Silence Is Golden

The fact that The Artist won so many oscars is not an indication of it's quality. According to that tasteless golden bell-end, Dances With Wolves was better than Goodfellas which, like the power of psychics, 9/11 conspiracies, and the existence of gravity is quite clearly bullshit. Anything Kevin Costner does instantly becomes almost unbearably dull due to the vortex of boredom that is his soul. Costner is a bit like a cross between Jeff Bridges, Tom Hanks and a lobotomised ventriloquist's dummy. 
Sean Connery spent the entire running time of The Untouchables cheekily confusing us all by playing an Irish man with a Scottish accent. However, against Costner's string operated performance as Elliot Ness, the academy lost all perspective and awarded the ageing James Bond an Oscar of his own.

Regardless of it's awards however, The Artist was receiving glowing reviews and so peaked my interest. It's interesting in that by being a silent film The Artist will be one of the most original films out this year. As 3D sails closer to the iceberg of public apathy where it will die a slow and inevitable death, it seems that one of the most attention grabbing things that cinema can do is borrow techniques from about 80 years ago. It's kind of like getting sex tips off your granny. Just because we live in a shallow, loveless time of fisting and death by deep-throat, doesn't mean we shouldn't enjoy the simplicity of lights-off missionary followed by shame and pregnancy.

As soon as I walked into the screening of The Artist, it was obvious that it was a silent film. There was about 40 other people already seated with the average age ranging from between 90 and dead. Despite the nostalgic waft of piss and the retirement home feel of the room, I was originally relieved by the coffin dodgers around me. I hate the public in general but at least these ancient doderers wouldn't ruin the film for me by loudly phoning their drug dealer or wanking each other off through the pop corn box.

Unfortunately though, this was a silent film and old people aren't healthy. There was so much coughing and spluttering throughout the movie that I'm genuinely going to get myself checked out for tuberculosis. Like going to a foreign country, I would advise anybody thinking of seeing this film to go for their jabs before hand. It's only been a couple of days since I saw it but I know already I'm one of the few survivors of that screening. There was one guy a few seat down from me who seemed to be trying his absolute hardest to cough out a lung. I would have made sure he was okay but fuck it, I'm British- helping strangers just isn't our 'style'.

The plot of the film is fairly simple, although with no dialogue for exposition it was never going to be The Usual Suspects. The Artist begins with a silent actor named George Valentin at the top of his game and enjoying his fame. After a chance encounter with a wannabe actress, George uses his power and influence to kick start her career with an odd lack of exploitation and not a single dick sucked in sight.

Unfortunately for George though, the talkies are on their way and John Goodman's 1920's Harvey Weinstein wants a new group of meat puppets to whore out on screen. With George being closer to 40 than birth he swiftly finds himself out on his arse and battling depression.

For someone who is not that experienced with this style of film, this was a massively enjoyable experience. So far the only examples of silent film that I've seen are The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, Metropolis and porn when there are other people in the house. Regardless though, this is not a style that takes long to get used to. Just watch the flashing images and read the occasional card of dialogue that pops up on screen. In a way it's not too dissimilar to reading a comic book. It was odd too how that when deprived of a sense, the imagination really takes hold. A bit like a Flintstones obsessed schizophrenic when John Goodman speaks you read his lips and you hear his voice just as loud in your head.

It's a credit to both the actors and director that without any words to guide us, the film is just as emotional as any other. It's visual comedy is funny and it's moments of depravity are just as frustrating or heartbreaking. Perhaps the film has been slightly over-hyped but for being bravely un-ironic, genuinely creative and confidently relatable it deserves its galaxy of five star reviews. With it's self-reflective, post-modern storyline it's basically the silent film version of Scream that the 20's never got.

Although the cast are all great, many people were recently lobbying for George's dog to be awarded an Oscar nomination. Not only was this Korean appetiser deserving of the praise, so too was the music with both being just as much a character as John Goodman's shrunken cleavage. Near the end of the film, the music sneakily sneaks into the love theme from Vertigo. For me though it wasn't Hitchcock that this film was most reminiscent of, but rather the Coen Brothers.

The Artist has the 'screwball' feel of The Hudsucker Proxy and the hippy hating colour scheme of The Man Who Wasn't There. It had the old school Hollywood feel of Barton Fink and, like the opening to A Serious Man, was presented in a ratio that under no scientific circumstances could result in square eyes. Even the cast had a distinctly Coen feel with the obvious example being their lovable sun-blocker John Goodman. Jean Dujardin too had that charming presence of someone like George Clooney. Like the Burn After Reading star, his smug levels were luckily always one raised eyebrow below the slime levels oozed off by the likes of the talentlessy hard-titted Alex Pettyfer.

Despite the success of The Artist I don't think we need to prepare ourselves for a shipment of silent films any time soon. The style was used here because it conveniently suited the story as opposed to 3D which is being forced onto us by piracy-injured studio executives. Avatar was a decent film despite the hype of being poked in the eye. This too is a great film that rises above the novelty of it's format to deliver a story, and characters that are worth braving the grim-reaper feel of a cinema full of the grey-haired living dead. If I have any criticism of the film, it would simply be the vocal twist at the end. If I'd known that the main character was French all along, there's no way I'd have sympathised with the garlic-reeking surrender-cunt. Patriotic xenophobia aside though, it's a good film and worth checking out. Although if it had any sense of humour, it would have ended with James Cromwell looking into the camera and uttering, “That'll do, pig”. Not having him do that line is bit like George Lucas hiring Samuel L. Jackson and not having him say 'motherfucker'. 

Missed opportunities...

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The Hunger Factor

I don't hate Twishite the way some people do. I've seen the first one and considered it pretty poor, but whilst Michael Bay's still alive there are worse things out there to get worked up about. As a 23 year old male doing my best to stick it into who I can, I don't appreciate a franchise that aims to teach girls to practice abstinence. However, where those prudish, cock-blocking movies are concerned, I just don't dwell on them. I ignore their marketing, books, news and films. It's the movie equivalent of an unloved grandparent: if I just don't pay it any attention, then it may as well be dead.

The recent marketing campaign for The Hunger Games has been insisting it's the next franchise for the still virginal fans of Twishite. Having therefore shown no interest in it, I was surprised on release to see the influx of good reviews it was receiving. For a refreshing change I knew very little about a film. I'm sure to some a Hunger Games movie is knicker-pissingly exciting. However for all I knew it could simply have been a cheerful recreation of some of the pre-death funsies enjoyed by Bobby Sands.

The film starts with some exposition explaining to us that the world has gone to shit. Apparently we now live in a society that thrives on the death of children with huge games to promote sponsored infanticide. To prove the state is still in charge, they insist on taking two minors from each district and then pit them all against each other in a battle to the death. Sounds fair to me. Why only take two? As far as I'd be concerned, all the little bastards are up for grabs.

During the first few minutes we're introduced to our cool, new, independent heroine, Katniss played by Jennifer Lawrence. She lives with her ex-Deadwood-whore Mum and young dependant sister on a disused Firefly set. By living in an impoverished future where food is scarce and nobody has an Xbox360, Katniss spends her free time secretly hunting for some finger-licking-good deer and playing flirty with Thor's non-Loki brother, Liam Hemsworth.

For those who don't know, Jennifer Lawrence is a great new actress. She brilliantly played Mystique in X-Men: First Class and single handedly proved to me that a strangled prostitute isn't the only blue lady I'll find sexy. Like in that mutant prequel, Miss Lawrence is really good here too. She's moan-y and angry but manages to avoid becoming as irritating as Anakin on his whining road to becoming a bitch-Sith. It's also nice for an action film to have a female as it's main character; the last big franchise like that was probably Tomb Raider. Katniss is written as strong role model for girls to respect, I can't help but feel the purpose of Lara Croft was to have big tits and make boys jizz. If so, they both do their jobs very well.

Eventually the Hunger Games come to Katniss's town and she ends up being that districts female fighter. She's therefore whisked off to training where she meets her mentor who is either Woody Harrelson playing a drunk or simply a drunk Woody Harrelson. It's nice to watch this film when he turns up and pretend we're watching an apocalyptic sequel to Cheers.

The Hunger Games themselves are wrapped up in a fairly obvious pastiche of reality shows such as Britain’s Got Talent. The soon-to-be-dead children appear on an interview with Stanley Tucci in order to win the public's affection, as doing this will gain them more sponsors which will help them to live. Kind of like how on The X-Factor, if the public likes you, then Simon Cowell will rig the votes so that you win.

There is an obvious difference too, between how the poor and the rich people are depicted in this movie. Those who live in the different districts look basically normal but trampy. The rich however, are tarted up to look like luminous cocks from the land of the gay. Tucci for example, is like a cross between Barton Fink and Marge Simpson. Whilst Toby Jones who crops up later as a commentator has a hair style that could only belong to a man who has confused his dildo with a cattle prod, if you can imagine.

This results in a slightly bizarre clash in styles between grounded reality and rainbow camp. Kind of like a film that's half Serenity, half Speed Racer. The subtlety of the clothing is quiet metaphorical of the satire in this film, it's glaringly obvious and not too deep. Still even a little depth in a film like this is commendable. I've thought about it a lot and the only layered message I can find in Harry Potter is that you might be a wizard... but let's face it: you're probably not.

Eventually the games themselves begin and the youngsters from districts 1 to 12 are all taken to some woodlands to stab the living shit out of each other. In all honesty, I wish I'd properly checked everyone out before I gambled serious money on what I assumed would be the two alien contestants from district 9. Not sure why there's only 12 districts but I think we can safely presume that district 13 managed to run away.

The ensuing knife off is violent, lethal and not too dissimilar to a post-happy-hour Liverpool city center. There are plenty of enjoyable scenes in these junior killing fields although my favourite has to be when Katniss's friend accepts he's about to die. Rather than doing anything productive about it he simply paints his face to look like a rock, lies down and fossilises himself. If you can do face-painting as unbelievably well as he can then it seems like a good plan. Just don't give yourself away the first time somebody steps on your face. I'm no geologist but my A-level in the subject taught me that like plants and kittens, rocks probably don't feel pain.

The film as a whole is pretty good and I don't disagree with the positive reviews out there. However I am shocked at how few of them have mentioned the obvious similarity between this and Battle Royale. If remaking a film like this for a western teen market is the new trend then I look forward to their attempts with both Oldboy and Ichi the Killer. 

The main problem with The Hunger Games is that it's probably just a little too long. I could easily lose about half an hour of this movie and end up liking it more. There was a scene in it during the killing in which a young girl dies and Katniss mourns her death for fucking ages. The girl's funeral is longer than the scenes of her being alive. After what felt like ten minutes I just started to think, “for fuck's sake! Either bury or eat her. I don't care which, just move the fuck on”.

This indulgently long running time can be put down to the same problem as most big budget adaptations of a popular book. They stick too closely to the source material and refuse to cut much out in an attempt to not piss off the fans. Unfortunately though, no matter how similar you make it, the knobs are always going to say, “the book was better”. So fuck them- just cut shit out to make it less baggy and therefore a better film. I'll be massively surprised if there is any die hard fan that walks out of this with their eyes opened stating that, “in comparison, I now consider the books unworthy as shit-stained loo role for a tramp's infected arse hole”. It's just not going to happen is it...

The Bourne Franchise, The Shining and Blade Runner are almost nothing like their original sources and are all the better for it. Harry Potter, too, got better as the series progressed, streamlining the meandering sub-plots in favour of a tighter, more Harry focussed narrative. The Hunger Games was still a good film, I just think that being a little harsher with the book (and kinder to the shredder) might not have been a bad thing. I don't remember a section in the bible in which Jesus is whipped with razor blades and flecks of his back get flicked off everywhere. However I did enjoy those scenes when Mad Mel adapted them into his religious-torture porn classic The Passion of The Christ.

To me, a book is just an unnecessarily long script treatment. I'll read subtitles but only because foreigners spitefully decided to evolve their own languages. Beyond occasionally glancing at a child's pop-up book, I generally think, “fuck it I'll wait for the film”.

Now that I've seen The Hunger Games, I'm looking forward to the sequel. As franchise starters go, it's a stronger beginning than Harry Potter managed and I loved what those films became. I have no idea where the series will go and so, like with this, I'll do my best to only find out when I sit down to watch it. Apparently the next one is called Catching Fire. From the love-triangle conclusion to this I can only assume that Fire is some sort of piss-burning, future STD. Sounds like fun!

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From Shuffle to Dead

In 1995, Robert De Niro was kidnapped and replaced by an old man with grey hair and a turd taste in films. I hoped that we’d get the original back before it's too late but unfortunately it's not looking good. In fact, I heard rumours that the police aren't even looking for him! Would Travis Bickle or Rupert Pupkin appear in New Years Eve? Of course they wouldn't which is why I know that the real greatest-actor-ever has been replaced by a fraudster. He's probably chained up in the same room Elvis died in, after he was taken and replaced by that fat impersonator who exploded up to Heaven like an angelic rocket of brown.

Every year, this money hungry, shoddy wannabe brings out another crappy film which results in me walking the streets and shooting at pimps to cheer myself up. What makes it worse is people constantly excuse him by claiming “It's not his fault, it's because there's no good roles out there for older men”. What a load of shit! De Niro's the greatest actor ever so even if there is fewer roles he's still guaranteed them. If he tried, he could play an albino cabbage with dildos for legs and a penchant for racism and it would still be the best performance of the year. For some reason though he just doesn't want to…

The truth of it is that there are plenty of good roles out there for old men, they just don't pay the kind of money that this greedy bastard charges. For proof of their existence just take a look at Michael Caine's current output; despite being well into his seventies, Caine has spent the last ten years churning out some of his best work. Certainly better than he managed in the Eighties, with the house funding Jaws: The Revenge being a particular low point.

Over the last decade, Children of Men, The Prestige and his role as Alfred in Nolan's Batman, movies have kept Caine off the streets and in our affections. Although memorable, these roles are all supporting characters- even if they offer a good chance to act, they won't satisfy a raging cash addiction quite as easily as being the lead in quality films such as Hide and Seek or Righteous Kill. Maybe De Niro is the best actor in the world but I can't deny I have a huge soft-spot for Michael Caine. I just watch him and wish I'd had him as a Granddad instead of the ones I actually got. They won't object to me suggesting he'd have been better than them because firstly it might be true and secondly they're both already dead.

Supporting roles aside, Caine has even managed to blag a lead part in a couple of quality films. My personal favourite of these has got to be 2009's coffin-dodger shoot-'em-up Harry Brown which tells the story of an old man at his wit’s end. Whereas most geriatrics get angry over the little things such as the price of stamps and being ignored by their family, poor Harry Brown has bigger things to worry about. He's an elderly gent living alone in a shitty flat, right in the centre of Cuntsville, London surrounded by gangs of violent yobs, drug dealers and other such cockney slags.

The film opens with the murder of a young mum as she pushes a pram through the park. That's not what's shocking however; what takes me by surprise is the first shot of Sir Michael as a lonely old bloke eating burnt toast whilst staring pointlessly into space. To say that the man is an institution is an understatement. Britain is a predominately shit country which is represented throughout the world by an outdated monarchy, which is depicting us as an undemocratic, anachronistic, fantasy convention. Thank God for Caine then, who has been doing his best to hold us all up as the Kingdom of Cool.

As the times move on, so too has he- travelling from the cheeky Charlie Crocker of the Sixties to the grim nihilistic Jack Carter of the Seventies. Regarding British Culture he is as much a part of our defining make up as The Beatles, James Bond and Jack the Ripper. Seeing him wash the dishes in his stripey pyjamas on a run-down council estate is the equivalent to finding footage of The Queen pole dancing to Rammstein whilst shooting blue milk from her tits and swearing like a bitch. It's unsurprisingly kind of jarring.

The youths around poor Harry are running wild with more guns per person than brain cells. With their psychotic and violent nature, it's not long until they kill Harry's one and only friend, Argus Filch. The police can't help and Harry's no longer got anybody to play chess with. But rather than doing the dignified thing of sitting in to watch countdown and await death with a giggle fit of excitement, he instead decides to be the one person who'll stand up for himself. Like a doddering Frank Castle or a rusty Rockatansky, he goes out and he tools up.

What follows is not only the execution of today’s out–of-control youth by an angry septuagenarian, but also the evolution of Michael Caine. As Harry progresses with his plan of hardcore-pensioner-punishment we see him transform from the vulnerable fogey to an older Jack Carter. It is within this arc that a similarity can be drawn to A History of Violence, with both films depicting the journey of a once innocent, kindly man as he begins to trickle out a murderous wrath that has been locked up inside. Although to be fair there is thankfully a lot less sixty-nine-ing in Harry Brown by comparison. That position at that age could cause a lot of confusion, particularly for people with loose false teeth and an inevitably baggy vagina.

As Harry casually wanders around offing all the nasty looking kids, the anger in the area begins to escalate. This culminates in a night time raid from the police who intend to arrest anybody on the estate sporting a shaven head and a track suit... so, basically everyone.

Admittedly the kick off in the ensuing fight-back is little more cowboys-and-indians than Mike Leigh but not in an unbelievable way. This chav-Braveheart is no more over the top than anything witnessed in reality, such as the Toxteth Riots or Avatar. Just because it's not going to happen until the future, doesn't mean it can’t be real, you pricks!

Don't get me wrong though, as much as I love this film, it isn't perfect. It's just an English Gran Torino or Death Wish-with-a-zimmer-frame and comes dangerously close to simply being both a fascist porno and viagra for readers of the Daily Mail. A sign of this films strength therefore is that it manages to rise above this to be an enjoyable slow burner that, for a change, places drama and emotion a lot higher than special effects. The closest thing to a stunt in this revenge fantasy is watching a seventy year old try to move at a speed so fast it reaches heights somewhere between shuffle and dead.

This is director Daniel Barber's first feature film and based on this I'm looking forward to witnessing his career unfold. Thank God he got a chance to make this movie before David Cumeron decided, in his wisdom, to shut down the UK Film Council. In 2011 Cumeron spent £680,000 of tax payer’s money on renovating Downing Street. In one year alone he used £21,293 of our cash to pay for his own personal mortgage. It's good that these twats are wisely using our money this way. I would hate for Cumeron to have shitty wallpaper or lumpy cushions as he decides that despite its importance and huge success, our Film Council can't be justified. I'd much prefer the cunt to be living in luxury than running a country that respects its film industry and takes pride in its cinematic output. Prick.

Every so often, a film will come out with a title character that couldn't be played by anybody else. Lost in Translation wouldn't work without Bill Murray, The Wrestler wouldn't work without Mickey Rourke and this wouldn't work without Michael Caine. Both Caine and Harry have spent significant time in the military and too much time living in grotty parts of London. Like giving lubed up ping-pong balls to a dutch whore, this film is a gift for his talent. Let's just hope someone gets the same for De Niro before it's too late. As a tip, he also likes his gifts with a side-order of $20 million. Anything less and he vomits his way back to Ben Stiller's Meet the Sellouts franchise. So God bless Michael Caine! When I take over the world, I'm replacing the Queen’s face on our cash with his. Then I'll use it all to pay for a detective to find the real De Niro…

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Kids With Guns

Tarantino claimed that the reason he made Kill Bill was to see how good a director he is as according to him, action is one of the hardest genres to do well. At least I think it was him that said that, it was either him or one of his characters; they all the sound the same to me.

Thanks to a lot of our movies, Americans have been led to think of England as being a country stuck in history and in love with our monarchy. Well, guess what Yanks? Our dildos aren't powered by steam and as far as most of us are concerned, the monarchy is just a scrounging, inbred, tourist attraction. I know that things like Sense and Sensibility might make you think we're all jolly nice people but take it from me, most of us are in fact hardcore pricks who hate strangers and love porn. 

In 2005, Joe Wright made Pride and Prejudice which, regardless of its quality, is a little bit of a clichéd Brit-movie thing to make. He then followed this with the equally la-di-da, toff-ish Atonement which continued the stiff-upper-lip bullshit. Although as a consolation, at least here he snuck in the word ‘cunt’ and depicted us all as the selfish lying bastards that we are.

I guess that after spending the first few films of his career trying to maintain the rumour that we Brits aren't all the apathetic, cynical cunts that I know I am Wright felt it was about time for a change. He therefore took Tarantino's action movie advice and got to work on the oddball, baby Bourne, fairytale that is Hanna.

Hanna starts off with Saoirse Ronan living in snowy isolation without any eyebrows and only her jolly green dad Eric Bana for company. Like most healthy father daughter relationships, the two of them read each other books, hunt for food and kick the living shit out of each other. As it turns out, Bana is on the run and protecting his daughter from the American secret service and in specific, the evil special agent Galadriel. Therefore the fights between father and daughter aren't just 'Mary Poppin's' worst unruly child nightmare but training for the young girl to be able to deal with the upcoming wrath of the blindingly ginger topped, bitch played by Cate Blanchett.

From its opening scenes, it’s kind of obvious that this film is a fairytale to the point that it may as well start with text saying: “Once upon a time, there was a young girl who could bare-handedly kill some cunts. Hanna as herself is basically a paedophiles nightmare; a good-looking, young girl who could-and-would snap your neck before you can say puppies, sweets or Russian sex-trade. Due to her living arrangements however, although she knows how to fight, she has never experienced either friendship or music.

Not knowing the beauty of classics such as Pulp or Bowie might sound like she's missed out, but really it's swings and roundabouts. It also means that she's never had her head infected with the talentless warbling's of that shitty 90's girl group consisting of Baby, Sporty, Scary, Posh and The Ginger Tranny Spice. Hanna gets all her knowledge from an Encyclopaedia, if the music she'd heard first was the Spice Girls, she'd assume its definition was meaningless sound emanating from the lips of five hideous, unintelligent, untalented, sub-human tarts. If I'm being honest, I'm not a fan of the Spice Girls.

Obviously with Hanna being an action movie, we need some shit to hit the fan. Hanna therefore alerts Blanchett's wicked witch to her presence so the two can spend the next hour and a half running around the country playing silly buggers with each other. Before I watched this film, I expected it to be an action film which hints at being a fairytale, but in all honesty it's the other way ‘round. There's one action scene with Bana in a subway which is brief but brilliant and reminiscent of Wright’s horse shooting, beach tracking shot from Atonement. The rest of the bitch-slapping however is simply un-memorably enjoyable. It's a bit like the 17^th time you have sex in that it's enjoyable at the time, but by morning you've already forgotten about it and beyond craftily trying to sneak it up the bum, nobody tried anything new.

In fact it's the Brothers Grimm feel to this film that makes it stand out and linger in the mind. Hanna is an oddity in the same way Liza Minnelli is; in that when you say oddity you really mean fucking strange. The most memorable part of an action film like Die Hard is when Bruce shoots Snape out of a window and utters his motherfucking catchphrase. The most memorable part of Hanna is watching Cate Blanchett go arse-over-tit down a log flume having just shot at a child whilst standing in the jaws of a giant plastic wolf.

Like all good wicked witches however, Blanchett has her evil minions to do her bidding. In The Wizard of Oz she had a freaky species of flying monkey. In Hanna, the witch’s oddity of choice is the equally unlikable race of humans known as the Germans. In the same way that Dorothy has to avoid the clutches of the winged apes, Hanna too has to avoid the grasp of a gang of bleached blonde, camp neo-Nazis. Basically, whoever wrote this script had the genius idea of including the nihilists from The Big Lebowski.

At this point in cinema, the horror and action genres are being treated like Malaysian children- forced to slave away in brothels and sweatshops. Those two genres are being churned out as quickly and efficiently as possible with their only purpose being to swap any integrity or soul for cold, dead cash. Horror is particularely being massively exploited by the evil overlord and all round silver-screen twat Michael Bay who has seemingly made it his goal to remake and commercialise everything that scare fans hold dear to them. Action movies have, for the most part, survived the remake treatment but only to be instead massively dumbed down and driven to formula-obsessed mundane-ness. When John McClane's motherfucking catchphrase was stifled in Die Hard 4.0 I think a bit of civilisation died. The massively respected and potential action genre king that was Die Hard had now too been reduced to the level of an old pauper on his hands and knees begging for money. It was like seeing a loved one get chomped on by a zombie and then slowly transform into one of the blithering masses of morons.

This holocaust of creativity is therefore the reason why the world should watch Hanna. It's original, creative and tries something a little more imaginative than simply casting Vin Diesel instead of The Rock. There's a line repeated in this movie in which Ronan's jailbait-killer proclaims, “I just missed your heart”. Ironically this phrase can also apply to the film itself which was great but just not quite great enough on first viewing to become a favourite. Having said that, I can see this being like shagging a particularly warty whore, the more I revisit it, the more something will start to grow on me. Either way, check it out! 

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A Gun, A Whore, A Coven, A Bet

Like most people, I too have occasionally pondered humanity’s most important question; “what did people do before the invention of films and video games?”
Until recently I'd just assumed that the answer was ‘take children to feed the Elephant Man’, ‘start World Wars’ and ‘wank off to pictures of ladies’ ankles’.

Although that is all true, according to some post-porn internet research, I've discovered that another thing we partook in was ‘murdering the living fuck out of each other’.

In 1888, the American serial killer H. H. Holmes got so bored with waiting for the first film to be released that he decided to build himself a huge hotel of death… it contained rooms fitted with gas lines, sound proofed vaults and a chute that went straight down to the basement where he could relax and strip the flesh from his clients’ bones. He was basically a victorian 'Basil Fawlty' but instead of doing impressions of Germans, he claimed to be possessed by Satan.

Even if it came with free Wi-Fi and an en-suite drug dealer, H. H. Holmes’ hotel must have been less than relaxing for some of the guests. However, I can't imagine that the pain from having him carve you up would be anymore awful than the 1995 film Four Rooms. To call that film a mess would be an understatement along the same lines as referring to the holocaust as being a little bit of a tits-up. Four Rooms is like a drunk fat man trying to photocopy his arse, going through the glass, getting the scanner up his hole and slicing his balls off. It's a fuck-up so bad that, as you watch it unfold, you just wonder how something so simple can go so horribly wrong.

The movie itself is split into four segments with each quarter focusing on the antics of the same bellhop and the situations he finds himself in. The individual stories are all helmed by different directors, two of which I'd never heard of and two of which are Rodriguez and Tarantino. Apparently it was originally going to be called Five Rooms until Richard Linklater saw the festering iceberg of shit approaching, came to his senses and quickly jumped ship. Considering the two unknowns haven't directed anything noteworthy since, I can only assume it's because their careers were infected and killed by the high levels of cancerous awfulness present in this movie.

The first story tells of a coven of witches led by Madonna who are intent on casting a spell that will bring their God back to life. Like your average Madonna concert, the spell involves stupid chanting, a mouthful of spunk and a group of slappers dancing like piss-heads trying desperately to hold in a shit. Characteristically, our ‘Madge’ decides that there just isn't enough jizz for her liking and so the ropey tart demands that one of the witches should shag Tim Roth.

This section looks like a cross between the T.V. show Bewitched and a pornographic film that's been directed by a lobotomised Teletubby just before he slips into a six month coma. The acting is generally awful, the story is just confusingly crude and the jokes simply aren't funny. The feeling you get whilst watching this pile of crap is the same as when you temporarily sober up with the noose around your neck and your cock in your hands. You just wonder exactly what the fuck is going on.

There's no denying that the first quarter of Four Rooms is piss awful but it is however just a warm up to ease you into the overflowing pool of shit and manky, floating sweetcorn that is part two. The story this time round is that Tim Roth has walked into the wrong hotel room and finds himself roped into some weird role playing sex game between its two occupants. It's a story so dumb that watching it, you can only assume that it was written by the banjo-playing boy from Deliverance. There are plenty of shitty twists throughout, but they make so little sense that eventually you start to suspect that you're misunderstanding them. You're not, they actually are as stupid as fuck. The story here is just so baggy and dull that I can only assume someone let a toddler waffle on about a plot-heavy porno he'd seen, wrote down what he garbled and then filmed it with no intervention for style/class/direction/sanity.

About half way through, Roth realises he's in the middle of a sex game but for some reason continues to play along. If he just left the fucking room like any other human would, then this section wouldn't be quite so long and tedious. This is the short film equivalent of the British Royal Family in that it's completely remedial, unnecessary and shouldn't have lasted half the time that was allowed.

At the start of the third section we hear some Mexican music play, which basically means this must be Rodriquez's effort. In case you weren't sure if that was the case then the arrival of Antonio Banderas pretty much confirms it. With the exception of Sin City, I've never been a huge fan of his. A guess there are a few reasons for this but the main one has to be, well, you know... Spy Kids.

Here however, Rodriquez is the cherry-like glittered turd mounted proudly on top of this festering cake of shite. In any other situation, this story would be a bit crap, but here it is thing of comic perfection. Without going into the plot, it's a bit like a Looney Tunes cartoon but not quite that good. If there's one thing of note in this entire film, it's Banderas who temporarily reminds us that he was once much more than just a man with the voice of 'Puss In Boots'.

Unfortunately though, this section was simply the calm before the storm. To throw in a torture analogy, Part 3 was the teasing gasp of air before they plunge you head first back into the freezing barrel of piss and diarrhea. At the point you assume things are getting better, the piercing and familiar sound of a motor-mouthed narcissist returns us to the mess that is Four Rooms...

To call Tarantino's section a ‘twenty-five minute presentation of self-indulgence’, ‘a one-way ego-trip to the moon’ and ‘the worst example of someone believing their own hype’ would be massively unfair of me. It's actually only twenty-minutes long.

Not only does he cast himself as the hotel’s most important client but he's also the main actor in his section. For every word Tim Roth speaks, Tarantino just has to say five hundred. In fact, there's even a single shot in this film which stays on Tarantino's face for what feels like five whole minutes. He doesn't cut away from himself once. Throughout, you can't help but wonder what's bigger, his enormous chin or his massive, arrogant, egotistically inflated head?

Rodriquez's section was noticeably his own because of its mildly Spanish feel. Tarantino's is obviously his because it contains every single cliché that makes his films what they are. He's cast himself, it's overloaded with pop-culture references, everyone talks like a nerd on speed and it's wrapped in a blanket of misplaced confidence. If Jackie Brown is a stone-cold-classic then this is at the bottom of the very deep well of crap along with Death Proof and the 'Austin Powers' scene in Inglorious Basterds.

Beyond the setting, there is one thing running through the movie that connects it all together and that is Tim Roth's character. I don't want to be mean about Roth because generally I really like him. However, with his retarded 'Mr Bean' impression of a performance, it's hard to find something nice to say. For a start he's not playing a character, he's playing about nine different schizophrenic characters. His personality changes with each story with the only similarity being the post-buggery 'Jack Sparrow' swagger. I don't blame Roth though as clearly this is a man being directed by too many people without any focus or singular idea. Four Rooms is a perfect example of too many chefs spoiling the broth. It just so happens that from tasting the broth you'd assume it wasn't made by chefs but three untrained, arrogant brats and an unusually lucky Mexican.

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Need For Speed!

Once upon a time, the Wachowskis told us to imagine that there is no spoon. Easy enough to do with a piece of cutlery I suppose but a lot harder to apply to the Matrix Sequels. I know that there are great scenes in Reloaded and Revolutions, but let's face it, they do slightly ruin the original a bit. In the first one, we hear all about the mysterious Zion. In the second, we're shown it to be a plastic looking disco cave complete with a bunch of semi naked gimps dancing like tits to bloody Barbie Girl or whatever.

The whole fucking rave is cheesier than a tramps foreskin and if that's what we're fighting for, then fuck it, plug me back in. I'd rather be a happy fucking battery than part of that jigging crowd of twonks. By expanding on the world of the original and making it look shit, you're basically giving wrong answers to questions that made the first film great. It's like getting to finger Angelina Jolie and finding a huge pair of hairy testicles down her knickers. On face value she still looks great but secretly you can't help but be thinking about what bollocks is under the surface.

Following The Matrix franchise however, the siblings have so far only done one other movie. Speed Racer is their 2008 follow up and tells the story of a young racing driver who must choose to either join a corrupt sponsorship or remain independent and come under attack from them. Filmed almost completely on green screen, the film looks like a living cartoon and uses more colours than actually exist in the world. After just a few minutes, you start to wonder if the bright red is the colour on screen or simply evidence that your eyes have started to bleed. I think that watching this whilst high could genuinely cause brain-bubbles followed by schizophrenia and a lifetime of gormless dribbling.

When it came out, for some reason the critics decided to give it a bit of a slating. Just because it's a little bit crap, two star reviews where being hurled at it like an angry retard throwing shit at a mirror. I mean- it's not the best film in the world, but it's not bad. Beyond the look of the film, the cast is also really likeable with Emile Hirsch whose head is two sizes too big for him, John Goodman looking like he's had a stroke, Christina Ricci sporting that season's anorexic look and Roger Allam doing an impression of Tim Curry inside Gilderoy Lockhart's skin.

The plot, for what it is, unfortunately suffers from Matrix Sequel Syndrome in that it's way too fucking complicated. We're watching what looks like a live action version of Mario Kart with a comedy chimp in a hat, but the story is a convoluted mess of sports corruption, the stock market and industrial takeovers. The look and humour of the film is clearly aiming for a young audience but the story is like watching a cross between Wall Street and Days of Thunder whilst on magic mushrooms.

Also, like The Matrix Sequels, it's way too fucking long. Again, if it's a kids film, it really shouldn't go on for much more than 90mins. This however drags itself out for around 2 hours and 15 minutes , the same time it takes a 2 legged dog to find a safe place to shit, without it getting matted into its fur. At that running time, most kids will have hit puberty and grown their first pube before the credits start rolling. Annoyingly, there are just a few too many long, misplaced scenes which play out a bit like watching a pantomime with a serious business meeting. Kind of like going to watch Jack and the Beanstalk and spending half an hour watching Jack haggle for the beans based on the current magical fruit exchange rate. You end up not giving a single shit.

Despite all that however, I do still really like it simply because I find it to be genuinely sweet and good hearted. Financial bullshit aside, it's about a family who love each other and are just doing their best to stick together. You could get rid of all the 'Gordon Gecko' greed-is-good shite, and in all honesty I'd probably like it even more. In fact the bits that get me the most are the stuff involving the death of 'Speeds' older brother 'Rex' and how the family deal with it. Contrary to its bubblegum exterior everyone in the “Racer” family play their parts completely straight with some fairly heavy things going on. Not only is 'Pop' mourning the loss of his son, he also has to deal with the fact that the last time they spoke he told him that if he leaves now then he can never come back. The only thing to slightly spoil this scene is that before 'Rex' steps through the door you half expect Goodman to shout, 'Over the line' and pull a gun on him.

The stuff between 'Speed' and his parents are, in my opinion, genuinely touching with John Goodman and Susan Sarandon doing more than just turning up for the money. If I've got any other niggle regarding these scenes it's simply that I find Sarandon to be a bit of a hypocrite whenever she's giving driving advice. I'm not being funny, but the last time I saw that ginger gilf in charge of a car, she drove it off a fucking cliff. I haven't actually seen Thelma and Louise but I'm assuming it's about the incompetence of woman drivers and so if I was 'Speed' I'd tell her to shut the fuck up and keep her shitty, suicidal advice to herself. Go find your headscarf and wear it in another room, bitch.

The other interesting character here is 'Racer X' who has, in my humble opinion, a genuinely touching backstory. He looks a bit like if X-men's 'Cyclops' decided he was into visiting dungeons and wearing bondage and is, I guess, this films equivalent of 'Morpheus'. He's dependable, honourable, cool, and in all honesty, the spine of the movie. If there is any reason to revisit this film, other than seeing Christina Ricci's general face and body, it's to watch him knowing exactly what you find out at the end. It's not exactly a 'we're the same person, he's a ghost and it was the cripple all along' kind of affair, but it certainly adds a bit of weight to the movie.

The Wachowskis are important film-makers and this forgettable CG acid trip is one example of why. It might be a bit crap, but at least it is original and not stuffed up its own arse with pretentiousness- like The Matrix Sequels were. The directors also deserve credit for making a film that couldn't be any more different to The Matrix if they had tried. It's so different in fact, that it's a bit like Spielberg following War Horse with a pornographic slasher film or if Michael Bay followed up Transformers 3 with- well, just any good film would do. It'll be nobody's favourite movie, but I recommend it simply because of how refreshingly un-cynical it is. Maybe Speed Racer's plot is a bit confusing, but seems as most people can't even work out what gender Larry/Lana Wachowski is, the fact that we understand as much as we do should be appreciated. Regardless of whether Lana's knob is between her legs or in a jam-jar on the mantle, I don't care. As long as they keep making films as individual as Speed Racer and The Matrix, then I'll be happy.

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Cunning Stunt

Is it just me or is the Elephant Man the worst superhero of all time? I mean, Rain Man isn't brilliant but at least he's got his autistically enhanced memory to show off with. The Elephant Man’s only power is his massive head. His disguise is just a sack and as far as I recall, the lazy shit didn't even solve one single crime. At around the time he lived, Jack the Ripper was running around having a whale of a time slicing up whores and boiling their organs. Maybe if the Elephant Man had put the buns back in the box for just one day, he could have gone and helped some of the skanky hookers by finding Jacky and making him look a cunt by head-butting him straight down to hell. There’s a top-quality movie crossover if there ever was one.

But no, rather than do some good he instead decided to parade himself around like a fucking page 3 model and whip his knob out in front of doctors. They earned their keep that day. I don't even know why he had to be naked as according to internet pictures, I've seen his cock… it seems quite normal. Well… either his is normal or mine is just as fucking deformed. In the end, the only thing that could put an end to his tour of vanity was his own personal self-destructive kryptonite which, rather pathetically, was his inability to lie down. What a shit hero he was!

A decent superhero film that I finally saw for the first time this week was Drive. By day, Ryan Gosling is a mild mannered stunt driver for a limping Bryan Cranston and by night he's a police dodging, getaway driver for extremely punctual criminals in need of a lift. Basically, this film is The Transporter but with an artistic edge and genuine ‘style’ as opposed to relying on The Stath, his trademark growl, and bags of ironic enjoyment.

Before watching Drive, I assumed that due to its setting in the criminal underworld it would probably be most similar to The Pusher Trilogy, in terms of Nicolas Winding Refn's back catalogue. Bizarrely however, it is in fact a lot closer to his 2001 Viking Odyssey, Valhalla Rising with both films being a lot slower than The Pusher's and both featuring skull-cracking sudden bursts of ultra-violence. The two also star a lead actor who is a probable psychotic and also a borderline fucking mute.   

Gosling aside, the cast of Drive is ridiculously impressive in terms of who they are and what they can do. I do, however, feel like poor old Ron Perlman has been somewhat overlooked in most of the media surrounding this film. Everybody is going on about how good Albert Brooks is to the point that trailers and reviews imply that Perlman is simply going to be a supporting thug. He is, as it is revealed, one of the key villains in the piece and more integral to the plot than Brooks is.

I think I first saw Ron Perlman in Hellboy in which I sat amazed at how the makeup team had made someone look so much like an ape. Then I watched the DVD extras and saw that in actual fact he is some sort of shaved sasquatch and all the effects guys had to do was paint him red and stick some cones on his head. Perlman therefore deserves even more credit for his performance in Drive as it's so good that at times you actually think he might be a real human. Unfortunately though it will occasionally cut to a close up of his face and the illusion is shattered. He is just an English speaking, Jewish Donkey Kong. If you want a humanoid primate with bags of acting ability and an all-round aura of coolness then Ron's your gorilla.

The plot of Drive is fairly basic with a heist-gone-wrong, protect-the-girl kind of situation but this isn't a film of depth. Instead, the enjoyment is had by simply experiencing the eye porn of shiny visuals, lingering shots, and stylishly choreographed action. With its 'shit's-on-the-way' atmosphere and 80's techno vibe, watching this film feels like you're being smothered by a heavy pillow of mood. In a good way.

At the start of the film, all of the characters are so nice and likeable that you'd think they were all just chums chilling out at the vicar’s fucking tea party. You don't want anything bad to happen to them because everyone is just so friendly and happy. This is the real world though and as is science-fact, we humans don't deserve to feel good about life. That's why God invented cancer, aids and Piers Morgan, and we men have evolved with the ability to occasionally sit on our own bollocks, for no other reason than blinding, suffocating pain.

Like with Pusher 3: I'm the Angel of Death, the violence here doesn't really kick off for a good hour or so. It's like we're being lured into a false sense of security that all is well in movie-land and we've nothing to fear. Meanwhile however, there's a big red 18 certificate on the DVD box preparing us to expect the worst. It's kind of like your school years lasting for ages with everyone telling you to go to University to ensure a good job. Meanwhile, one angry but honest teacher informs you that degrees are worth fuck all and despite what you've been led to believe, you're heading for a life of depression, unemployment and deep-throating car exhausts to allow the fumes of freedom to fill your miserable, darkening lungs.

So, err… yeah, anyway... the violence takes a while to kick off, but when it does, it's glorious; almost beautiful. Heads explode, blood sprays across the screen and bones break as Gosling lays the smack-down on a thug’s wanking hand with a claw-hammer. The violence here was best described by Refn himself, who explained that, like fucking, it's all about working on a long build-up to ensure the most pleasure from the inevitable climactic explosion. Unfortunately for early television viewers, Refn explained this at about 9:30 in the morning on the BBC News breakfast show. It was the first time in ten years that the word ‘fuck’ had been used before mid-day on that channel. It was also the first time ever that, that show was worth watching. What a legend!

One of the most enjoyable aspects of this film is its 80's styling which extends from the pretty-in-pink opening text, all the way through to Goslings gay-as-a-window scorpion jacket. You know an actor is a hardened slab of cool when he wears something as shit as that and yet somehow makes it look as impressive as he does. With its arachnid image on the back, this is his superhero suit with the lip-hanging toothpick being an obvious reference to all those iconic western heroes of cinemas yore. I hadn't seen Gosling in much before, but it's now obvious that if Clint Eastwood fucked Steve McQueen and then laid an egg, he would be what crawled forth from the gooey, yet still cool-as-hell, shell. Never in history has an actor worked so hard to apologise so genuinely for appearing in something as shite as The Notebook.

For many people, this was the film of the year and it's easy to see why. As I've only just watched it, I think I need a little more time to let it all sink in before I make my decision. I just have to work out what I like more; watching Kunis and Portman chow down on a deliciously tight flap sandwich, talking monkeys, or a mute Gosling seducing his neighbour by doing the angry stomp-dance on a hitman’s head. However I decide though, I think we can all agree that 2011 really was a great year for film.

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Rise Of The Monkey Planet

Contains spoilers

When I was a baby, I was breast fed. This is a thought that sends a shiver of horror down my spine and is something that my Mum tends to remind me of - at inappropriate times. By inappropriate times I simply mean that she reminds me of it. Unfortunately though, all of us as youngsters at one point liked things that we now know to be fucking weird and horrible. Other than breastfeeding, there was shitting inside of our clothes, eating insects, and watching sentimental shite like Free Willy.


I say like Free Willy because there was a few of them about that followed the basic E.T. formula. A youngster makes an odd friend, be it animal, alien, or robot. They go on a few adventures, pull a prank on the school bully and then run away from the Police, F.B.I., Hunters, etc... Basically, I'm talking about crap like Short Circuit, Andre, Jack Frost and all the turdish sequels that they spawned.

I particularly hate them because of how mawkish and manipulative they are, but I also hate how people nostalgically remember them as being good. They're not good not in the slightest. In my opinion those films could only be considered moderately entertaining if somebody drove a car powered by the oils from 'Willy's brain into a crowd of the people who enjoy them. Or if at the end of Short Circuit the director walks on screen, smashes him up and then slits his own throat with a razor sharp edge from the remains of the shitty, retarded robot. It would be the only apology that I would accept for inflicting that drivel onto the world.

It therefore surprises me to discover that one of my favourite films of 2011 followed this formula too. Rise of the Planet of the Apes is a phenomenally good film and like Free Willy is the story of a man and his animal buddy. They meet, bond and grow together until eventually the authorities step in and try to tear them apart.

I love animals which is why Free Willy annoys me. It simply relies on you caring for the whale because he's a whale. George Lucas once said something like; it's easy to get an audience to care. You simply get a kitten and start to strangle it. Well that is those shitty films in a nutshell. Apes, however, doesn't just rely on 'Caesar' being a monkey for us to give a shit. Instead he is played to perfection by the genius that is Andy Serkis. Not only does he believably mimic the body language of a chimp but he also projects more emotions in that one film than someone like Stallone has managed in his entire career. Serkis is effectively playing in a silent movie and yet creates one of the most relatable characters in a long time.

In fact regarding Rise of the Planet of the Apes, a lot of focus has been put on the character of 'Caesar' which is a shame as it also has so much more to offer. One day we'll look back at this date in cinema and marvel at quite how good sci-fi was. Gone are films like The Matrix Sequels or The Chronicles of Riddick that are up their own arse, pretentious and turgid. Instead we've got actual soon-to-be-cult-classics like Monsters, District 9, Moon, Source Code, and now Apes.

Like the new Star Trek, what this manages to do is reinvent itself for a modern audience whilst remaining intelligent and respectful to the original franchise. Personally, I feel I had the exact level of fan-ness for this film. I have a kind of basic knowledge of previous Apes movies, but not enough to really care. I recognised and enjoyed all the references to the original, such as the failed Mars mission, and quotes like, “It's a mad house” but I didn't know it well enough to be fucked if they changed any of the details.

In fact watching it for the first time, there was only one thing that I was curious about and that was if the monkeys would speak. When I originally saw the trailer, I went on a geek marathon of showing it to as many people as possible. I was like a new parent parading around my ugly baby to everybody I knew just to hear them say that it looks alright. Eventually though, I found one person who instantly dismissed the film as though it was going to be shite, “because that's not what happened in the original; in the original it was said that one ape stood up and said 'No' to the humans”. I argued that maybe this was meant to be metaphorical rather than literal, but the stubborn fuck that I was chatting to was having none of it. I was therefore quite smug when this is exactly what happened in the film. Not only does 'Caesar' indulge in the exact incident that my smart arse of a chum was talking about, but it's the highlight of the entire film and the primary idea that the entire fucking story was worked around.

The moment that 'Caesar' says “No” is absolutely perfect and was the first time I'd heard an entire cinema gasp in shock. I've been going the pictures for a long time and that has got to be one of my favourite experiences. I can only imagine it being like hearing that Vader is Luke's dad for the first time, or discovering that 'Rocky' was an actual human all along and not just a retarded boxing gorilla. This is also the part in the film when we lose the Free Willy feel and the film turns into a Monkey Kingdom of Heaven.

I love apocalyptic movies and that's exactly what this becomes. It's basically The Birds but only if the birds had arms, legs, couldn't fly and no beaks. Okay- it's nothing like The Birds but you get the point. We're shitty to nature, so nature turns around and kicks us in the balls. In the first half, 'Caesar' is a fun little scamp who likes to swing around the house and probably pick his arse. After he's learnt to say 'no' he decides to fuck some of our shit up. First he accidentally kills Malfoy, then he sets about smartening up all the other apes and then he starts the fucking banana revolution.

Speaking of smartening up- is it just me or was that orang-utan not pretty brainy to begin with? The one in Brian Cox's monkey prison seemed to be on the same level of 'Caesar' before he'd even had the intelligence gas. I don't want to sound panicked or anything but either the film has exaggerated their intelligence or maybe we should start to keep a closer eye on those sinister fucking ginger chimps. Whenever I've seen one in the zoo they're always just sitting their like a saggy old Scotsman with a sack over their heads. The one in this movie was doing more than that. I mean, this one was telling fucking jokes for God's sake! He was half way to a stand up act when he said that the other “monkeys were stupid”. Not much of a joke I guess, but not bad for a start and certainly much better than anything Patrick Kielty's ever managed.

At the time the news broke, it seemed like Rupert Wyatt was an odd choice to direct this movie. The only thing he was really known for was the Brian Cox prison thriller The Escapist which was brilliant but not exactly Apes like. Then Tim Burton sounded like a great choice and we all saw how his version turned out. Poor old Helena Bonham Carter spent hours in makeup and ended up looking completely normal but with a tail. I do have a bit of a soft spot for that version but there's no denying that it's crap. This new Apes is not only a brilliant film but also perfectly timed. In a year with student riots and all these Occupy protests a popcorn movie about an uprising is exactly what we need. If art is the means for a society to express itself then this is one of the best examples of a blockbuster holding a mirror up to our shitty way of living.

There are still a few films that I haven't seen from 2011 which I'm particularly excited to catch up with. But so far this is tying for the top spot with Black Swan as film of the year for me. This has a Gorilla versus a horse; Black Swan has Natalie Portman fingering herself. Who could choose between them? By the time Free Willy reaches its conclusion the Whale has escaped into the sea and I can't wait to see its shitty, heart tugging face harpooned. By the time Rise of the Planet of the Apes reaches its conclusion the monkeys are free, the human race is screwed and I'm on the verge of tears. 'Caesar' is home and thankfully so is a classic franchise which is finally now given the intelligence it deserves.

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A Sign Of Ignorance

Once upon a time, we honkies couldn't be bothered to work- we therefore had the ingenious idea of making non-whities do it instead. For us, things were perfect until eventually that bloody Lincoln came along and told us to get off our arses and do it our bloody selves. Since then we've figured out that actually we're all equal, and us crackers have got some apologising to do. We look back on that time and admit that maybe we were a little bit racist. Well, the way that we regret that is the same way our children will one day regret our treatment of Ray Winstone.

I know it's a slightly different situation. I'm not suggesting that we make poor old Ray plough our fields or that we shipped him from the plaines of his native London in order to trade him for money and bags of sugar at the docks. Unlike the slaves, we don't judge his worth on the quality of his teeth. However what we actually do is discriminate against him based simply on his appearance.

No matter who or what he plays, Winstone is described as being a hard man, but this isn't always the case. In fact, Ray generally plays quite sympathetic decidedly un-hard characters. Every film he's in he plays somebody completely different but somehow the world is blind to this. Instead they judge his performance simply on the assumption that most of us would die if he punched us.

I mean no offence to Ray, but he's not a thin man. I think he's one of the greatest actors of our time and in fact, one of my favourites, but I wouldn't believe it if he was playing roles such as a lifeguard, a long term holocaust victim, a school boy or a Chinese woman. He's a man forced to choose characters who fit his build, but just because they could kill with their bare-hands, doesn't mean they will.

I think it doesn't help that I perceive the term 'tough guy' or 'hard man' as being derogatory. To describe his performances in that way, to me, sounds dismissive and conjures up comparisons to someone like Vinnie Jones who- lets face it, is not an actor. He's a shaved gorilla that sometimes manages to say some words in an almost cohesive way. Throughout his career, Winstone has played a variety of different characters displaying a variety of personalities and emotions. Throughout Vinnie Jones career he's played a variety of the same character that very occasionally doesn't sound like a retarded, foreigner learning to speak English for the first time.

One example of Winstone playing a non-hard man would be the character 'Gal' in Sexy Beast. Okay, yes, he's playing a criminal, but he's not exactly tough is he? He spends the entire movie completely petrified of everybody else, walking on egg shells and doing his best to not be a thief. He's individually bullied by both Gandhi and fucking Lovejoy for gods sake! You don't spend the entire film wondering when 'Gal' is going to freak out and hit someone; you empathise and feel sorry for him. By the time Sir Ben screams, “No”, at him a hundred times on the spanish patio, 'Gal' is a broken man. The kindly old man from Schindlers List is pissing on his bathroom floor and kicking the shit out of his kitchen fittings and all Gal can do is push his decision as hard as he dares.

Compare his performance in this to say, the character of 'Ray' in Nil by Mouth and Winstone's range might become apparent. 'Gal' is a likeable bloke who, when not being forced to commit crime, makes jokes, loves his wife and just comes across as the kind of guy you'd like as a mate. 'Ray' however, is a different kettle of cunts. He's not a tough guy, he's a coke snorting, evil fucker who, in a Joe Pesci “funny how” moment kicks the living shit out of his pregnant wife. I've seen Two Girls, One Cup but Nil by Mouth is by far the hardest film I've ever endured watching. Like a cockney Ringu, the fear of 'Ray' smashing his way out of the television and killing me seemed to be becoming more and more possible. It got to a point when I wondered if I'd actually be able to get through the last thirty minutes without needing trauma therapy.

I read in De Niro's biography that his particular talent is in acting angry. Well, in his entire career, his anger is no more than a hissy fit when compared to the pure rage that Winstone channels. 'Ray' likes to say 'fuck' and 'cunt' even when he's happy so when he gets mad, he has no way of vocally venting his frustration. You can physically see the hatred and venom as he shouts and screams in a way that just doesn't look like acting. The genius, however, is that despite the abhorrent things that he does, he thinks that he is the victim. After beating his wife into having a miscarriage, 'Ray' has a breakdown. He smashes up the house and then tells his scummy friend about how his Dad never showed him love. You can see as he talks that he genuinely feels sorry for himself, without acknowledging any responsibility for the horror that he has just inflicted on his wife. This evil prick is quite a distance from Sexy Beasts 'Gal', with both of them being quite different to 'Captain Stanley' in The Proposition.

'Captain Stanley' is a noble man in a desperate situation. Set in the 1880's he is determined to civilise the Hell-hole of Australia, regardless of what it might cost him personally. Unfortunately though, his slightly unorthodox methods of brother-love top-trumps cause the whole town and his wife to turn against him. Quickly, he finds himself shouldering the burden of trying to tame that country against the wishes of those that live there. Considering Australia is now most famous for Crocodile Dundee, psychotically dangerous animals and the goddess-of-gay Kylie Minogue, maybe the fucking stupid locals should have tried it his way.

In a way, 'Captain Stanley' shares the burden of stubbornness in the same way that 'Gal' does. However both men are completely different particularly in their treatment of their wives. In 'Gal's case, his wife is his confidant and the one looking after him. When Sir Ben is causing shit, it's her that supports him and in the end it's her that stands up to Gandhi to save 'Gal's' life. 'Captain Stanley' however, is doing his best to keep his wife the fuck out of his business and where 'Gal' is only truly himself when alone with his partner, poor old 'Captain Stanley' has to remain partly on duty at all times.

I mentioned these three performances as they just happen to be three of my all time favourite films. On top of these, Winstone has also impressed with his range as a young six foot viking warrior, a Borstal inmate, a cancer ridden special-agent and Mr Beaver (from Narnia, not the porno). I suppose the point of this is to just highlight how unappreciated one of our greatest actors really is. I'd like people to pay more attention to the nuances of the performance and less to the fact that he's a stocky, middle-aged Landaner. In a way, I just wish that the world was a little less Ray-cist*

*Awful... What a terrible pun. I actually made myself a little angry with it... cunt.

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