tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18833355347333217212024-02-19T09:34:58.882+00:00VIEW FROM THE CHEAP SEATSFiction - Movies - Music - BullshitRich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-59244892352267205812010-10-30T17:48:00.002+01:002010-10-30T17:53:24.296+01:00The Old Boys<em>A continuing and occasional series of short pieces featuring legends who have slipped into an alternative universe. This time - Polanski and Nicholson in <strong>Midnight Express</strong>.</em><br /><br />Polanski dropped change into the drivers hand, thanked him, and watched while the old Ford, smoke belching from the rotten exhaust and the pistons beating through the block, disappeared into the darkness. He checked the smeared screen on the closed circuit TV and saw it was gone three. He sat down in the canvas fishing chair and felt his back twinge.<br /><br />‘What were you just saying?’ his colleague said.<br /><br />‘I said, I met Charlie Manson once.’<br /><br />‘Seriously? Where?’<br /><br />‘Just walked into my back yard and dipped his feet directly in my pool. Sharon wasn’t there, don’t recall where she was. But he just sat there and started talking. I gave him a beer.’<br /><br />‘What the fuck for?’<br /><br />Polanski looked up from where he’d been picking at the skin around his thumbnail. ‘Because it was 1968, that’s why. You aren’t that old, Jack. Don’t you remember all that shit? Free love, my man. What belongs to you belongs to your brothers, all that kind of thing.’<br /><br />‘I remember. It seems like a lifetime ago.’<br /><br />‘Not to me. Feels like only days since I last saw her sitting on the porch, sunlight in her hair, smiling as I drove away.’ Polanski looked back down at his hands, made as if to say something more, didn’t. Jack sat watching him for a moment, feeling sorrow for the pain his old friend still carried.<br /><br />‘She was a beautiful lady, Ro,’ he said. ‘I know you still miss her.’<br /><br />‘Everyday.’<br /><br />A nearly new Taurus pulled up at the booth window, the steady throb of a hip-hop bass line coming from the vehicle. Jack pulled himself up from his stool and leant against the counter, his expanding belly pushing into the wood. The driver’s window rolled down and he saw white tattooed skin, wiry muscles, smelt the dope that came from the car. He suddenly felt hungry.<br /><br />‘Evening fellas,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Ohio. Four bucks.’<br /><br />The drawling voice on the driver suggested a long session had taken place. ‘Four dollars? That’s robbery, man.’<br /><br />‘Take it up with the State Governor,’ he replied, giving the trademark grin that had lit the screen for the last forty years. ‘But if you’re driving across the border, I’m gonna need four bucks.’<br /><br />A general grumble came from the Taurus and then the driver leaned out the window, the harsh sodium lights from the tollbooth making his skin gray, almost translucent. His smoke hazed eyes were a deep pink. ‘What say you just raise the barrier, old man, and let me through,’ he said, revealing gapped and nicotine-stained teeth.<br /><br />‘Sorry, I can’t do that,’ Jack replied calmly. ‘It’s against the law, and I could lose my job.’<br /><br />There was a quick movement, and a short, dull knife blade flashed in the drivers hand. ‘Better your job than your eyes, Granddad. Now raise the Goddamn barrier.’<br /><br />Jack wasn’t shocked at the sudden threat. Work the midnight express for long enough and you saw the spectrum of human behaviour. He didn’t rush, didn’t change his expression, just reached down below the counter and bought the shotgun up and into position in one easy movement. The barrels had long ago been sawn off and the walnut stock fitted comfortably into his hand. He pulled back the cocks with his thumb and with his freehand carefully removed his sunglasses. ‘Four dollars.’ Behind him he heard Polanski sigh.<br /><br />The knife disappeared, and Jack saw the whites of the drivers eyes, his trembling hands raised. ’Okay man, be cool. Be cool. I was just playin’ with you.’<br /><br />Jack grinned, kept the gun raised. ‘That’s what I thought. Now pay or be on your way.’<br /><br />The driver slotted the gear into reverse, his hands tight on the wheel, but before the car moved the passenger peered out the window, stretching across the driver. He was middle-aged, lank hair and equally stoned. ‘Hey, ain’t you the dude used to be in movies?’<br /><br />Nicholson slid the dark glasses back onto his face. ‘Yeah, used to be. Now I’m just the guy who’s gonna fuck you up if you don’t turn around.’ He paused. ‘Now move.’<br /><br />The Taurus backed quickly, tyres squealing, virtually spun on it axis and ground gears as it returned to the highway and headed back into Indiana. Jack watched for a few moments before sliding the weapon back into it’s leather holster and returning to his position on the stool. He felt good, felt the adrenaline in his muscles. Polanski looked at him with amusement.<br /><br />‘What?’ said Jack, knowing full well.<br /><br />‘Don’t you think you’re getting a little too old for this cowboy act, my friend?’<br /><br />‘Hey, I’ve still got the moves, Roman. I’m still here.’<br /><br />Polanski smiled and gave his head a small nod, reached for a well-used pack of cards on the shelf behind him and snapped the deck between his tanned fingers, started dealing. ‘We both are my brother. We both are. Let’s just stay alive long enough to enjoy it…’<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS6ldodrmKFupb1z7szUuWiT7sKTxJSkvevx78uAiS8KxU30ZivZSgchilRI1UYRsR3OooXrynfl9dT3e0r-cEYccwvcDi8jfXICxlPpRJ3L3a0Olzv4_GtVavSqZZDDwUx3_lu42lUURj/s1600/MV5BMzQzODE1NzE3OV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTYwMjUzMDI2__V1__SX420_SY336_.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 256px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533882459183281522" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS6ldodrmKFupb1z7szUuWiT7sKTxJSkvevx78uAiS8KxU30ZivZSgchilRI1UYRsR3OooXrynfl9dT3e0r-cEYccwvcDi8jfXICxlPpRJ3L3a0Olzv4_GtVavSqZZDDwUx3_lu42lUURj/s320/MV5BMzQzODE1NzE3OV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTYwMjUzMDI2__V1__SX420_SY336_.jpg" /></a><br /><em>(c) 2010 Rich Wilson</em>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-36847387945951169292010-10-04T19:45:00.015+01:002010-10-04T20:16:11.063+01:00Fantasy Film TheoryI love the idea of alternative Universe. The theory that at some point in time the life we know so well split and fractured, and that in the vast expanse of the space-time continuum another world, the same as our own but slightly different, exists. In that world Bush never made it to the Whitehouse, I never pay taxes, 9/11 is just a date not a disaster. In my personal dream alternative, Hendrix and Morrison form a super group with Keith Moon, Lennon is Prime Minister, and Bruce Lee lives, taking bit parts in martial-arts epics and showing how it’s still done, even in his late sixties. In my dream world, a lot of movies would have turned out very differently. Sean Hartter obviously thinks so too, and as such has created a series of brilliant alternative film posters that have me dreaming about the possibilities that might have occurred, and probably did occur in another life. He’s a talented individual with an obvious love of the grind house and exploitation style poster art, as seen below. You can look at more of his output at <a href="http://hartter.blogspot.com/">http://hartter.blogspot.com/</a><br /><br />Nothing at all wrong with John Carpenter’s original. But just for a moment imagine if Hitch, instead of ending his career with the lacklustre <em>Family Plot</em>, decided he’d take one more shot at the psycho drama. That was an alternative universe Oscar for Mitchum right there.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg069dPuxxiAKqKJ0eGgfp3VomFRPMeyxKw8ycIuL8FRStHPMv9Ket9IFWUsbj3-aS5pkZ7huz-6fTQ1Vxm9C5Q1MC50xiQOqt_-1P_WepedjlwHjON05aVfFi4qdbcD7JXACJDIoy83Kb1/s1600/hitch+halloween.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 275px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524268223331259410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg069dPuxxiAKqKJ0eGgfp3VomFRPMeyxKw8ycIuL8FRStHPMv9Ket9IFWUsbj3-aS5pkZ7huz-6fTQ1Vxm9C5Q1MC50xiQOqt_-1P_WepedjlwHjON05aVfFi4qdbcD7JXACJDIoy83Kb1/s400/hitch+halloween.jpg" /></a><br />Ben Affleck as Daredevil was one of the more hideous movie experiences of recent times. Billy Friedkin would have done things much differently.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAn6wcA2Uxg9jogaFgMLGzkvBS0GEzQLa1_dcldZW9edOTNFwAbKQhVvD_jv5jYYDqYAg0yHHNuv8s56_LA6MkDETL7cB1m5vgRduvalDW2bmOOzubj2O_fQJgzycz9opNBDUvw8vj2ci2/s1600/500x_daredevil_movie.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 313px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524266237430387346" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAn6wcA2Uxg9jogaFgMLGzkvBS0GEzQLa1_dcldZW9edOTNFwAbKQhVvD_jv5jYYDqYAg0yHHNuv8s56_LA6MkDETL7cB1m5vgRduvalDW2bmOOzubj2O_fQJgzycz9opNBDUvw8vj2ci2/s400/500x_daredevil_movie.jpg" /></a><br />Wow. Waken, Bowie, Bava. Did someone just say the best film never made? Oh yeah, I did.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsg7NzHujnlv5Pw0hFh1pYQnjKgApTWBXbY4DRlI7TBdN8YlHchMah7ybhfaelufUTxeYpVA9pH_pjUIvABL58SytEs1X-LZB6qKwANQ2MXHxkyf8VxcrtQEzHY9S2G2uvvINfnIocQ74u/s1600/hartter_wallpaper_bat_moviea.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524265071724331522" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsg7NzHujnlv5Pw0hFh1pYQnjKgApTWBXbY4DRlI7TBdN8YlHchMah7ybhfaelufUTxeYpVA9pH_pjUIvABL58SytEs1X-LZB6qKwANQ2MXHxkyf8VxcrtQEzHY9S2G2uvvINfnIocQ74u/s400/hartter_wallpaper_bat_moviea.jpg" /></a><br />Peckinpah does the Marvel Universe? With Clint? I don’t need to say anything else, we’re talking motion picture nirvana right here.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggj4Z47PMN-TGaDzZ3EHnsuYe6BZs2Ar5k5f9mGyR971cKM9ugrRwQXLm2ktRHg1_nOg4dSgdoUARyTO-5wWFIH3a-37_cUXqf6HQXKvnLgcwrL8Jv5C9yeZRVjn-S3S8S6gqD0AfvfHcm/s1600/340x_faux_poster_1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524265706519857970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggj4Z47PMN-TGaDzZ3EHnsuYe6BZs2Ar5k5f9mGyR971cKM9ugrRwQXLm2ktRHg1_nOg4dSgdoUARyTO-5wWFIH3a-37_cUXqf6HQXKvnLgcwrL8Jv5C9yeZRVjn-S3S8S6gqD0AfvfHcm/s400/340x_faux_poster_1.jpg" /></a><br />Malcolm McDowell and Steve McQueen as Luke and Han respectively? Toshiro Immune in Obi-Wan’s robes? Udo Kier! With batshit-crazy Jodorowsky at the helm this could have been a drug trip for a generation. God, I would love to see <em>The Star Wars</em>.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidRLND1esBO4ciAiQgR4AQoF_GFUkA2dT6OTcsgAhmrCHnj_4Ki4S6o5sMl9r9hTfv8JbckpvpySEEobDaYiS06dbK2lTs589q2fCB32RS1Up2RyK9cAFsTc6Olii_vHonRzXobvUSw8wK/s1600/340x_faux_poster_3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524264881054590130" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidRLND1esBO4ciAiQgR4AQoF_GFUkA2dT6OTcsgAhmrCHnj_4Ki4S6o5sMl9r9hTfv8JbckpvpySEEobDaYiS06dbK2lTs589q2fCB32RS1Up2RyK9cAFsTc6Olii_vHonRzXobvUSw8wK/s400/340x_faux_poster_3.jpg" /></a><br />Stephen King’s epic Gunslinger saga has got a television and movie green light under the wing of Ron Howard. I’ll give it a chance, but just imagine the violent, epic possibilities of a Walter Hill directed version, say from around 1978 with a post-<em>Josey Wales</em> Eastwood and a pre-<em>Shining</em> Nicholson…<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEHtNpn3SBGsVszE673NXrEfGPn7hUgyo6HlP7u1jyGawVBn3hY9tC34KaQvhZnQ5_hH2jTrUGU65lH_65zxCltVlYdb3GGhOfJzKq-3_l3fdQsymkEEPA6M76h0lIT4WJXnPMgovKoJcI/s1600/340x_dt_hartter.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524265541029463698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEHtNpn3SBGsVszE673NXrEfGPn7hUgyo6HlP7u1jyGawVBn3hY9tC34KaQvhZnQ5_hH2jTrUGU65lH_65zxCltVlYdb3GGhOfJzKq-3_l3fdQsymkEEPA6M76h0lIT4WJXnPMgovKoJcI/s400/340x_dt_hartter.jpg" /></a><br />Phillip K Dick meets Joe D’Amato in a Corman produced, Kraftwerk scored vision of the future.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifK7ObDFpXkH9TFD87tg4GFi7SPGjDfcJMSrVxg-6ud0N6e4DZlSYEHosdH7OaTe8GuasH36KRynBsROFOHsnInYeIRbmIv2pq7IWyPRMy7Gym_eZLYtWLaXtl0_p7fr05xyvCf5RkUi2x/s1600/340x_blade_runner.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 237px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524265233243869602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifK7ObDFpXkH9TFD87tg4GFi7SPGjDfcJMSrVxg-6ud0N6e4DZlSYEHosdH7OaTe8GuasH36KRynBsROFOHsnInYeIRbmIv2pq7IWyPRMy7Gym_eZLYtWLaXtl0_p7fr05xyvCf5RkUi2x/s400/340x_blade_runner.jpg" /></a><br />This genuinely saddens me, because if a brain embolism hadn’t taken the fittest man on the planet this is the type of movie Lee would have been making.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05UofKJHvH-7b3tzDTqeoQ3FmBeSe7Uqrkz85vQowlgeTLjCDsyf2HQPlPV6Nb5La2wyM0jIY585IVeC9dcDLCr2nFYw0kTnyeFmHZnIwHUzqwfhBExi37IJ03Rm1ziSOn6kw5Cx7hWuw/s1600/bruce_lee_iron_fist.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 268px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524264596234561858" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05UofKJHvH-7b3tzDTqeoQ3FmBeSe7Uqrkz85vQowlgeTLjCDsyf2HQPlPV6Nb5La2wyM0jIY585IVeC9dcDLCr2nFYw0kTnyeFmHZnIwHUzqwfhBExi37IJ03Rm1ziSOn6kw5Cx7hWuw/s400/bruce_lee_iron_fist.jpg" /></a><br />I mean, I love Bill, Danny and Harold as the Ghostbusters, but C’MON! The titans of terror with Bette fucking Davis?<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWmmqNeVDNaQ6kmLmbH8UnI_9p4n1ANDD0v5_u2RJXtE8EmkZReQP9CxTHFpri0qmNveh63jOa-CqY1uvtmKLwy4c-23N27zPwQ5RTUxpwPBRcor1khG_epo_rr8eqBm5pTE2M_XXcdB6G/s1600/500x_ghostbusters_fake_poster.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 310px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524264415046747010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWmmqNeVDNaQ6kmLmbH8UnI_9p4n1ANDD0v5_u2RJXtE8EmkZReQP9CxTHFpri0qmNveh63jOa-CqY1uvtmKLwy4c-23N27zPwQ5RTUxpwPBRcor1khG_epo_rr8eqBm5pTE2M_XXcdB6G/s400/500x_ghostbusters_fake_poster.jpg" /></a> </div><div></div><div> </div><div>Nice to dream for a while, to think about what might have been. Until next time friends...</div></div></div></div></div>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-8785774453517773112010-10-02T22:02:00.008+01:002010-10-03T18:31:02.528+01:00Hammer Of The Gods<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHlp0zHkamJNvLkdJxKUILnfut9KtmxepuH1qo0w52iI04s-bfTxAAFfI1L-WtQJjGbAuthoaRPnJC3wRkUiFw0HsvkL22EZ7xV9ceH-jNfh-dg0GUpbsyEQfpF7Kw1pWYG7VdZbPrQe0d/s1600/johnbonham1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 350px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 361px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523558814986426818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHlp0zHkamJNvLkdJxKUILnfut9KtmxepuH1qo0w52iI04s-bfTxAAFfI1L-WtQJjGbAuthoaRPnJC3wRkUiFw0HsvkL22EZ7xV9ceH-jNfh-dg0GUpbsyEQfpF7Kw1pWYG7VdZbPrQe0d/s400/johnbonham1.jpg" /></a> Last weekend saw the 30th Anniversary of the death of John Bonham, the hard-drinking, life-loving, legendary drummer from Led Zeppelin. Inevitably thinking of the man took me back to the music, and I listened to selected tracks from the Zep catalogue - <em>Kashmir, When The Levee Breaks, Rock And Roll </em>etc. - and reminded myself once again why I consider them to be one of the greatest bands to have ever existed. Over the same weekend I also found myself watching <em>The X-Factor</em>. I have a love-hate relationship with the show; on the one hand I hate the corporate, sanitised, manipulative creation of pop music that Cowell and the rest of his satanic crew feed to the teenage masses, but on the other I love the freakshow, voyeuristic beauty of the proceedings. It’s the car accident syndrome - horrible and disgusting to look at, but I just can’t force myself to turn away.<br /><br />For me <em>X-Factor </em>can only be watched to make fun of. It’s not about the music, because to me this isn’t music. It’s bullshit, but it’s bullshit because of the people that are producing it. I don’t want my rock and pop stars manufactured, the ingredients fed into the machine and minced out the other end like the Scarfe cartoons on the <em>Another Brick In The Wall </em>video. I don’t want to see these fucking idiots clean cut, hair styled, smelling good and offering bleached smiles below vacant, soulless eyes. I want my rock stars to be legendary figures, to be quite literally Gods amongst mortals. I want to see and hear brilliant, untouchable heroes. Remember when Wayne and Garth dropped to their knees before Alice Cooper and kissed the earth? That was the truest moment in the movie. We are not worthy.<br /><br />Zeppelin embody exactly what I’m talking about. Here are four individuals who came together to create some of the loudest, most beautiful noise ever pumped into human ears. Bonham, dressed in a boiler suit behind a mountain of drums, working over the skins like a one-man army, beating out rhythms in a frenzy of bloodied attack, occasionally dropping the sticks altogether and attacking his kit with bare hands, battering the beat with his own body. John Paul Jones, like most bass players the quiet, introspective one of the group, but picking out intricate lines and staring into the crowd with an evil shine in his wide eyes that suggest rape and murder are soon to follow. Jimmy Page, resplendent with legs apart and a sweat stained Les Paul hanging from his frame, string bending to heaven with licks stolen directly from the Devils own playbook, the only man in history who could make a black suit with an embroided dragon circling around it look cool. And up front, bare chested, hair flying and the mic lead wrapped around his arms is Robert Plant, jeans so tight you can see the veins in his dick, screaming and wailing for lost love, for breaking hearts and for dogs so black. For a decade this quartet were the greatest musical movement on planet Earth, across a series of astonishingly good albums that, at least for the first four, were so iconic they didn’t even have to be named.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIli2TvA2a9RsKIfx63_eK-IJFWQu-tvrUkoW9NBlOhhCdMYptaPNBRYFr-0nGTYnfNYG4fXRri4ppPCX-iZ9sIDH9N5Q9LtskleFASHNcVoYFn_VG-lb9FF2EEe1TkmjuZ6VnUBSMh6ha/s1600/led-zeppelin.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523559185867996482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIli2TvA2a9RsKIfx63_eK-IJFWQu-tvrUkoW9NBlOhhCdMYptaPNBRYFr-0nGTYnfNYG4fXRri4ppPCX-iZ9sIDH9N5Q9LtskleFASHNcVoYFn_VG-lb9FF2EEe1TkmjuZ6VnUBSMh6ha/s400/led-zeppelin.jpg" /></a><br />Zeppelin, Keith Moon, Pete Townshend, Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Bon Scott, Dylan, John Lennon, Bowie. Some of them lived and some of them didn’t. The ones that are still with us, that made it through the shitstorm of heavy drinking and bad drugs, have slowed down somewhat, perhaps even revealing that they are just men after all. Of course they are; Keith Richards barely looks alive these days. But here’s the truth, and it may not be the most popular statement I’ve ever made, and it may not be politically correct in a modern world where we are taught everyone is equal, but it is this: <strong>THESE PEOPLE ARE BETTER THAN US</strong>. They are heroes, they are villains, they are Vikings and Gods. We would love to be them, to have what they had, regardless even of the short lifespan encountered by some of the names above. We will never be them. They won’t speak to us, sign our programs, make friends with us. They have more stories surrounding them than tales in the bible, the difference being that ninety percent of them are probably true. Myths and legends surround them to create the beauty of rock and roll. The first real rock star, the first bad boy of music, Robert Johnson, went down to a crossroads in Mississippi sometime in the early 30’s, met the Devil, and sold his soul for the ability to play with lightning in his hands. Sometime later he walked back into Clarksdale and blew everyone away with his talent, drank a bottle of bourbon a night, and ended up sleeping with a<em> white</em> plantation owners wife. Johnson died at 27, screaming in agony on the floor of a juke joint while howling like a dog at the moon.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJs4tnConqmtse985jNv98IU3dNX7sNebI9DvhZMiMhj8g0GZguW4uyvjdzvE_aGe2beAZE3YgKzEoZrZfzjFikWOs8EYs07D4WqSgw0m0NQWhBYyIyWR_HD27kJCxMpBWu8mN3LiD0bb/s1600/robert_johnson2.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 310px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523559524961674610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJs4tnConqmtse985jNv98IU3dNX7sNebI9DvhZMiMhj8g0GZguW4uyvjdzvE_aGe2beAZE3YgKzEoZrZfzjFikWOs8EYs07D4WqSgw0m0NQWhBYyIyWR_HD27kJCxMpBWu8mN3LiD0bb/s320/robert_johnson2.jpg" /></a> It doesn’t matter if Johnson made a deal, or if the truth is he went away for a year, practiced and practiced until his fingers bled, and then returned to town a better player. The story is a good one, is part of the appeal of the blues, and is the reason Johnson is the legend he is today. Blues players were on every corner in the south at that time, and some of them (Son House, Leadbelly) were more prolific and made infinitely superior music to the twenty-nine known recordings of Johnson. But only one of them met the Devil, and that is the making of a hero.<br /><br />The great, untouchable figures of music have always had exaggerated tales surrounding them. Keith Richards allegedly flew to Switzerland every couple of years to have his blood drained, washed and returned. Johnny Cash crawled into a network of caves with the intention of dying and heard God telling him to live. Keith Moon got lost on the set of <em>Tommy</em> and returned three days later covered in blood, naked, and walked up to the catering truck and demanded brandy. The mystery surrounding these figures is almost as important as the music itself. Maybe that’s the problem; in this modern day world of internet, multiple music channels and ten thousand streams of live media covering every aspect of celebrity society it’s pretty much impossible to keep the mystery going. Thirty years ago the world of information was much smaller and quieter place, and as our thirst for knowledge has increased, our acceptance of mystery has diminished. Jack White knew the power of legend in the making of a band - when he put together The White Stripes back in the late nineties we were told it was his sister Meg on the drums. The band dressed only in red, white and black, said they were obsessed with the number 3, lived together in a house with no TV and only played vinyl recordings by candlelight. No one really believed any of it, but it didn’t matter, because the stories were cool and fun and turned The White Stripes from a simple little garage band from Detroit into a global phenomenon. And then someone ruined it and uploaded their wedding certificate to the web, and it turned out Jack and Meg were briefly married then divorced. Following that Jack dated Renee Zellweger, married a supermodel and obviously decided that if no-one else was going to play along with the fantasy then why should he? Shame, because for a while White could have been standing alongside the giants. The problem was the truth let him down.<br /><br />The last great, truly legendary rock star we had was Kurt Cobain. The man was wild, sensitive, insane and depressed. Combine those elements with brilliant song writing, a split personality and a heavy reliance on hard drugs and you had a hero for a youth generation that had come through the excess of the eighties and landed hard into teenage years in the dismal, depressed nineties. There was nothing for these kids to look forward to and Cobain was their spokesperson, his attitude and music perfectly capturing the dissolution and anger of modern life. Kurt was never comfortable with his celebrity status, although he was clever enough to understand the power of the media in getting his views heard. For all his MTV appearances, the videos and the rock star wife he remained an enigma, occasionally frustrating but never, ever boring. I was lucky enough to be at the Reading Festival in 1992 and watched him bought on stage in a wheelchair, wearing a hospital gown, (a couple of weeks earlier he’d be admitted for yet another drug episode). It had been touch and go if Nirvana would make the festival, and word was that he was weak through therapy and would need to be seated for any performance. And then, after a nervous moment Cobain leaped from the chair into Breed, amps pounding the opening riff and sending the crowd into frenzy. It was probably the best two hours of live music I’ve ever witnessed, and one of Nirvana’s finest moments. The day Cobain put a shotgun beneath his chin and squeezed the trigger no-one could really say they were surprised, but his death left a hole in music that has yet to be replaced. Not to say there haven’t been fine rock and roll musicians since, but as yet no-one has risen to the status of legend. And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that Cobain and many others checked out early, died before their time. Sure, death often puts a seal on an iconic status, and who is to say what middle-age would have done to Cobain or Hendrix, but it’s not how they died that made these people legends. It’s how they lived.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikfMAfSO8lx0Ev1CPC-QH-HEfEHdSnHzfObBXi0KyvzVDHmklNoxQ0Yo-rt_2F6gLYo9SQDh0RW9n9jF7JcWn9C2WCNyxz5dzTg2FkcsSTnmD-XKK95WMrlY7W6X4JjXOc0VFgjFAInHDa/s1600/kurt-cobain-crying.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 316px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523560228351493810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikfMAfSO8lx0Ev1CPC-QH-HEfEHdSnHzfObBXi0KyvzVDHmklNoxQ0Yo-rt_2F6gLYo9SQDh0RW9n9jF7JcWn9C2WCNyxz5dzTg2FkcsSTnmD-XKK95WMrlY7W6X4JjXOc0VFgjFAInHDa/s320/kurt-cobain-crying.jpg" /></a><br />In the end though, when all the drugs and dust have settled, it comes down to the music. The Doors, The Who, Zeppelin, The Stones, Bowie, Cash, Nirvana - all bands and artists with a fantastic catalogue of great songs. But also bands and artists with the charisma, attitude, talent and fuck-you attitude that can’t be learnt and certainly can’t be manufactured on a reality pop television show. Which brings us back to John Bonham. Here is a man who, through the power of rock and roll music and astonishing talent, not to mention a ferocious lust for life, was safe in the knowledge that he could walk into any room, any bar in the world and quite literally screw any woman in the place. You could be sitting with your wife having a quiet pleasant dinner in some high-class establishment somewhere, and within five minutes of Bonham walking through the door the kitchen would be on fire, the waiter would be bleeding, you’d have lost your shirt and be doing lines of cocaine from a knife and Bonham would have your wife’s dress up around her waist while bending her over the table and banging into her from behind. While you watched. And here’s the kicker… you’d let him, because <em>When The Levee Breaks </em>is that fucking good. Truly my friends, we are not worthy.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgal3aEU04YyJ_cX-dR9LG-2EXYZpEbmViuKg7rKqDe1EUiM5ZewEWH-ltVt8sVARIBkpBHgbzLA1jqA7xJQg4YDXTt3xYNcxhvOhTQk76pfHpmXHRi9RDcanw-8afOwoSBK6aO08U9xYSe/s1600/tumblr_l8d8ftz8gs1qbwpddo1_400.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 258px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523560502918414482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgal3aEU04YyJ_cX-dR9LG-2EXYZpEbmViuKg7rKqDe1EUiM5ZewEWH-ltVt8sVARIBkpBHgbzLA1jqA7xJQg4YDXTt3xYNcxhvOhTQk76pfHpmXHRi9RDcanw-8afOwoSBK6aO08U9xYSe/s320/tumblr_l8d8ftz8gs1qbwpddo1_400.jpg" /></a>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-73946362724812758952010-08-12T23:24:00.004+01:002010-08-13T11:19:43.257+01:00The Old Boys<em>A continuing and occasional series of short pieces featuring legends who have slipped into an alternative universe. This time - Quentin Tarantino in<strong> Nativity Massacre</strong>…<br /></em><br />The child was maybe seven years old, dressed in a sheet with a messy crop of blonde hair and tears dribbling down his flushed cheeks. Other boys and girls stood around him on the bare stage, their eyes wide and their mouths open as the tall man in black paced back and forth, his arms wide and fingers spread as words spat themselves from his mouth at intense volume. Most of the words the children didn’t understand, but a few of the older ones knew they were words they would be punished for saying themselves. Swearing was very wrong.<br /><br />‘Eleven times I’ve told you to walk across to the door and knock loudly,’ said the man, now standing with his hands on his hips and levelling his cold stare at Charlie, who was now shaking as well as crying. ‘Eleven fucking times! How hard can it be, really? Please, tell me?’<br /><br />‘I, I, I duh-duh-duh-duh don’t kn-kn-’<br /><br />‘Let me tell you something, Son, I had a crowd of Chinese extras on set at the Shaw Brothers who could take direction better than you, than all of you, and the only English they knew were the words for money and beer.’ The man stopped and sighed. ‘I assume you all understand what I’m saying?’<br /><br />None of the children answered, just looked past the man to the sound of the gymnasium door closing, and the relief on many of their faces was obvious as heels clicked across the wooden floor towards them. Charlie ran his sheeted sleeve across his face and left a streak of tears and snot on the cotton. The man span around from his young cast and looked at Mrs Collins. Short and gray, plump verging on heavy, and the head of school drama. And since Miramax had pulled funding and every other studio had rejected his scripts and pitches, his direct superior.<br /><br />‘Excuse me, Mr Tarantino.’<br /><br />‘Yes? Can’t you see I’m working?’<br /><br />‘I apologise. But do you really think this is the right way to approach this? Terrorizing the students in this manner. And I’m not sure some of this material is appropriate.’<br /><br />‘What? ‘Vision’ isn’t always appropriate, Ma’am, neither is art. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t right.’<br /><br />‘But I really don’t think the headmaster would approve of-’<br /><br />‘Of what, exactly?’ Tarantino interrupted, pushing his cap back on his wide forehead.<br /><br />Mrs Collins swallowed hard before she answered. ‘Of young Charlie Edwards calling the three wise men “motherfuckers”’.<br /><br />‘Well, do you want to keep this play in the past, Mrs Collins, or make it fit for a modern audience?’<br /><br />‘I can appreciate certain modern interpretations, Mr Tarantino, such as changing the stable for a drive-in motel, but I must protest over the use of the language.’<br /><br />‘This is how people on the street talk, Mrs Collins.’<br /><br />‘Perhaps so, but Joseph promising to penetrate the behind of the Innkeeper-, I mean, Motel Owner’s Mother is rather strong for six-to-nine year olds.’<br /><br />‘It’s a strong world that we live in. People get fucked in the ass on a daily basis.’<br /><br />‘Not at this school, Mr Tarantino.’<br /><br />For a moment there was a standoff as they stared at one and other, their eye contact finally broken when one of the boys broke wind, perhaps with nerves. A small ripple of giggles began until Mrs Edwards silenced them with a practised stare. Tarantino took a step towards her.<br /><br />‘What do you want?’ he said, his tone more controlled. ‘Tradition? Or cutting edge?’<br /><br />‘What I want, Mr Tarantino, is for the parents of this establishment to buy a ticket, watch their little darlings, drink a glass of overpriced wine afterward and go home with a warm Christmas glow while the school counts the takings in the hope that we can buy new books next year. If we go down your route, we’ll have the governors rioting in the aisles and civil lawsuits bought upon us before we’ve got time to breathe.’ At this she also took a step forward, until they were almost nose to nose, and spoke in a soft voice. ‘Do we have an understanding?’<br /><br />‘I’m going for lunch, I don’t need this.’<br /><br />Mrs Edwards smiled as he strutted towards the doors. ‘I take it we do then? Don’t forget we have a staff meeting at one.’ She stopped, and then almost inaudibly under her breath, and purely for her own amusement, added, ’Motherfucker.’<br /><br />Quentin Tarantino stepped through the doors and into bright sunlight, washing him in a wave of heat. His car was on the far side of the parking lot and he was already visualising the beer stashed beneath the seat. He started to whistle the melody to The Good, The Bad and The Ugly - that seemed to happen a lot recently. Cowboys liked guns, and a gun seemed like a very attractive prospect these days…<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAIyEWHhjk9KmuJLcnZH4HkovUCIcHfBu_OC9Z6CwwS6QN41EWgXDOBxgNnQtYKM9gFPTC44NtHZCo4ykqbELdMN_E6Sx9KX7IYkQ-G5UugMKw80_eG5npEA5HNWzwKc-S-ReC-WqqdQxW/s1600/Quentin-quentin-tarantino-293941_1152_864%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504653079117677186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAIyEWHhjk9KmuJLcnZH4HkovUCIcHfBu_OC9Z6CwwS6QN41EWgXDOBxgNnQtYKM9gFPTC44NtHZCo4ykqbELdMN_E6Sx9KX7IYkQ-G5UugMKw80_eG5npEA5HNWzwKc-S-ReC-WqqdQxW/s400/Quentin-quentin-tarantino-293941_1152_864%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><em>(c) 2010 Rich Wilson</em>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-27559349171791615252010-07-21T21:02:00.003+01:002010-07-21T21:36:46.966+01:00The Seven-UpsIt’s been a while since I posted an entry of things that have caught my eye or that I’m looking forward to. That may have something to do with me filling this blog with bizarre and generally unwanted fiction that no-one wishes to read. Not this time, friends. Your humble narrator will now take a backseat to people with genuine talent, starting with this brilliant little short film from British director Matthew Savage and starring Noel Clarke. You may know Clarke from his on-off role in the latest incarnation of <em>Doctor Who</em>, but he is also turning into one of the most influential people on the UK film scene, having written and directed <em>Kidulthood</em> and the recent<em> 4, 3, 2, 1</em>. <strong><em>Reign of Death</em></strong> is a science-fiction noir in the classic style of Bogart, and shows real style and love for the genre. The good news is that with Clarke’s input Savage is seeking funding to turn his short into a full length feature, and based on this five-and-a-half minutes that would be a very good thing.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Aa9O5PTNct8&hl=en_GB&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Aa9O5PTNct8&hl=en_GB&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />It may have a ridiculous name, but the trailer for <strong><em>The Cup Of Tears</em></strong> is a thing of visual beauty, showcasing gorgeous CGI blended with live action and coming over like the bastard love-child of <em>300, Sin City and Kill Bill</em>. It’s the brainchild of Irish commercial and music video director Gary Shore, who worked for six months on the trailer in the hope of securing funding to expand his vision into a full length feature. And Universal and Working Title have picked it up for development. If done right, this could screw with your brain and polish your eyeballs. Although I will bet my right hand the title will change.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/En5mvdyV8J0&hl=en_GB&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/En5mvdyV8J0&hl=en_GB&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />I know very little about <strong><em>Amock</em></strong>, apart that it’s from the artfx students of French university Montpellier and that it features much screaming and running about in the documentary style of <em>Rec</em> and <em>Paranormal Activity</em>. And there’s also some pretty nice creature effects in it.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/oZZhXx3IVIw&hl=en_GB&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/oZZhXx3IVIw&hl=en_GB&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />This is nothing new, just a fantastic trailer for one of the very best car chase movies of all-time, <strong><em>Dirty Mary Crazy Larry</em></strong>. I saw this as a kid and instantly fell in love with Susan George (who was a staple of great 70’s genre cinema such as <em>Straw Dogs, Fright</em> and <em>Venom</em>) and desperately wanted to be the legend Peter Fonda. It’s a simple on-the-run tale as Larry and Mary pin the pedal across country in a beautiful, throbbing Dodge Charger with corrupt cop Vic Morrow in persuit. This story has been told a hundred times since, but never with this much style and just pure damn Seventies cool. Essential cinema for gear heads, beloved by Tarantino - a must-see action classic.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/10qd_Oz4Xy0&hl=en_GB&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/10qd_Oz4Xy0&hl=en_GB&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />If you’re a fan of genre cinema, then you hold Simon Pegg and Nick Frost in the God-like status they deserve. While director buddy Edgar Wright has been putting together his adaptation of <em>Scott Pilgrim Vs The World</em> and preparing to go Global, Pegg and Wright have been making <strong><em>Paul</em></strong>, starring as two comic-book geeks who are on a road trip across America and pick up a friendly alien who has escaped Area 51. It’s directed by Greg (<em>Superbad</em>) Mottola and will be out early next year. All other details are shrouded in mystery, but if this first picture is anything to go by it should push all the film-nerd buttons - they’re at Comic-Con, for Christ sake…<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1KkajG16no5Ri0Azhyphenhyphenmvo2_LBbcn83IkXqb8UXrArdV0bRu6_k1YSX3Xc-MKoIZWWmnr6lCYPep0rrfaQ3EdNLHj_cMRs08QYK2UXkTQsikBNaRDaX5xXYx4URhBhjz2tcccoKeDM6-9/s1600/42924.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496456339812200546" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1KkajG16no5Ri0Azhyphenhyphenmvo2_LBbcn83IkXqb8UXrArdV0bRu6_k1YSX3Xc-MKoIZWWmnr6lCYPep0rrfaQ3EdNLHj_cMRs08QYK2UXkTQsikBNaRDaX5xXYx4URhBhjz2tcccoKeDM6-9/s400/42924.jpg" /></a><br />If you’ve read my blog or social network shit recently you’ll know of my love for Canadian band <strong><em>Metric</em></strong>. Their Fantasies album from last year was a masterpiece of dreamy indie-rock, and <em>Gimme Sympathy</em> is the highlight, four minutes of the kind of music that moves the soul and makes you wonder why this four-piece isn’t playing everywhere. They’ve released a superb video to go with the song, and it perfectly captures the mood and spirit of this truly innovative band.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/LqldwoDXHKg&hl=en_GB&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/LqldwoDXHKg&hl=en_GB&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Finally, I know nothing of this except it’s about a young innocent who is drugged, brainwashed and abused by a corrupt clergy, receives a sign from God to seek vengeance on her tormentors with a huge arsenal, which she does, and then the church hires a motorcycle gang to track her down. IMDB say this is out next year. There hasn’t been a decent nunsploitation picture since <em>MS.45</em>, and I don’t care if this is so bad it’s good or just plain bad. I can be a cheap and easy date, and I’m sold on the title, that decription and this poster, and as such I WILL be watching a film called <strong><em>Nude Nuns With Big Guns</em></strong>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_fCibzVQWVFKGuxljKMEcEAOrseEXknKskEaDKpQfxoHMJTsIRO4iSRWq3_RX4TEV2u8uqqiSkWRx2iaFnIYi0xJnOtVR8m5fYwOnRywcWZYTdN1aFT2H8mRED8Um1BeH3aGopSQ3fb8O/s1600/NudeNunsPoster.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 387px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496457053500135826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_fCibzVQWVFKGuxljKMEcEAOrseEXknKskEaDKpQfxoHMJTsIRO4iSRWq3_RX4TEV2u8uqqiSkWRx2iaFnIYi0xJnOtVR8m5fYwOnRywcWZYTdN1aFT2H8mRED8Um1BeH3aGopSQ3fb8O/s400/NudeNunsPoster.jpg" /></a>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-71372377154727208222010-07-11T19:19:00.003+01:002010-07-13T13:13:48.825+01:00The Old Boys<em>First in an occasional series of short pieces featuring legends who have slipped into an alternative universe. This week - Bob and Al in</em> <strong>Working Blues</strong><em>…</em><br /><br />The lights were low, the air heavy with the scent of incense. Smoke appeared like mist in the haze of the lamps. Pacino stretched his neck, heard the cartilage crack. ‘You really need that shit burning?’ he grumbled.<br /><br />‘Yeah, I do. It helps me get in the zone, and I don’t see it disturbing you.’<br /><br />‘You used to get in the zone with a pint of scotch. What the fuck happened to you, Bob?’ Pacino winced as he tweezed another hair from his nostril. ‘In fact, what the fuck happened to both of us?’<br /><br />De Niro shrugged, stared at his aging profile lit by the bulbs around the greasy mirror, could just about remember how good he used to look. ‘A new breed came along my friend. Young and easy, without all the drugs and the baggage. Without the status of legends.’<br /><br />‘Yeah? Well I liked being a legend,’ Pacino said. ‘What I don’t like is plucking hairs, sniffing your hippy sticks and sitting here in my own sweat.’ He sighed and rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. ‘You heard back from Marty lately?’<br /><br />‘I leave messages, but he doesn’t return my calls,’ De Niro replied, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. ‘Too interested in that kid DiCaprio these days.’<br /><br />‘Fucking loser. I’ve seen no talent in that pretty little shit. And as for Scorcese, what the hell has he done recently? I saw Shutter Island, and it was no Goodfellas, let me tell ya.’<br /><br />De Niro span around on his stool, the heavy woollen leggings he wore crackling with static. ‘Maybe not. But it wasn’t Rocky And Bullwinkle. And correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you grace the screen in Gigli?’<br /><br />‘Oh, fuck you.’<br /><br />‘Al, let’s face it, we took some wrong turns, made some bad choices. At least we’re still working.’<br /><br />Pacino didn’t answer, just ran black panstick around his eyes and struggled his skinny frame into the thick brown vest that matched the leggings worn by his friend. Both of them stood together, and Pacino scooped up the horse head that lay in the corner, it’s empty eye sockets mocking him. In a few moments he knew his own manic stare would be filling those dark holes. He looked at De Niro for a moment, and in unison they picked up the .45’s from the dresser. There was nothing more to say, only actions to be taken.<br /><br />A knock on the door, and a moment later a young, blonde man pushed his head around the frame. ‘Two minutes and we’re on, Gents,’ he said, his voice high and grating. ‘If we can just-’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘Jesus, how many times do I have to say it. No guns. This is a family pantomime.’<br /><br />‘Sorry,’ De Niro said, and they both returned the replicas to the dresser. ‘It’s a hard habit to break, y’know. Right, Al?’ Pacino didn’t speak, just kept his eyes toward the floor.<br /><br />‘Okay, okay,’ said the runner. ‘Just put your bloody hooves on and let’s move.’<br /><br />Pacino waited until he’d gone and then slipped the horse head over his own, glad that the tears in his eyes were shielded from his colleague. Behind him he felt Bob grab onto his hips, bend over into a ninety-degree angle, and heard his muffled voice telling him to go. At least he had the head tonight, he didn’t think he could handle being the ass, not the way he was feeling. They fumbled their way out of the tiny dressing room and moved up the corridor, hooves beating a slow and sad melody against the tiles as they headed toward the stage…<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSMr1V0hF3cf5bfuaOetFmc8FBVWv4HTJVg77F3INVpIC75D7PqJyXC6Ea73VOPnvAHMKLj_afmkVaQOg2LggBBkaTR9tZRPqDxZIZPfMzg91nuoncVn51HsisKityz8NgLdGieChy3UXF/s1600/righteous-kill.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492715332045307234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 224px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSMr1V0hF3cf5bfuaOetFmc8FBVWv4HTJVg77F3INVpIC75D7PqJyXC6Ea73VOPnvAHMKLj_afmkVaQOg2LggBBkaTR9tZRPqDxZIZPfMzg91nuoncVn51HsisKityz8NgLdGieChy3UXF/s320/righteous-kill.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />(c) <em>2010 Rich Wilson</em>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-29249564984335916122010-06-21T21:51:00.006+01:002010-07-13T13:14:57.718+01:00Get Out Of The Water!On June 20th 1975 <em><strong>Jaws</strong></em> was released into cinemas across the United States and Europe. It was the first film to ever open countrywide on thousands of screens, and was the first true summer event movie. In five months it become the most successful motion picture of all-time, a record held until the <em>Star Wars</em> came along in 1977.<br /><br /><em>Jaws</em>, in my opinion, is a perfect movie. In the 35 years since it’s release a lot of box-office breaking pictures have come and gone, and very, very few have had the cultural impact that Steven Spielberg’s simple little monster movie has. I can clearly remember my first viewing. The movie had been re-released in 1980 and I begged to be taken along. My Father, a keen film fan and supporter of my blossoming obsession with films agreed. I was hooked from the opening bars of John Williams iconic theme, nervous by the time the skinny-dipping girl was pulled under the water, and terrified when Ben Gardener’s head came bobbing out of the hole in the boat. By the time the credits rolled I knew three things: I hated sharks. I was never going to go in the water. I couldn’t wait to watch it again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiF1Tt1KqXqy1A2C1d7D1Uano9zgLkw34jer0F74wZjQaaTUS-_qr5qY939XzlFI-9moXPvPH8J_fM0HiBzLaXscUgesRcK9pSN9WmeiRxi-9PQKpMTAQaeIWkF8Ehvva97DBQx51okaMp/s1600/Jarchive6.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485334091702826722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 311px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiF1Tt1KqXqy1A2C1d7D1Uano9zgLkw34jer0F74wZjQaaTUS-_qr5qY939XzlFI-9moXPvPH8J_fM0HiBzLaXscUgesRcK9pSN9WmeiRxi-9PQKpMTAQaeIWkF8Ehvva97DBQx51okaMp/s400/Jarchive6.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It’s perfect because Spielberg knew that character was the key ingredient. In Roy Scheider’s police chief Martin Brody we get a sympathetic hero to follow - the audience is Brody in the film. He’s our anchor, and despite flaws one of the best leading characters on film in the 70’s. You see his fear of the ocean. You see his love for his family. We are given time to really explore these emotions before the second half where the film opens up with an impossibly young Richard Dreyfuss as Matt Hooper and the wonderful, grizzled old bastard Quint, played with utter perfection by Robert Shaw. They are total opposites - one studies sharks and one kills them - but they are constantly at odds on board the tiny fishing boat Orca, with Brody as the balance between them. As we’re drawn out to sea in pursuit of the monster we are drawn further into the story, and as with all the best films, drawn into the world. During the classic moment when Shaw tells the story about the sinking of the USS Indianapolis it’s like we’re sitting at the table with him. These characters totally take you along for the ride. You’re frightened with them, want them to live and survive.<br /><br />And then there is that shark. You don’t need to see it to be scared of it. Quint fires three barrels into the animal and for a while all you see are those yellow barrels, bobbing menacingly along the waves, following the boat, and you know that whatever is attached to those barrels is seriously, deeply pissed off. Hooper goes down in the cage and the fish smashes it apart, effortlessly, like it was made of balsa. Salty sea-dog Quint gets bitten in half, and then there is just Brody… who hates the water, can barely swim, climbing up the mast of a sinking boat while that fin speeds towards him. The fish is a machine, unstoppable.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1YODhiSGXjcv8TPycpmNYYH1qzj2HtBXCnIuYRCotQxBFvPKyUW1IPPWBLMdDthhKjNS2FabCvfAOaK0Xdfy5pyJ4J9mJEZH5ipqkYg6hSocyTXaHEFHKwxgF1jLp-VChg_YbF3bb5fn/s1600/Jstill5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485334087883968674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 265px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1YODhiSGXjcv8TPycpmNYYH1qzj2HtBXCnIuYRCotQxBFvPKyUW1IPPWBLMdDthhKjNS2FabCvfAOaK0Xdfy5pyJ4J9mJEZH5ipqkYg6hSocyTXaHEFHKwxgF1jLp-VChg_YbF3bb5fn/s400/Jstill5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It’s perfect because Spielberg stripped Peter Benchley’s best-selling source novel (which is at best a poorly written pulp thriller with too much scientific explanation and cheese ball dialogue) down to the basics. The plot is one line: A giant killer shark is killing the locals of an Island and the chief of police has to stop it. From that simplicity is built an incredible film, which went drastically over-budget and over-schedule. Storms stopped production. The shark sank. The studio didn’t believe that a shark could be scary. Dreyfuss and Shaw clashed on set. But from chaos came genius - everything came together on this one. Steven Spielberg was firing on all cylinders, operating with the drive of a young man trying to make his mark. John Williams gave the film the perfect heartbeat. Carl Gottlieb gave it the perfect pace. Bill Butler gave it the perfect, real-world look. Every single actor was perfectly cast.<br /><br />Jaws is lightning in a bottle. Spielberg couldn’t make that same movie today even if he still had Roy Scheider and Robert Shaw. It’s a product of its time that is, in its own way, timeless. It’s entertainment with brains, a summer blockbuster that is anything but hollow. In short, it’s a classic and will live long past its makers.<br /><br />Happy 35th Anniversary, Bruce.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWTgek33Yju1IWmb4yXLAesYkghm1hgICZ7ffqnBP4fAiRnXK6uJ-_VZ8nAybV1o9RXtAiC0-N0a67JUpARmwWafCE1DxGYT5RTV3GJ3bN_kdNOPnie4X2xmMdLdJLAAaYBafC7RN-ysnH/s1600/Jstill4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485334081593147074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 265px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWTgek33Yju1IWmb4yXLAesYkghm1hgICZ7ffqnBP4fAiRnXK6uJ-_VZ8nAybV1o9RXtAiC0-N0a67JUpARmwWafCE1DxGYT5RTV3GJ3bN_kdNOPnie4X2xmMdLdJLAAaYBafC7RN-ysnH/s400/Jstill4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQfThheTbUwKlQoOZqFXWnXMADm1_X6bYXTB5CQFAkMtcGBr61cx0V9O3rlKToy1atub1VWvaEnbjUkCxX81MdrrkkAdFbShKVelngqvSwzTYNSy8OMKCgTdnqZs9GIny_9ekfwq3_tgPO/s1600/Jbts24.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485333627309263730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 263px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQfThheTbUwKlQoOZqFXWnXMADm1_X6bYXTB5CQFAkMtcGBr61cx0V9O3rlKToy1atub1VWvaEnbjUkCxX81MdrrkkAdFbShKVelngqvSwzTYNSy8OMKCgTdnqZs9GIny_9ekfwq3_tgPO/s400/Jbts24.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3XFDWVOBtJdDLE6u5F8c3eUpR3w-QOzftq6JR2jvUKD-1pNb4kBrZFUTUgwjjQM493FsGzUPm-TQDU8s8d9ZAvy-GKprPjRDn8qDxvFAEkDwu6s9JJpuvoAz3-BivmQbaMhjqQkiOuqQ/s1600/Jbts30.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485333604754223522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 261px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3XFDWVOBtJdDLE6u5F8c3eUpR3w-QOzftq6JR2jvUKD-1pNb4kBrZFUTUgwjjQM493FsGzUPm-TQDU8s8d9ZAvy-GKprPjRDn8qDxvFAEkDwu6s9JJpuvoAz3-BivmQbaMhjqQkiOuqQ/s400/Jbts30.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLBlBZckgaCmmnriNTJCwdt8BL4PlE-oyxUS1-0oTiItXu0CMYAaxDRq_AveU1YqA6nDqEicf9hYzjg6Mz0PVRi3rl-LP44icAOzmECLciYX46BfrlIXb9Mjo5sbUMje8wUeHNPXMu4qI/s1600/Jbts19.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485333600618482946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 376px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 304px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLBlBZckgaCmmnriNTJCwdt8BL4PlE-oyxUS1-0oTiItXu0CMYAaxDRq_AveU1YqA6nDqEicf9hYzjg6Mz0PVRi3rl-LP44icAOzmECLciYX46BfrlIXb9Mjo5sbUMje8wUeHNPXMu4qI/s400/Jbts19.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgidvteVFgYJdNYrqw8gP-O59c2KlhSVENVXwa1M2Nj5QI-B3sQuBWa8aPshfUA572i-oiUff-_Mx8_K_WnlTFNEYQITqb19xW-MFeLTo51QvNDHRyeSsk-1HWNtt6DPNzWz4gcX2QE9iJZ/s1600/Jbts12.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485333594994117746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 325px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgidvteVFgYJdNYrqw8gP-O59c2KlhSVENVXwa1M2Nj5QI-B3sQuBWa8aPshfUA572i-oiUff-_Mx8_K_WnlTFNEYQITqb19xW-MFeLTo51QvNDHRyeSsk-1HWNtt6DPNzWz4gcX2QE9iJZ/s400/Jbts12.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjveVBnmImXt6LTNEsc2-9sAM_TT2gOYG-M2d7h03L9Xc2bZbl9OV8Lyu_JbinoaKLaEPgpiDnxxkx41FjiVYKpEEdgpJ8CRyg0oBdTuOVn27BBr4WIRo31wMBqVhAfP2gZZLfTrFFwjTI/s1600/Jarchive10.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485333589284915346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjveVBnmImXt6LTNEsc2-9sAM_TT2gOYG-M2d7h03L9Xc2bZbl9OV8Lyu_JbinoaKLaEPgpiDnxxkx41FjiVYKpEEdgpJ8CRyg0oBdTuOVn27BBr4WIRo31wMBqVhAfP2gZZLfTrFFwjTI/s400/Jarchive10.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDqDpclX8TXaIYiMB_V2EKop07A8bDgJeK1OWvdc3AVa4cR5GtnarfWev6EPLcuaj2shpAtndeh4FpiVn2JB2xN47wJ_h7jQdbu7q7rDAfDBzC-aAeKijMgv7pKyBUb7wpafRdd34xsdXe/s1600/Jbts3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485333032310837842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 337px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDqDpclX8TXaIYiMB_V2EKop07A8bDgJeK1OWvdc3AVa4cR5GtnarfWev6EPLcuaj2shpAtndeh4FpiVn2JB2xN47wJ_h7jQdbu7q7rDAfDBzC-aAeKijMgv7pKyBUb7wpafRdd34xsdXe/s400/Jbts3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3MpyyKfpzoEiLdc0umDM-ZSsErY-A_DSNI67f8URIBSV4TlqmsJeG43rZ3j6mluDHMRguklhgpDXAysY0t5XgwtmoVOdrW4FSkCr7CqiuahZ96o5fyfMCbVIXVTgPX7TpE9Syx1riy_d9/s1600/Jarchive4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485333028521594850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 284px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3MpyyKfpzoEiLdc0umDM-ZSsErY-A_DSNI67f8URIBSV4TlqmsJeG43rZ3j6mluDHMRguklhgpDXAysY0t5XgwtmoVOdrW4FSkCr7CqiuahZ96o5fyfMCbVIXVTgPX7TpE9Syx1riy_d9/s400/Jarchive4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG-V_I5KPq42UzgmxkRLl9etZYNEsonpFpGjWFn-y3AAcO_M1dJR_gfwUfeE3sgp4PUTrpP7j6n3Y6EVjxqBS60b4r_6EeIaY1DaGBGnT-voIdEZ89IFZMZafUU4aUzR4DOj2FGsDh0WXC/s1600/Jarchive3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485333023885588130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 264px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG-V_I5KPq42UzgmxkRLl9etZYNEsonpFpGjWFn-y3AAcO_M1dJR_gfwUfeE3sgp4PUTrpP7j6n3Y6EVjxqBS60b4r_6EeIaY1DaGBGnT-voIdEZ89IFZMZafUU4aUzR4DOj2FGsDh0WXC/s400/Jarchive3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOF5YGQjyAVlHhd7CZxvFOseKfbSBkDBgu-jxW1nEtZK8Qgs_imRaE2UyfNEnOHY4MuXujaJ8OjGmfsguRXp46XZh5ADjHIl-ZWJEzXUstP-E-NfdlWQ2OOtxLiqf_9u1-IDo9hlxqpwlz/s1600/Jarchive5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485333019351438546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 301px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOF5YGQjyAVlHhd7CZxvFOseKfbSBkDBgu-jxW1nEtZK8Qgs_imRaE2UyfNEnOHY4MuXujaJ8OjGmfsguRXp46XZh5ADjHIl-ZWJEzXUstP-E-NfdlWQ2OOtxLiqf_9u1-IDo9hlxqpwlz/s400/Jarchive5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4yN2oeUGrWJ83L5xV73mwnBjpdOS8WRD3URi3e0Mmas0r7qOHwujVEh3_KGJOklh5rcxVtW2zF2xw5osRZbkU2bV4Rioydldor0XTB8X-t9PNTo_JSHIMx-4lzMF_0z2JK5JhZ27bfHOr/s1600/Jstill2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485333015849183122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 315px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4yN2oeUGrWJ83L5xV73mwnBjpdOS8WRD3URi3e0Mmas0r7qOHwujVEh3_KGJOklh5rcxVtW2zF2xw5osRZbkU2bV4Rioydldor0XTB8X-t9PNTo_JSHIMx-4lzMF_0z2JK5JhZ27bfHOr/s400/Jstill2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-66254845777854449082010-06-08T20:45:00.005+01:002010-07-13T13:14:19.139+01:00SparklineThe idea is to write a piece of work in no more than 100 words. Not only is it nice to throw out snippets of fiction, it's a good way to syphon off some of the brain sludge in between bigger projects. Offering this week - <em><strong>Sleaze Blues.</strong></em><br /><br /><strong>“Let me tell you something,” said Johnson. “A while ago I took this here guitar down to a crossroads at midnight. I gave up my savings, they didn’t amount to much, and the Devil stood before me and retuned my strings. The moon came out and Satan disappeared. And after that I couldn’t just play the guitar anymore. I could play like a God, like I had an extra set of hands.” The promoter swallowed hard and took a step back. Johnson stared at him. “And you want me to play<em> show tunes</em>? Brother, you can kiss my fucking ass…”</strong><br /><strong></strong>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-87239612307150271072010-06-05T17:27:00.010+01:002010-06-05T17:49:08.148+01:00Dead Men Walking<em>The Walking Dead</em> is one of the best comic books currently running at present. Robert Kirkman is the creator of this epic, on-going survival story set in mid-west America, which follows small-town police officer Rick Grimes, his family and a group of survivors who have banded together to survive an onslaught of zombies when the world is overrun by the dead. As the story progresses their personalities shift under the stress, particularly as their search for a new homes brings them into conflict with a crazed dictator called The Governor who runs a makeshift city and tortures Rick and his group, pursuing them when they escape and becoming more dangerous than the corpses they were originally trying to evade.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvdD7dzrKCQa-Paqf_-XWNp4hEyfC06zct_af9Dsmn16KLU0PGmTdCSpr_B7w68E0Xt2ek_o2mXBFQgdSr-PbcNhKbDflWU59ik-NbaarnO4eowf-tqTxarmCQeMwZK_KKbE3OOVh6nY1q/s1600/the_walking_dead_comic.gif"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 360px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479327422291736674" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvdD7dzrKCQa-Paqf_-XWNp4hEyfC06zct_af9Dsmn16KLU0PGmTdCSpr_B7w68E0Xt2ek_o2mXBFQgdSr-PbcNhKbDflWU59ik-NbaarnO4eowf-tqTxarmCQeMwZK_KKbE3OOVh6nY1q/s400/the_walking_dead_comic.gif" /></a><br /><div></div>Of course, none of this is new. Zombie apocalypse is as old as horror itself, and the themes of man being more of a threat to one and other than the dead have been explored in everything from George Romero’s classic<em> Night Of The Living Dead</em> through to <em>28 Days Later</em>. In fact Kirkman is unashamedly pillaging from the best of Romero for his tale. It works because if you get your kicks from the whole end-of-the-world scenario then you know pretty much what to expect, but it’s the ride that’s the fun part. And <em>The Walking Dead</em> is one hell of ride. Brilliantly illustrated and superbly written, filled with characters that are easy to like, villains that are easy to hate, enough pop-culture reference to keep the geeks happy, gore and violence, and a storyline that you constantly crave a new fix of. So far there have been 72 monthly issues and it shows no sign of stopping. It also shows no sign of fatigue - this is one book that can run and run.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwSg5OZd14b66KVGvGQpEGxEnATJIrM7EQNkeK-BbJ__p13JayGsCmbFQ2uvEm8JtA-YxPizr3kDRJR52ikC3las0SU7uu2spOlfUn9-wd4mGaepNb-sR5CJE7qIKwheTa_muKAEqawjHy/s1600/walking-dead-20070911030623642-000.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 308px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479329162688576802" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwSg5OZd14b66KVGvGQpEGxEnATJIrM7EQNkeK-BbJ__p13JayGsCmbFQ2uvEm8JtA-YxPizr3kDRJR52ikC3las0SU7uu2spOlfUn9-wd4mGaepNb-sR5CJE7qIKwheTa_muKAEqawjHy/s400/walking-dead-20070911030623642-000.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Now cable channel AMC are producing a six-episode season based on the book, due to air Winter 2010, based on the first 12 issues. A Cable channel doing a horror comic? Which naturally means we can go down the<em> True Blood/Dexter/Sopranos</em> route of much sex, violence and splatter, essential if the book is to be done right. But the real ace in this bloody hole? It’s being written, produced and directed by Frank Darabont. Genius director of <em>The Shawshank Redemption</em> and <em>The Green Mile</em>, Darabont is a lifelong horror nerd who has searched for the right zombie material for years. And if you think the man who had Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman hugging on a beach can’t do horror, then you should go and watch his adaptation of Stephen King's <em>The Mist</em> again. Probably one of the most underrated movies of the last ten years, this was a (for Hollywood) low-budget production that could have easily passed for high-budget TV. It was also grim, bleak, nasty and didn’t compromise itself for a traditional happy ending.<em> The Mist</em> fucked with you, and I have no doubt that Darabont will be happy to let <em>The Walking Dead</em> do the same. Thrown in Gale Anne Hurd as producer (<em>The Terminator, Aliens, Tremors</em>) and no CGI, practical gore effects from the maniacs at KMB (<em>Day Of The Dead, Kill Bill</em>, and a hundred other films you’ve squirmed at) and this promises to be very, very cool indeed. AMC have released a few production shots that show some nice looking dead that could easily be lifted from the pages of the book. Your humble writer is, it’s fair to say, damn excited at the prospect of this on his tube.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCSMNbIWxHXmlU5D8Fc4jU2yExFPYkej-4vWRkgailvykrRsksf65H11RuGA7wc7WkwLvcjDbLEcSKqqnDmccqJlHkv0fAs0a0ddYOfM-kLY9n6M1JPBobgtOJzdYetL_RtygeIUqxtyw9/s1600/Zombie-Joe-650.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 329px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479331756422508834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCSMNbIWxHXmlU5D8Fc4jU2yExFPYkej-4vWRkgailvykrRsksf65H11RuGA7wc7WkwLvcjDbLEcSKqqnDmccqJlHkv0fAs0a0ddYOfM-kLY9n6M1JPBobgtOJzdYetL_RtygeIUqxtyw9/s400/Zombie-Joe-650.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdMLIw0M1Aub1lxjN9zL3wPnecBrO4Ne2oSNwFzrWOZI10AKFxCEeKNTtDM2fJaHPECIg4eA_2NV91bxYhiHYzN9olaRQz_ZLB1E1y1mCBE03Ey47zvgnmXLb0Q30NmwBZDz2U49ORGXob/s1600/Zombie-Woman-760.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 282px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479331345404047314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdMLIw0M1Aub1lxjN9zL3wPnecBrO4Ne2oSNwFzrWOZI10AKFxCEeKNTtDM2fJaHPECIg4eA_2NV91bxYhiHYzN9olaRQz_ZLB1E1y1mCBE03Ey47zvgnmXLb0Q30NmwBZDz2U49ORGXob/s400/Zombie-Woman-760.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB652gyscn9QjARUMQpCZib7vVvO4sLwBLsogpJL7tiIxGkO-gqa1U4zzU6ljbgJSPlIAcPuItuoASRtGKdgq032QZNGqYlx59TE1bBhlv9K9VyHY35mY096IE8W3W1o4R0KztIIW_s1ZX/s1600/Zombie-Man-1-400.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479331183121279810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB652gyscn9QjARUMQpCZib7vVvO4sLwBLsogpJL7tiIxGkO-gqa1U4zzU6ljbgJSPlIAcPuItuoASRtGKdgq032QZNGqYlx59TE1bBhlv9K9VyHY35mY096IE8W3W1o4R0KztIIW_s1ZX/s400/Zombie-Man-1-400.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2jnwRwFTaeucZlNXY50YU-L95X7hlqunLnosdCxnq5QYljnUeuoEBYuVpXi3vtYCfbjrSbzN8nRw2SIoHo2QRTBsAZWMbU9JAnECiGIQUHwlI_zLQyjZjoHFY50tee6kPQEf3jp9iJsWO/s1600/Hero-Male-400.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479330972911935298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2jnwRwFTaeucZlNXY50YU-L95X7hlqunLnosdCxnq5QYljnUeuoEBYuVpXi3vtYCfbjrSbzN8nRw2SIoHo2QRTBsAZWMbU9JAnECiGIQUHwlI_zLQyjZjoHFY50tee6kPQEf3jp9iJsWO/s400/Hero-Male-400.jpg" /></a>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-59686869364476521582010-05-21T21:22:00.004+01:002010-07-13T13:14:42.404+01:00Sparkline: Ideas Under 100 WordsThe idea is to write a piece of fiction in no more than 100 words. Warren Ellis calls it Sparkline, and so far I haven't seen a better description for it. And it's a good way to syphon off some of the brain sludge in between bigger projects. This is my latest effort - <em>Octopus's Garden</em>.<br /><br /><strong>She hadn’t seen him in ten years, but that didn’t stop her annual walk down to the front on the twenty-fifth of every June in the hope that he might appear in the surf. His last words had been haunting: “I could drown in your eyes.” Then they had kissed with passion, ignoring the passers-by who watched them with a strange mix of revulsion and envy. He had removed his clothes and walked into the water, and her tears had flowed. In the last decade she’d taken other lovers, but nothing had ever come close to her beautiful, twisted Merman...</strong>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-12516644721914968572010-05-20T20:46:00.012+01:002010-05-20T21:00:21.610+01:00Movies R Fun!I love this. Pixar artist Josh Cooley has taken some classic movies and re-imagined them as children's books. These are very twisted and very cool...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizeMiufOTA8cSm318NFsD-Dx-BIhtPRvtEJrDw8FvC1Yh-TyFDKLHUAjzNt-vKRvebtDfnDJq6F0N105MF6sOs6fbfyWlIYdqY3xAY6MCFIbgxzUhpBUr562JGvKYsGppO2R64sGo1WcvL/s1600/leon-1994--630-75.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473441931964580978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizeMiufOTA8cSm318NFsD-Dx-BIhtPRvtEJrDw8FvC1Yh-TyFDKLHUAjzNt-vKRvebtDfnDJq6F0N105MF6sOs6fbfyWlIYdqY3xAY6MCFIbgxzUhpBUr562JGvKYsGppO2R64sGo1WcvL/s400/leon-1994--630-75.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0T0Ljw_-CyyZW5uyD0GHIj89bHm2CUaUsApfqVl6EWRstCMAOc1alIeJy7IBbNUkT9WGJJfWvm_OVrFyc9cQlidFi7uPbxRcIaDC0aY_IkvPQBw9PR79GbDLzTTtMe6AUYXsTCrFcfySK/s1600/the-silence-of-the-lambs-1991--630-75.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 324px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473443602123053618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0T0Ljw_-CyyZW5uyD0GHIj89bHm2CUaUsApfqVl6EWRstCMAOc1alIeJy7IBbNUkT9WGJJfWvm_OVrFyc9cQlidFi7uPbxRcIaDC0aY_IkvPQBw9PR79GbDLzTTtMe6AUYXsTCrFcfySK/s400/the-silence-of-the-lambs-1991--630-75.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVb9toXLIkSunpAfpKCaKOAnEBTGByekkXp8rWhiObW5dQYOtxiJDSKGCbulAES5osgTmydcorhGgj1af72-5GiXwvgYRmU6hEUS1OBEdABB2BlQKZ1kUr7trA2Slct-4U0HCIS4gF31GX/s1600/the-graduate-1967--03-630-75.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473443520392457202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVb9toXLIkSunpAfpKCaKOAnEBTGByekkXp8rWhiObW5dQYOtxiJDSKGCbulAES5osgTmydcorhGgj1af72-5GiXwvgYRmU6hEUS1OBEdABB2BlQKZ1kUr7trA2Slct-4U0HCIS4gF31GX/s400/the-graduate-1967--03-630-75.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDEX4xqxIgKW9rlTMcJ2t9VMEggxMCuT5kUs0mgf0cyoxTlu3VM-Hhuf5RdgNI0imjOdeRb5fXWZUAqcGqK4RMB3awqplthDdxwDgQU0mVXOXGmJfL8SO3RVy1ygv7JHoWnPNJABqpm-E/s1600/the-godfather-1972--01-630-75.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 323px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473443421052843202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDEX4xqxIgKW9rlTMcJ2t9VMEggxMCuT5kUs0mgf0cyoxTlu3VM-Hhuf5RdgNI0imjOdeRb5fXWZUAqcGqK4RMB3awqplthDdxwDgQU0mVXOXGmJfL8SO3RVy1ygv7JHoWnPNJABqpm-E/s400/the-godfather-1972--01-630-75.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv93bMN8owk7U0k420_fUBFE9sd52vLyLA6pQZub3BLu3T3oAwoQjuSja0A6tWeSr8koKE-2sJ6df5gGKNqy0yGv5sM8HB5r7Tv-_KcQ0u64SSmzpX21oG_zdkmwk2tDcs3_IpAk14YGs2/s1600/the-big-lebowski-1998--00-630-75.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 302px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473443314500348402" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv93bMN8owk7U0k420_fUBFE9sd52vLyLA6pQZub3BLu3T3oAwoQjuSja0A6tWeSr8koKE-2sJ6df5gGKNqy0yGv5sM8HB5r7Tv-_KcQ0u64SSmzpX21oG_zdkmwk2tDcs3_IpAk14YGs2/s400/the-big-lebowski-1998--00-630-75.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3-32k7N7J2VnbzxZZCDx8rIcLjP3Yc6K7KXsfwsj1wr2y42DQQyNQcqd533jWucDP7DXby8QRB_1kRVPtNjt3tSLGwmrB7ULlgILqvBF_bFHjdSKnIZT04oX2vBP4upiczn0ctLLgMDDg/s1600/t2-1991--630-75.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 302px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473443218056340306" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3-32k7N7J2VnbzxZZCDx8rIcLjP3Yc6K7KXsfwsj1wr2y42DQQyNQcqd533jWucDP7DXby8QRB_1kRVPtNjt3tSLGwmrB7ULlgILqvBF_bFHjdSKnIZT04oX2vBP4upiczn0ctLLgMDDg/s400/t2-1991--630-75.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtXj2Ri52q3xMwFaTukxSfVqj1ToNBxlQlCAr6__XtvuGxBHkPjbru2HxtXuk_2rvyn7YbBYrtrZ0ItKvxgvOneuMhGbPK4QFMea1a_ScQ_kSocb0XPo3u_3xcgYjrmT_zM5at9P5VUzkc/s1600/seven-1995--630-75.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 323px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473443035694294498" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtXj2Ri52q3xMwFaTukxSfVqj1ToNBxlQlCAr6__XtvuGxBHkPjbru2HxtXuk_2rvyn7YbBYrtrZ0ItKvxgvOneuMhGbPK4QFMea1a_ScQ_kSocb0XPo3u_3xcgYjrmT_zM5at9P5VUzkc/s400/seven-1995--630-75.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-UZFIsl7yj0C50NnrjjYMZBuC5gKZdXgMiNsojPZmKxjVlElLiFcQo8bbsQUmdH4luN4UlYSvZmX6KXLSy-FYPRaWO-mo0R8URZDoqgRT4KExuEZhVU8iDO8NzHy7Jlzc9q8NUXnl8Cmk/s1600/apocalypse-now-1979--04-630-75.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 323px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473442941850739538" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-UZFIsl7yj0C50NnrjjYMZBuC5gKZdXgMiNsojPZmKxjVlElLiFcQo8bbsQUmdH4luN4UlYSvZmX6KXLSy-FYPRaWO-mo0R8URZDoqgRT4KExuEZhVU8iDO8NzHy7Jlzc9q8NUXnl8Cmk/s400/apocalypse-now-1979--04-630-75.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu0cFGClSoDrMq4K6Law1zUcTN0rO9clJOTKuMWpl54mOa6QpbgFbtn6ftrvKrn8WCIADEyTfyTo9p63m6VJJ-kSWAI3f9hqdH_unyokkSiwZxyxQg9edsOK8jZchyTknvuEUaoWK4ELhp/s1600/2001-a-space-odyssey-1968--00-630-75.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473442738681671122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu0cFGClSoDrMq4K6Law1zUcTN0rO9clJOTKuMWpl54mOa6QpbgFbtn6ftrvKrn8WCIADEyTfyTo9p63m6VJJ-kSWAI3f9hqdH_unyokkSiwZxyxQg9edsOK8jZchyTknvuEUaoWK4ELhp/s400/2001-a-space-odyssey-1968--00-630-75.jpg" /></a> </div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-63360441942384957792010-04-27T23:43:00.006+01:002010-04-27T23:56:38.104+01:00Here's a thingFeeling frustrated. Everyone but me is asleep and as usual the neurons and pulses that fire my brain are refusing to shut down for the night. I have a late 80’s/early 90’s rock mix coming from my stereo speakers - at the moment it’s The Pixies with <em>Debaser</em> - and all is quiet at Wilson Towers. I’m trying to write fiction and it’s literally like pulling teeth. It’s one word after another. Now I guess all writing is one word after another, but in my current condition it’s as if my fingers are pushing through syrup. I’m dragging the words out of my imagination, slowly, and the problem is what little is going down on the screen is, quite frankly, shit. Feeling frustrated. I really do wonder if this pursuit is worth it. Some days I can’t even write badly, and believe me, badly would probably be better than nothing - have you seen the money Stephanie Meyer is pulling in with the <em>Twilight</em> series of novels? Take it from one who has read a few pages with a mixture of grim fascination and a burning jealousy, Miss Meyer is never going to win the Booker prize. Feeling frustrated. I heard it once said that writing is the most solitary and loneliest of art-forms, that all those hours spent wandering around your own imagination can affect a person in unknown ways. Maybe it’s time I got out of the mind-station for a while, laid a cold flannel across my forehead and concentrated on the sound of silence. Maybe not. But I still feel frustrated.<br /><br />Anyhow. I have a Blog and I write stuff here for people to read, and sometimes I put things on here that I like and I hope you will too. Tonights offerings are:<br /><br />This amazing short film by Patrick Jean called Pixels. If you’re into old school videogames you’ll be grinning as Space Invaders, Donkey Kong, Bomberman and much more attack and destroy NYC in two and a bit minutes that should make Michael Bay sit up and take notice before he pushes the go button on anything again. This is truly brilliant.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/UQT_VoLtyIY&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/UQT_VoLtyIY&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><em><strong><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Way-Home-George-Pelecanos/dp/0752875434/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1272408480&sr=8-2">The Way Home </a></strong></em>by George Pelecanos. One of the writers on ace TV shows <em>The Wire</em> and <em>The Pacific</em> has been writing complex and emotional thrillers for almost twenty years, set in and around his hometown of Washington DC.. He’s one of my big influences and his latest novel is as good as anything he’s ever produced.<br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIJaO8mC7MM0IX0tKZDQqgvYQhreGZJJIxGS7-ri63p15N4Nrokl81LIWFLT-vbZ-IF8ZYicSnPuFsZCLMgV9DUHhw1TgxCXoKatVzT452OJtthehYtt5EJwcSf-AUT7DGuZhYZbq4ZBt/s1600/the-way-home.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 259px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464953105029093570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIJaO8mC7MM0IX0tKZDQqgvYQhreGZJJIxGS7-ri63p15N4Nrokl81LIWFLT-vbZ-IF8ZYicSnPuFsZCLMgV9DUHhw1TgxCXoKatVzT452OJtthehYtt5EJwcSf-AUT7DGuZhYZbq4ZBt/s400/the-way-home.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.lettersofnote.com/">Letters Of Note</a> is a fascinating website that will keep you engrossed for hours. Webmaster Shaun Usher describes it as “an attempt to gather and sort fascinating letters, postcards, telegrams, faxes, and memos.” The fact that most of the material on the site is from famous names throughout the 20th Century is a bonus, and the site has genuine and authentic scans and reproductions of the original material, like this letter below from Jimi Hendrix:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQpG4wXQX2gB14LR7CqRM-nlPZOy3C9uHxFYTx05o8UdVHnZLAJH8b3cvz4_0vNycvYq7nk2OhtXUggfDowYg_Y3F6jisQ8ekryVVr3ttSiMsYBPoSgpCQ2A4QJrZOEFGz2yPzAs_k4VaZ/s1600/4386572821_0649d7be71_o.bmp"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 312px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464953703574137970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQpG4wXQX2gB14LR7CqRM-nlPZOy3C9uHxFYTx05o8UdVHnZLAJH8b3cvz4_0vNycvYq7nk2OhtXUggfDowYg_Y3F6jisQ8ekryVVr3ttSiMsYBPoSgpCQ2A4QJrZOEFGz2yPzAs_k4VaZ/s400/4386572821_0649d7be71_o.bmp" /></a><br /><br />Finally, a fantastic remix from one of the best films of the last ten years. Shaun and Ed, dancing to electro at 4.00am makes Pete very, very angry. And makes me laugh a lot.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7vDneEpu8sI&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7vDneEpu8sI&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Until we pass by again. Goodnight sinners.Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-54802963718534944662010-04-25T18:00:00.005+01:002010-04-25T18:18:50.148+01:00Save The What?The whole recycling issue really leaves me cold. My wife loves it. We have a large plastic box in our under stairs cupboard where all cardboard, cans, junk-mail, boxes etc. are placed. All recyclable items MUST be placed in this box. There have been the rare occasions when I’ve forgotten the rules and tossed a can into the regular rubbish bin. On those occasions it has been a minor miracle that I’ve actually escaped without the skin being flayed from my back. If I make that mistake now it’s purely due to an absent mind and not any streak of rebellion. Cans go in the box. It doesn’t matter if the box hasn’t been emptied for a couple of days and the recyclable pile is the size of a mountain and as unstable as a Third-World dictator while the regular bin is empty. CANS GO IN THE BOX. Through pain, I have learnt.<br /><br />The fun doesn’t end there. The box is then taken out for it’s contents to be transferred to the external bin. We have three bins now, large rectangular receptacles on small, neat wheels that stand in a line like soldiers of fortune keeping an ecological watch on my personal chunk of the planet. There’s a brown bin that’s designed for garden rubbish - grass clippings and hedge cuttings and the like. A green one that is designed to receive regular rubbish (although these days I don’t think anyone really knows what the hell regular rubbish actually is). And then, there’s the blue bin. Otherwise known as the recycling bin. We have a recycling box in the house, and it’s contents are transferred to the recycling bin outside. Easy, huh? Just lift the lid, throw the contents inside and-<br /><br />NO! Of course it’s not that easy. Because paper goes into another box inside that bin while plastic and cardboard go into the main area. We’ve already done the separating, yet now we separate those piles into yet <em>more</em> piles. It’s roughly around this point I consider taking one of the rusty cans I’m in the process of chucking and slashing it across my wrists.<br /><br />When I was a kid we had one bin. ONE FUCKING BIN. Imagine that! It was metal and round and sat proudly next to the shed and we threw everything into it. Why did that change? Why is it that I receive a schedule of recycling from my local authority every year that not only tells me how to recycle, but even hints with vague threats that if I don’t do it my rubbish won’t be taken away. Because we MUST think about the planet. It’s dying, don’t you realise? There are no trees left in Nebraska. A polar bear is now living on 4 foot by 4 foot chunk of ice because you’re to damn lazy to sort your <em>Guardian</em> from your bean cans. If we don’t make an effort, the ozone layer will burn and our seas will boil. We. Will. Die.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBYYar_5xhd0kybKyTC3HDsi0fdMD6i85hPft4UOC-6nuWCQzcQCpTiNDjdd77AyNUurQRWwZsRgMwPN7pkMfLFq4jlaDfNCnLf01CPkXjYUrQsUCAdfAuf0RSAhvm5TfiGMa4krqo4MI9/s1600/recycling-2.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464121945121507746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBYYar_5xhd0kybKyTC3HDsi0fdMD6i85hPft4UOC-6nuWCQzcQCpTiNDjdd77AyNUurQRWwZsRgMwPN7pkMfLFq4jlaDfNCnLf01CPkXjYUrQsUCAdfAuf0RSAhvm5TfiGMa4krqo4MI9/s400/recycling-2.jpg" /></a><br /><br />But here’s the thing. When I was at home the other Thursday I watched the huge, diesel-burning, atmosphere polluting garbage truck pull up our street. I watched the group of lads jumping out and emptying the blue bins. And not once, not once did they separate anything. Everything went into the back of the truck. Everything. Alright you say, maybe they were just storing it all in the back of the vehicle so they could sort it all out back at the depot? The fuck they did. The drove back, emptied that truck into the landfill hole and went for a cuppa. I’m sure it’s not their fault and that they do their best - they probably haven’t got enough man power or enough hours to do the job. However, I paid £112 a month last year in council charges and for that sort of money I don’t see why the council can’t keep up their part of the bargain if they’re demanding I do the same. I don’t see them spending my hard-earned on anything else. The roads are knackered (and of course we pay other taxes for that), I rarely set my house on fire, have a heart attack or get arrested, so I have no requirement of the emergency services. All my council appears to do with my money is take my recycling bins and mix them back up again. For £112 a month. Sounds like a bargain.<br /><br />But the real issue of recycling is one of guilt. Yes, the planet <em>is </em>suffocating and choking on our fumes, beautiful species <em>are</em> becoming extinct at an alarming rate and the polar ice-caps <em>are</em> melting. It’s all true. But if I wash out my Ragu jars and put them in the right box they won’t. And it makes us all feel good, because we’re doing our bit and making the effort. We won’t feel guilty about all the other pollution we cause in the week - light pollution and high energy pollution and exhaust pollution and all that traffic that gets us to our hated jobs where we continue to make, build and design things that people don’t really need for a world that can barely sustain what we already have. It’s like going to Church for two hours on a Sunday morning and then spending the rest of the week sinning. You can get away with because you’ve done your bit.<br /><br />I can’t give you numbers, but I’ll bet we could do some real recycling if for one week none of us drove anywhere. If our electricity and gas supplies were turned off at 6.00pm. If our power stations closed down during the hours of darkness. We could make a real, serious change. What’s that? You need to drive to the office because there are odd people on the bus. It gets cold at night and you don’t like wearing any of your sweaters. You really like slamming a pizza in the oven and having it ready just before the latest episode of <em>Lost </em>comes on the tube. Shit! Me too. I love my pepperoni special while Jack and Sawyer tramp across the island for the hundredth time…<br /><br />The best thing to do is just keep separating those tins. Everything will be fine.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSnZmAOKQuxCXGKQzHuN_UkXTtrmiqIWa7Fn_IPhuRDViYFsZlfFXzoP34cF4cYjw42QPu-uD7GAzd5vp95DQH5jiDjzhjtsnB7YDDM9hYvLQHr9lQ5FX3ONgWYXFRhcmpuFS8nmGcpKQg/s1600/light-pollution.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464123488663898770" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSnZmAOKQuxCXGKQzHuN_UkXTtrmiqIWa7Fn_IPhuRDViYFsZlfFXzoP34cF4cYjw42QPu-uD7GAzd5vp95DQH5jiDjzhjtsnB7YDDM9hYvLQHr9lQ5FX3ONgWYXFRhcmpuFS8nmGcpKQg/s400/light-pollution.jpg" /></a>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-57389789422143790362010-04-09T21:48:00.011+01:002010-04-10T09:13:09.228+01:00Dead Before DawnI watched <strong><em>Zombi 2</em></strong> this morning (a.k.a <strong><em>Zombie Flesh Eaters</em> </strong>a.k.a <strong><em>Zombie</em></strong>) for the first time in several years. My buddy Dan bought a super-cool DVD special edition a while back, convinced that due to his worship of Romero zombie flicks he’d love this one. He’d never seen it and I told him not to hold his breath, but if he hated it I’d give him the asking price. He did, I did, and now it’s the last movie on my DVD shelf. I can’t say I was surprised that he didn’t care for the picture. It’s cheap, incredibly dated, has routinely awful performances and is far removed from any form of style or finesse.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonwfG1GjLR9sn-zNDZzzlrNLc9mYhgFBzNkOPdRaK71INPSlKmXujepE5m_q_4g3pvPVtRHPD9PZAF4DWwWh7s5Y_4sUX-8vkBjGvA-Xj4I-XNZIZZxKbBUliAgR8z5IcQUJBvu36JaHg/s1600/Zombie_Flesh_Eaters.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 271px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458245728299189282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonwfG1GjLR9sn-zNDZzzlrNLc9mYhgFBzNkOPdRaK71INPSlKmXujepE5m_q_4g3pvPVtRHPD9PZAF4DWwWh7s5Y_4sUX-8vkBjGvA-Xj4I-XNZIZZxKbBUliAgR8z5IcQUJBvu36JaHg/s400/Zombie_Flesh_Eaters.jpg" /></a><br />But I love the film. A lot of my affection comes from my age and the era I grew up in as a film geek. <em>Zombi 2</em> was an Italian Exploitation rip-off designed to cash in on the hugely popular success of George Romero’s <em>Dawn Of The Dead</em>, which had been a massive hit, especially in Europe, in 1978. The Italians, ever quick to jump on the bandwagon, threw together a script, some gore and a clutch of actors and let hack-extraordinaire Lucio Fulci direct the whole mess. Stuffed full of lurid splatter and nasty violence, we get plenty of head explosions, throat rippings, gratuitous nudity, a splinter of wood in an eyeball and a superb underwater moment when a zombie attacks a shark. Seriously. It was sold at the 1979 Cannes Film Festival before it was even completed, was a worldwide hit and proceeded to make a fortune, revitalising Fulci’s career and kick-starting the new wave of Italian horror in the eighties.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNYoi0ygBmw_Gbkc4RnNNEGc4bPIpFtaMgsmA4osLlXL_gn28qYEUKlOLhGHdZQtSshlQxwZARzTyvM1j-1ZsdkdjGGagKnzxe8yZeUCY3y5sWgEXLY0ckFSNFaFyGMw9xsbLlsLQhl1WT/s1600/Zombies-Zombie-Flesh-eate-002.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 279px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458246629121116914" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNYoi0ygBmw_Gbkc4RnNNEGc4bPIpFtaMgsmA4osLlXL_gn28qYEUKlOLhGHdZQtSshlQxwZARzTyvM1j-1ZsdkdjGGagKnzxe8yZeUCY3y5sWgEXLY0ckFSNFaFyGMw9xsbLlsLQhl1WT/s400/Zombies-Zombie-Flesh-eate-002.jpg" /></a><br />Released in the UK on video in 1983 it immediately found it’s way onto the Department Of Public Prosecutions list of so-called Video Nasties that circulated Thatcher’s Britain and deprived many a movie fan of seeing what they wanted, as well as putting many small video stores out of business. I was eleven at the time, and already a huge movie nerd, and I can still remember the thrill of looking at the garish box cover art to <em>Zombie Flesh Eaters</em> (which was the UK title, and what a title) sitting on the shelf, realising that there was no way on Earth my Dad would let me see it. I’d been allowed to see <em>Alien </em>and <em>An American Werewolf In London</em> and <em>The Omen</em>, but extreme Italian horror? Not a chance.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie6J2SZG73lxBuehL9PkfGyNqp-Zg89QYMZHQCfeTfpdOQrhZJRr4_NTFg7JN-l4yZ9QZcwaEcQFDfK5mXWcqi_o-S2QLv9UTIa6x3d1s3xOCPpW1myO6V6hJsbJO95g7mVZTqsniAaiPS/s1600/Zombie_Flesh_Eaters01.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 261px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458247113515393842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie6J2SZG73lxBuehL9PkfGyNqp-Zg89QYMZHQCfeTfpdOQrhZJRr4_NTFg7JN-l4yZ9QZcwaEcQFDfK5mXWcqi_o-S2QLv9UTIa6x3d1s3xOCPpW1myO6V6hJsbJO95g7mVZTqsniAaiPS/s400/Zombie_Flesh_Eaters01.jpg" /></a><br />But when you’re a kid, those boxes and those cool names burn their way into your fevered mind. I used to dream about <em>Zombie Flesh Eaters</em> and other flicks with titles like <em>The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Ilsa She-Wolf Of The SS, The Bell Of Hell, Cannibal Apocalypse, The House By The Cemetery, Tombs Of The Blind Dead</em>… I visualised plots and scenes for these films, to such an extent that the actual watching and realisation of them could and mostly never did live up to my expectations. In fact, it’s true to say that by and large many of the titles that made their way onto the banned list are much more fun to read about than to watch. However, that knowledge only came to me in later years. As a pre-teen horror fan they rocketed to the top of my list of movies to see.<br /><br />The DPP ban was successful and in 1984 many films were removed from shelves and my dreams died. But this young film fan was resourceful, and towards the late eighties I started to pick up film magazines like Deep Red, Gorezone, Shock Xpress and Sleazoid Express. Here was film journalism aimed directly at me, with promises of new films from Italy and Japan and appreciation of directors like Dario Argento, Jess Franco and Lucio Fulci. Writers who loved <em>Zombi 2</em>! It was also around that time that I discovered there was a network of like-minded fans who met at movie festivals, swapped lists of their personal collections, traded VHS tapes and didn’t let archaic releasing schedules or ‘banned’ lists preventing their love of cult and horror cinema. It saw a period of my life when my movie collection went from a couple of hundred titles to a couple of thousand, when I was writing to and trading movies with people from as far as Japan to Brazil (the internet was years away) and the rattle of the letterbox in the morning meant another crazed chunk of cinema, not the electric bill.<br /><br />All that is a (long) story for another time though, because I’m getting away from where I started, which was with today’s viewing of <em>Zombi 2</em>. I couldn’t recommend this film to anyone whose love of horror cinema comes from the glossy, MTV-style product that Hollywood throw into the theatres these days. Movies like <em>Saw</em> and <em>Final Destination</em> have their place in this world, and I have seen and enjoyed them, but Fulci’s masterpiece (and I use the word carefully) is a different genre, a different world away. I suspect that if was a kid of this generation and I sat down in front of <em>Zombi 2</em> for the first time, I’d hate it. It has all the negative elements that I described earlier.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlPYIJuGSCH7YONNDffV_PUd_ItGYSpd3QZpMOlDRJogJg1lUa3MShc8H_6V5jk0QOpyf8ly4AfiXYDGLfpSraNTXS2E6E6GPgol8ftoSvoxZJp6xjevliZYJR351sjcPjXIy88s3Sx7NL/s1600/zombi2-zombie1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 225px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458250512726353138" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlPYIJuGSCH7YONNDffV_PUd_ItGYSpd3QZpMOlDRJogJg1lUa3MShc8H_6V5jk0QOpyf8ly4AfiXYDGLfpSraNTXS2E6E6GPgol8ftoSvoxZJp6xjevliZYJR351sjcPjXIy88s3Sx7NL/s400/zombi2-zombie1.jpg" /></a><br />But as I said, not only do I love it, frankly I think it’s fucking brilliant. A boat drifts into New York harbour appearing to be deserted, and it’s only when two shockingly dumb cops start nosing around the deck that a palid, crazed creature comes up from below and starts taking chunks out of them. Titles, then some nonsense with Tisa Farrow (sister of Mia) and the great Ian McCulloch as scientists who decide to head off to a weird island in the Caribbean to investigate the work of Richard Johnson (allegedly drunk throughout filming) who’s been experimenting on the dead. The first half of the movie comes on like some boys-own adventure with boats, islands and lost treasure, and then following an attack by the undead the second half picks up the pace with some relentless splatter as our heroes are eaten one-by-one until a fiery climax as waves of zombies are alternatively torched, get their heads blown off, or both. Farrow and McCulloch escape to their boat, but tuning their radio in they hear panic in New York. The zombies have made it into Manhattan, presumably off the yacht from the beginning (It‘s never really explained, and Fulci was never much of a one for continuity or common sense). The credits roll over a cracking shot of the dead shuffling across the Brooklyn bridge.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2L-f7zDmjmA0vhz-XWRajPrb3IsIYViJwuXxG_cwYRTg2uAXnlRGplulCqOQ4o0yHT797-hb4QbgBwgKm-8ta8HXawZzedrN9l2bcGTO-t98FFhlRFw-sI2ItwDU7-kfLerXyy-_Iu05/s1600/bridge.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458249940480034786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2L-f7zDmjmA0vhz-XWRajPrb3IsIYViJwuXxG_cwYRTg2uAXnlRGplulCqOQ4o0yHT797-hb4QbgBwgKm-8ta8HXawZzedrN9l2bcGTO-t98FFhlRFw-sI2ItwDU7-kfLerXyy-_Iu05/s400/bridge.jpg" /></a><br />It’s such a mish-mash of a film. Italian production, an American actress with Farrow, two veteran British actors with Johnson and McCulloch (star of the classic Brit Sci-Fi series <em>Survivors</em> in the seventies and who would go on to appear in Fulci’s even more crazy <em>The</em> <em>Beyond</em> two years later). A film shot in 70mm widescreen but with shaky zooms and some dodgy focus, and in the case of the New York scenes shot completely illegally. But it somehow works. Lucio Fulci is still considered a cheap hack in the mainstream but he knew how to stage a scene and turn on the gore. <em>Zombi 2</em> is always exciting and never, ever boring, which is something I can’t say about a lot of horror pictures I see today. It is of it’s time, and will never find new appreciation with a modern audience, but for genre fans of my age it is a true classic to be revered and treasured.<br /><br />The only problem I have now is the burning urge to buy sparkling new special DVD editions of Fulci’s other classics and remind myself how much I love them all over again. In the old days it used to take weeks, sometimes months to get my hands on a film. I just took a look on Amazon. <em>The Beyond, House By The Cemetery, City Of The Living Dead, New York Ripper, Don’t Torture A Duckling, Lizard In A Woman’s Skin</em>… They’re all there, with re-mastered discs stuffed full of special features. And that’s great, really, because these movies deserve to be seen in the best possible prints by a new generation and by us old bastards who only ever had shitty third generation VHS copies to squint at.<br /><br />These days collecting cult and strange cinema is so much easier than it used to be.<br /><br />But nowhere near as much fun.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3thbT3wq7JE&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3thbT3wq7JE&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-64236364201711597392010-04-05T19:26:00.007+01:002010-04-05T19:46:08.174+01:0010 Thoughts From NavaroneThinking that having the six pins and the plate pulled out of my ankle would have me back skipping around like Usain Bolt on speed within 24 hours is possibly the most misguided thought I’ve ever had.<br /><br />Seven episodes of <strong><em>Lost</em></strong> left. Still no idea what’s really going on, and as time progresses, I’m fairly sure the writers don’t either. Still, it was fun while it lasted.<br /><br />Jimmy Page’s guitar riff on Led Zeppelin’s <em><strong>In My Time Of Dying</strong></em> is pretty much the most perfect thing I’ve ever heard. Watching Page, The Edge and Jack White jam to this classic in <em><strong>It Might Get Loud</strong></em> just brightens my day every single time.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5m9tDkic_GM&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5m9tDkic_GM&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />Writing is a frustrating, un-rewarding, depressing and lonely occupation. But when I’m on it, and I mean <em>really</em> on it, nothing makes me happier.<br /><br />I have an awful lot of man-love for Jason Bourne.<br /><br />Eating all your Easter Eggs as quickly as possible so you can’t see the mountain of chocolate any more will not stop the guilt. Especially when the cocoa smudges on your shirt are a constant reminder of what a greedy bastard you’ve been.<br /><br />Why must they now release all the old classics on Blu-Ray? I’m broke, but that HD version of Lucio Fulci’s <em><strong>City Of The Living Dead</strong></em> is a must-have.<br /><br />My PornStar T-shirt needs to go in the bin, because (a) it’s now so old and I can’t really tell where the holes end and the sleeves start, and (b) it’s blatant false advertising. Ask my wife. It’s more <span style="color:#3333ff;">PornHope </span>than PornStar.<br /><br />I have a dream about taking my family and running away to somewhere remote, idyllic and peaceful, with long days filled with golden sun and nights dreaming beneath the stars. And as I get older, I realise that I must give it my all to make that dream a reality.<br /><br />Repeatedly watching the trailer for <strong><em>Scott Pilgrim Vs The World</em></strong> will not make the August 6th release date come any faster.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/WtKAfoIllbo&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/WtKAfoIllbo&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />I try and I try, yet still cannot find any <strong>Brain Salt</strong> on the shelves at Boots. If I could just take a spoon a day… Think how amazing my thought processes would be.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTRC75t8GMpCYFAUL_cStHbQ1Zg3ZNBfdqIeVq0Cvzm_c94VZtayfGcWfAvTVU0nGYb5hGFsLcNQNPLabcMJN-Xo9E3_ri_bz9ICtt3itsyq5cPMJ8RgmRcRV-hcol2KEKgYprrZsU9hN/s1600/4475076273_1745500c48_o.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 222px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456723811077800978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTRC75t8GMpCYFAUL_cStHbQ1Zg3ZNBfdqIeVq0Cvzm_c94VZtayfGcWfAvTVU0nGYb5hGFsLcNQNPLabcMJN-Xo9E3_ri_bz9ICtt3itsyq5cPMJ8RgmRcRV-hcol2KEKgYprrZsU9hN/s400/4475076273_1745500c48_o.jpg" /></a>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-10296945889222268422010-03-26T15:25:00.006+00:002010-03-26T15:38:34.835+00:00Jim MarshallPhotographer Jim Marshall died this week at 74. He was responsible for some of the greatest images of some of the most iconic musicians of all time. He captured the photo of Hendrix setting his Strat alight, of Johnny Cash flipping the bird at San Quentin, of Morrison in full flight with The Doors. He was the only photographer The Beatles allowed backstage with them on their final show in San Francisco in 1966. He spent three months living with Jimmy Page at the height of Zeppelin. The Stones took him out on the road during their legendary tour of debauchery in 1972. He was chief photographer at Woodstock. The man was arguably as influential as the artists he commited to film. In a world where image and look can be as important as sound he turned men and women into legends with his lens. The first photo below, of Pete Townshend on stage at 3.00am during the climax of The Who’s Woodstock set remains my favourite rock photograph of all time, and is pretty much the reason I picked the guitar up as a kid. Rest in peace, Jim. You will be missed. <div><br /><div><div><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 284px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452965148801421282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqvqrsriwGhpZJVaSwAJq5ut5RKy09q7QXEXb8jsQT0u6Au65QQ55qwIqIHnW0o2_iwgC59PAWPjDcDtpSvHsieSRSclT6fQHNMo8eO72IyOjPxqOTNQG7bCW1P5414T2FkXRZ7hWmQtD/s400/1172.jpg" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 273px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452965791343590514" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoaMmV_CfnyRvzX8Df6ZmHjxugAYm5GOGm6d1huUCfMZHIgVkw5hPOAyzJ0b_lxYQBgGeSkDyw2r26L6ROpFW3vLuO_ZgIahJ-o7YpWhZzdt_SJki8l9icjKuRIRvMIjlRmoXeCgnt8nwq/s400/1053.jpg" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 398px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452965798657866722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglquuVtEciE1VFfwYoV4q9eK-R-fQYF6a9PQvDPHPRtpECIHM3ee73vhK7D718jOsX_UhamLjrhEBoyg1EGXyKd0mnuXdJ5xYjS0up3i5oGA2KCQFSbhDyVgiQi7Nl72TvqkpdluT8d4NT/s400/1191.jpg" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 271px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452965788582273874" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtfgezz7gRRhEWMgEaEDQRIgLthvJNT79x4ZnKKtFvBk-dIxsJOg6vT0Z4tW70HI6ePy8gpN-jD_b_P_q-gbVWlApsleFeo_TCNMwtwKZ0lXvXRBu7NEQ-s7wsn6G-FeHVoaEnkwY7RyUr/s400/1038.jpg" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 305px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452965802976845474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguCktrbyZ2TZrYtGpH4GeoqZCIUAIjf9Sov3jWzKKNfW3-pOm73FPcJ3GgMW6xbo1UqW1HFR2KwJtUtDclP0wEnYVN9Tvis5OJDtGmSg5wRigyxMNU-KG017NgJmx-UvdE0lzh2MHiDIpe/s400/1149.jpg" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452965169692515074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3O0RvftRdpYsJjS7Wp_Oh4shyphenhyphen_CPlgATnEyOThlAXmD-OEDLUtJQMrt1UUKjx-eRa1k6n4IP86fLzB729KzZV-crOPlRj1bB3Ru4ewjnc5aiFP42eE2a0dw5cREbNtAJ4lgmM2E6MKCgu/s400/1000.jpg" /> <div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaTWxclnr1ases_8PKfelD1cSeMS1J-yqnHze60N3v3ck7HhDRwPEcTmjT-n7KpY_a6lyTqt1bVh2oeB_EPjUZjRYHnxs02sE6mdkh75cdxUMYAIpf6-21_kb1faaDjninRWcfDLB9-IDs/s1600/1099.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 275px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452965164262548242" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaTWxclnr1ases_8PKfelD1cSeMS1J-yqnHze60N3v3ck7HhDRwPEcTmjT-n7KpY_a6lyTqt1bVh2oeB_EPjUZjRYHnxs02sE6mdkh75cdxUMYAIpf6-21_kb1faaDjninRWcfDLB9-IDs/s400/1099.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuVq-amMZu3z4ch5QOKYEMRIzqY7CxEFCEcUsn7Ss5MIEk4WMjcXgy1QUAuHuXFz5KTsU0v9kDJgHhQxiMKCpd1ACIub7AnJFSaqvmMuowcKdxHjx-3ALy5miTG1NVkjvBNzqMK8YLngPH/s1600/1080.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 272px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452965163195016994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuVq-amMZu3z4ch5QOKYEMRIzqY7CxEFCEcUsn7Ss5MIEk4WMjcXgy1QUAuHuXFz5KTsU0v9kDJgHhQxiMKCpd1ACIub7AnJFSaqvmMuowcKdxHjx-3ALy5miTG1NVkjvBNzqMK8YLngPH/s400/1080.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Df8wAL6MrlMusaDdhRQhLw8VGlpsNnsTy0JDm7RVtXDZ2Gr-84-l4ieXeMujY180BgqwY0CiLc1SQkVcVovZ1YuDj6-k_BxAu95AuxEo56A8WYm2Dq5glCLCOXJM4KObszXrbiGtNjtC/s1600/1062.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 273px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452965158579676610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Df8wAL6MrlMusaDdhRQhLw8VGlpsNnsTy0JDm7RVtXDZ2Gr-84-l4ieXeMujY180BgqwY0CiLc1SQkVcVovZ1YuDj6-k_BxAu95AuxEo56A8WYm2Dq5glCLCOXJM4KObszXrbiGtNjtC/s400/1062.jpg" /></a><br /><div><div><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-56619407766356847752010-03-26T13:33:00.004+00:002010-03-26T13:55:39.434+00:00Samples Of NoiseRandom samples of noise circulating my head this afternoon, generated from a mix over at <a href="http://8tracks.com/richwilson">8Track</a>, a music-mix site you could do worse than checking out. This one contains some Mondo Generator, Zeppelin, Townes Van Zandt, Mark Lanegan, and more. Cool tunes from me to you.<br /><br /><object codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=9,0,28,0" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" width="100%" height="120"><param name="_cx" value="17965"><param name="_cy" value="3175"><param name="FlashVars" value=""><param name="Movie" value="http://8tracks.com/mixes/101004/player_v2"><param name="Src" value="http://8tracks.com/mixes/101004/player_v2"><param name="WMode" value="Window"><param name="Play" value="-1"><param name="Loop" value="-1"><param name="Quality" value="High"><param name="SAlign" value=""><param name="Menu" value="-1"><param name="Base" value=""><param name="AllowScriptAccess" value="always"><param name="Scale" value="ShowAll"><param name="DeviceFont" value="0"><param name="EmbedMovie" value="0"><param name="BGColor" value=""><param name="SWRemote" value=""><param name="MovieData" value=""><param name="SeamlessTabbing" value="1"><param name="Profile" value="0"><param name="ProfileAddress" value=""><param name="ProfilePort" value="0"><param name="AllowNetworking" value="all"><param name="AllowFullScreen" value="false"><embed flashvars="bg_color=_000000" src="http://8tracks.com/mixes/101004/player_v2" pluginspage="http://www.adobe.com/shockwave/download/download.cgi?P1_Prod_Version=ShockwaveFlash" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="100%" height="120" allowscriptaccess="always"></embed></object>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-12622057027121649442010-03-24T20:12:00.004+00:002010-03-24T21:37:06.606+00:00New SoundsSo your humble writer sits with his feet up, suffering the after-effects of having metal supporting objects removed from his right ankle. Little else to do but write and listen to music. Here are six musical recomendations, stuff I'm digging right now, with love from me to you...<br /><br /><strong>Black Rebel Motorcycle Club</strong> remain one of the finest and unsung rock bands around, a gloriously scuzzy two-piece from San Fransisco who released their debut in 2001 and haven’t made the same record since. Their 2008 album <em>The Effects Of 333</em> was pretty experimental and didn’t always hit home, but new release <em>Beat The Devil’s Tattoo</em> is awesome, mixing fuzz bass, driving beats and a gospel feel on some tracks to great effect, and the finished product is filled with guitar swagger and psychedelia. You want to wear dirty leather listening to this.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9BSJGclcN1I&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9BSJGclcN1I&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Four albums down and <strong>Metric</strong> continue to make some fantastic music. This Canadian group have recently recorded a track for Edgar Wright’s new film <em>Scott Pilgrim Vs The World</em>, and deserve the opportunity to get massive. Latest album <em>Fantasies</em> is filled with great indie-pop that reminds me of The Breeders and Stereolab. Their last single <em>Help, Im Alive</em> has a chorus that always, no matter where I am, gets me jumping around when I hear it.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/we_czU9sJ3g&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/we_czU9sJ3g&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>Four Tet</strong> are pretty much unknown, and in reality is just one man, Kieran Hebden, who pays the bills by remixing the likes of Radiohead. All instrumental, and new album <em>There Is Love In You</em> is atmospheric electronica that I’ve found myself listening to a lot when I’ve been working on fiction. It’s mood music of the best kind, sucking you into the brilliant melodies with ease. Last track on the album is <em>She Just Likes To Fight</em>, which sounds like Air meeting Brian Eno. No bad thing.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/tyi7F1yrVTc&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/tyi7F1yrVTc&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />I got into the <strong>Drive-By Truckers</strong> by accident a couple of years ago, surfing Amazon and listening to sound clips, and quickly bought everything they had ever done. Their combination of southern-rock guitar, early 70’s Stones vibes and lyrics straight out of a Joe Lansdale novel touch all the right buttons for me. New album <em>The Big-To Do</em> is, frankly, tremendous. I love this band.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Un9jmeLNBqY&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Un9jmeLNBqY&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>The Morning After Girls</strong> are probably the best Indie coming out of Australia right now. Great lyrics, brilliant hooks, these guys are making anthems like we haven’t heard since the first Oasis album.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NPN4VRBSCBQ&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NPN4VRBSCBQ&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Jack White can have as many side projects as he likes (the okay Raconteurs and the genius Dead Weathers) but <strong>The White Stripes</strong> have just released their first live disc <em>Under Great White Northern Lights</em> to remind us just how fucking brilliant they are. A recording can’t capture the energy and thrill of seeing Jack and Meg, but this makes a pretty good go of it. And who else But Jack White could see Dolly Parton’s <em>Jolene</em> completely straight and turn it into a punk scream for lost love?<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/B44vvNGXuHo&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/B44vvNGXuHo&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-28403582265064944422010-03-20T13:41:00.009+00:002010-03-20T17:15:15.240+00:00Sane Man<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjddQAxFEw8_VQ5f83Zj12mPZJZCYDOsbhn9fi-27Q3LFnlzdfmyNxAoeryaOdOYJKzSX_ap7i8hKTglIVVfxTWC4maJW7AYWoWZPOPiEj33awuCM4sGFrLCuuCuKxhSZe7x1fb5c3Ah0-g/s1600-h/Bill%2520Hicks%2520on%2520relentless.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 216px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 321px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450711812114940706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjddQAxFEw8_VQ5f83Zj12mPZJZCYDOsbhn9fi-27Q3LFnlzdfmyNxAoeryaOdOYJKzSX_ap7i8hKTglIVVfxTWC4maJW7AYWoWZPOPiEj33awuCM4sGFrLCuuCuKxhSZe7x1fb5c3Ah0-g/s400/Bill%2520Hicks%2520on%2520relentless.jpg" /></a> <div><div>If you have no idea who Bill Hicks is, I strongly urge you to find his work. Head over to YouTube and watch as much of his stand-up work that you can find, or get your hands on his albums <em>Arizona Bay, Relentless</em> and <em>Rant In E-Minor</em>. I was exposed to Hicks around 1992 after seeing his live show on late night TV. It was a revelation, changing the way I thought about comedy in the same way that hearing The Pixies changed the way I thought about music. I was used to and enjoyed edgy, dark comedy that was being offered by the likes of Ben Elton and Stephen Wright, but Hicks was something else. This pale, lank haired, spec-wearing American was part-comic, part-revolutionary, part-preacher, screaming his diatribe at an audience who were laughing sometimes with humour and other times with nervousness. Hicks was funny but he was angry, attacking corporate business, the LA riots, the Kennedy assassination, mass marketing, abortion and George Bush Sr. Listening to his routine got me thinking about politics, about alternative music, about the importance of making a choice in my life that didn’t have to fit in with a certain crowd and about having my own voice. I may well have discovered those things on my own or with a different guide, but it was Hicks who pushed me onto the path. As I started to track down his work and find out more about the man, I also discovered that he was dying of pancreatic cancer.<br /><br />Bill Hicks died in February 1994 at the age of 32. To say that his voice was cut short to early is an underestimation of biblical proportions. In the years following his death I have often wondered what he would have had to say about the current state of the America and life in general. Certainly seeing George Bush Jr in the White House would have incensed the man to a white-heat rage. I would have loved to hear his thoughts on 9/11 and our so-called ‘War On Terror’. Or the cult of Celebrity. Or Reality television. Or the Internet. There would have been so much for Bill to turn his intellect and genius towards.<br /><br /><strong><em>American : The Bill Hicks Story</em></strong> is a new documentary that examines his too-short life taken from over 150 hours of footage from his early days on the comedy circuit, back through his teen years and right up until his death. Bill’s journey was similar to many artists. Drugs, alcohol, temperamental mood swings, the works. But unlike most such stories Hicks righted himself, kicked the booze, kicked the drugs (even though it seems that Acid was what took him to the next level as a person and comedian) and didn’t lose any of his edge because of it. The documentary reveals Bill to be a deeply complex individual who loved and hated the world in equal measures. There’s a particularly incredible piece where Hicks picks up a tape recorder and starts discussing his deep-rooted fears of having to live up to being funny. It’s a raw and honest moment of insecurity from someone who just oozes confidence in every bit of moving footage I’ve ever seen. Writing this entry and re-watching some of his old work made me realise just how much I missed the man, one of my true, genuine heroes. His words today are more essential than they ever were. As The Smiths once said, ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out…’ </div><div></div><div></div></div><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GaUvt81gH9c&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GaUvt81gH9c&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-35022161945511099872010-03-08T21:40:00.005+00:002010-03-08T22:03:18.465+00:00MamaAndy Muschietti is a 23 year old Spanish filmmaker who has managed to get <em>Pans Labyrinth</em> genius Guillermo Del Toro to fund and produce his first film. How? By making a very impressive, creepy little movie called <strong><em>Mama</em></strong>, which has been playing at international festivals in the past year and causing fans to sit up and take notice. Rightly so - it's one of the best shorts I've seen in a long while, and it packs plenty into a little over three minutes. Muschietti is expanding this into a feature length fright fest that should definately be worth a look if he can keep the suspense and atmosphere seen below. Check it out and pay attention to just how long the main shot is and the environment it moves through. Damn impressive.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/X-EKQ-GyLak&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/X-EKQ-GyLak&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-55652440230350100622010-03-02T23:18:00.004+00:002010-03-02T23:24:43.932+00:00Will Work For... What?<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444180213211398834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-JhERNh-q6bGXNtBFZY8N-TkNd7SEQopYHxcXBDxHLczMJR1WJgpojDvwU2UTKdmOItP_Aq2334jb75eUJoDD-syR0U6wfi2nEXAI3JBD5uP0Dj1xVrjkDqdBantHzbNvNAVzh3R3Lck/s400/31261309_09Will_work_for_food.jpg" />I was once again perilously close to redundancy a few days ago. The detailed background behind it is as dull and uninteresting as you could possibly imagine, but the facts are this. Britain is in recession, and I work in an industry in the vice-grip of it. My company isn’t making enough money, and so people had to go. Same story up and down the length of the British Isles. My bosses, in their wisdom (well, some would say wisdom, others would say delusion) deemed that I was better than someone else. Someone else went, and your humble writer kept his desk, his salary and his routine. At least, for now.<br /><br />I’m not particularly attached to my desk. It’s a block of wood with an aesthetically designed corner for me to swivel around in and three drawers jammed on the side. It serves it’s purpose, but I couldn’t really say I need it. I could spread myself out anywhere, plug in a laptop, pick up a biro and I’m good to go. My salary… well, I’m not exactly the highest paid hombre in the world, but then who is these days? I’d love more money, and in truth I could really use a bit more money. But I pay the bills, put food on the table, manage to buy a movie now and again and occasionally even find that I can save a few notes here and there. I get by. Of course, if I’d been kicked out then I’d need to find some form of replacement, but what I’m saying is that I don’t make the kind of money I couldn’t find elsewhere. I could, and if I tried hard enough, could maybe even find a little bit more.<br /><br />But…<br /><br /><strong>Routine.</strong> If ever a word was designed to fill the human soul with equal parts dread and comfort it is routine. We are lost without it. We fucking hate it. And yet, above all the other fears I had during the 11 days I had between being told my job was at risk to finding out I was safe it was the thought of my daily routine being disrupted that kept me awake during the night. I am a slave to my daily routine, and so are you. Yes you are, and don’t even try to deny it. You will of course, because the thought of being a slave to anything is a terrifying one. Here, take my hand and I’ll show you a typical weekday…<br /><br /><em>Alarm. Same time. Every day. Ten minute lie-in. Up. Bathroom. Dress. Breakfast. Wearing same kind of clothes each day. Leave house same time. Travel. Listen to same radio station. Arrive work same time. Make tea. Fire up PC. Look at work to do. Do work. Same work every day. Talk to same people about same things - TV, holiday, what did last night, what doing tonight, sport, if I won lottery, how is wife/husband/girl boyfriend - Eat lunch. Same thing most days. Same time. Resume same work in afternoon. Have same conversations. Leave work same time. Travel. Listen to same radio station. Arrive home same time. Have dinner. Same things most days. Talk to wife/husband/girl boyfriend. Go out. Stay in. Watch TV. Read book. Feel tired. Go to bed. Sleep.</em><br /><br />Now you can substitute various elements of the above (I personally will scratch ‘watch TV’ and replace with ‘write depressing blog no-one ever reads’), and yes, of course the weekends are a little different, but basically… that’s it. That’s our collective day. And when you break it down, split the time into words and add stops between them, it’s pretty frightening. Because… that’s it. We don’t really do anything at all. And the worst of it is <em>losing my routine was what frightened me the most about getting made redundant!</em> But I’m so boring! Why the hell would I want to keep on doing the same monotonous routine every day?<br /><br />Because it’s comfortable, safe, easy. Routine is what keeps us going, makes us feel secure when we turn on the nightly news and watch 200,000 dying in Haiti or see kids getting their brains blown out in Afghanistan in the name of a war we don’t understand. Because we can switch off the news, go to bed and get up in the morning and carry on with a sense of purpose is what makes us sleep at night. But the routine controls us, holds us, forces us to do things we don’t want to do in order to pay for things we don’t really need. Chuck Palahniuk said it brilliantly in his classic novel <em>Fight Club</em>: “Eventually, the things you own end up owning you…” I am as guilty of that statement as you are. I need my laptop, my plasma, my sofa, my Xbox, my phone, my books, my DVD collection, my car. Or at least I think I do. Well, I’ve been told I do, by very important people on the top floors of very important buildings with very shiny advertising. Clever people who must be right. Right?<br /><br />Maybe. One of the finest philosophers of the twentieth century, John Lennon, once said, “all you need is love.” Spot on. I am in receipt of love and am in turn a giver of the emotion, and anyone who is will be enriched by that. But, Jesus, I wish I could just let that daily routine go, cast all the rules aside and wake up at whatever time I wanted in the morning and think, “what am I going to do today?” But I can’t, because we’re slaves, you and I. Now tell me I’m wrong.<br /><br />So, back to the title. Will work for…What? You fill in the blank here yourself. My answer? Will work forever. The third and final quote of this entry comes from George Orwell. “Fear will keep the people in line…” At least I think it was Orwell who said that. It might have been Tony Blair. Which brings us neatly back to the recession, in a roundabout sort of way.<br /><br />Anyway, I’ve got to get up in the morning. Goodnight sinners. Same time, same place, tomorrow.<br /> Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-808674555120900772010-02-21T18:26:00.005+00:002010-02-21T18:32:18.692+00:00iShit<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDfij0WaanFvl3lluJOJhtUeT-fJwwIrq1QbES1qvlbYCZZ9SvzBFjEcE0T0hGn8-dxAdqsPY6fjEwAqgDpcd6Q9ScEBJE5TK2MYzKv8fKpcd74uLiOC46wMPX59Jsk4aBPjMwCUan91F/s1600-h/iproduct1529322.gif"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 244px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440766252057029586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDfij0WaanFvl3lluJOJhtUeT-fJwwIrq1QbES1qvlbYCZZ9SvzBFjEcE0T0hGn8-dxAdqsPY6fjEwAqgDpcd6Q9ScEBJE5TK2MYzKv8fKpcd74uLiOC46wMPX59Jsk4aBPjMwCUan91F/s400/iproduct1529322.gif" /></a> <div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRDN8ZaIj1fogbvAu2wFLESttjc-muyoIquJMkfhIb9kobLqHDdEKthjE8wSdRyTuveFMOypbYopvfm3YM_yQCPBZbv1a7iSSh698oACk275CwzanvS3bJTIlw_w3I-nclrJlkkvCBaWT/s1600-h/iproduct1529322.gif"></a></div><div><br />Found this while trawling through the cynicism and delights over at The Onion, which still remains the most essential portal for satire on the interweb. This, my friend, sums it up very nicely…<br />Genius. This is Rich Wilson. 37. Feeling like re-fried shit, wishing he could take his wife and family and just step out of the modern world. Build an ark, sail to an island, eat fish and rice, run in the surf and let the sun burn my skin. You can keep your twenty-first century life - who needs the fucking pressure?<br />Although, ironically, I’m typing this on my laptop in front of my blu-ray/HDTV/Sky+ while sitting on my sofa with my gas central heating on. Sometimes I hate myself.<br /><br /><div> </div></div>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-59483226160768377652010-02-05T08:16:00.004+00:002010-02-05T08:24:49.317+00:00Dust In The Wind... Dude6 minutes and 31 seconds of awesomeness. You may feel very, very small after watching the clip below. What it says about the planet we live on, and the questions regarding life, other worlds, creationism or the existance of God... I couldn't say. But I do know that we surely can't be the only life in the vast expanse of the Universe.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/17jymDn0W6U&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/17jymDn0W6U&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-17184604332373367422010-02-04T23:36:00.004+00:002010-02-04T23:48:37.295+00:00Lost In Translation<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-X0E5-wao4wD1NTMy0avHhLBZ_BKhU_kw4nCelBEycZJqulJ1OCunT-SLHGA45iDGMncnHB7L9aKksyiwBnX87_Rkyr9lEEaqdHMSQyd8_ehkTGR563g9lnhDPQ564PhpBJPCud1PNX13/s1600-h/news6poster.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 326px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434537992804841842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-X0E5-wao4wD1NTMy0avHhLBZ_BKhU_kw4nCelBEycZJqulJ1OCunT-SLHGA45iDGMncnHB7L9aKksyiwBnX87_Rkyr9lEEaqdHMSQyd8_ehkTGR563g9lnhDPQ564PhpBJPCud1PNX13/s400/news6poster.jpg" /></a> <div>The TV phenomenon of the past few years (I found myself writing ‘the noughties’ and then realized that whenever I read or hear that phrase being used I feel like inflicting physical harm on the user, so I didn’t) returns tomorrow. <strong><em>Lost </em></strong>has had five (generally) brilliant seasons and I am very excited to see what happens in the sixth and final one. I’m also nervous. Nervous because I don’t see how J.J.Abrams and his crew can possibly wrap up every story thread and tie-up every loose end. We’ve come so far since Oceanic 815 crashed and washed it’s collection of survivors up on that beach. What started as a fairly simple Robinson Crusoe meets Lord Of The Flies tale has morphed beyond all recognition into a time-traveling, globe-spanning, mortality-changing morality epic of such scale, featuring so many major and minor characters with huge background histories and complex plot arcs that I fear the planned 18 episodes that remain cannot possibly have time to resolve everything.</div><div><br />Here, off the top of my head, are just ten of the many questions I’ll want answers to:</div><div><br />1) How is it that Locke is dead, and yet reincarnated as who-knows-what as the nemesis of Jacob?<br />2) What the hell happened to the Polar Bear?<br />3) The smoke monster, the island’s defense system, is…?<br />4) What actually happened to Clare and Christian Shepherd in Jacob’s cabin?<br />5) How come Richard appears to be the only Islander who is immortal?<br />6) Who used to be those skeletons that Kate found in the cave in series 1?<br />7) How come everyone has returned to the island except Charles Widmore?<br />8) The numbers. The six numbers that seem to tie everything together, mean what?<br />9) Who keeps dropping those Dharma food packages on the island?<br />10) Where did Daniel Faraday disappear to for three years, and what the hell was he up to?</div><div><br />I believe in J.J.Abrams. Before <em>Lost </em>he created <em>Alias</em>, a show that was equally twisted into knots, equally as brilliant and yet resolved itself before the final credits rolled. He resurrected <em>Star Trek</em> to fabulous heights and in doing so created the most entertaining blockbuster of 2009. He is a geek like the rest of us and would never knowingly short-change the fans of the show. However, I just feel that this is a show that is so loved, so adored and so scrutinized by it’s loyal devotees that nothing he does can actually live up to expectations.</div><div><br />Personally, I blame <em>The X-Files</em> for my worries. There was a show that I invested so much time in, and for the first six seasons it was fantastic, running stand-alone stories alongside an ongoing plot involving conspiracies, aliens, shape-shifters and God knows what. The problem was that the makers kept it going too long. Instead of bowing out at the top of the game they took the money and stretched the idea way too far. The leads left and were replaced, ideas and threads were dropped like a stone, and it all wrapped itself up in a tragic two-hour finale that tried to address eight years of questions in around an hour. If you rocked <em>The X-Files</em>, if you championed it and talked about it from the beginning when no-one else did, then it felt like a betrayal from a lover.</div><div><br /><em>Lost</em> will finish this year, at it’s peak, and it will go down as one of the finest television shows ever created. I’ll be with it every step of the way, and I’ll miss it when it’s gone. I just hope that the parting is sweet, and not tinged with bitterness. We’ve all come too far for disappointment… </div>Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1883335534733321721.post-4048803239334038992010-01-29T15:32:00.004+00:002010-04-10T09:17:57.327+01:00Friday Three<strong>01</strong><br />Mel Gibson's got a movie out this weekend. <em><strong>Edge Of Darkness</strong></em> is the hollywood remake of the superb BBC drama series from the 80's. If you've got half an interest in film you should see this.<br /><br />Why?<br /><br />Gibson has been gone for three and a half years; he hasn’t acted in a leading role in eight. He’s been taking shit constantly since <em>Passion Of The Christ</em> and became a bit of a joke after his drunken roadside arrest in 2006. Since then he’s done AA and gotten a divorce. But he has a legendary career filled with classic films and Oscar wins, and his directing career has been solid. He doesn't have anything to prove. So with all the shit he’s going to take, all the jaded interviews, all the sniggers and remarks about his opinions, every bit of tabloid dirt that is going to get tossed around, and a real Hollywood legacy at stake, you have to ask yourself this - how good does a script have to be to get a guy like Gibson to step out in the open and face all that?<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qvRdGKxsmD8&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qvRdGKxsmD8&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />Oh yeah. If that hasn't got your hair rising nothing will. This movie is from the writer of Scorcese's <em>The Departed</em>. It's directed by Martin Campbell, who gave us a bond for the 21st Century in <em>Casino Royale</em>. Ray Winstone, one of the finest character actors on the planet is in support. You need another reason? Okay, Max Rockatansky and Martin Riggs, two of the greatest bad-asses in cinema history, exist because of Mel Gibson. The man is a fucking legend and I grew up with him and I will be seeing <em>Edge Of Darkness</em> this weekend. You should too.<br /><br /><strong>02<br /></strong>German Industrial Metal Gods <strong>Rammstein </strong>have released a new single from their latest album <em>Liebe Ist Fur Alle Da</em>, and like everything this band have done it is pure and simply very, very good indeed. Heavy, pounding, technical music that hits like a fist to the temple. Out of the many gigs from many bands I've seen in my years these guys are pretty much near the best. Theatrical and dramatic, they combine crunching guitars and drums with Till Lindermann's gutteral voice to fabulous effect, and I totally adore them. Their videos are always interesting, often controversial and frequently astounding. <em>Ich Tu Der Weh</em> is no exception:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YBcu8YWs7uM&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YBcu8YWs7uM&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>03</strong><br />J.D.Salinger died on Wednesday, aged 91. He was one of the greatest modern novelists and a true literary genius. If you haven't read his landmark work <em>The Catcher In The Rye</em> now couldn't be a better time to do so. His 1951 depiction of Adolescent alienation has never been bettered, not even by Salinger himself, despite the superb work he turned out in later years. He was never comfortable with his success and often refused interviews, and much of his work remained unpublished due to his own self-censorship. Salinger said he wrote for himself, and one can only speculate on the stories that went from his typewriter straight into his drawer. The New York Times posted a superb biography of the man <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/29/books/29salinger.html?pagewanted=1&hp">here.</a> Anyone who has ever put pen to paper or fingers to keys can only dream of achieving a tenth of his talent.Rich Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08949179105307805306noreply@blogger.com0