I might have established that I have a problem writing at the moment, but it's not like I've built myself up again before, is it?
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