Well, I was right about one thing; Dangerous Parking doesn't get any less depressing.
But it does change in tone. The tone has been one of drifting backwards and forwards through time (the different characters introduced at focal points - Ray, Kirsten, Tiny - making it almost vignette-like in tone) and now the boundaries become ever more blurred. The halo of pain and disaster that descends around Noah as the cancer relentlessly returns to do battle with him makes it gradually more chaotic and sometimes near unreadable.
Not because it's badly written, but because it's written with astonishingly painful clarity. The ending truly is open (and I'm not going to give it away); you really have no idea if Noah is going to make it through the trauma. The filmic quality is accelerated and increased, the unreality of drifting between consciousness and unconciousness, life and death intensified by this.
Characterisation remains strong throughout. Sadly, there are no pleasant characters. I hated Noah's wife, the self-righteous Clare, who embodied everything I can't stand about women who try to inhabit the charmingly flippant school of femininity. It might have worked when Audrey Hepburn did it; by the time you get to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind's Clementine you want to hurl punches. Or I do, at least. Clare's self-justification for various acts may be understandable given Noah's occasionally vile behaviour, but it's hard to accept and like. Etta is even worse, the mulatto temptress that is the least realistic of the characters, but still well drawn. I think Peter Howitt missed a trick in the casting of this one, opting for anaemic Alice Evans over a role which screams for someone like a young Erykah Badu. Still, without seeing the film it's probably unfair to judge.
It's hard to really sum up Dangerous Parking. I probably wouldn't read it again, because it's harrowing. But I do think it's a well-written, powerfully affecting book. It has affected moments too, and its filmic nature can get tiresome, but it's worth at least one look, and isn't easily forgotten. Why write if not for the immortality, after all?
Friday, 18 May 2007
Monday, 14 May 2007
Film Footle: Spider-Man 3
Perhaps it's folly to start a review with the conclusion, but I saw Spidey 3 with three others who had the exact same reaction to it, namely: "Well, I was expecting a lot worse."
The Spider-Man trilogy started with a stunningly watchable, enjoyable film and then, for my money, took a rapid nose-dive into preachy territory with a patchy sequel in which the only redeeming feature was the (underused) presence of Alfred Molina. I had certain perturbed preconceptions about film three, it being almost entirely focussed on the theme of responsibility and vengeance that had become so heavy handed in Spider-Man 2.
However, I was pleasantly surprised. This is a flawed film, and far too long, but I saw it as quite an adept return to form. Tobey Maguire has, unfortunately, failed to add any depth to Peter Parker, but I do enjoy his performances. Kirsten Dunst is dangling from her cutesiness by a thread, barely getting away with it anymore but for retaining her sweet looks. However, Thomas Haden Church, while underused, gave a controlled and moving performance as Flint Marko, the man who will become the Sandman.
The character of Venom is also introduced, first infecting Parker and then moving on to another candidate. Between the Sandman / possible murderer of Uncle Ben storyline, the problems of Peter's relationship with Mary Jane, the on-going revenge storyline courtesy of a misinformed Harry Osborn (the terminally dull James Franco), Peter's rivalry with a Daily Bugle freelancer and the effects of Venom of Parker's rapidly inflating ego there is far, far too much going on in this film. I mean, look at the length of that sentence...
In an effort to cram in two new characters and revisit the Green Goblin, this becomes a bit of a bum-number, running to two and a half hours. Forty minutes could happily have been excised, but rather than removing much of the pointless banter between charmless dullards Franco and Dunst I'm afraid that what Sam Raimi would have opted for would be the removal of the most enjoyable part of the film, a cringeworthy comedy sequence where Maguire earns his pay cheque in humiliation dollars.
Oh, and speaking of cringeworthy, there was one moment where a Spider-suited Parker lands square in front of a billowing Star Spangled Banner that definitely ought to have been sliced from the final cut.
Long, over-complicated and occasionally tiresome? Yes. Unenjoyable? No. It's as good away as any to while away the hours, and if the improvement in tone continues then maybe the inevitable Spider-Man 4 will see Raimi completely back on track.
The Spider-Man trilogy started with a stunningly watchable, enjoyable film and then, for my money, took a rapid nose-dive into preachy territory with a patchy sequel in which the only redeeming feature was the (underused) presence of Alfred Molina. I had certain perturbed preconceptions about film three, it being almost entirely focussed on the theme of responsibility and vengeance that had become so heavy handed in Spider-Man 2.
However, I was pleasantly surprised. This is a flawed film, and far too long, but I saw it as quite an adept return to form. Tobey Maguire has, unfortunately, failed to add any depth to Peter Parker, but I do enjoy his performances. Kirsten Dunst is dangling from her cutesiness by a thread, barely getting away with it anymore but for retaining her sweet looks. However, Thomas Haden Church, while underused, gave a controlled and moving performance as Flint Marko, the man who will become the Sandman.
The character of Venom is also introduced, first infecting Parker and then moving on to another candidate. Between the Sandman / possible murderer of Uncle Ben storyline, the problems of Peter's relationship with Mary Jane, the on-going revenge storyline courtesy of a misinformed Harry Osborn (the terminally dull James Franco), Peter's rivalry with a Daily Bugle freelancer and the effects of Venom of Parker's rapidly inflating ego there is far, far too much going on in this film. I mean, look at the length of that sentence...
In an effort to cram in two new characters and revisit the Green Goblin, this becomes a bit of a bum-number, running to two and a half hours. Forty minutes could happily have been excised, but rather than removing much of the pointless banter between charmless dullards Franco and Dunst I'm afraid that what Sam Raimi would have opted for would be the removal of the most enjoyable part of the film, a cringeworthy comedy sequence where Maguire earns his pay cheque in humiliation dollars.
Oh, and speaking of cringeworthy, there was one moment where a Spider-suited Parker lands square in front of a billowing Star Spangled Banner that definitely ought to have been sliced from the final cut.
Long, over-complicated and occasionally tiresome? Yes. Unenjoyable? No. It's as good away as any to while away the hours, and if the improvement in tone continues then maybe the inevitable Spider-Man 4 will see Raimi completely back on track.
Sunday, 13 May 2007
Book Footle: The Last Resort
“One lazy grey afternoon, as I was sitting in my studio, my imagination, apparently angry at being ignored, took a holiday – and never returned.”
Such is J. Patrick Lewis’s introduction to one of most exceptionally lyrical, beautiful and complex books I have ever come across… and it’s a picture book for children.
Roberto Innocenti tells, through his stunningly simple and evocative illustrations, a tale of the journey to reclaim lost inspiration. In doing so, he stumbles across a peculiar seaside hotel, The Last Resort, where a motley crew of characters is stumbling through life. He observes them: the invalid girl, the mysterious stranger digging on the beach, the woman muttering her poetry along the shore, and wonders at them. All seem familiar and yet he has not met a single one before… but you might have.
Taking a random sample from Lewis’s accompanying text, in all its haunting beauty:
“In the breezy hours after lunch, blues and whites quilted the sky. Sunlight fastened itself to the shore and would not let go. In her tented wicker sunscreen, the fragile young lady tired the sun with reading. Curiosity caught me up, and I stole a glance at the book she held, but could only make out The Little Me-------.”
Sound familiar? She should. You may well not have come across every character (some are fictional, some real) in The Last Resort, but a few should certainly sound like old friends. Roberto’s wonderful figurative journey takes him past the favourite haunt of imagination as it gallivants around, picking up threads… the memory of beloved characters and stories. Anyone who has ever written anything creatively will know that reading well helps in writing well, and Innocenti has explored in this book the very heart of the creative process. He has reached into his mind to discover how it is that he is inspired and produced this gem of a metaphorical tale for what is happening in that elusive “inner eye”.
At every turn, Roberto meets new and interesting people, and at the end of the book, these are listed in a mini character-glossary. We are invited to think of other people these descriptions might fit. We do not have to accept that they are the person Innocenti was thinking of when he told the story; in one case he concedes that a character is a mixture of a Zane Grey cowboy and The Count Of Monte Cristo’s Edmond Dantes.
The list of characters is illustrious indeed. Not wishing to give away all of them, I shall say that the ones I recognised, apart from the two mentioned above, were the fisherboy, the white whale, the black-clad poet and the peg-legged pirate. I was rather excited to find Antoine de Saint-Exupery and Peter Lorre nestled in the throng… and there are still more to discover and decipher, from Cervantes to Calvino... and that's not even the half of it.
Leaving aside the excitement of familiarity and such a deliciously appealing concept, the book is itself a pleasure to read because of the sumptuousness of its prose and its appearance. This is not a book young children could read by themselves, and I wondered to myself whether it was quite deliberately intended to be the kind of book children got to know as a friend before they understood it. There is complex vocabulary and a not particularly coherent structure or content, with no discernable (or at least straightforward) plot and random verse thrown in for good measure. The section quoted above is probably one of the more naturally readable, but I would urge you not to be put off by the poetic meanderings of the text. This is quite a long picture book, almost 50 pages in all, but there are not vast reams of text on each page, and perseverance is rewarded generously.
In fact, probably the best introduction to this book would be to ask a child to tell the story from the illustrations, and in many ways I think that would be true to the spirit of the book; allow inspiration and imagination to free flow and then link it to the imagination and inspiration of others: the two will then feed off one another. Lingering over the illustrations isn’t just recommended, it’s impossible to resist.
The front cover drags you in first, it’s toppling Last Resort shown in strips between the writing at various stages of Roberto’s journey. The images within are only more fabulous developments of the same. The illustrations reminded me of a number of things… Trestle Theatre Company’s bulbous masks were evoked by the simple appealing roundness of Roberto and Mr Grey Greyish, the waves on the beach looked to me like Japanese seasonal prints (the little mermaid seems to have an expression that is reminiscent of anime, too), there are hints sometimes of Toulouse-Lautrec and the kind of wonderful detail we expect to see in picture books from Michael Foreman and Maurice Sendak (Where The Wild Things Are). Innocenti is quite incredible, and his deftly comic touch (a slight daftness about the wide-eyed Robert, the dashboard display that is pasted across the image of the “spider-lightning night”) is wonderfully appealing.
The gorgeous presentation doesn’t hurt either: various sizes of the elegant green-grey font, different size and layout of images from cartoon strip boxes to a full two-pager, all within the confines of an elegantly tall, thin A4 volume.
Lewis has matched Innocenti’s efforts so perfectly that within a few seconds of idly browsing this book in Blackwells I was standing at the counter, paying the extraordinary sum of £12.99 for this hardback rendering.
When it comes to exciting children with a book, it’s all in the presentation. I certainly wouldn’t give this to a young child and expect them to know what to do with it, but it would be a stunning stimulus for drawing out interesting ideas: Who is this? Why? What will they do next? In my teaching days, I wouldn't have read this to my Year 3 class en masse, but a few of them could have done fascinating character work based on the images. For older children, it could promote excellent development of vocabulary, and introduce them to a range of writing styles. I found myself having to teach the “beginning-middle-end” style of story writing, and this book will help blur that boundary so that writing is less formulaic and more flowing. Most importantly this book is eminently suitable and, I would argue, necessary for adults, especially anyone who believes that they have any sort of creative streak…
This is a children’s book, and yet it isn’t. It’s very simple, and yet alarmingly complex. It’s a mystery and a work of art and I absolutely fell head over heels in love with it.
Such is J. Patrick Lewis’s introduction to one of most exceptionally lyrical, beautiful and complex books I have ever come across… and it’s a picture book for children.
Roberto Innocenti tells, through his stunningly simple and evocative illustrations, a tale of the journey to reclaim lost inspiration. In doing so, he stumbles across a peculiar seaside hotel, The Last Resort, where a motley crew of characters is stumbling through life. He observes them: the invalid girl, the mysterious stranger digging on the beach, the woman muttering her poetry along the shore, and wonders at them. All seem familiar and yet he has not met a single one before… but you might have.
Taking a random sample from Lewis’s accompanying text, in all its haunting beauty:
“In the breezy hours after lunch, blues and whites quilted the sky. Sunlight fastened itself to the shore and would not let go. In her tented wicker sunscreen, the fragile young lady tired the sun with reading. Curiosity caught me up, and I stole a glance at the book she held, but could only make out The Little Me-------.”
Sound familiar? She should. You may well not have come across every character (some are fictional, some real) in The Last Resort, but a few should certainly sound like old friends. Roberto’s wonderful figurative journey takes him past the favourite haunt of imagination as it gallivants around, picking up threads… the memory of beloved characters and stories. Anyone who has ever written anything creatively will know that reading well helps in writing well, and Innocenti has explored in this book the very heart of the creative process. He has reached into his mind to discover how it is that he is inspired and produced this gem of a metaphorical tale for what is happening in that elusive “inner eye”.
At every turn, Roberto meets new and interesting people, and at the end of the book, these are listed in a mini character-glossary. We are invited to think of other people these descriptions might fit. We do not have to accept that they are the person Innocenti was thinking of when he told the story; in one case he concedes that a character is a mixture of a Zane Grey cowboy and The Count Of Monte Cristo’s Edmond Dantes.
The list of characters is illustrious indeed. Not wishing to give away all of them, I shall say that the ones I recognised, apart from the two mentioned above, were the fisherboy, the white whale, the black-clad poet and the peg-legged pirate. I was rather excited to find Antoine de Saint-Exupery and Peter Lorre nestled in the throng… and there are still more to discover and decipher, from Cervantes to Calvino... and that's not even the half of it.
Leaving aside the excitement of familiarity and such a deliciously appealing concept, the book is itself a pleasure to read because of the sumptuousness of its prose and its appearance. This is not a book young children could read by themselves, and I wondered to myself whether it was quite deliberately intended to be the kind of book children got to know as a friend before they understood it. There is complex vocabulary and a not particularly coherent structure or content, with no discernable (or at least straightforward) plot and random verse thrown in for good measure. The section quoted above is probably one of the more naturally readable, but I would urge you not to be put off by the poetic meanderings of the text. This is quite a long picture book, almost 50 pages in all, but there are not vast reams of text on each page, and perseverance is rewarded generously.
In fact, probably the best introduction to this book would be to ask a child to tell the story from the illustrations, and in many ways I think that would be true to the spirit of the book; allow inspiration and imagination to free flow and then link it to the imagination and inspiration of others: the two will then feed off one another. Lingering over the illustrations isn’t just recommended, it’s impossible to resist.
The front cover drags you in first, it’s toppling Last Resort shown in strips between the writing at various stages of Roberto’s journey. The images within are only more fabulous developments of the same. The illustrations reminded me of a number of things… Trestle Theatre Company’s bulbous masks were evoked by the simple appealing roundness of Roberto and Mr Grey Greyish, the waves on the beach looked to me like Japanese seasonal prints (the little mermaid seems to have an expression that is reminiscent of anime, too), there are hints sometimes of Toulouse-Lautrec and the kind of wonderful detail we expect to see in picture books from Michael Foreman and Maurice Sendak (Where The Wild Things Are). Innocenti is quite incredible, and his deftly comic touch (a slight daftness about the wide-eyed Robert, the dashboard display that is pasted across the image of the “spider-lightning night”) is wonderfully appealing.
The gorgeous presentation doesn’t hurt either: various sizes of the elegant green-grey font, different size and layout of images from cartoon strip boxes to a full two-pager, all within the confines of an elegantly tall, thin A4 volume.
Lewis has matched Innocenti’s efforts so perfectly that within a few seconds of idly browsing this book in Blackwells I was standing at the counter, paying the extraordinary sum of £12.99 for this hardback rendering.
When it comes to exciting children with a book, it’s all in the presentation. I certainly wouldn’t give this to a young child and expect them to know what to do with it, but it would be a stunning stimulus for drawing out interesting ideas: Who is this? Why? What will they do next? In my teaching days, I wouldn't have read this to my Year 3 class en masse, but a few of them could have done fascinating character work based on the images. For older children, it could promote excellent development of vocabulary, and introduce them to a range of writing styles. I found myself having to teach the “beginning-middle-end” style of story writing, and this book will help blur that boundary so that writing is less formulaic and more flowing. Most importantly this book is eminently suitable and, I would argue, necessary for adults, especially anyone who believes that they have any sort of creative streak…
This is a children’s book, and yet it isn’t. It’s very simple, and yet alarmingly complex. It’s a mystery and a work of art and I absolutely fell head over heels in love with it.
Saturday, 12 May 2007
Book Footle: Dangerous Parking - Part One
It's unusual of me to write a book review before I've finished the book. But I'm having such a visceral reaction to it that I feel the need to record it and compare at the end.
Dangerous Parking was Stuart Browne's only novel before his death in November 1999. We know this the minute we open the book and read the author notes. Does that have an impact on a book about an alcoholic struggling with deadly cancer in his bladder? Of course it does. It adds a layer of suspense (was Browne writing with hope? Despair?) that might not be there without it.
It's hard to like the hapless protagonist, Noah Arkwright. Not because he's a self-pitying idiot, a drunk, a drug addict and a pretentious twat. All those things could make him just a focus for our own insecurities and twattery. But because he's powered on pure, incandescent rage. The entire first half of the book has felt like mental assault and battery, from blood clots in the urethra to anarchic coke-fuelled binges that seem less appealing than pretty fucking stupid. Fully half the text seems to be in capitals, italics or both, with a completely cinematic personal dialogue raging in Noah's head the entire time.
Of course it's cinematic, though. Browne was an accomplished screenwriter and Dangerous Parking is so obviously a novel ready to be a film that they've already made one. He is unashamed about it. Noah is a film-maker and sees everything in those terms. If this book didn't wear its screenwriting heart on its sleeve it would seep out anyway, so instead it delights in it which makes it less irritating than it might be. There's also some elegant prose shuttled in between the occasionally self-conscious blokey banter. Browne is funniest when he doesn't seem to be trying to be.
The book can only enter into a more relaxed read from here; ironically this is because it's due to become ever more harrowing from this point on.
One can but read and see.
Dangerous Parking was Stuart Browne's only novel before his death in November 1999. We know this the minute we open the book and read the author notes. Does that have an impact on a book about an alcoholic struggling with deadly cancer in his bladder? Of course it does. It adds a layer of suspense (was Browne writing with hope? Despair?) that might not be there without it.
It's hard to like the hapless protagonist, Noah Arkwright. Not because he's a self-pitying idiot, a drunk, a drug addict and a pretentious twat. All those things could make him just a focus for our own insecurities and twattery. But because he's powered on pure, incandescent rage. The entire first half of the book has felt like mental assault and battery, from blood clots in the urethra to anarchic coke-fuelled binges that seem less appealing than pretty fucking stupid. Fully half the text seems to be in capitals, italics or both, with a completely cinematic personal dialogue raging in Noah's head the entire time.
Of course it's cinematic, though. Browne was an accomplished screenwriter and Dangerous Parking is so obviously a novel ready to be a film that they've already made one. He is unashamed about it. Noah is a film-maker and sees everything in those terms. If this book didn't wear its screenwriting heart on its sleeve it would seep out anyway, so instead it delights in it which makes it less irritating than it might be. There's also some elegant prose shuttled in between the occasionally self-conscious blokey banter. Browne is funniest when he doesn't seem to be trying to be.
The book can only enter into a more relaxed read from here; ironically this is because it's due to become ever more harrowing from this point on.
One can but read and see.
Friday, 11 May 2007
Art Footle: Dale Chihuly
I came to Chihuly late and, metaphorically, sweaty. It never really occurred to me to look at artists whose medium was glass beyond the odd beautiful vase or ornament in a shop. Then Chihuly crossed my path and I've never seen superheated sand in the same way again.
Chihuly's prolific output has seen regular worldwide exhibitions including venues such as London's Kew Gardens. His elegant, twisted artwork is often on a huge scale, with a mammoth sea-hued chandelier permanently gracing the entrance hall of the V&A. His official biography says far more about his influences than I'll ever know, but my interest in Chihuly is hardly academic. I'm simply bowled over by the artistry and intricacy in each complex spiral, and by the extraordinary use of colour.
One of my favourite examples is also the blog image; this picture (from his official site) is of the Kew Gardens exhibition which to my undying annoyance took place before I was aware of his work. I will not miss another.
Film Footle: 300
300 is, on a number of levels, a very silly film. Being a movie of a graphic novel, it's probably best to leave historical accuracy at the door. The only comment I'll make about that is that it's surprising how much WAS accurate (at least in terms of Spartan practices if not remotely in terms of Greek battle plans).
It's also a very beautiful film. Alternately windswept, ethereal, burned out and bleached, Zack Snyder and the artistic team have held firmly true to Frank Miller's vision. The rich red of Spartan cloaks and golden oiled skin stands out against the bizarre panoply of Persian artistry and brutality. Xerxes himself is the oddest figure of all, a mock-Egyptian self-styled demigod reminiscent of Jaye Davidson in both Stargate and The Crying Game. It was something of a shock to discover Rodrigo Santoro under all the gold paint, looking somewhat unlike his recent Chanel-ad role.
Gerard Butler's proto-Connery performance is measured and convincing. His relationship with Lena Heady's Spartan queen is natural and passionate, and although I was underwhelmed by Heady's stark beauty (appropriate though it was) and thin-lipped performance, she was at least not miscast. David Wenham's narrator, Dilios, certainly made the most of his peculiarly plummy voice, and a standout performance from VIncent Regan as Sparta's Captain was the sole emotional soft centre in what could otherwise have been a very tough and chewy confection.
Despite a nod or two to Gladiator (the sword, the sandals, the hint of Elysian fields), 300 owes a far greater debt to the Lord of the Rings trilogy. From the casting of Wenham (Faramir) and the traitor Ephialtes tracking the troops through the mountains to the CGI beasties and slo-mo battle sequences, there is a definite sense in which this is the next in the line of a new tradition of design-driven assaults on the senses. The stylised battles and misty elven beauties (with possibly unhealthy focus on tiny breasts and pert nipples) are interspersed with set pieces that seem little more than careful canvasses in a smooth slideshow. Most of the deaths, whilst uncompromising and bloody in their brutality, are also very elegant; the best example of this is Leonidas lying, St. Sebastian-like, in a hail of arrows.
300 is enjoyable on a number of levels. As a hymn to lost chivalry, it's daft but sweet. As a sword and sandals clash of the Titans, it's rocking. As a homage to CGI and the oft-forgotten art of the graphic novel, it's pretty damn good. And there's even a Monty Python moment or two to raise a chuckle.
Footling Culturally
Culture
noun
1. the quality in a person or society that arises from a concern for what is regarded as excellent in arts, letters, manners, scholarly pursuits, etc.
2. that which is excellent in the arts, manners, etc.
3. a particular form or stage of civilization, as that of a certain nation or period: Greek culture.
4. development or improvement of the mind by education or training.
5. the behaviors and beliefs characteristic of a particular social, ethnic, or age group: the youth culture; the drug culture.
6. Anthropology. the sum total of ways of living built up by a group of human beings and transmitted from one generation to another.
Footle
verb
1. be about; "The high school students like to loiter in the Central Square"; "Who is this man that is hanging around the department?"
2. act foolishly, as by talking nonsense
So, now you should know what it's all about. We get culture of many and varied sorts through being around it, and then we talk nonsense.
Welcome.
noun
1. the quality in a person or society that arises from a concern for what is regarded as excellent in arts, letters, manners, scholarly pursuits, etc.
2. that which is excellent in the arts, manners, etc.
3. a particular form or stage of civilization, as that of a certain nation or period: Greek culture.
4. development or improvement of the mind by education or training.
5. the behaviors and beliefs characteristic of a particular social, ethnic, or age group: the youth culture; the drug culture.
6. Anthropology. the sum total of ways of living built up by a group of human beings and transmitted from one generation to another.
Footle
verb
1. be about; "The high school students like to loiter in the Central Square"; "Who is this man that is hanging around the department?"
2. act foolishly, as by talking nonsense
So, now you should know what it's all about. We get culture of many and varied sorts through being around it, and then we talk nonsense.
Welcome.
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