Last night I dreamed I went to Manchester again...

It doesn't quite have the same ring to it, does it? And yet I got inordinately excited this week because I not only got the chance to go to Manchester, but stay over, all on my lonesome.

I guess feeling such relatively high levels of excitement about staying in a cold, Northern city in the depths of Winter should probably need explanation. The reason is simple - growing up, there weren't many dramas that had such a galvanising experience on me as Queer as Folk.

I am not talking about drama which moved me deeply, or that I became slightly obsessed with (though I consider it a fine piece of television, X-Files or Buffy it ain't). I am talking about one which has an appreciable effect on the course of my life.

I was about 17 when Queer as Folk was first broadcast in Ireland. I was fat, deeply closeted and in many ways, unhappy. I was lucky enough to have a TV in my room and I remember watching the first episode of this gay drama on Channel 4 that was causing such an uproar. I remember clearly lying in bed in the bungalow we lived in out in the country before moving to Douglas and being terrified that somebody would walk in and catch me watching it.

The screen was filled with happy gay men. Doing gay things. Rimming gay holes. You have to understand, I didn't know any gay men, apart from a few whispered about in my drama group who were looked on with a vague condescending pity by everybody else. I knew precisely who and what I was, but I hadn't figured out what being gay actually meant to me apart from what made my cock hard when I wanked. Being gay was a physical sensation at that point - Queer as Folk helped me feel it in my soul.

Despite being petrified that a family member would walk in and catch my watching it, yet my memory is not chiefly one of fear but one of longing and excitement. It was really the first glimpse I got of urban gay life (no matter how romanticised and dramatised it was for the screen). And it was sexy, and funny and sweet and a million different things that I wanted life to be. I I didn't want to be any one character, but a kind of glorious amalgamation of them all. I even wanted their problems, heartbreaks and disappointments. And I really REALLY wanted Stuart's flat.

It was the freedom that was expressed, the sheer celebratory queerness of the whole thing that caught me. At that point I promised myself that I would leave Ireland. It had always been a desire but I don't think I actually allowed myself to believe I would.

After I watched Queer as Folk, it no longer felt like a choice but a burning necessity.

I still think the show, especially the first proper season, is a warm, witty and exciting piece of television. Russel T Davies did something really smart in making the narrative ultimately about friendship and the types of families we (and especially gay people) create for ourselves when we escape to urban environments. By making it clear that Stuart and Vince would never shag but would live in constant tension, the show managed to mine a fresh vein of emotional territory that made it distinct from much of what was on TV. In this case, the sexuality of the characters did matter, but not the way that people commonly thought. The nearest straight antecedent that I can think of is probably Mulder and Scully but even then there is something uniquely gay about it.

Anyway, back to Manchester...

Like all things in life, Canal Street seemed smaller when I saw it in real life. I mean, really smaller. I tramped around in the dark, freezing rain of November, ducking into a few places and wandering about in a slightly happy state. I left the place early (I was up at the crack for work) but also content to have at least established its actual existence and eager to come back with friends and in the sun.

Canal Street as a geographical location is ultimately unimportant to me. Like Barbary Lane in San Francisco (I was also first exposed to Tales of the City through Channel 4), its importance lies far more in the hope it gave me growing up. It let me know there was another world out there. And while my life can be difficult and lonely, it is also richer and more beautiful for having taken the plunge and chasing that ideal.

Man of Extremes

The New Yorker had a great, meaty profile of James Cameron that I have been waiting for a week or two to dig into. Luckily the train journey to Manchester gave me the opportunity.

I love Cameron's work. Along with Steven Spielberg and Peter Jackson, I consider him the best mainstream Hollywood director working. I would get excited if any of these guys filmed the phone book - and even their misfires have moments of genius in them (though I admit, with Hook, you may have to look hard for that).

Cameron makes action movies for 13 year old boys that manage to speak to a vastly bigger audience. No other action director, apart perhaps from Howard Hawks (and lumping them together as action directors would probably have cineastes burning me in effigy) has become so singularly identified with the vision of an active heroine. His women aren't all first act bluster only to fall by the way side narratively in the third act. If anything, he works in reverse, allowing his female heroes to grow in stature as the film progresses until they become truly awesome icons. Sarah Connor, Ellen Ripley and Rose DuWitt-Bukater (and yes I did know how to spell that without looking it up so STFU) are grand, romantic, maternal visions of power, so much more vital and interesting then the penises that surround them.


Of course he isn't perfect. He seemed to go through a period in the late eighties/early nineties where his own difficult personal life bled across into misogyny on the screen. But even his most problematic character (the squirm inducing first half humiliation of Jamie Lee Curtis' Helen Tasker in True Lies) is somewhat redeemed, both in the performance of Curtis who is sublimely funny and sexy, but also in the understanding that her husband is a prick who has neglected his wife's strength and is reaping the rewards.

I will even mount a spirited defense of Titanic if you get enough alcohol in me. And not just in the milquetoast way of "I like it when the boat starts sinking". As a Titanic buff growing up, the film had me at hello. I even enjoy all the shipboard romance stuff, as cornpoke as it is. I think the actors are all fine and the dialogue isn't half as bad as what is commonly believed. You could remove or re-write three or four scenes and most of the wost and least defensible stuff would be gone (that fucking painting scene... even I won''t defend "He'll never amount to a thing!"). But think of what Cameron gets right in that film which could have gone wrong - especially his treatment of Gloria Stuart as Old Rose and Kate Winslet as Young Rose.

I found the New Yorker profile to be brilliantly written and endlessly fascinating. I knew Cameron was a shit, famously arrogant and confrontational even for a Hollywood director, but who knew he was such a ginormously epic arrogant shit? I get the sense from Dana Goodyear that she doesn't think much of Cameron's films, but that's fine as I don't think she uses that as an excuse to turn in a hatchet job on the director. Better this harsher tone that gets at something fundamental and honest about the guy than the normal slavish tongue bath that something like Empire magazine would give him.

There is nothing anonymous about Cameron. He hasn't done many films, but each film feels distinct from the other, and they form a unique oeuvre in their own right. An obsession, near fetishisation of military hardware. Apocalyptic visions. Female empowerment. A sentimental streak a mile wide but also a love of vicarious destruction. I have watched all his films multiple times (and have become strangely entranced by The Abyss which ranks close to my favourite of his films - Aliens) and can almost forgive him his attitude to others because of the results

I said almost...

What the article makes clear, and which is already well known, is that working for Cameron is a hellish experience. It is such a commonly held notion that actors and technicians are probably given some form of hazard pay for signing on with him. As one of the designers says in the article, when the director knows how to do everything, you better not bullshit him or he'll go ape. I can't help feeling that success only made this worse. I mean when Titanic swept the world in 1998 (and swept it did - despite their hype and popularity, The Dark Knight and Return of the King made just over half of what Titanic did worldwide) after being written off pre-release as Cameron's grand folly, it was obviously going to reaffirm his own self-belief. Add that to a personality prone to high levels of arrogance and it was never going to be pretty.

I do find this annoying however. I don't actually think Cameron ultimately gets better work from people by screaming and acting like a big child. He may believe so, but you take a look at the hellish pressure of Peter Jackson's team across all 3 Lord of the Rings films and then King Kong and you get a sense of how an actual human being can manage relationships to still achieve astonishing results. It may be because Jackson has figured out a way to work with his wife, the amazing Fran Walsh which keeps him grounded and the two of them share the burden, both physically and artistically of putting a film together. Cameron, who has worked in various capacities with several wives, never had a strong enough counterpoint for more than a few years. At the end of the day, he doesn't have to act like a shit and I like the way that the profile doesn't shrug it off, as so many do, by explaining it as a quirk of the successful.

I think of the analogy to how chef's work. I have heard and read in several places that the best run kitchen's are not those with a titanically bad behaved muppet as its centre, screaming abuse at a cowed staff (a la Gordon Ramsey), but through quiet team work wedded to steel eyed vision. Cameron seems to have the vision but no idea how to actually engage with a team.

Having said all that, I can't wait or Avatar. I don;t care what the naysayers think, I thought the new trailer was stunning. I do have issues with the plot as outlined (a 'foreigner' teaches the natives how to win is really old hat at the moment) but I think you have to be pretty jaded not to be excited by the imagery and kineticism of the trailers so far.

Cartman Sucks...

...but South Park definitely doesn't.

I don't know why episodes of South Park can still shock me with their quality. The show has been running for over a decade now and practically every show that has run that length of time has become a shadow of itself. In fact, I am trying to come up with one right now which bucked that trend (answers on a postcard...)

Eexcept for South Park. The show that has never quite achieved the critical acclaim of The Simpsons but has, for years now, been churning out series after series of intelligent, brilliantly written satire that just happens to have some of the most inspired toilet humour of any show ever. I know it's this mixture, the extremeness of its comedic vision, which has stopped it from fully crossing over (apart from a brief period in the 90s where it threatened ubiquity) but it has also allowed the show to continue as the rougher, cruder little brother of the staider and dumber cartoon sitcoms.

I love it. It has reached the point where I would probably put it above The Simpsons as the greatest animated show ever, purely because it never suffered the extreme drop off in quality that The Simpsons suffered after about 8 years. It is still the angriest show on television, but tempers that anger at the stupidity of the world with some surprising sweetness and a willingness to go to absolutely any length to get a joke. This may make it sound like Family Guy, but unlike that series, South Park keeps its eye firmly on story and theme. It is a far more coherent show that genuinely wants to be about something.

I watched an episode from its 11th season tonight called Cartman Sucks. In it, Cartman attempts to take a picture of Butters sucking his dick (lllooooooonnnngggg story). Butters father walks in and sees them and immediately decides Butters must be bi-curious and sends him off to a camp where he can pray away with gay.

The episode is a vicious, brilliant destruction of the whole ex-gay myth. Each scene in the camp ends with one of the kids killing themselves from misery. The ex-gay brought on to show them how effective the treatment is, is shown to be a raging queen. The counsellors talk about God and forgiveness and compassion, while freaking out about pictures of an underwear model and calmly closing the door on kids who have hung themselves.

But it's funny. Really really funny. And part of the reason for that is because Butters is an absolutely genius character. I could write reams and reams about how brilliant he is, how he has become as integralo to the success of the show as any of the principle characters. His relationship with Cartman is one of those golden TV couplings which pays dividends year after year. He is the sweetest, most trusting and innocent child in South Park. That naivety allows the writers to use Butters as a way to cut through the bullshit of the adults around him. Just look at this little quote which rounds out the Cartman Sucks episode

Butters: My name is Butters, I'm 8 years old, I'm blood type O and I'm bi-curious! And even that's okay, because if I'm bi-curious and I'm somehow made from God, then I figure God might be a little bi-curious himself!

The thing is, South Park does this consistently, episode after episode, year after year and makes it seem effortless. There isn't a braver or funnier show on either side of the Atlantic.

Great Moments...

The challenge of any adaptation of Romeo and Juliet is to make the central relationship passionate, crazed and hormonal enough to justify the events which come after. I have never seen a stage couple able to do this, and a part of me thinks it is asking too much of a theatrical performance (I am desperate to be proved wrong here). But Baz Luhrman's film gets it right. After a manic, and slightly exhausting opening 15 minutes, the film suddenly halts as the lovers eyes meet through a fish tank. Both Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes are fantastic in these first moments, their body language telling you everything you need to know. By the end of the scene, and their first kiss, you are completely sold on their dizzying, OTT attraction.

Luhrman's film has its faults, but it absolutely nails the most important elements. It makes Romeo and Juliet feel vital and real, giving them an earthy and graceful physicality that underpins everything that comes after. Luhrman has proven himself to be a fantastic creator of these types of moments - manic theatrical openings which suddenly give way to moments of intense, ardent romanticism (think of the moment when Ewen first belts out "My gift is my song..." in Moulin Rouge). After the misfire of Australia, I hope he finds his way back to something memorable.

The Constant Gardener

Hollywood doesn't do marriage well. Most great movie romances are about the race to the aisle, and not what comes after. When we do get a glimpse of a married couple, the most memorable tend to be the ones who are disintegrating.

A couple of weeks ago I saw Julie and Julia and was charmed by its depiction of the marriage between Julia and Paul Child. Nora Ephron, Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci created a charming, loving couple without ever seeming twee or sentimental. Equally memorable are the couple in what I am convinced is one of the great films of this decade - The Constant Gardener.

I saw The Constant Gardener on a wet Wednesday afternoon in a tiny cinema in Leicester Square. I think there were about half a dozen of us in the room. I probably would have passed on it but I heard that Rachel Weisz was in the running for an Oscar for her work and I was curious. I never thought of her as that good an actress. I remember leaving the film devastated. In a way, I am glad that I saw it on my own. I didn't want to talk about it after. My emotional experience of the film was so surprising and gut wrenching that I wanted some time to myself to think about it. That doesn't often happen - one of the reasons I don't like going to the cinema alone is because I love to talk about it after. But The Constant Gardener was a rare case where I felt too emotionally raw and wanted to be alone.

I re-watched it this weekend and I am more convinced then ever that this is one of the finest films of the new century - and in Tess and Justin it creates one of the most heart breaking, honest and powerful depictions of marriage that a Hollywood film has ever given us.

There is some wondrous alchemy that goes on between writing, direction, editing and performance to bring this relationship to the screen. The film, which mixes multiple genres with graceful ease, really hinges on Justin's journey to understand the scope of his wife's commitment, desire and love. The film's final moments, of Justin conjuring an image of Tess as he awaits his own death, hit so hard and so deep because the film has accomplished the wondrous task of creating a nuanced, intelligent and erotic interplay between the couple. Both Tess and Justin are flawed people who attain a a kind of mythic force as the film goes on.

I have always loved Ralph Fiennes. He has done superb work in The English Patient, Schindler's List and The End of the Affair. His performance as Justin is some of his most subtle, emotionally raw work. He has always been a wonderfully reactive actor, but he has never been as warm and open as he allows himself to be in this film. And Weisz is simply astonishing - Tess could be played as a superficial martyr, but Weisz keeps finding the humanity in the role. She seems more fully alive in this role then I have ever seen her and she makes sense of Tess' seemingly suicidal dedication to her work. I could not have imagined Fiennes and Weisz working as a screen couple but they have a rare, electric chemistry and it is thrilling to watch them each elevate the other's performance.

Central to the success of these performances is the structure of the film, which moves in and out of different time lines, beautifully putting us in the headspace of Justin as he thinks back over moments he shared with Tess. This isn't simply a stylistic device to dress up a formulaic thriller, but a technical choice which raises the emotional pitch of the story. We discover Tess with Justin - our own prejudices about her choices are overturned as his own are. There wasn't a moment when I wasn't emotionally engaged. The tragedy of the film is not just the death of Tess and Justin, but that Justin only realises the true depth of his love for Tess at the moment of his own murder.

The film would be memorable if this was its sole accomplishment. But The Constant Gardener is so much more. It is a great thriller, a film full of righteous anger and nakedly political in a way which is all too rare nowadays. It forces us to look at the ways in which Developed economies continue to exploit Africa and at the same time gives a sense of the tribal divisions and horrors which Africans wreak on each other. It offers no easy solutions and questions the ability of any single person to make much of a difference. And yet I believe its ultimate message is that it is cowardly to use those realities as a basis for refusing to do anything, or for engaging in the type of cynical realpolitik that the Governments and corporations are seen to do throughout the film.

Fernando Merielles, who made the electric City of God, goes deeper emotionally with this film, creating a story which rewards repeated viewing as the richness of the acting and the brilliance of its structure begins to sink in. He gives you a sense of the teeming chaos of life in Kenya, and the realities under which millions of people live but that we simply cannot conceive of. If I do have a criticism of the film it is that for a film about the affects of colonialism (both culturally and economically), it doesn't do enough to give voice to Africans themselves.

Ultimately, as entertaining as the political intrigue and conspiracy theory stuff is, for me it comes down to the final moments with Justin speaking to his wife's spirit as he awaits his own death. Its a moment which is profoundly cinematic - capturing a wealth of complicated emotions in just a few moments of screentime. It was a moment which I couldn't get out of my head for days. Four years since the film's release has not dulled its power.

Vigilant

I went to the hate crimes vigil at Trafalgar Square last night. It was a wonderful evening - the night was mild, the crowd swelled to a couple of thousand and the atmosphere was friendly, open and generous. I wasn't sure what to expect - it was really my first event of this type, despite being involved in community work for over three years. The mood wasn't angry, it didn't feel like a community under threat. It felt like a community taking a stand and I was proud of that.

I often hear older gay people ask about my generation and younger 'where is the passion?'. Well it's difficult to get passionate without a focus. Anger is an emotion which needs a point, otherwise it becomes a shrill and frustrating emotion. You need something to harness the short burst of energy it gives before it snuffs out. It can be difficult for young gay people to find that channel when many of the major national, legislative fights have already been fought. At one point last night, one of the speakers talked about young gay people only caring about bars and clubs and I rolled my eyes so far that they almost disappeared round my skull. It is the oldest, most frustrating and silliest complaint that every older generation levels against the younger - that it is more frivolous, more flippant and more superficial and everything would have been so much better if they were back in charge.

The thing is, where does a young gay person, who is just coming out, who sees bars and clubs as their opportunity to meet other men and women like them, go to find out about their history? The generation of the 70s and 80s has failed to preserve their heritage. It is a trifle unfair to blame younger people for not knowing their history when it is not taught in school (gay rights are barely mentioned as a civil rights issue, especially in comparison to ethnic minorities and women's struggles). There is an amazing story about the development of the gay rights movement, its struggles for legalisation, acceptance and then the dark years of the AIDS crisis. But we don't have a gay museum or cultural centre where this can be taught. A Gay History project is only just getting going and they have a monstrous task playing catch-up and preserving stories before generations die out. A generation was already almost lost due to that shitty little virus.

I am no absolving my generation of guilt. We can be frivolous, silly and flippant and particularly cruel to older members of our community. We do need direction and we are not necessarily going to respond to people acting like we are lost causes to begin with.

The most sobering thing about the attacks which have taken place over the last few weeks is the role of teenagers in each of them. I believe that each successive generation is more accepting then the last. But it is all to easy to forget that most kids grow up in households where there is at least casual levels of homophobia and often that rises to a toxic stew of prejudice and hatred. This doesn't take into account the other elements of their lives which can lead to social dysfunction. It is a horrid mix and the best indication that the focus has to be put into schools. Unfortunately a generation of work was silenced by Section 28 and now we are playing catch-up.

I just finished re-reading Randy Shilts' wonderful biography of Harvey Milk. Milk often spoke of the importance of coming out - the best way to break down the barriers to acceptance and understanding is for a straight person to realise that a friend or loved one is gay. It is the entirely sensible belief behind the Same Sex Holding Hands day which took place today. I think a lot of straight people go through life believing that gay people are a rarity. But we are not. There are millions of us, from all walks of life. Only by overcoming our own fears and struggles can we force others to do the same.

I am ambivalent about hate crimes laws. I understand the reason for their existence, but I still there is something to be said for the law being blind to our differences. But in light of the protections offered to other minorities I think it only right that gay people are included. However, they punish an event that has already taken place, and the existence of those laws are unlikely to curb a violent attack motivated by a dizzying array of personality maladjustments. The work has to go in at the other end, to shaping hearts and minds and not changing them.
Rant Over

Parnassus

Terry Gilliam is one of those artists who people generally haven’t heard of, but who has had a profound impact on pop culture. From his work with Monty Python, through to the hugely influential Brazil, Time Bandits, The Fisher King and 12 Monkeys, he has been a real inspiration for a whole raft of other visual artists.

But something seemed to go wrong with Gilliam in the last 10 to 15 years. His struggles to set projects up, their well-publicised problems and the failure of films such as The Brother’s Grimm and Tideland seemed to sap his creative juices. I was shocked at how ugly, shoddy and uninvolving The Brothers Grimm turned out to be – a film which I was sure should have been a home run for him.

On paper, The Imginarium of Dr Parnassus should be similarly ripe for Gilliam’s particular talents. An immortal man, who posses a mirror which leads people into their imaginations, makes a deal with the Devil to save his daughter from Hell. Heath Ledger plays the handsome, charming stranger who offers to help Parnassus, but who is hiding himself from his own past. The MacGuffin is a magic mirror where people enter visual representations of their imaginations and are given a choice between Parnassus and The Devil.

As a story, Imaginarium is simply terrible. Individual scenes work fine, but there is absolutely no sense of a wider narrative arc, which becomes increasingly apparent as the story lurches towards its chaotic, shambolic conclusion. The set-up seems simple – Parnassus and the Devil in a race to capture five souls, with the soul of Parnassus’ daughter as the ultimate prize. But Gilliam never gets a firm grip on the rules of what the mirror is, how it is used and what happens to those who enter. The rules which are set-up are flouted as the script requires and the character of the Devil (nicely played by Tom Waits) merely exists to extend the tired storyline past the point where this audience member cared.

I am a big believer in rules for fantasy films. If you are going to break with ‘reality’ on film (even if that reality itself is a construction) then I think you owe it to your audience to play fair with. This becomes particularly important in Imaginarium where so much of the plot hinges on those very rules as the basis of a bet between two characters. The script doesn’t seem to play fair and never establishes what precisely happens in the mirror. Establishing some mystery is vital to suspending disbelief (I don’t want to see the mechanics of how it actually works) but neither do I want a situation whereby the powers of the mirror are changed to suit the short-term goals of the plot. That is simply lazy writing.

As for the visuals… there is a clear disconnect here between the real world and the imaginary world of the mirror. The real world stuff, surprisingly, is the one that is the most consistently impressive. Gilliam seems inspired by the tactile nature of the London setting, of the grimy Victoriana of the sets and costumes and the contrasts between the DIY theatricality of Parnassus’ show and the modern, gleaming London that surrounds it. The problems start in the imaginary world of the mirror. A reviewer whose name I wish I could remember, said that the mirror scenes looked like screen savers from Windows and I can’t do better then that description. They are flat, cartoonish and, well… unimaginative.

Heath Ledger is the marquee reason for seeing Parnassus but I don’t believe it is a fitting final role for the actor. It’s clear that his character, Tony, is deceitful to come degree and that he has a massive secret. What never becomes clear is who exactly Tony is and what his culpability is in the situation he finds himself. Gilliam himself feels unsure and as the film careens towards its climax, this ambivalence destroys the story as it descends into a series of manic, shouty scenes, backed by unconvincing CGI. The conceit of three actors playing three different faces of Tony in the mirror works well, but it robs Heath of the ability to build a complete performance. I would be fascinated to see if the strength of his work could have overcome the flashy annoyances surrounding the finale.

I also think the film’s attempt to deal with Ledger’s death through the invocation of Princess Di and James Dean were a bit nauseating (as I have found much of Gilliam’s shilling for the movie). There is something a little creepy and fetishistic about the dialogue given to Johnny Depp where he talks about the death of celebrities making them forever young. The death of those people is first and foremost a personal tragedy to their families and I think it cold comfort to Ledger’s friends, family and fans to think that his face will adorn the walls of student’s bedsits for the next fifty years.

The best reason to see the film is to see the lovely work of Lily Cole (as Parnassus’ daughter) and Andrew Garfield (as her love-struck would-be suitor). Both navigate a believable emotional range and give the film whatever real spark of life it has. I know Garfield from his astonishing performance in the Channel 4 show Boy A, but Cole is a novice actress but makes a great debut.

A Strange Moment

It has been a strange couple of weeks in Gay World.

In America, you have had the President of the United States address a dinner of the largest gay rights group in the country on the eve of a march in support of Marriage Equality in Washington DC which drew about 100,000 people. The speech, wherein he reaffirmed his commitment to all of the main legislative priorities of gay organisations, was given during a period when Obama has been criticised heavily for making little or no head way on some of the promises he made during the election. Hate crimes laws finally passed both House and Senate this week which is fantastic, but the main hurdles (such as ending the federal marriage equality ban and allowing gays to openly serve in the military) are still to come.

At the same time, gays and their supporters are in vicious fights in both Maine and Washington state to ensure gay couples are given full partnership benefits. The Maine fight is particularly important because it is a case of a largely religious drive to deny full civil marriage rights which were given to gays by the elected state legislature. A big complaint about the California decision last year was that it was somehow 'forced' on the state by judges in the Supreme Court. This isn't the case here. It exposes the bigotry of those who seek to keep gay people as second class citizens for liars and religious nuts that they are. And yet Obama has said that he does not support full marriage equality and believes in the bullshit compromise of civil partnerships, a stance which has been repeatedly used against marriage equality forces in California and Maine. Gay people's frustrations with him are well founded but the vehemence of their reaction seems out of proportion.

Then on this side of the Atlantic, we have had the publication of that hateful Jan Moir article on Stephen Gately's death in the Daily Dickhead, followed by the release of a video showing a 60 year old gay man being kicked to death in Trafalgar Sq. The murderers are only being charged with second degree manslaughter. Yet the Moir article touched a spectacular nerve and led to 25,000 complaints to the Press Complaints Commission.

I am trying to think about what all these events mean. On the one hand, you have gay issues being addressed in public in a way which I think inevitably helps break down social homophobia. It is easy for people to make the connection between Moir's poisonous dog whistles about gay relationships and the tragedy of Ian Baynham's death. Stephen Gately's husband being given a central space at his funeral and the clear support given to him by Gately's friends and family probably did more to shift Irish people's attitudes then something like Brokeback Mountain did. The best way to change people's attitude's to homosexuality is for people to actually know somebody gay. People felt they knew Gately - as a member of a successful Irish boyband, its almost like Irish people had a share in his success. His death was tragic, but the backlash against those looking to dance on his grave has been hugely gratifying.

Something has also become really clear to me. Civil partnerships should go. Whatever the Labour calculation was when they were brought in a few years ago it is no longer acceptable to have an equal-but-separate law for gay relationships (yes I know straights can also get civil partnerships, but they have the option. Gay people don't). Our lives, our loves are just as fulfilling and worthy of respect in the eyes of the state as heterosexuals and the time really has come for the Government to recognise this.

With a Conservative government likely coming to power in the next 6 - 8 months, that next step is unlikely. But it is the right thing to do.

On a personal level, I feel that something imperceptible has shifted within my own family. I was touched by those who wanted to speak to me about Gately's death. They seemed to want to reassure me through speaking about Gately that they hoped I could both find a partner and that whoever he is, he would be welcome into the family fold.

For me, that was progress

Pop Culture Nag

Have you ever felt nagged?

I mean we all get nagged by our friends, family and partners. Most of it is well meaning, and most of the time we all deal with it in good natured ways.

But last week I had the weird sensation of being nagged by a big, glossy Hollywood film. I went to see Julie and Julia at the cinema this week and had the slightly uncomfortable experience of being given a lecture on not doing enough with my life and simultaneously having my complete wish fulfilment fantasy played on screen.

It wasn't the Julia Child part of the movie that spoke to me. It was the far more conventional and ever so slightly boring section with Amy Adams as Julie, the low-achieving wannabe writer stuck in a largely unfulfilling office job who finally knuckles down and writes a bestseller. With a really hot husband.

Its silly I know, but I felt like this section of the movie was like a little a voice whispering softly into my ear "You see, you could do this too! You can write! You just need a GIMMICK!!!!".

I know in the rational part of my brain that Julie Powell's story had been fully Hollywood-ised. I mean, I could never be as adorable as Amy Adams - my emotional meltdowns aren't met with fun music montages and charming blog posts. They are met with drinking too much at weekends and weeping on friend's shoulders.

And yet... in the immortal words of Gypsy, if I could get a gimmick, I could be a star...

Knuckling down seems to be the theme which connects the stories of Powell and Child. Both of them were talented women (one more so than the other it must be said) who found themselves at a loose end and determined to try and make something of their lives. Though the film reaches for greater connection between the two, I actually think that is enough to justify the story structure. I liked that Nora Ephron had crafted a peon to hard work and sticktoitiveness that emphasised the work part of it.

The Julia Child section is everything you could want from the film. It is lively, funny, romantic and sexy. Only Meryl Streep could get away with a performance as theatrical as this one is and make it work on an emotional level. She and Stanley Tucci do a marvellous little duet together as a loving husand and wife. This is the second film I have seen recently that celebrates its central couple as a loving, nurturing partnership (after Away We Go) and i is wonderful to see. In most romantic comedies, you its difficult to believe why such dysfunctional people would ever agree to spend their lives together (Couples Retreat looks like a terrible version of this).

Amy Adams does her best with the Julie Powell section but it just doesn't come close to the joi de vivre of the Child sections.

This is definitely Ephron's best film since Sleepless in Seattle. It's sweet,m funny and romantic and only intermittently annoying. And it gave me a cheap wish fulfillment fantasy of a low-level bureaucrat making good.

What more could you ask for on a Wednesday night?

Fame Fail

I went to see Fame. Yes mock me all you want.

It sucked. I wish I had something more to say, but apart from the dancing (which is hugely impressive, especially a Fosse-like number done to Sam Sparro's Black and Gold) it was terrible.

I mean, how can you actually have a Fame movie and not actually have a big, electric film-halting set-piece to the main tune (the remake weirdly echoes many of the other scenes from the first film so it wasn't an attempt at originality)?

I think it also highlights just how good the original Fame movie was. It was gritty, raw and adult in ways that this film can't even begin to contemplate. It gave a sense of the real sacrifices of these kids. Yes it was soapy and melodramatic, but Alan Parker was a true film musical genius (Fame, The Commitments and Evita are tremendous pieces of entertainment) and he found a style that reinvigorated the hackneyed back-stage cliches of the script.

I love musicals. I can forgive a lot for watching the simply joy of people singing and dancing on screen. But Fame never justifies itself as a remake or a re-imagining of a film. The great thing about Fame is that the concept itself is clean and simple - follow a group of kids through their years at a performing arts highschool. There are all sorts of ways that you can have fun and develop it. Fame manages to fuck it up consistently.

What a shame

I'm starting to feel old...

I was going to write a post on the death of one of the greatest pop bands of the last 10 years.

But sometimes you just have to bow to somebody who did it better. Glenn from StalepopcornAU gets at why this is something of the end of an era for people who loved classy pop. Like Glenn, Sugababes were one of the first pop bands that I unabashedly and publicly loved. Though after 10 years they no longer seemed quite as fresh as they once did, at their best, they were the best.

And though it may be jumping the gun, PopJustice's nicely worded tirade about the pictures of the WannabeSugababe's video is also worth reading.

Away We Go

I feel a little sorry for Sam Mendes. I mean, yes, he is a revered theatre director. He won an Oscar with his first film. And he is married to The Divine Kate Winslet (the bastard!).

But like his sadly missed compatriot Anthony Minghella, he seems to have slipped into the realm of Critical Derision. After praising him so lavishly for American Beauty, it now appears to be the fashion to throw feces at whatever he does. Revolutionary Road got some of pretty nasty, dismissive reviews, and you could feel some critics wanting to use the film to tear Mendes down rather then give an honest reaction (I thought the film was very very good but certainly had its faults).

Away We Go was released in the States at the beginning of the Summer and did nice business but was largely dismissed by reviewers. It won't change the world, but I thought this film had a great deal of charm, and showed Mendes working in a freer, more emotionally relaxed style that surprised and delighted me.

The film is quite novelistic in a way (which isn't surprising as it is written by novelists Vendela Vida and Dave Eggers) - rootless parents-to-be Maya Rudolph and John Krasinski go on a road trip and encounter a series of horrific or heartbreaking family types. As a piece of writing, nothing about this film will really surprise you, and some of the characters are grostesques that don't really work.

But what does undoubtedly work is the central couple. Burt and Verona are a happy couple. They don't have any hidden pain. They are open, honest and loving to one another. This is hugely refreshing - their scenes together are nicely understated and realistic, while their moments of clarity are at once simple and rendered with admirable emotional truth. This is where the skill of Vida and Eggers comes through clearest. Besides exploring the fear of starting a family, Away We Go is also a film about people who they have got to a certain age only to end up slightly lost. At one point, Verona asks Burt "Are we fuck ups?" and that line, and the world of emotion it expresses rang completely true to me.

Krasinski and Rudolph are ultimately the reason to see this. Krasinski is sweet and charming and his chemistry with Rudolph is completely believable. They share a moment in a train bunk bed which reminds me of a remarkable scene from Eternal Sunshine where each of the women discuss their fears about how they look. However, it is Rudolph who ultimately is the soul of the piece. She is virtually unknown over here but gives the piece its gravity and depth. Mendes once again proves that he is one of the best directors that an actor could wish for.

What is more surprising is how loose and enjoyable the film was. After the marital Armageddon of Revolutionary Road, Away We Go seems to vibrate with a desire for Mendes to show a partnership of emotional and intellectual equals. Verona and Burt aren't asked to overcome enormous and melodramatic personal demons. They merely recognise in each other the person they want to be with. Their modern, egalitarian take on relationships feels almost entirely different to anything else I have seen on screen for so long and lends Away We Go its power.

Gleeful

Sometimes there seems to be so many exciting TV shows coming out of the states that I am not sure quite where to start. I mean, I haven’t watched Mad Men, The Wire, or most of The Sopranos. I am only one season through 30 Rock and have yet to watch a single episode of Arrested Development. I am a confessed Joss Whedon fanatic and I still haven’t watched a blinkin’ episode of Dollhouse!!

Yet I can’t see that happening with the new show Glee, a taste of which I got over the summer with the first episode. Seriously, it’s almost like somebody sat down and designed the show to appeal to me. It’s set in a highschool. It can be wickedly cruel and satirical about the students, teachers and their relationships. It has singing and crazy dance routines that manage to convey the sheer joy of performing even if the material itself is a piss-take!!

And yet it also understands that as preposterous as it can appear, things such as a school show choir matter when you’re that age. Everything matters when you’re that age.

The drama group I was with for most of my childhood is having a 50th anniversary celebration back home in Cork this weekend. I can’t tell you the amount of hours that myself and my friends spent in classes, rehearsing and performing during my childhood and teenage years. The hours spent dissecting our work, criticising those who got the better roles and dreaming of blinded by a solo spotlight. Getting that amazing, tingly feeling when you realised that a performance wasn’t just going well, but was connecting with those on the other side. The sheer euphoria of doing something you loved and doing it well.

I miss that. The further away I have got from it, the more I realise how much fun it was and how much it changed me for the better. I knew it was geeky. I often died when somebody who didn’t get it mocked me for it in school. But in the end, I didn’t give a shit. Once I was on stage, I was untouchable.

That’s why I am looking forward to Glee. From what I have seen of it so far, the show manages to balance what could be a corrosively nasty wit with a genuine sense of bliss and a touching investment in the delirium of these kids. I hope they keep that balance going (Bring it On is an excellent example of a film which consistently rips the piss out of its characters but manages to do so in a completely loving way).

I mean, any show that teases with something as amazing as this has to be worth my time…

Let the Right One In - The Novel

I will be forever grateful to my friend Therese for lots of things. Firstly, just for being such a good friend to me. Secondly, for actually challenging me about my rather too comfortable-and-pleased-with-myself-views about gender (even if we did ultimately disagree sometimes). And lastly (and more recently) for making me read the original novel on which Let the Right One In was based on.

You may remember that when I saw Let the Right One in a couple of months ago, I said how disappointed I was in the whole thing. That it not only failed to live up to the considerable but it seemed to be a slight badly string together collection of scenes, with a wildly and annoyingly varied tone. I thought the film would have benefited from less concentration on Oskar and more on the twisted relationship between Eli and her minder.

Well, Therese was right. The book certainly gives you more of that relationship, and in the process became on of the most disturbing and creepiest novels I have ever read.

The book works on a lot of levels. It does flesh out Oskar's story and make him a better realised character. But I still don't quite buy him, or the intensity of his relationship with Eli. His strand is still the one element of the story that I find the least interesting.

What you get in the novel, and what was hinted at only broadly in the film, is the effect that Eli's presence has on a depressed, isolated community. Eli's actions, and those of her helpers, act as a contagion on estate, spreading outwards and infecting the lives of dozens of people. This is the part of the novel that both surprised me and touched me. Lindvquist has genuine empathy for these characters and creates a believable rag-tag group of lost souls already crushed by the daily realities of their life. Their attempts to reach out to one another to find warmth and companionship are moving, and provide the real emotional depth to much of the novel.

What I wanted from the film was more of Eli's keeper. Hakan is a horrifying creation - repulsive, destructive sad and pathetic. That Lindqvist manages to take this horror of a human and give him dimension and plausibility without ever trying to excuse the horror of his actions is a brilliant high wire act and I respect and admire his commitment. The vast majority of Hakan's story is jettisoned in the movie and it provides and interesting lesson in adaptation.

For all the critic's crowing over the skill with which the film was made, I actually think it is a poor adaptation. The filmmakers (I include Lindqvist as screenwriter, as well as director Alfredson) chose the easiest storyline to tell. Oskar's story is essentially linear - he matures in a twisted kind of way, becomes a man by finding a woman to protect and to care for. Eli may be older, may be stronger. But she still needs to rely on a man to help her out. Oskar fulfills was is essentially a traditional male role model, however kinky and weird.

The Grand Guignol moments that I found funny in the film (and not in a good way) are in the book, but they have a force and a horror that the director fails utterly to capture.

The stories surrounding this are infinitely more interesting. Hakan's alone develops into a truly grisly and horrific end that had my skin crawling. Virginia and Lacke's story has some of the most poignant and horrific material but is treated with cursory attention. This is frustrating, but allowed me to discover the richness of Lindqvist's story for myself. I loved this book.

There were howls of outrage when Hollywood announced that it was going to remake Let the Right One In. I am slow to join in the chorus in the hopes that instead of remaking the film, they will go back to the source novel and re-focus it on some of the material I consider superior. Though that may be giving them all far too much credit.
　

Movies Catch-up

District 9

Not quite the masterpiece that many in the States have claimed, but this is a bracingly intelligent, exciting and emotional story that is told with real skill and intensity. Sharlto Coptly is incredible in the lead role - a complete unknown, he is in virtually every scene and manages to portray a weak, vacuously cruel man who finds something resembling a soul as his body crumbles with astonishing skill. The CGI work is impeccable and there is real thought gone in to this story. I think this is the most exciting first film I have seen in a long time and Neil Blomkamp is surely going to have as long and brilliant a career as the mercurial producer Peter Jackson (I really REALLY want to see The Lovely Bones now).

Inglorious Basterds

Thank Christ Taratino is back. This is his first film since Jackie Brown that I can wholeheartedly endorse. I love the style of Kill Bill 1 - it's hugely exhilarating, but essentially empty. Vol 2 is turgid, ruined by Taratino's fascination with Michael Madsen and David Carridine, both of whom give painful performances and a sense that Tarantino's dialogue was parodying itself. Death Proof is the same - great action but the script sounds like a bland imitation. Basterds announces itself with a humdinger of a first scene that balances tension, comedy and menace almost perfectly. It has four superb performances (and in Diane Kruger, a genuine revelation as I thought she was terrible in Troy). The film is basically a series of long dialogue scenes, but Tarantino seems to take joy in his language and that joy, rather than feeling like the dead end of his own obsessions, felt inclusive. The actors run with these scenes, delighting in the twists and turns, while Tarantino direct stylishly but always with an eye to serving the story and characters. It doesn't have the depth of feeling that Jackie Brown had, but it certainly feels that Tarantino may have found a way out of his rut.

Time Traveller's Wife
I am lucky in a way. My Straight Wife Rachel McAdams has yet to make a truly awful film so, while I can always watch her in quiet rapture, the films themselves are generally good (State of Play) and frequently brilliant (Mean Girls, Family Stone). The Time Traveller's Wife is probably the dodgiest of her outings so far, though that is not the fault of her or Eric Bana who do trojan work in helping the audience to invest in this improbable situation. People I know who are fans of the book seem to be slightly let down, and I have to admit that this is one of those films with such an irrisistable premise that this bland, inoffensive weepy is more of a disappointment then it might otherwise be. But McAdams and Bana was sweet, charismatic and work hard at giving subtlety and nuance to the whole thing.

I'm Back!

Need to get the brain cells working again... Posting will resume in the next day or so...

Let The Right One In

I was so very excited about seeing this film. I had read rave after rave from American critics at the end of last year. English critics similarly tripped over themselves to praise this Swedish vampire-cum-coming-of-age film. I will watch anything with vampires, and when I read genuine enthusiasm from jaded film writers, it can only make me more excited.

This is a beautiful, measured, thoughtful film, made with care and precision. And yet I was rarely engaged by anything that was happening on screen. In fact, I found the whole movie a frustrating experience. I could see precisely the things about the film that made some viewers so excited without ever being truly moved by the story or characters.

Let the Right One In is about a young, slightly disturbed and lonely boy (Oskar) who befriends a strange girl (Eli) who moves into the flat next to his. It turns out this girl is a vampire, who is kept fed by an elderly ‘minder’ who murders locals and drains them of blood for her. The story maps out their relationship when the vampire’s minder is killed.

It’s a beautifully economical plot which gives the writer and director a lot to play with. The cinematography in a blindingly white working class Swedish housing estate is gorgeous and gives the film a novel backdrop against which its vampire tale can unfold. Many of the fantastical elements of the film are handled in an off-hand, casual manner which initially increases the horror and suspense.. The first half of the film is genuinely chilling at times.

But for me, the film just never develops beyond its interesting premise. Part of this is the focus on Oskar, a character whose victimisation seemed to be the sum total of his actual personality. This may have had something to do with the young actor who played him, who I thought was bland and completely unable to handle any of the more difficult dramatic elements. I felt completely distanced from him throughout.

The film also has some awkward tone switches which ruined the mood of the film at several key moments. Two stand out in particular – an attack by crazed CGI cats and the final attack on the bullies from Eli. These sequences destroy the delicate, chilling timbre of the film is an attempt at some Grand Guignol horror. Unfortunately they are so poorly executed that they instead descend into campy horror and the film never really recovers from that.

The one unqualified success was the depiction of Eli, both in performance and writing. She is an intriguingly enigmatic mixture of pathetic, lonely girl and disturbing monster and I love how both the actress and the filmmakers root her in absolute reality. Lina Leadersson plays these contradictions beautifully, and really is on another level entirely from the rest of the cast.

Her character also seems to fire the imagination of the writer in a way that nobody else does. Perhaps the most frustrating thing about this film is that I don’t think the writer developed the most interesting threads from his plot. For me, Oskar’s story is the most boring and conventional – it is Eli, her relationship with her ‘minder’ and his history which fascinated most. That ultimately isn’t what this film is about and it’s a real shame.

I think this is also a case of having expectations which were just too high. If I had discovered this film at a festival as many critics did, or through word of mouth on DVD or late night channel surfing, then it is likely that it would have had a much higher impact. But by the time it reached these shores, Let the Right One In was proclaimed one of the great vampire tales, and one of the year’s best films. That’s a daunting prospect for any film to live up to and it simply wilted in the glare of that scrutiny.

Blame the Bankers?

The G20 circus is coming to London this week. Because I work in London Bridge, I should have a pretty good view of the beginning of one of the marches on Wednesday. Some of the banks and businesses around here seem to have gotten a bit hysterical about what may or may not happen.

Wednesday has been called Financial Fools Day and four marches will depart from different train stations to rendezvous at Bank. London Bridge gets the Money Crimes march which will be led by a silver Horseman of the Apocalypse. Brilliantly, you can also apparently join the horse in eating the bankers in some kind of metaphorical zombie gorefest.

In order to prevent the metaphorical from becoming real, bankers have hilariously been told to wear chinos on the day to fool the crowd into thinking they are just regular joes. I think they could have been a bit more imaginative – why not hold a prize for the best disguise in your office? You could have your staff dress as deliverymen, contractors or trades people or even tourists. Just wear unflattering shorts and carry a big camera and et voila, you can sneak past all those dirty fucking hippies.

Seriously though, those in power should probably welcome these protests. They help people feel like they have ‘done something’ about their anger and helps to dissipate it. Lots of people like to claim that showing up at the Iraq war march was a brave act of rebellion, but the hundreds of thousands of people who did march on the day in 2003 rarely followed it up with any concrete action. They got to have their Big Day Out and then pretty much went back to their lives.

I also feel that the concentration on the actions of the banks is rather misplacing the anger that people should be feeling. A banker’s job is to make money for themselves and their shareholders. The fact that they were coming up with increasingly bizarre and byzantine methods to achieve this should not be shocking to anybody. Anybody who could survive in that testosterone fuelled nightmare is pretty much inured to ethical issues regarding whether or not they should be doing what they were doing. That they made so much money for so long was all the justification that they needed.

Which is why we are supposed to have watchdogs and regulators. That’s why I think, as disgusted as I am with the actions of muchof the banking sector, the anger I feel is really towards the politicians and especially to the New Labour government. This appears to be the logical extension of a Labour government which sought to soften but essentially leave unchanged the rampant capitalism of Thatcher’s Britain. It is the government that was asleep at the wheel, allowing these banks and financial institutions a free hand to metasize into bloated, blubbery institutions. It was the government and specifically New Labour who, afraid of being tarnished with a lefty brush, took a hands off approach to regulation. And it was the government who were happy to allow wage stagnation and income inequality to grow to sickening levels because of a belief in the essential goodness of the free market.

I am no socialist – I believe that capitalism is an important drive for personal liberty. But the mistake seems to have been an assumption that the free market is a benign institution instead of one which is morally neutral. It requires that governments take an active role in curbing its worst excesses and channelling its benefits so as broad a number of people as possibly can derive some benefit.

Gordon Brown increasingly seems like a man who lucked out while Chancellor – that he was able to parlay a couple of years of decent growth into a widely held belief that he was some kind of economics genius. Instead, he appears to have sacrificed long term stability and social cohesion for the thrill of short term gains and lionisation from the business and financial sectors, groups who were once openly hostile to Labour.

That’s why I can’t get too excited about the whole Blame the Bankers brigade. I think they are going after the wrong target and it lets the very mistakes and sins of the politicians go relatively unremarked.

1 in 6 Therapists are stupid or bigoted

Normally I skip the Metro in the mornings. The paper is about as bland and boring as you can get – like the evening free sheets, it is just about the laziest way of digesting news imaginable.

But the headline on the paper yesterday morning was enough not only to shock me, but to put me in a bad mood for the rest of the day. According to research published in a medical journal this week, 16% of all counsellors have attempted to cure their patients of homosexuality.

That statistic is so incomprehensible that I need to quote it again just to let it sink in…

16% of counsellors actually admitted to trying to cure their patients of homosexuality.

That means that 1 out of every six counsellors believe that homosexuality is something that can be changed with enough therapy. I am sure they were only thinkinfg of their clients best interests and not the thousands of pounds they could gouge out of these helpless people by stretching out that cure over an insane time period.

And just how exactly do they intend to ‘cure’ homosexuality. The only known cures come from the fringe end of the Christian fundamentalist right who seem to advocate strict gender roles and lots and lots of praying. So women get to wear make-up and skirts (though not too much because you don’t want to be a slut) and men get to be more manly. Add some prayers and POOF! you’re no longer one a poof. It reminds me of the underwear gnomes from South Park and their plan for world domination.

According to the study, many of these therapists have used aversion therapy to try and rid people of their evil and perverse urges. Aversion therapy is a nice, clinical term for zapping your private parts with electric shocks while showing you pictures of sexy men. The hope is that you will eventually associate pain with sexy men. This was all the rage about fifty years ago but since the medical and psychiatric professions are supposed to have moved on a little from the time that they gave electric shock therapy to women who didn’t want to be slaves to the cooker, it is a little surprising to see it still being used.

What these therapists are actually doing is ensuring that years down the line, these men and women who are led to believe that their homosexuality can be cured will be forced into relationships which will make them deeply unhappy and unfulfilled. Their unhappiness and depression will radiate outwards, encompassing their partners, families and friends. It could lead to domestic violence, higher rates of STIs, self harm and suicide. This is something that I can speak with some confidence on since I hear it all the time from people ringing the switchboard. Their stories, as individually tragic as they are, all carry the same basic components of denial, repression and misery.

The reasons that therapists have offered to help ‘convert’ LGB people are religion, family and social pressures and the person’s unhappiness. There seems to be little understanding that what makes the person unhappy isn’t their orientation but precisely the religious, family and social prejudices which enforces a blinkered and prejudiced view. Instead of helping a person to build their confidence and self worth with a view to being able to successfully deal with this prejudice, they push spurious and thoroughly discredited treatments. The therapists who do this because of their own religious or moral beliefs about the ‘perversity’ of homosexuality should be especially ashamed.

What worries me most is that if 17% of therapists will actually admit this, then it probably happens on a much wider scale then that. There will be those who will not wish to admit to it because of a sense that it is not ‘politically correct’. I think those who have admitted to peddling what amounts to witch doctor mumbo jumbo should be named so that people can be protected against their predatory acts.

It’s sometimes good to be reminded why we need to have services like switchboard around, despite the vast strides that we have made as a community. There will always be those who continue to be marginalised and victimised because they love a person of the same sex.

And The Band Played On

I often spend my time railing against journalists and journalism. After spending 4 years studying for a degree and some time working in the media after, I feel like I know enough about the whole industry to generally be completely appalled by most of what actually goes on.

My dirty secret is that I am something of a romantic and an idealist. I try to mask that behind cynicism but it leaks out in all sorts of unexpected ways. That romance and idealism is part of what drove me towards journalism – a genuine desire to do something good. But like most things in life, it is never that simple and it didn’t work out.

I tend to stereotype all journos as grasping bastards. I don’t truly believe that, but I think the economics of the media consistently discourage the type of journalism that I truly admire. Subjectivity is not necessarily a bad thing in journalism. Indeed, sometimes it is the fetishisation of objectivity which I think causes the most danger. There are many issues where in the interests of maintaining a certain ‘balance’ journalists will allow outright falsehoods to be printed on a range of issues. Writers and editors seem paralysed by having to adjudicate between genuine disputes and afraid to say when arguments are being created for specific moral or social reasons (eg abstinence-only sex education or the teaching of biology and specifically evolution in schools).

All of this is to say that sometimes a righteous subjectivity, when backed up by solid research and facts, has a way of cutting through the bullshit and producing a piece of writing which is genuinely thrilling and enlightening. Randy Shilts is My New Favourite Person in the World right now because of his book And the Band Played On which I devoured in a couple of days and promptly re-read just because of how good it is.

The book is brilliant piece of investigative journalism which takes a sweeping look at the early years of the AIDS epidemic from a dizzying array of scientific, political and social angles. The book is like a mosaic picture; Shilts lays each small tile one by one, layering on anecdotes, statistics, profiles, details from Congressional hearings, private memos and diaries and most affectingly, the tragic fears of those truly affected.

The picture which emerges left me breathless. This is a book which is over 600 pages long and yet reads as compulsively as a thriller and is as heartbreaking as a great tragedy. Shilts’ anger flows through his prose, but it is a controlled anger, focussed and relentless at picking apart the massive institutional failures as well as the occasional successes of the AIDS epidemic. The book is not just an angry rant – there moments of mordant humour throughout as well as great displays of courage and love. Most importantly, he gives humanity and dimension to those affected at all levels by the virus; to the scientists and officials who struggled desperately against federal indifference, institutional homophobia and crippling political correctness, to those families and friends who watched their loved ones die and to the thousands of men and women who were cut down, most of them in the prime of their lives.

The amount of research in this book is mind boggling. Not only does Shilts carefully lay out all the myriad of conflicting attitudes and turfs amongst the gay community (which he would be expected to know since he played some role in them), but he is equally adept at describing international scientific disputes, public health bureaucracies and political backroom dealing. There are many heroes that emerge from this story at all levels, and only a few outright villains. What makes the book ultimately so frustrating is that Shilts shows that the epidemic did not have to be as bad as it turned out to be, but that the forces working against an effective early reaction were just too strong. You understand perfectly where it all went to shit, while still being under no impression that this was an inevitable situation.

Shilts also wrote The Mayor of Castro Street, a book I have previously sung the praises of and one which provided such an incredible foundation for the very moving Milk. His last book, Conduct Unbecoming, about gay in the military will be next on my list. For a really beautiful treatment of his life, then this article is hard to beat.

Rant Alert! Razi the Nazi does it again

I try not to get too hung up on what the Catholic Church does anymore. I grew up within the Church and was never exposed to any of the abuses. All the priests I had seemed to be nice men and one or two were genuinely kind and decent. I don’t think I was badly affected in any way by church attendance apart from the sheer boredom of having to do it every Sunday. It never caused any kind of mental anguish for me when I realised I was gay.

But the statements by Pope Razi and Nazi since he has been appointed pontiff have become increasingly shrill and hardline. Over Christmas, we had his memorable statement that the threat of homosexuality was greater then the destruction of the rain forests (who knew we had such power?!). A couple of weeks ago, he was de-excommunicating a bunch of extreme right wingers, one of whom was an insane Holocaust denier. The Church then defended the excommunication of a mother who allowed her 9 year old daughter to undergo an abortion after being raped by her stepfather in Brazil. And now, on a tour of Africa, he has said that condoms aren’t the answer to the epidemic of HIV in the region and could make the problem worse.

To be fair to Razi, he has a point. The only way to protect yourself from catching the virus through sexual contact is abstinence. This is what the Catholic Church teaches, and in strict medical terms, they are correct. In a perfect, hermetically sealed world where nobody had a libido and perfect access to full public health information, this would be acceptable. But unfortunately for the Catholic Church, their vision of the world is nothing like the one we all live in. Their vision is one which is so much at odds with the reality of dealing with an epidemic as horrifying as AIDS, that they should be ashamed of every utterance which drips from their mothballed and incomprehensible dogma.

The problems of dealing with AIDS in Africa are enormous. The cultural barriers to proper treatment, encompassing issues around gender, sexual orientation, poverty and religious fundamentalism make the work of public healh authorities and NGOs a Sisyphean task. The Church could play a role in this by helping to moderate the extreme wing of Catholicism which has taken root in many regions and recognising that some degree of flexibility around condom use at the very least is the only moral way to approach the issue. Instead, Razi has decided to pander to the worst instincts of the Church and ignore the endemic suffering the region. His call will be taken up by priests and bishops throughout the region who continue to make false and murderous claims to prevent people from using condoms to protect themselves from infection.

The Church, as ever, has no shame.

Watching Watchmen

I liked it better than I thought I would…

OK if that sounds like I am damning it with faint praise, then I guess I am. I was briefly excited by Watchmen, but my fears for the film grew after I read the comic. I could just feel the compromises which might have to be made in the transfer to the big screen and I thought that’s what ultimately would take away some of the idiosyncrasy that made the comic so good. Lastly, as I mentioned when I wrote about the comic, what was groundbreaking over twenty years ago does not necessarily carry the same cache now.

With all those caveats included, there is a lot to admire in this film. I would imagine that Snyder largely got the film he wanted – length issues aside (which I will discuss later), this is very much his vision of the comic and it plays precisely to his strengths and weaknesses as a director. His strengths are an ability to fully visualise a concept, to make it fast moving and exciting without seeming wearying. As much as I hated 300, I can’t deny that there is immense technical skill there. I loved his re-imagining of Dawn of the Dead. And though Watchmen is about 2 hours 45 minutes long, I was never bored. I thought the structure of having to condense 12 chapters into one piece would lead to major pacing issues, but I was wrong. It moves really well for the most part. It’s also startlingly beautiful at times, and the ‘speed ramping’ technique didn’t bother me half as much as I expected.

I also think that Snyder is good with actors – in films as big as his, he seems to be good at picking unusual performers who can give the goods in demanding technical situations. The cast of Watchmen is a hodge-podge of B-listers and almost complete unknowns, yet each of them (aside from one major role) deliver. Rorschach is getting the majority of the praise and deservedly so – Jackie Earle Healey is brilliantly bleak and uncompromising in the role and Patrick Wilson is understated and charming. I think though I should give a special mention to Matthew Goode. Goode plays Veidt and this seems to be the role which has been most radically re-thought in comparison to the comic book. I actually really like how Snyder and his writers have shaped the character and I think Goode does an excellent job.

OK, so that’s what I liked about Watchmen – it was pretty uncompromising, stylish, nicely paced and well acted. But there are also major problems with the film which ultimately derail it and prevent it from becoming the dark masterpiece that so many fans were hoping for.

First, as good as I think Snyder can be with actors (Dawn of the Dead is filled with great supporting turns anchored by a fine, flinty performance from Sarah Polley), he really sells the women of Watchmen short. Laurie is turned into a bit of a whiney cocktease. I had a problem with her in the comic where she never had the stature of the other characters. Moore didn’t seem very interested in exploring what it would be like for Laurie to be the only female in the group outside of whatever sexual tension she generated. It doesn’t help matters that Malin Ackerman is one of the weaker actors in the ensemble.

The biggest hurdle for me though, is despite the good to great work done by a lot of very talented people, the whole thing just didn’t come together emotionally at the end. I have read how some viewers were devastated by the ending of the film, and both times I didn’t get it. I wasn’t invested enough emotionally in these characters, in their respective redemptions or damnations to be moved. The Dark Knight, for all its sprawl, worked emotionally – you felt the devastation of the death of Rachel for both Harvey and Bruce and it drove the final act of the film. There is no corresponding emotional pitch in Watchmen and it suffers in the end from having a lot of build up without no real release.

In the comic, the destruction of New York has real weight. It is a horrifying moment and artist Dave Gibbon is allowed several pages of pure artwork to depict the savagery that results from Veidt’s plan. Snyder flubs this moment completely – for a film which is so intensely and gruesomely violent at times, the massacre of millions is treated with an almost off-hand casualness. This makes the aguish felt by the characters in the film less immediate and desperate than in the comic and so the moral compromise of Veidt, Laurie, Dan, Adrian and Dr Manhattan doesn’t seem that big a deal.

The film also seems to be a bit confusing for newcomers, both as a result of trying to condense so much back-story into the running time but also through choices made by the filmmakers. I went to see this with one of my best friends, a pretty clued in guy, and he was confused about several points in the film. This isn’t a case of just needing a second viewing, but in essential plot points that needed to be communicated. In addition, the film seems to muddy-up the precise nature of the costumed heroes. I thought it was fairly clear from the book that only Dr Manhatten and perhaps Ozmandiyus had abilities which would be considered ‘special’ – everybody else had a combination of technology, intelligence and training to do their job. But Snyder seems to imply in the fight scenes and especially with Rorschach that the Watchmen have genuine outlandish abilities.

Finally, the make-up is the one technical area where the film badly slips up. Richard Nixon looks like he is auditioning for a bad amateur production of Cyrano de Bergerac while Carla Guigino’s performance is ruined by some terrible old age make-up (take a look at the great work done on Kate Winslet in The Reader to get an idea of how it should be done).

There was a fair bit of chatter on the internet how Watchmen could be a gamechanger of a blockbuster. I don’t think so – The Dark Knight seems to have pipped it there and frankly Watchmen is by no means the best comic book film I have seen (Batman Returns, Spiderman 2, The Dark Knight and perhaps Hellboy 2 are my current favourites). But it does push the envelope in interesting ways and I think Snyder and his collaborators deserve praise for the care and skill they did show.

Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit

Gordon Brown is a Grade A, giant honking dickhead. Seriously, he is an ass face of epic proportions.

According to BBC News, Brown was meeting with gay rights groups in Downing Street and spoke out against the homophobia of Proposition 8 in California. That was the ballot initiative that stripped gay couples of full marriage rights.

Except, here’s the thing. Gay Californians already have access to domestic partnership benefits which are largely on par with the civil partnerships which the Labour Government instituted in 2005. If what the fuckwads who voted for Prop 8 were homophobic, then Brown’s own civil partnerships law is homophobic because it entrenched in law the same separation. It refused to acknowledge that gay relationships were on par with straight ones.

Here is what our dear leader was quoted as saying;

Mr Brown said "this attempt to undo good that has been done is unacceptable".
He added: "This shows why we have always got to be vigilant, always got to fight homophobic behaviour and any form of discrimination."
He also praised equality campaigners in the UK for "changing opinion" about same-sex unions. "You have shown how the legislative process, by your pressure, can respond," he said.

Yes, it can respond by enshrining the idea that gay people are not eligible for full marriage rights. And that he had the gall to say this in front of gay campaigners who would no doubt know far more about the whole situation than him is profoundly stupid.

Seriously, this is one of those moments where I have just had enough of Brown. I will no doubt kick myself in the near future for saying this, but can he just fuck off somewhere far away?

Entertaining Mr Sloane

Joe Orton is one of those playwrights that I have always ‘known’ about but not actually read any of his work. A couple of months ago I read the brilliant biography Prick Up Your Ears after hearing the movie repeatedly eulogised by some of my best friends. I loved the book – again, it’s one of those biographies which ably highlights the life of the central figure and those surrounding him, but also gives you a tangible sense of the world they lived in and how Orton was shaped, reflected and contributed to its change.

And yet, I haven’t sought out any of his plays to read, mostly because I find reading plays a frustrating experience. In a similar way to reading screenplays, I just find it difficult to imagine the full impact of something. I can admire the language, the structure and characters but still rarely become fully engaged. This is especially true for comedies where so much relies on performance and timing.

That’s why I felt lucky enough to be able to see Entertaining Mr Sloane at the Trafalgar Studios 2 weeks ago. One of only three full length stage plays that Orton wrote before his brutal murder, I always got the impression that Sloane was the slight red-headed stepchild of Loot and What the Butler Saw, and if that is the case, then I can’t wait to see the other two. I loved Sloane – it was one of the funniest nights out in the theatre I have had in ages.

Much of this is due to two performances – Imelda Staunton as Kath and Simon Paisley Day as her brother Ed, who battle for the body of Sloane (Matthew Horne). Both of these performers are brilliantly at maintaining an almost frenzied pitch of sexual excitement and discomfort that never bubbles over into being shrill. I thought Staunton was playing a bit too broad in the opening scenes, but her seduction scene with Horne was superb. Meanwhile, Day is hysterical playing a man so tightly wound that he threatens to spring out at any moment.

The battle between these characters and Sloane turns surprisingly tough in the second act – I was genuinely surprised by the level of nihilism and misogyny in the play. I don’t mean to sound like a prude; there was nothing here that particularly shocked me. But I have a long experience of disappointment with supposedly extreme and shocking cultural works from the sixties which look oddly toothless now. Sloane still packs a punch and this production gives full vent to that.

The one element which didn’t really work was Matthew Horne as Sloane. He was good enough in the opening scenes but as the play continued, he got increasingly out of his depth. Firstly, the blonde wig he wears was a mistake, the only lapse in an otherwise exemplary designed and directed show. But Horne never exuded the dangerous, ambivalent sexuality that the role was screaming for. He is a nice looking bloke without a shred of sensuality and thus makes it difficult to believe him as the catalyst for Kath and Ed’s extreme reactions. This is a huge shame, because I think with a better actor in the role, this trio would have been hard to beat. As it is, the production is very good, but it has a hole at the centre that prevents it from being truly memorable.

Revolutionary Road

I finally got to see The Great Kate in Revolutionary Road, the film that most critics believe she should have been nominated for. Good a she is in The Reader, the role doesn’t really allow her to dig into the character of Hanna. You can’t say the same about the role of April Wheeler - this film lives or dies on the basis of Kate and Leo’s performances, and the truth is the film more than lives. Their work is amazing - soulful, passionate and complex. They elevate the film above its rather pedestrian script and somewhat unimaginative direction. It helps that they are backed by strong supporting cast who manage to add a great deal of nuance that isn’t really suggested by the screenplay.

This is one of those situations where I wonder what it would be like for people to see who haven’t read the book. As I said a couple of months ago, this is bruising material - the Wheelers are the horror version of a golden couple turned rotten, casually destroying one another in a series of brutal fights and actions which ultimately destroys them both.

The film is very faithful to the narrative and spirit of the book. It in no way sugar coats the actions of either of the characters - they act like real shits, but you do understand where each is coming from and there is a tragedy to their situation. I was slightly concerned that the film may come off as melodramatic and forced, but I should have realised that Kate and Leo have honed their craft to such a diamond-sharp precision that they manage to sidestep all the pitfalls.
I really admire Leo for taking this role. Frank is ultimately a weak, arrogant man, who has no real insight into April and Leo doesn’t shy away from playing that ugliness. He is excellent in the role and I think unfairly overlooked in the awards season - I think this is one of his strongest adult roles yet. Michael Shannon is spectacular in two scenes as ‘the crazy guy who speaks the truth’ breathing life into what is essentially a clichéd cipher.

But it is Winslet who ultimately owns this film. April can appear an inscrutable character but I don’t understand who some reviewers seem mystified by her motivations at different point in the movie. She has extreme reactions, but it always seemed fairly clear where they cane from. Winslet is so amazingly adept at showing fleeting, unspoken emotions that she comes closest to portraying the awesome psychological depth of the original novel. April’s illusions about her own and Frank’s lives are shattered by the end of the story and Winslet is devastating in the film’s final scenes.

The film is beautifully mounted and shot and Mendes once again shows that, while he isn’t the most visually inventive of directors, he has an amazing ability to elicit stunning work from actors, The main problem is the script, which is workmanlike. It would be enormously difficult to translate Yates’ acute observations, but the screenplay never really digs as deep as it should, It is the supporting characters who suffer the most. I can’t really blame their desire to concentrate on the Wheelers but even elements of their past which seem essential (such as April’s relationship with her parents) have been excised.

Definitely not the best choice for a date movie, but it is a good, sometimes brilliant adaptation.

Watchmen

I had a similar reaction to reading Watchmen that I did to Revolutionary Road and In Cold Blood. All of these books were trailblazers in their own ways, virtually inventing the conventions that would become clichés over the years. All three are superbly written (and in Watchmen’s case, brilliantly drawn) and yet the sheer force of their influence has diluted their impact for me.

I can’t imagine what the impact would have been if I had read this twenty years ago, when what Moore and Gibbons were doing was fairly revolutionary. But I have seen superheroes deconstructed over and over again in the last decade - its virtually impossible to have a hero anymore without some acknowledgement of mental damage or kinkiness. I know that is thanks to the foundation built by Watchmen but it makes reading thee book a slight anti-climax.

Lots of things bother me about the comic. I don’t think the climax works all that well - as I have read pointed out again and again, the final book is simply an extended monologue from the ‘villain’ of the piece explaining his plan in excruciating detail. The lead-up the this revelation felt curiously flat. The highpoints for me are the prison break and the Laurie/Dr Manhattan stuff on Mars and I didn’t feel the narrative kept much sense of urgency towards the end.

As expansive as this world felt (and much of that detail is beautifully handled in both text and image) I don’t think it really addressed how or what the costumed heroes actually did inn their hey day. How did they fight crime? Was it a case of superior technology? Strength? Did they have some extra X-Factor? Maybe I am being nitpicky but this is something that genuinely bothered me all the way through.

Saying this, the characters are excellent. I loved Dr Manhattan and Night Owl II and wished that they had the time to go into The Comedian and Silk Spectre 1 a little bit more.. Rorschach seems to be a bit of a fan favourite but, frankly, there was something about the character that whiffed of a what a thirteen year old boy would find cool. My main problem is with Laurie, aka Silk Spectre II, who I thought was repetitive and irritating in way that no other character was. She didn’t seem to have much of an arc and frankly her personality would been enough to drive me to Mars.

There were other elements I adored - such as the horrific story interlaced involving the Black Freighter which was nightmarish yet hugely compelling. Up until the final book, I admired the structure of the thing - how you got bits and pieces of the puzzle but you just went with it, anticipating that it would make sense at the end. And despite my antipathy towards the eventual denouement, I think Moore did bring it all together. As a piece of imaginative alterno-world fiction, it had irresistible moments.

But that’s all it was for me - stunning moments in a story that never quite added up to the sum of its parts. As an aspiring writer, I cant deny how inspiring the whole thing is - in much the same way as Buffy, it shows how much juice you can get out of something when you treat such apparent flippant genre fair with appropriate gravity. Though I think that Watchmen looks its age, there is no denying the power of its story.

The film should be very interesting…

Awesome Oscars

This may have been the most purely enjoyable Oscars in years.

I say this not only because of the ceremony itself, but also because of the circumstances I saw it in. I grew up watching the Oscars. When I was younger, it was a bit of an annual event, where I would spend the night at my aunt’s house with her and my cousin and stay up all night watching it. As I am (unfortunately!) not able to do that anymore, my eagle-eyed friend came up with an alternative - Rich Mix in Shoreditch held an Oscars Party in their main hall, which included a couple of dozen fellow Oscar freaks in fancy clothes, sipping champagne and wine and watching the ceremony, with a hugely enjoyable table quiz beforehand. I stumbled out of there at 5.00am with my friend Rob after having a brilliant night. That is definitely the way I want to view the ceremony is future.

As for the ceremony itself – well it always helps to be slightly tipsy on cheap champagne and rip-off wine, but I thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing. Unlike the last couple of years, this felt like it was a gracious, fun celebration of the year in film and less like a competition. I think this feeling was immeasurably helped by having previous winners celebrate the current nominees directly instead of a tired clips package. I know this format has come in for a fair amount of criticism, and while it didn’t work perfectly, I thought it truly allowed the nominee to feel prized even if they didn’t win the actual award. And it led to lovely moments such as the one shared by Shirley McLaine and Anne Hathaway and DeNiro and Penn.

The winners were all gracious and sweet and emotional in all the right ways. Nobody embarrassed themselves, and several of the speeches were actually heart-felt and memorable. I think Sean Penn and especially the criminally attractive Dustin Lance Black should both be particularly proud about their speeches for their Milk awards. On a purely superficial level, the amount of Slumdog winners led to a pleasing sense of diversity amongst the award winners.

And Hugh Jackman should definitely be given the gig again next year. He was relaxed, sweet, VERY sexy and completely at ease on the stage. His opening musical number had some completely inspired moments – the piss take on The Reader, the cheap looking cardboard sets, but I have to give special mention to the brilliance of the moment with Anne Hathaway. She managed to be utterly endearing and hilarious in about 90 seconds of stage time, and Christ, what a brilliant voice. Get her a musical role NOW!

Not everything worked – the second musical sequence was a bit jumbled, the in memorium section seemed badly staged and you just can’t escape from how awkward some of the scripted presenting duos sound. But it didn’t detract from the evening too much.

However, if Hugh Jackman isn’t available next year, can I suggest Tina Fey and Steve Martin?

Reading Matter 3 - A New Moon

I wrote quite admiringly about the original Twilight film and book. I finally picked up the second book and had my worst fears confirmed; Stephanie Meyer is a one trick pony. The dreamy, romantic intensity which gave Twilight its propulsion turns into turgid, ridiculous melodrama in A New Moon. The quotidian aspect of the vampires in the original novel is replaced with clumsy, amateurish attempts at expanding the mythology of her world. And Bella and Edward, who attained a kind of perfect ion in their teen torment come off as lunatic manic-depressives in this book. Bella in particular frequently acts in a completely infuriating and mental manner throughout - she seems incapable of putting together even the simplest of thoughts and her lack of confidence, which was charming in the first book, is ludicrously overplayed in this story. Seriously, I have no idea outside of her smell (apparently) why Edward would want to be near her. Meyer has some interesting ideas about the pack instinct of the werewolves, and Jacob is charming in the first half of the novel, but that plot line is ceremoniously dumped in favour of a stupid jaunt to Italy and some sub-Anne Rice posturing.

Reading Matter 2 - Kill Your Neighbours

I think this was the perfect antidote to Library. This is a nasty, brutally direct, thoroughly disreputable trashy novel that I read in about 4 or 5 hours and loved every brainless, superficial moment. It’s sort of a poor man’s American Psycho set in the music industry at the height of he BritPop era of the late nineties. It features pretty extreme sex and violence, is told completely from the perspective of a lead character that makes Mengele look like Dr Doolittle and it was just the ticket to blow the cobwebs of Hollinghurst away. Ultimately, the book is thoroughly forgettable but I can’t deny that there was a type of lunatic, diseased genius at work. It takes a lot to make me laugh out loud at a book, but this one had me in pretty audible stitches throughout. It’s the perfect beach novel.

Reading Matter 1 - The Swimming Pool Library

This is the second time I have read a Hollinghurst novel and I pretty much had the sae reaction as when I read The Line of Beauty. Hollinghurst is a beautiful stylist who ultimately write books which are emotionally dead. I can’t deny that The Swimming Pool Library and Beauty are the works of somebody with an awesome command of the English language. But, at least for me, they have no pulse - no soul. I remained completely unmoved throughout Library, apart from some moments towards the end concerning Lord Nantwich. I feel like I am missing something by not appreciating these novels more; but in each one, the main character is brilliantly described, completely believable and an absolute shit that I couldn’t care less what happens. The stylistic touches just aren’t enough to keep me interested.