My Booky-Wook Bloggy-Wog

I used to read all the time. Seriously. I read so much, I gave myself headaches. I'd even read the back of cereal boxes when I was having breakfast. I wrote alot, too, and would write and illustrate comic books when other kids were doing normal things like climbing trees (I didn't quite have the co-ordination for tree climbing... I fell over ALOT).
However, studying English scunnered me of the habit for quite a while... I hated having to dissect EVERYTHING I liked, and even more I hated doing a full term about Shakespeare. And not even the plays I'd heard of. I just found it really dry and tedious, the language really hard to decipher, and the hardcore literary geeks in my class didn't appreciate me giggling like a schoolboy at 'Coriolanus'. (Heeheehee! Anus! Toilet humour high five anyone?)

ANYWAY. Aside from rock star biographies, I've not really read much of note in the last few years. (Example- the last few books I've read all the way through have been The Dirt- The Story of Motley Crue, Never Enough: The Story of The Cure, The Heroin Diaries, and Heavier Than Heaven- The Biography of Kurt Cobain). Studying art didn't really encourage me either... aside from pretty picture books about Tracey Emin's manky bed, or Dali's fabulous moustache or, at a push, Peter Biskind's modern film histories like Easy Riders, Raging Bulls.
Recently though, I've started to get back into reading- particularly encouraged by our screenwriting classes and content origination. We're pretty much told that we can't expect inspiration to come to us- we have to look to other sources beyond what is immediately around us. Plus, I'd found that when I was writing my own stuff it was all kind of journalistic and dull- not terribly exciting, and not terribly progressive either.

SO. I decided I'd take advantage of Borders' closing down sale (sniff!) and, inspired by our Heavy Emotional Cathartic Post Secret class, bought what I thought would be an interesting foray into the life of a screenwriter...

In fact, James Brown's (no, not that one) L.A. Diaries is in fact the true story of a writer struggling to get his big break in Hollywood- all the while crippled by his addictions with drink and drugs, and barely managing to be a father to his children. The book flicks back and forth between his life, although not chronologically, through his disturbed childhood, his days as a promising young university student, his week-long motel bound drug binges and the premature deaths of his sister and brother through cocaine and alcohol. Hardly the kind of inspiration I was looking for, really. Still, I managed to read it in abour 2 days- a rare feat nowadays.
Starkly written, and unflinchingly honest, it's quite difficult to read at some points- but it struck a chord with me, weirdly, because of the class we'd had that day.
The way Brown wrote about his experiences with such clarity, exposing his most vulnerable moments and deepest depressions for all to read, really hammered home how much of themselves writers have to bring to the table. There's no point writing about what you don't know, or don't believe in, because then it's false- and no one else will believe it either. It's something that makes me a bit uneasy- I'm not one for 'opening up', really, and if I do it's in a journal bound by lock and key... Alot of it probably had to do with being out of practise- aside from boring mandatory essays I hadn't done any writing in years. It's something I'm developing as our course progresses though. I've found that if I force myself to sit and write, when I have free time, it becomes more of a habit and I find myself actually making time to do it, rather than finding time... weird huh?


On a lighter note, I recently caved in and bought the first Twilight book. I'd tried watching the film, but it was soooo depressing. The female lead, Bella, spent the entire duration with her face tripping her and I couldn't warm to her at all- she just came across like a spoiled, moody teenager. And you could read Robert Pattison's cue cards all over his face. BAD. However, pretty much everyone who'd seen the film told me to read the book first because 'you fall in love with the character'. So, I've decided to give it a bash- I'm only 100 pages or so into it so far, but already I'm enjoying it better than the film... although admittedly I'm finding it quite hard getting past all the adjectives. It's veeerrrry flowery... really, how hard is it to just say "he said", rather than "it was like a line delivered by a skilled actor"?
Like the Harry Potter series before it, I get the impression the author has a big imagination but not quite the talent to express it... still, what do I know... I've never written a novel, never mind had anything published. Still, it's yet to get into the real juicy stuff, so I'll plough on with it. I'm actually secretly enjoying alot more than I'd admit... if I was 16 I'd totally love it, and be looking for an Edward Cullen of my very own... In saying that, R-Patz is the same age as me!

Well, that's about all from me for now... my eyes are going blurry from staring at my laptop screen for too long, and blogging all day has used up so much of my concentration, that the only thing I can be bothered to read right now is The Book of Bunny Suicides... Which, to be fair, is a classic in itself!

"Every Time A Bell Rings, An Angel Gets Its Wings"

I know I've already trilled on at length about my favourite Christmas movies in a previous blog. But that was October. Since it's now a fortnight til The Big Day, I thought I'd make a special mention for the one film which reminds me of Christmas the most- Frank Capra's It's A Wonderful Life (1946).

I first watched this film when I was really young- I can't quite remember how young, but I do remember it being an early Christmas staple in our house. It's one of my mum's favourites, and I've always associated it with the aftermath of putting up the tree. It's one of the all-time classic feel good films... seriously, even the Grinch and Ebenezer Scrooge couldn't deny the festive magic of It's A Wonderful Life. Considering its year of release, I'd bet everyone was feeling in need of a good pick-me-up and this film is the perfect antidote. It tugs on the heartstrings without ever being phoney or saccharine, and is never rose tinted- for a start, its protagonist begins his journey by contemplating suicide.

At some point or another, everyone feels down and maybe even wonders how life would be if they weren't around- but unlike the rest of us, George Bailley (the legendary James Stewart) actually gets to see how this would be, with a little help from his guardian angel Clarence.

The film follows George's journey through his life without him, and realises that although his lifestyle may be modest, his close-knit town would be alot worse off without him. By the time the film reaches its conclusion, with George realising that after it all he does want to live again. After spending his life giving up his big dreams for the good of the community, he finds he really is the richest man in town.

It's a simple yet original story, elegantly told, perfectly acted and entirely heart warming- a classic tale of despair and redemption, all wrapped up nicely in time for Christmas.

Ah! German Expressionist Zombies!

It's a strange thing, that I don't really think of silent films as 'real' films. I don't consider that they have genres of their own, in the same way modern cinema does- apart from 'comedy' and 'melodrama', that is. Even 'horror'; to me they're all lumped into the general umbrella term of 'silent movies'. Which is a pity, really. It's quite fascinating to watch the products of a medium in its infancy, and how deeply these films have influenced alot of what we watch today.

It's impossible to talk about the lasting effects of the silent movie era without mentioning German Expressionism. Chaplin, Keaton et al might have had a hand in technological development, but in terms of set design, ze Germans have them beaten hands down.

I've already sat through Fritz Lang's Metropolis (and had secretly hoped never to have to watch it again), and its resonances throughout modern cinema are undeniable- Superman, Blade Runner, Star Wars and -my own personal favourite- Tim Burton's Batman all riff heavily from Metropolis. Today, though, we were introduced to another classic from the movement- 1919's The Cabinet of Dr Caligari.

This film is dreamy, macabre, quirky, sinister, baffling and undeniably loony; quite a feat considering it's less than a decade shy of being 100 years old. The set pieces are quite incredible. As soon as we were transported into the story via flashback, I found it instantly recognisable- and I'd never seen it before. It looks like the great-grandfather of The Nightmare Before Christmas; while the somnambulist character Cesare is a dead ringer for Edward Scissorhands. The surreal, slanting, theatrical set pieces wouldn't look out of place in The Mighty Boosh. In short, this film has influenced a fair chunk of my DVD collection, so it's really kinda shocking that I'm only watching it for the first time now.
At first, I couldn't get past the set design to get totally into the story- it's a densely packed set, like some kind of bizarre gothic pantomime captured on film. Even the intertitles are in jagged, erratic text. Watching the film to the end reveals, after all, that the words are those of a madman- hence the crazy font. At the start thought, it takes a while to adjust. Once I got properly into the film, I realised how large a part the psychotic dreamscapes play in telling the story.
Even the story is pretty convoluted- not your typical, straightforward silent film and a million miles away from the Little Tramp.
The film opens with a young man talking to an elderly gent. A young woman comes floating past unaware of them, she looks ghostlike, as if she's in a trance. The young man, Francis, explains that she's his fiancee. And terrible things have caused her current condition to befall her.

His story begins with a travelling fair in his home town; the main event being Dr Caligari and his somnambulist 'puppet' Cesare. Caligari brags that Cesare can predict the future, and when he awakens he predicts the death of Francis' friend Alan, to happen the next day. When the grim prediction comes true, the townspeople are out for blood. Cesare kidnaps Jane and flees, later found dead from exhaustion. Francis tracks Caligari down to a mental asylum- of which he is the Director...or is he? Are he and Cesare really travelling through towns and even time? Or is it Francis himself who is the madman?

The final reel's sucker punch twist is ingenious, one which would put many modern counterparts to shame. Definitely not a film I'd watch for some light entertainment, but it truly exemplifies film as an art form. I'm a huuuuge horror film fan, and since watching Caligari I've realised how immeasurable its influences actually are throughout the genre. I'd even considered whether it could be one of the first 'zombie' films- a character trapped in a half-life limbo? Who stirs from his seemingly eternal sleep only to wreak havoc and bring death and unrest upon humankind? Hmmm...!

It's rare to see a film of its era which has such pyschological depth. Rather than pander to the audience with a happy ending, it forces them to question what they've just seen. The grotesque characters, darkly twisted sets and chilling, involving story all add up to what it rightly hailed as an all time classic- and, as I have now learned, not just a classic 'silent' film.

A Lamb Amongst Lions

Saturday, 5th December. A freezing, drizzly, grey afternoon. Slightly hungover from the birthday celebrations the night before, I dragged myself into town and met with the rest of the DFTV-ers. We were not looking forward to the afternoon ahead. For we, as part of the unholy Creative Beginnings module, were away to attend... A PARTICK THISTLE GAME. My earlier protestations that I'd already been to the football at Parkhead, as a kid, had fallen on deaf ears. This was about 'learning'. 'Engaging'. And most of all, 'surviving'...

Thanks to Julia's driving skillz, we made it to Firhill without a hitch. No thanks to the BBC, our presence at the game had been announced on the news... suffice to say I was feeling a li'l bit apprehensive. I had a horrible feeling, like they knew we'd be coming... they'd be waiting for us. We strode up, casual like, a sort of uneasiness creeping in until eventually we were at the turnstiles. The roar of the crowd was audible from outside the stadium and inside it buzzed in my ears. I heard the rumbling from the seats above us and gulped. We were inside now... all that was left now was to cross the threshold (a feeeeww minutes late) and take our seats. As the game had already started, the Jags fans had already taken their seats and were shouting away. Unfortunately, the only seats left were right. Down. The front. So we had to bypass all the radge Thistle fans and, even better, EVERYONE could see us coming in. I've never felt more out of place in my life, and my bright purple scarf didn't help me blend in to a sea of red and yellow...

Once we took our seats, we attempted to follow what was happening. Well, the rest of 'em did, I was more panicked about our positions- being three rows from the front, I was TERRIFIED every time the ball even came close to our side of the stand. It didn't help that it was bitter cold and my head was still fuzzy from the night before... We spent alot of the time trying to work out if the handful of people in the stand opposite were away fans or not. If so, it was a shame for them- there were maybe only 20 folk there at a push. Still, we tried our best to get into the swing of things- as shown by these smiling faces:

Well, Lucy's smiling face at least! As for the game, there wasn't much in the way of action- well, not up our end anyway. It seemed to be mostly up the other end of the pitch. The poor ol' goalie looked as bored as the Very Cold Man with Camera. We tried to get into it by seeing if there were any hotties on the pitch. I spotted none, Flick found an affiliation with Number 5. We even tried to throw in some chants of our own... I don't think "you're a king amongst men, sir" will ever catch on, but hey! it was worth a shot. Still, we got an earful of the..err... 'colourful' banter from the trackie mob in front of us... "Yer maw's a ride!" was a particular favourite of mine. One thing I remember from going to games with my dad was that I was allowed to swear- no one could hear me anyway and I thought it made me sound soooo grown up. Despite the fact I couldn't see what was going on, cheering and jeering made me feel more a part of the crowd... sadly though, it didn't turn out that way on Saturday! Possibly because I didn't have a scooby what was going on, possibly because the stadium was exactly 'full' and I didn't want to draw any more attention to our corner...

Unfortunately, being vegetarian, I couldn't sample any of the 'tasty' halftime treats. Believe it or not, football catering doesn't offer much for non-meat eaters, but Murray took one for the team and got a good ol' fashioned pie and Bovril. Not that I missed out on the Bovril much- I remember trying it years ago and not being too impressed... like gravy flavoured tea, uuurrrggghh. Ah well, as long as one of us tried it, it still counts...right?

The rest of the game played out and, despite my griping and moaning, it actually wasn't too bad... well, not as bad as I feared anyway. We had a right ol' banter between us, and being the proverbial fish out of water let me view the game completely unbiased. It was weird though, being at a game where I didn't support either team. It left me feeling a bit disengaged, and I wondered how in the hell this related to us at all. A lesson in teamwork maybe? Hmm... Nah, too cheesy. An encouragement to follow sports? ....don't be silly. The reason I got into drama, art and watching films was largely to do with my AWFUL co ordination in the field of athletics, and the fact I fell over quite alot when required to do anything overtly physical. The whole Creative Beginnings thing is supposed to be about getting a feel for all sorts of 'Glesca culture', but considering I'm a weegie anyway it didn't seem all that relevant, or indeed necessary.

In the end, I came to a somewhat shaky conclusion... I thought back to the Screenwriting class when we had to debate a topic, take sides and argue our point. It's alot like football. You choose your team, support them ardently through thick and thin and, more importantly never back down. Like an argument in a debate, you see your team through to the end. You stick to your guns. Same with writing, too. You have to make your audience engage with the characters and scenarios you're presenting them with. And if you manage to get through an entire season without some kind of pie-related poisoning, well, more power to you!

Naaa, na-na-na-na, naaaaa.....

That, by the way, is supposed to be the theme tune to one of the country's most beloved soaps- Coronation Street. Really. Sing those "na-na-na's" to the Corrie theme tune, it fits! Well, what else am I supposed to do with no words? I'm hardly Charlie Chaplin!

I've never been into soaps really- I remember watching Brookside with my mum way back in the Body Under The Patio days, and I got more addicted to Hollyoaks than I'd care to admit in my uni days. Since then my interest in the genre has waned... I don't have the attention span or devotion to get properly involved. Plus, with the exception of the 'oaks, there are never enough pretty people to make it worthwhile watching.

In the last few weeks however, we've been learning about the construction of storylines and how different soaps are to regular ol' TV dramas. With this in mind, I settled down to watch Corrie yesterday (7th December) with a fairly open mind.

Surprisingly, I actually knew more characters than I thought I did- turns out I must have absorbed something whilst staring blankly at the screen when relatives had it on in the background. Plotwise, I didn't have a clue- thank God I had my wee nan, a Corrie devotee, at hand to act as a "Previously on...." for me. I couldn't understand why beige old Ken Barlow was so averse to his son opening a new bar- "his son's an alcoholic". I didn't get why leery old Kevin the Mechanic was drooling over some tubby chav with a face like a pitbull- "they're having an affair and she's going wi' Tyrone as well". Oh, and greasy Dev out the shop and Potato Head Steve McDonald? "They're golf rivals but he (Dev) fancies his golf tutor, but Steve doesn't know it's his golf tutor". Sorted!

From what I could tell, there were three main story threads running through the episode- as well as the aforementioned affair and the Barlow family dispute, there was the beginning of a storyline to revive the Rovers' panto. The golfing story was only touched on briefly in one scene, and kind of brushed aside. Another sub-plot came from the Ken Barlow story; his turkey-necked wife Deirdre angry because Ken's interference with the council had cost her the chance of a new job.
There were some scenes with other characters I didn't quite get, including one boy who was about to join the army, but they didn't seem central to the episode in question. It was fairly easy to catch up on the main points of the story, as it was re-iterated by the characters talking to each other. I wouldn't have known how they were related to each other, though, if I hadn't had outside help!

In terms of action, there didn't really seem to be very much of it. The episode I watched took place the morning after a fight between one character, Clare, and barmaid Becky- and not much ever happens in hangover episodes. The two women later resolved their differences by....planning to organise a panto in the Rovers Return. Err, yes. That's one way to settle an argument indeed.
The episode also featured alot of Ken's blustering about his wayward son, rather than any conflict between the two of them. I really thoroughly disliked him as a character- he's so condescending and dull, it's a wonder Deirdre's gone back to him. He acts like king of the hill, despite mother-in-law Blanch quipping that he got a degree 50 years ago and still gets stuck at the newpaper crossword.

I thought the acting was pretty hammy, and the characters all seemed like dull stereotypes. Most of the typical British soap characters were there: the brassy barmaid, the old lady comic relief, the old stalwart, the 'scarlet woman' (Leanne Battersby)... In saying that, I think my judgement's been changed a little considering what we learned in class. The performances may not be Oscar material, but the characters are acting fairly naturally, and talking like people from that region probably would (minus swearing, of course- it's 'real life', but it's still pre-watershed). I wouldn't say there was any great hook that'd make me want to tune in tomorrow, though. Maybe it's because I've only watched one episode, therefore not had time to get to know any of the characters.

It's amazing, though, how a show can become such a national institution- when I checked the episode guide on ITV Player, the headline read "CORRIE- THE NATION'S STREET". Considering the viewing figures it can command it's not too outlandish a claim. It's truly embedded in British culture; after nearly 50 years many older generations have grown up with the show and passed the tradition onto younger viewers. Personally I don't reckon I'll be in a hurry to tune in again (although if Andy is to be believed, I may have to, to further my screenwriting prowess...). Still, at least it's fairly cheery, and the 'Corrie bubble' provides a wee half hour of escapism for its die-hard fans.

(In comparison, I watched 5 minutes of EastEnders after Coronation Street was done and honest to God, I've never felt closer to suicide in my life. It was like being raped in the soul.)

Silence Is Golden

I have to admit, I was more than a little bit apprehensive when Andy told us we'd be watching silent films as part of our Friday screenings. The only silent film I'd seen before then was DW Griffith's Way Down East (1920), a 2-hour long silent melodrama, which moved along with all the pace of a glacier and mostly involved Lillian Gish reprising her wide-eyed waif routine. Apparently it's an all-time classic... if only it hadn't outstayed its welcome by about 30 minutes.

I'm happy to report, then, that there were no such problems with the films we watched in class- Charlie Chaplin's The Kid (1921) and The Gold Rush (1925), and Buster Keaton's Sherlock Jr (1924). I'd heard of both Chaplin and Keaton, but never actually seen any of their films. I was actually pleasantly surprised- although I think it definitely helped that we watched Richard Attenborough's 1992 biopic, Chaplin. Yeah, it's a pretty flawed film- lurching from Big Drama to Big Drama in Chaplin's life, it tries to cram far too much into its running time. However, the marvellous Robert Downey Jr (who rarely puts a foot wrong anyway) is just brilliant, delivering a powerhouse performance in his first big leading role.

The film was a good introduction to Chaplin, his works and his life, from his poor childhood, his first steps in variety theatre and his big break into film. Despite being a bit far-reaching and ambitious, I absolutely loved it- and not just because of amount of time RDJ is on the screen... It showed a man obsessed with his work, who understood the needs of the common people and understood what his audience wanted despite the phenomenal wealth and success his career brought him. His 'Little Tramp' character was a downtrodden everyman who struggled to get by via a number of comic cirumstances.

The following week, we watched The Kid. In this, the Little Tramp finds a baby boy, abandoned by his unwed mother along with a note pleading with the finder to care for the baby. After several attempts to fob the baby off on passers-by, the Tramp takes him home and raises him as his own. Unfortunately, a few years later, circumstances arise which put their relationship in jeopardy, as the mother (now a famous actress) becomes involved in charitable work. The child falls ill, and authorities try to take him away to the county orphan asylum.
Despite having no dialogue, the film is easy to follow and the performances are wonderful. Chaplin's Tramp is a creation of comic genius, although he can also handle weighty emotional scenes with great sensitivity. I actually felt myself getting totally involved with the characters- the scene where the little boy is being taken away by authorities is just heart-breaking, and I totally rooted for Chaplin's character to save his 'adopted' son. Everything about the film is as perfectly constructed as anything released 90 years later- perhaps more so, considering Chaplin didn't have access to special effects like films today. Can you imagine The Kid or The Gold Rush brought to you by Jerry Bruckheimer? It doesn't bear thinking about!

After this came Chaplin's favourite of his own films, The Gold Rush.
Apparently this is the film Chaplin wanted to be most remembered for, and was the first which he started shooting with a fully written out story. In this, the Tramp travels to Alaska in search of gold. Instead he finds himself in the midst of a storm, taking refuge in a cabin with two fellow prospectors. They have no food, and much comedy ensues when they start to hallucinate with hunger, eventually feasting on the Tramp's boot.
Eventually, the storm passes and he ventures into town, becoming smitten with local dance-hall girl Georgia. The rest of the film follows him trying to win her affections. There are many classic set-pieces in the movie, such as the 'dancing rolls' sequence, a fellow hungry prospector imagining Chaplin as a giant chicken, and the cabin tilting vicariously over the edge of a cliff.
I didn't like it as much as The Kid though. I felt it didn't have quite the same emotional heart- after a while it seemed a little drawn out, although it did have much more accomplished performances. Also, it was lovely to see the Tramp finally make his fortune and keep it- even the most cynical viewer couldn't begrudge the downtrodden prospector his chance at wealth.

The Little Tramp character is one which has endured throughout the arrival of the 'talkies', and it's testament to Chaplin's talent and dedication to his art that it's as endearing and watchable today as it was then. While he made the character to appeal to the working class audience, there's no sense of pandering to the lowest common denominator- he respects his audience. Despite his moniker, the Tramp is a much-loved character, perhaps one of the most recognised in cinematic history. He is downtrodden but also debonair, and his boundless optimism ensures the audience are always on his side.

It's a shame then, for poor old Buster Keaton, star of Sherlock Jr. His deadpan, stoic facial expressions earned him the unfortunate nickname of 'The Great Stone-Face'. Despite being far more technologically advanced than Chaplin, he never quite engaged his audience in the same way. It's a pity, because the film is wonderfully accomplished and, even now, jaw-droppingly inventive. For example, scenes where Keaton's down-on-his-luck projectionist rises out of his own body and jumps into the cinema screen would today be implemented using CGI, without even a second thought. The extended sequence in which Keaton tries to escape the bad guys, while riding the handlebars of a bike without a driver, is perfectly timed, fast-paced and incredibly accomplished.

It's a real pity that Keaton's performance was not as beloved as Chaplin's as The Tramp. However, I did find it difficult to engage with the character as much as Chaplin- whereas the latter's films featured lots of close-ups on his facial expressions and gestures, Sherlock Jr relies heavily on visual effects and long shots to portray the technical wizardry at its best. This seems to be at the expense of any interaction and engagement with the characters- it seems to say "look what I can do", rather than "here's someone you can associate with".

All in all, though, I enjoyed our dip into the water of silent film alot more than I thought I would. It's amazing how much emotion can be portrayed without sound, and what could be achieved when the directors had to create every effect manually, without use of lazy computers. I do think (although maybe it's just me personally) that there's a time limit on how long a silent film can hold my attention- maybe I've just become too used to being brought up in an age of fast-talking, high-concept blockbusters? However, the selection we watched were just long enough for me. Silent films are vitally important in our understanding of cinema as it is nowadays, especially when you realise how many gags, effects and nuances today and pilfered from the silent era. Who knows, maybe after this I'll be ready to give Way Down East another shot...although perhaps with, say, Die Hard With a Vengeance at hand to balance it out? We shall see...