To put it bluntly, Mad Max: Fury Road is one of the loudest, unrelentingly violent, extreme and simply one of the oddest films I have seen for a long time. I also think it's totally brilliant.
Having only a vague cultural awareness of the Mad Max franchise and watched one trailer for this new iteration, I had very little knowledge in advance - all I really knew was that it was post-apocalyptic, Australian, and featured immense car chases - but I knew enough. What I wasn't prepared for was the brute force of the film's delivery, which is broken up into a series of vignettes that split the film into little discrete chapters, as if Wes Anderson survived nuclear holocaust. Our main players, Tom Hardy as "Mad" Max Rockatansky and Charlize Theron as Imperator Furiosa, are name checked before the the title - there are no further opening credits as we open on our first episode, where after an opening monologue from Max progresses to a car chase (naturally) and capture by a bunch of whitewashed nutters, leading to capture and a violent and juddering escape attempt, including hallucinations and a very literal cliffhanger.
The film carries on like this for its two hour runtime - anything approaching an explanation of what unfolds on screen isn't given by any of the characters until at least an hour in. You're forced to accept what happens through it happening, rather than having any set up to hold on to and try and reason your way round... And after a while it all makes sense. Of course there are insane car battles in an irradiated Australian outback following the downfall of society after nuclear war; how can there not be? Survivors have become gangs who have then become cults centred around definite territory - we only really meet one of these great cabals, the Warboys led by the main villain of the piece, Hugh Keays-Byrne's Immortan Joe, promising his followers entrance to Valhalla in exchange for their lives. It's easy to grasp, especially when we learn he has sole access to the water in "the Citadel" (the Warboy HQ). Over the course of the film, we meet the gangs from "Bullet Town" and "Gas Town"and their respective leaders (who may or may not be related to Joe?!), the biker gang and the Vuvalini, although we only learn their name during the credits. There's an air of hand waving going on here, almost as if George Miller just wants to get on with his film and let the audience catch up.
The rumours are true: it's a very woman-centric film. While Max is the eponymous protagonist, he's not the only one, and in fact he isn't the one driving the plot, or indeed the War Rig. That role falls on the shoulders of Theron's Furiosa, all woman and part prosthetic arm, hell-bent on rescuing Joe's 'breeders', the Five Wives, women imprisoned, chosen for their ability to bear healthy children and played by a gaggle of model actresses (actress models?), including that girl off the Victoria's Secret commercials and Elvis Presley's granddaughter. From their first appearance in the film as nominal damsels in distress, meeting them more formally moments later in a scene where they hose each other down and use bolt cutters to remove chastity belts, they undergo a kind of humanisation largely missing from the stoic Max, becoming a little gang of character archetypes in their own right, whereas Max becomes the 'token' man of the outfit. This rescue plot is already happening by the time Max becomes an asset in the film, after being strapped to the front of an insane car, being used as a mobile bloodbank for Nux, the Warboy with a heart of gold. Nux goes on a greater journey than Max, although Mad Nux doesn't quite have the same ring to it. The ultimate goal of Furiosa's escape attempt is to take the Five Wives to the "Green Place", an easy short cut to something better than the eternal desert that surrounds them. This plays out in a pretty unexpected way but proves the old adage "the world won't change, all it does is turn.". Furiosa's quest has a primal element, helping the women to escape biological slavery and find a safe haven, the utopian aspect blatantly obvious... Or perhaps they seek eutopia?
So! You're not here for the plot presumably, I know I certainly wasn't. Like I said at the top, this film is just insane. All of the crazy rigs are real, built from the ground up especially and some of the stuff is just mental. The War Rig that sits at the centre of the picture is probably the most normal looking out of the bunch (or is it just because we see it so much that we get used to it?), pretty standard Mack Truck... Except for the massive turbochargers and extended passenger cab, obviously. The big bad Immortan Joe starts out in something that looks like one Cadillac stuck on top of another with bubble canopies and exhaust out of a hot rod's dreams, then moves to a ridiculous monster truck wheeled car. There's an old Chevy chassis sat on top of tank treads, and countless other random genetic modifications on show. Incredibly, most of the action on screen is real, with a few standout moments of CGI here and there (sadly some of the flame plumes are the least believable effects). The scenes are crazy busy, yes, but it isn't messy. A lot of deaths occur out of shot, cut away deftly after wince-inducing crashes, explosions and sniper shots, all accentuated by the mad kineticism of Miller's direction, coupled with the ever-changing frame rate provided the jerky motion we see from time to time. Unlike say, anything by Zack Snyder, the use of chroma key filters and slow motion (or indeed fast motion in this film) is never too much.
The actual character of Max himself is... well, he's kind of a silent protagonist, or more likely a silent supporting character. Hardy's use of non-verbal, be that grunting or through his actions, rather than reliance on spoken exposition remind me of countless video game protagonists, The Legend of Zelda's Link in particular, giving the audience a blank slate for the other characters to reflect on. Although I haven't seen any of Mel Gibson's performances, this Max is particularly mad, what with his hallucinations and night terrors, juxtaposed with his expertise in combat and field medicine. Like a Silent Bob who survived the end of the world though, the effect of his short speeches are magnified by their rarity. Even a line as simple as "Max. That's my name.", delivered towards the very end of the film carries more weight than had he been yapping all through the film.
Go and see this film. Go and see how crazy it all gets. Go and be overwhelmed by the sheer force of it all. Go see men swing from 50 foot poles. Go see lethal sniper grannies. Go and sit, mystified by albino slapheads and mutant wildlife. This even shows potential for what a great Tank Girl movie could look like, given half a chance - if a film this weird can succeed then there's plenty of room for TG and Booga. The ending's all a little bit tidy: the outback is saved (for now), and everyone we like has survived (well, almost) - door's open for whatever comes next but there's not exactly any definite threads. The good guys are good, and the bad guys are bad - no real heavy intellectual lifting here. Go and see it and enjoy it, commit to being totally confused and weirded out. And remember: "One man, one bullet."
Tuesday, 19 May 2015
Monday, 18 May 2015
Sequenza 2: Growing up's a trap anyway
Turned out nice again -
Lovely day for your 21st!
That is today, right?
Remember the phrase,
that "Life begins at forty"?
It's time to find out!
There's only so much
to be said in a card, or
over these short lines;
Sometimes the value
is rather in what's not said,
but in what you know.
So Happy Birthday!
I hope your day's as nice as...
You truly deserve.
Monday, 20 April 2015
Fyer, fyer!
I wrote this on the train, and also in a flat in Islington (here in a basement).
I've been doing this all wrong for too long.
As some of you may or may not know, I've been on holiday to England. Yes, yes... Laugh it up, Cornwall technically is part of England. But it also isn't. Favoured holiday destination of seemingly most people on this island, be it from middle class families, beach hut owners, post A-level and pre-university students or just people from Birmingham, Cornwall is very much its own place. I don't really need to wax on too long about this; I'm sure you have all the TripAdvisor recommendations and have seen enough of the new Poldark to be able to form your own, unquestionably valid conclusions. My own recent adventures out to Gurnard's Head and getting sunburnt from just sitting at the desk in the office are part of the good things about living here. What's most telling about life on this 80 mile spit into the Atlantic is the sheer scale of things – or the lack of it.
Five days in Derby have given me a lot of perspective back, actually. As sad as it is to walk about and see parts of the city dirtier than memory would have me believe, at least... At least it's there. You know? Okay, okay... The ineffable value of a place being the place is difficult to get down on paper (this is paper? What is truth then?) but not lost on the author. No trip to Derby is complete without a bag of dinky donuts, or indeed, kneeling on St. Mary's Gate to get in the entire height of the Cathedral tower in frame. I sometimes wonder about going back... But then I remember that nothing can ever be the same, and that the hope that it could be is an even more vain and time wasting hope than usual, even for me. But much as suffering builds endurance and endurance builds character, distance allows for breathing room and breathing room allows for perspective. A little distance is what I've needed for a long time, actually; I've been remarkably hard on myself (even for me, a noted self torturer) recently in sort of not going anywhere. I've become stuck somewhat in Truro for what I could only describe as no good reason. I haven't even been to the sea on my own, for saying it's £2.70 and a half hour away, let alone somewhere luxurious such as Exeter...
In getting stuck though, I've almost given up. In moments of self awareness, I've noticed that I've stopped playing music (excuses here are legion, the best being that my keyboard plug is bust), stopped listening to music (the headphone jack on my phone doesn't work oh dear), almost given up writing, reading, cooking... It's worrying. It could be worse though! I could have stopped all of these things and started handing my books out to other people! Tragic. It's as if I have let the fight just...run out of me. I suppose that this is all part of the process I started about a year ago, of resetting my head. I said it was a rewiring job at the time, before moving on to a more apt metaphor, that my head is more like an Asylum, a colossal house of madness full of rooms and whole wings that make up the most of my memory, bad as it is already, that can be shut off, doors locked and barred. I have recalled things I had rather not have over the past twelve months, things that I have chosen to discuss either publicly or on here, in order to help myself get past them; while the jokes might not exactly be pouring forth, but at least I can talk about my own history of suicidal tendencies rationally now. Last week was more about straws and my own dromedary spine, but as sure as you break me with reed I shall purge you by hyssop. I'm sure there's worse to come as well.
It's not so much that I have been totally beset by tragedy or misfortune, perhaps just as much as anybody else, but that I wear my heart on my sleeve, until both it and the sleeve wear out. It makes sense though – I have no real fine control over my sensory input or emotional state which is extremely tiring and difficult to manage, notwithstanding my propensity for panic attacks and more recently, nightmares (not something I'd recommend). Also I've been struggling with interpersonal skills again, in differentiating means and ends, recognising the two (and who sees me as which and vice versa) – there's been plenty of unrest actually and I'm glad to have taken a step of several hundred miles away from things. Something else I've been pondering is that in getting older and becoming more settled am I simply becoming... Boring? Being outspoken and opinionated doesn't really seem to have helped terribly, but what's the alternative? Sycophancy? Alright, that's the extreme sure, but really? All of us, all of our lives struggle, in different degrees with things, people, situations and relationships that we don't like and for what? Usually so other people are happy, more often than not. I think we're done here.
There's actually a lot of unrest at the moment, all bubbling away under the surface. I'm sufficiently convinced that this isn't the time and place to discuss the hard and fast reasons behind it, but I'm certainly not the only person who isn't entirely happy – and it isn't difficult to tell either. Sometimes syntax isn't just about how you put a sentence together, it's about how you are as well. It's something that I suppose that people aren't aware of, but it's all a giveaway. Things like, oh I dunno... How often you go to the pub, or more tellingly, what time you start drinking. I have to watch this kind of thing all the time, I spend an awful amount of effort trying (and often failing) to decode social meaning and hierarchy and all (who has a problem with authority anyway?). You never really realise yourself, but when you have to watch things... it's all a dead giveaway when something's the matter. As I've already mentioned, I am of course my own worst case in point – since my keyboard power adapter has broken I have all but given up and resorted to well... Drink instead of practice really. I still resolutely claim that things are “alright” and that I'm “okay”, but really? It doesn't take a behavioural scientist to work out I'm secretly in misery and denying it.
Something about being back has reminded me that the moment I feel like giving up is in fact the moment to start fighting back again. It always was, and I have no idea why I let it go? Maybe it's something in the water – or more accurately, the lack of it down south (mmmm, limestone hills). It's always like this, and I usually stay pretty fired up for about two or three days after getting back and then... Poof! Back to normal, or what passes for anyway. Now is the most selfish time I have, as I have been reminded. I will never be as young as I am now, and if I keep rolling over and giving up just for the sake of what I don't even know, then I will have wasted all the effort that brought me here, and waste what potential I have left for my future.
NEXT TIME ON ASW... Le Grand Depart, in detail!
NEXT TIME ON ASW... Le Grand Depart, in detail!
Thursday, 2 April 2015
Do you not know?
Paul-Ethan Bright, Author at large.
May contain: Depression; Autism; Mental Health; Suicide; Insanity; Abandonment; Existential Pain
May also contain: Sarcasm; Satire; Irony; Profane Language; Bitterness; Hatred
Likely to contain: Foolishness; Idiocy; Mistakes; Triumphs
While the author does not contain nuts, he comes from an environment where nuts are handled
May cause Vomiting; Nightmares; Sudden Crises of Confidence; Domestic Arguments; Panic Attacks; Palpable Disgust; Outrage; Disappointment
The author must be stopped, no matter the cost.
Thursday, 26 March 2015
An Identity
Awake thy heart,
Dread engine that thou art,
And seize this day.
Awake too thy soul,
Ready for its central role
Upon this world's stage to play.
Claim all thy bones, sinew and flesh,
And this brave heart and soul enmesh,
Greater than the sum of its clay.
Let's hear thy voice, and speak!
Tell thy piece, be not so meek;
Learn thy lines to proudly say.
Show then thy face,
Of soft expression and hard grimace,
And united enter life's fray.
So now thou art complete at last,
Though life is short, and passes fast,
Remember thyself; shrink not away.
Friday, 20 March 2015
Fair in a morn
You know, the thing with a sporadic update schedule is that you sometimes miss the big occasions - even a first anniversary is as exciting as any other! I still haven't really found a 'purpose' for this particular venture, as such, but it keeps me sane - just.
Lately, things have been... Well, not great. I've had awful block, terrible depression, a straight up inability to sleep, and become almost a fixed point around which my moods swing and emotions wildly oscillate, which is more tiring than anything else. Through it all though, I've managed to keep going; perhaps at a less than even keel but still... I know that I'm indestructible. It isn't easy feeling like you don't belong, especially when you thought you'd left that sensation behind in the toilet that was my second year at University. It's difficult to explain, even with several thousand words left ahead of us here and now, because the contexts are often so sensitive. People I love and care about very deeply often bear the brunt of an unhappy man who simply feels lost a lot of the time. I'm sure one day we'll all look back on this and laugh, heartily and loudly, laughing genuinely at the quarter-life crisis of someone who probably just doesn't get enough fibre in his diet (come on, it has to boil down to something that ridiculous). Even today had its own great episode!
Failure hangs heavy in the air this afternoon in particular. I can't really remember the last time I legitimately asked somebody out on a date before this afternoon, but that day, lost as it is to the ages and cobwebbed chambers of my memory was also the last time I got a successful answer. I know, I know; you're thinking that this shouldn't really be a problem. I shouldn't really be getting upset about this. Not really. I feel the same way, it's quite disappointing getting hung up on so simple a hook, but... It's a real drain, actually. I have problems, as we know, intuiting social cues, body language, facial expression, basic human communication. A lot don't believe me because I seem to get on quite well. The awful truth is that I don't, and just because I don't look like I'm searching for the nearest and most convenient exit while I'm basically anywhere is because I've normally already worked it out ahead of time. It's extremely difficult for me to engage on an emotionally stable and socially relaxed level at any time, so have a heart.
It's not as if I haven't had dates in the past either, to say otherwise would be to do a very great disservice to a good few (but not many) young ladies. Usually, there are patterns that I am finally recognising, patterns that I seem to fall into time after time. Being attracted to someone makes me extremely nervous, and the control of such nerves soon becomes completely impossible, which makes social interaction a nightmare - I usually talk too fast and can get quite sarcastic without even really meaning to, which normally leads to nobody quite being able to understand the other. It's also a huge effort, especially factoring in the low margin of success, in thinking of the right thing to say, and finding the right time and nothing ever seems to happen properly and I end up coming away very bitter and angry at myself for even trying. Why bother, if that's all I have to look forward to?
Most of the time, I just stop myself. Is this a good idea? Is it really? Won't I scare this person off with my mania and my anxieties, my gaping character flaws? Normally, I say yes, of course I will. Could you imagine? What would we talk about? What would we do? How long would it be until the inevitable, crushing rejection? There are some rejections that secretly, I have never recovered from, and the prospect of any in the future honestly frightens me. There have been those who used me to make themselves feel better, those whose affections have soured faster than those sherbet lemons I always carry around (just in case!), those who are so precious, those who have known but never believed, those who have never known, and those who never will. That and I don't really have a plan if I ask anyone and they say yes anymore - I hardly know what flight of fancy lead me into the latest swatting but I somehow decided it would be a good idea, almost on the spot. I say swatting, but it was all very gentle; for all that frustration in being refused I kind of had no outlet as one must stay magnanimous, no matter how awful and dejected and useless actually hearing "no" made me feel. I understand that wasn't the intention at all but it doesn't stop it from hurting. Like when you accidentally staple your thumb.
It's all back to square one though. Straight back to the foot of the heap, a mountain of a mole hill of self worth and self esteem. There's always something in me that keeps trying, keeps pushing - I've never truly learned to give up yet, which has its upsides and its down. Sometimes I feel sick, I feel like it's killing me but... I don't know. At least I still feel! They say that you only regret the things that you didn't do, after all. Oy.
I'm sure I've published better, and hopefully I will again; forgive me for bending your ear with tales of ponderous woe. All's fair in love and war, and we all know I'm spoiling for a fight most of the time anyway. Hopefully I can move past the latest in a series of severe creative blocks and write something you might even enjoy reading! That'd be nice.
NEXT TIME on ASW... William Shatner's THE TRANSFORMED MAN, Alan Shore as my Aspergers hero, and just who am I carrying sherbet lemons around for? And why? Isn't it obvious?!
Lately, things have been... Well, not great. I've had awful block, terrible depression, a straight up inability to sleep, and become almost a fixed point around which my moods swing and emotions wildly oscillate, which is more tiring than anything else. Through it all though, I've managed to keep going; perhaps at a less than even keel but still... I know that I'm indestructible. It isn't easy feeling like you don't belong, especially when you thought you'd left that sensation behind in the toilet that was my second year at University. It's difficult to explain, even with several thousand words left ahead of us here and now, because the contexts are often so sensitive. People I love and care about very deeply often bear the brunt of an unhappy man who simply feels lost a lot of the time. I'm sure one day we'll all look back on this and laugh, heartily and loudly, laughing genuinely at the quarter-life crisis of someone who probably just doesn't get enough fibre in his diet (come on, it has to boil down to something that ridiculous). Even today had its own great episode!
Failure hangs heavy in the air this afternoon in particular. I can't really remember the last time I legitimately asked somebody out on a date before this afternoon, but that day, lost as it is to the ages and cobwebbed chambers of my memory was also the last time I got a successful answer. I know, I know; you're thinking that this shouldn't really be a problem. I shouldn't really be getting upset about this. Not really. I feel the same way, it's quite disappointing getting hung up on so simple a hook, but... It's a real drain, actually. I have problems, as we know, intuiting social cues, body language, facial expression, basic human communication. A lot don't believe me because I seem to get on quite well. The awful truth is that I don't, and just because I don't look like I'm searching for the nearest and most convenient exit while I'm basically anywhere is because I've normally already worked it out ahead of time. It's extremely difficult for me to engage on an emotionally stable and socially relaxed level at any time, so have a heart.
It's not as if I haven't had dates in the past either, to say otherwise would be to do a very great disservice to a good few (but not many) young ladies. Usually, there are patterns that I am finally recognising, patterns that I seem to fall into time after time. Being attracted to someone makes me extremely nervous, and the control of such nerves soon becomes completely impossible, which makes social interaction a nightmare - I usually talk too fast and can get quite sarcastic without even really meaning to, which normally leads to nobody quite being able to understand the other. It's also a huge effort, especially factoring in the low margin of success, in thinking of the right thing to say, and finding the right time and nothing ever seems to happen properly and I end up coming away very bitter and angry at myself for even trying. Why bother, if that's all I have to look forward to?
Most of the time, I just stop myself. Is this a good idea? Is it really? Won't I scare this person off with my mania and my anxieties, my gaping character flaws? Normally, I say yes, of course I will. Could you imagine? What would we talk about? What would we do? How long would it be until the inevitable, crushing rejection? There are some rejections that secretly, I have never recovered from, and the prospect of any in the future honestly frightens me. There have been those who used me to make themselves feel better, those whose affections have soured faster than those sherbet lemons I always carry around (just in case!), those who are so precious, those who have known but never believed, those who have never known, and those who never will. That and I don't really have a plan if I ask anyone and they say yes anymore - I hardly know what flight of fancy lead me into the latest swatting but I somehow decided it would be a good idea, almost on the spot. I say swatting, but it was all very gentle; for all that frustration in being refused I kind of had no outlet as one must stay magnanimous, no matter how awful and dejected and useless actually hearing "no" made me feel. I understand that wasn't the intention at all but it doesn't stop it from hurting. Like when you accidentally staple your thumb.
It's all back to square one though. Straight back to the foot of the heap, a mountain of a mole hill of self worth and self esteem. There's always something in me that keeps trying, keeps pushing - I've never truly learned to give up yet, which has its upsides and its down. Sometimes I feel sick, I feel like it's killing me but... I don't know. At least I still feel! They say that you only regret the things that you didn't do, after all. Oy.
I'm sure I've published better, and hopefully I will again; forgive me for bending your ear with tales of ponderous woe. All's fair in love and war, and we all know I'm spoiling for a fight most of the time anyway. Hopefully I can move past the latest in a series of severe creative blocks and write something you might even enjoy reading! That'd be nice.
NEXT TIME on ASW... William Shatner's THE TRANSFORMED MAN, Alan Shore as my Aspergers hero, and just who am I carrying sherbet lemons around for? And why? Isn't it obvious?!
Wednesday, 18 March 2015
Sequenza I: Mothering Sunday
"But how will I cope?"
The little bird was frightened.
"But what will I do?"
'I'll always be here!'
'There's nothing to be scared of.'
'I have faith in you.'
The bird flew away;
But he would never forget
who taught him to fly.
Art by Dan Stiles - danstiles.com
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