I won't lie, I was very excited about seeing this. After belatedly seeing Requiem for A Dream, Darren Aronofsky proved himself to be a must watch Director in my books. As soon as I heard about the concept of Black Swan, and then, the sublime casting, I was champing at the bit to see what it was like. Now that I have, I'm pleased to say it exceeded my expectations.
Black Swan is the story of ballerina Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman), who dreams of a lead role in a production. When brilliant but harsh Director Thomas Leroy (Vincent Cassel) announces the production is to be Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, the role of Swan Queen is available. Encompassing the dual roles of white and black swans (white swan being the fragile and reserved, black swan being the more erotic and free), Nina is given the role of Swan Queen, after she violently rejects Thomas' advances. Nina struggles with the black swan counterpart, her contemporary Lily (Mila Kunis) being more adept. She also feels guilt at her replacing of former Prima Ballerina Beth MacIntyre (Winona Ryder). As the pressure to be more free mounts on, and her overbearing and borderline psychotic mother (Barbara Hershey) constantly controls her, Nina begins to experience horrific hallucinations, ones which push her further in direction of becoming the promiscuous and tragic black swan.
Naturally, ballet is considered a high art form. Aronofsky blends this with the idea that the performance can be charged by eroticism, a dance so sexually intense that it can send you into catatonia. Portman plays the fragile Nina excellently, a permanent reluctant grimace and strain on her face throughout. Supporting performances from Cassel and Kunis, as the impassioned director and the unconfined rival respectively, shine brightly. Hershey as the overbearing stage mother is also quite scary, compulsively checking her grown daughter for scratches, as though she'd just come in from playing outside, not to forget Winona Ryder, unhinged and unwanted, sullenly milling around the film.
The painful practice that ballet requires is excellently displayed. Scenes of continuous pirouettes, meticulously spinning to Clint Mansell's score, another element that adds to the feel of the movie, dramatic and wholly encompassing.
Ultimately, Black Swan triumphs in its atmosphere. The feeling of mental stability being constantly shaken is prevalent, always prompting you to wonder in which way it will manifest itself next. A great film, surely to be critically commended when it comes out in January, and on many lists when the Oscars roll around once more.
Wednesday 22 December 2010
Friday 26 November 2010
The Best Tunes Of The Year
What on earth will people say when they look back on 2010? I mean, what in the good name of Sehkmet even happened? I'm sitting here, it's the 29th November, my house is too cold to be deemed livable, browsing the '2010' entry in Wikipedia. International Year of Biodiversity, apparently. But forget all the 'reality', like deaths and stuff, let's focus on the greatest abstract and amorphous thing in the world. Apart from maybe 'love', or something.
This year in music has been good, I feel. I hear people, and have always heard, actually, banging on about how music is now shit, talking of the past as if it's some unachievable pinnacle that shouldn't even be questioned. I say, 'Why don't you sit in your Nuke bunker, live off corned beef and listen to the Smiths for the rest of your life you boring scumbag?', but they never do listen. I love the history of popular music as much as anyone, just don't tickle its perineum with your nose all the time.
Mercury Prize nominees (and rightful victors, but shush) Foals produced numerous BTOTY candidates, especially their exceptional and epic seven-minuter Spanish Sahara, but Blue Blood, album opener, is going to nick it. If you can find me a groovier bass line produced this year and I will bathe in sulphur, cuz it isn't happening. And I've looked. Hard. It's impressive, also, how they've taken the almost mindless freneticism of Antidotes, condensed it, and created not only dancefloor fodder, but also calming and sombre music to be enjoyed whilst having a nice sit down, maybe with a cool glass of IRN BRU.
2010 has seen the emergence of Trinidadian hip hop artist Nicki Minaj. Minaj's popularity is something of a controversy to some. Her supposed influence on young girls both sides of the Atlantic has garnered attention, some partaking in the love, others looking on with disdain at the new 'idol' for young women. Most negative arguments against her can be quickly rubbished, as far as it seems, Minaj promotes positivity, for women, young girls, and mostly everyone. Not to say she's the second coming of Christ, or Emmeline Pankhurst's 21st Century Brooklyn equivalent, but her vocal and lyrical talents and barmy ice-cream hair are irresistible. An example of this is recent single Right Thru Me. Minaj rhetorically questions her beau, with a Satriani sampled melody chiming in the background.
But enough about the USA, what's been happening over here? Well, Jamie Woon happened, and thank God, really. Woon is a singer songwriter who has played at various jazz festivals, usually on his own with just a guitar. Watching these performances reminds me strongly of Jeff Buckley; a stripped back and solemn stage presence accentuated powerfully by the vocal work. His recent single Night Air, co-produced by Burial, is a truly icy, the sound of a midnight stroll in mid-Winter. His voice is nothing less than sublime, and works perfectly with the bubbling track. Another artist strongly representing these cold Isles is Jessie Ware. Debut single Nervous, produced my SBTRKT, has an unnaturally catchy melody line and chorus, impossible to overlook. Buy now if you already haven't.
Sometimes BTOTY's just slap me in the chops when I'm least expecting them to. I was working on a building site earlier on in the year, stripping wallpaper, carrying bricks on my shoulder, you know, all that man stuff. I was just about to fill up the steamer for an eighth time, when I heard something interesting on the radio. Being the fucking hip labourer that I am, I whipped out my phone and opened Shazam. It turns out the song was When I'm Alone by heavily freckled American singer Lissie. The introduction is what strikes the most. The ebbing guitars and ghost noted snares are quietly moving. Her vocals begin understatedly, but as the song progresses they get more powerful, culminating in a head noddingly righteous chorus. Very promising for the future.
If you're on Twitter, you'll have realised by now that it's pretty fucking boring. I mean, I'll still go on it, but I'm not really sure why. I think it's because in the back of my mind, I hope that someone will say something interesting, or at least post a good link. Most of the time I just go on to see what Wiley is doing, because it's usually something bizarre. Whether it's sitting in the Sun on ustream for hours on end, or hypothetically placing himself in Chipmunk's jungle- themed video (on a hang glider, specifically). When not unleashing his strange-of-conciousness, Wiley is making special music. A prime example of this was his collaboration with garage and 2- step innovator MJ Cole, From The Drop. Again, the song begins, and continues, in a calm, almost simple way, the track punctuated by the sound of jarring metal. Wiley's lyrics and flow are typically on form, clever lines are blended perfectly with the sort of self aggrandisement that made grime bars so special.
There's one tune that really stood out this year, though. When I first heard Wut by Girl Unit, I knew instantly that I loved it, but also had no idea how to categorise it, or even define it really. It begins with bright synths and frenetic percussion, up until the devastating drop. And it is truly devastating, the crashing bass and the desperate cries of 'wut' and 'oh' all blend perfectly to create something very, very special. The whole EP, including Showstoppa and Everytime, is an excellent set of songs to be listened to ad infinitum, without boredom occurring.
So what for 2011? Well, who's to say? The remix of Gil Scott-Heron's album 'We're New Here' by Jamie xx looks very promising, as debut single NY Is Killing Me proves. English singer Adele's second album 21 should also be interesting, as she's proven time again that she's a consistent talent, and one to keep an eye on.
Now go on, enjoy your Christmas and New Years, and for God's sake, whatever you do, don't touch any of my things.
This year in music has been good, I feel. I hear people, and have always heard, actually, banging on about how music is now shit, talking of the past as if it's some unachievable pinnacle that shouldn't even be questioned. I say, 'Why don't you sit in your Nuke bunker, live off corned beef and listen to the Smiths for the rest of your life you boring scumbag?', but they never do listen. I love the history of popular music as much as anyone, just don't tickle its perineum with your nose all the time.
Mercury Prize nominees (and rightful victors, but shush) Foals produced numerous BTOTY candidates, especially their exceptional and epic seven-minuter Spanish Sahara, but Blue Blood, album opener, is going to nick it. If you can find me a groovier bass line produced this year and I will bathe in sulphur, cuz it isn't happening. And I've looked. Hard. It's impressive, also, how they've taken the almost mindless freneticism of Antidotes, condensed it, and created not only dancefloor fodder, but also calming and sombre music to be enjoyed whilst having a nice sit down, maybe with a cool glass of IRN BRU.
2010 has seen the emergence of Trinidadian hip hop artist Nicki Minaj. Minaj's popularity is something of a controversy to some. Her supposed influence on young girls both sides of the Atlantic has garnered attention, some partaking in the love, others looking on with disdain at the new 'idol' for young women. Most negative arguments against her can be quickly rubbished, as far as it seems, Minaj promotes positivity, for women, young girls, and mostly everyone. Not to say she's the second coming of Christ, or Emmeline Pankhurst's 21st Century Brooklyn equivalent, but her vocal and lyrical talents and barmy ice-cream hair are irresistible. An example of this is recent single Right Thru Me. Minaj rhetorically questions her beau, with a Satriani sampled melody chiming in the background.
But enough about the USA, what's been happening over here? Well, Jamie Woon happened, and thank God, really. Woon is a singer songwriter who has played at various jazz festivals, usually on his own with just a guitar. Watching these performances reminds me strongly of Jeff Buckley; a stripped back and solemn stage presence accentuated powerfully by the vocal work. His recent single Night Air, co-produced by Burial, is a truly icy, the sound of a midnight stroll in mid-Winter. His voice is nothing less than sublime, and works perfectly with the bubbling track. Another artist strongly representing these cold Isles is Jessie Ware. Debut single Nervous, produced my SBTRKT, has an unnaturally catchy melody line and chorus, impossible to overlook. Buy now if you already haven't.
Sometimes BTOTY's just slap me in the chops when I'm least expecting them to. I was working on a building site earlier on in the year, stripping wallpaper, carrying bricks on my shoulder, you know, all that man stuff. I was just about to fill up the steamer for an eighth time, when I heard something interesting on the radio. Being the fucking hip labourer that I am, I whipped out my phone and opened Shazam. It turns out the song was When I'm Alone by heavily freckled American singer Lissie. The introduction is what strikes the most. The ebbing guitars and ghost noted snares are quietly moving. Her vocals begin understatedly, but as the song progresses they get more powerful, culminating in a head noddingly righteous chorus. Very promising for the future.
If you're on Twitter, you'll have realised by now that it's pretty fucking boring. I mean, I'll still go on it, but I'm not really sure why. I think it's because in the back of my mind, I hope that someone will say something interesting, or at least post a good link. Most of the time I just go on to see what Wiley is doing, because it's usually something bizarre. Whether it's sitting in the Sun on ustream for hours on end, or hypothetically placing himself in Chipmunk's jungle- themed video (on a hang glider, specifically). When not unleashing his strange-of-conciousness, Wiley is making special music. A prime example of this was his collaboration with garage and 2- step innovator MJ Cole, From The Drop. Again, the song begins, and continues, in a calm, almost simple way, the track punctuated by the sound of jarring metal. Wiley's lyrics and flow are typically on form, clever lines are blended perfectly with the sort of self aggrandisement that made grime bars so special.
There's one tune that really stood out this year, though. When I first heard Wut by Girl Unit, I knew instantly that I loved it, but also had no idea how to categorise it, or even define it really. It begins with bright synths and frenetic percussion, up until the devastating drop. And it is truly devastating, the crashing bass and the desperate cries of 'wut' and 'oh' all blend perfectly to create something very, very special. The whole EP, including Showstoppa and Everytime, is an excellent set of songs to be listened to ad infinitum, without boredom occurring.
So what for 2011? Well, who's to say? The remix of Gil Scott-Heron's album 'We're New Here' by Jamie xx looks very promising, as debut single NY Is Killing Me proves. English singer Adele's second album 21 should also be interesting, as she's proven time again that she's a consistent talent, and one to keep an eye on.
Now go on, enjoy your Christmas and New Years, and for God's sake, whatever you do, don't touch any of my things.
Wednesday 3 November 2010
Pillaging the Airwaves
Pirate is a funny word. Olden day pirates are usually shown in either one of two ways; swashbuckling men of the sea, searching for hidden treasure buried under an arbitrary X. What’s wrong with the other letters, anyway? These sort pirates generally tend to light heartedly enjoy the exploits of the deep blue, making men walk the plank on their birthday and making rum-based Metropolitan cocktails. The other sort of pirates likes to decimate whole fishing towns. They brutally rape its citizens and take all of its resources and money before spitting at everyone and sailing off, laughing at how weak and raped their latest conquest is.
These days, pirates are either AK- 47 toting East Africans or they’re taking over the airwaves in your local area. Rinse FM is obviously the latter.
In 1994, DJ Geeneus set the station up in a secret location in East London. During the nineties, pirate radio was getting a pretty bad rap. There were news stories claiming that to gain access to the stations themselves, DJs would abseil in, with all their records in a bag. Obviously this is completely ludicrous, and about as plausible as them getting in by being sucked through a giant straw, but the viewing public undoubtedly eat it up and radio piracy was seen as more of a threat than it actually was. Every interview conducted with pirate radio heads got the same result: they were in it for the music, and that was it.
And this is certainly why Rinse was in it. The station was an integral part of the progression of Grime, a brand new genre of music straight from London.
An unnaturally dark progression from UK Garage, combining elements of Dancehall and Jungle, Grime is the truest sound of the City, representing its underbelly in an unflinching and uncensorable way. It allowed people to discover talents that perhaps they didn’t know they had, and reflected how they felt about their surroundings, about their lives and what they saw, what they wanted to be. Wiley, perhaps the strongest and most prominent member of the Grime scene, got his time to shine on Rinse FM. He, along with other early Grime artists like Dizzee Rascal and the Newham Generals, brought Grime to the listening public, and from there it blew up. Underground MCs were featured on various DVDs like ‘Risky Roadz’ and ‘Aim High’. The stations continuous support of this new and exciting music sealed its spot as arguably the most important pirate radio station in the UK.
Even legendary BBC DJ John Peel showered it with praise, saying “When I'm in London I listen to the pirates as much as I can. There's a station I like called Rinse FM, which is somewhere in the area banded by Kiss FM and Classic FM.”
In 2005 something strange happened. Ofcom decided that Rinse was not worth the airwaves it was broadcasting on, and disconnected its radio transmitter. One of the stations DJs, Slimzee, got tarnished with and Anti Social Behavioural Order (ASBO). Quite what is anti social about a radio station is beyond me. Maybe if you were driving a porous skinned child with leukaemia too close to the station and the radio waves shook the very bone marrow out of their dying femurs, but that’s not going to happen, is it?
A similar phenomenon to Grime has happened more recently to electronic dance genre Dubstep. As with Grime, Rinse FM saw the rising demand in this new, darker sound. With its wobbling bass and addictive drops, dupstep soon became huge in the London underground rave scene. Genre pioneers like Skream and Kode9 were frequently featured on the station. These DJs, among others, started the ball rolling on something that, in a few years, would grow to be one of the most popular types of music in the UK, and is on its way to achieving worldwide recognition. Rinses participation in the development and propulsion of this new music caught the attention of Radio 1 DJ Mary Anne Hobbs, whose consistent championing of dubstep brought it into the public consciousness.
What’s in the future of this innovative station? Thankfully, the station was given an FM broadcasting license in June 2010. This meant that they could broadcast new and exciting music, along with the classics that made the station so popular in the first place, legally. The station has become almost of a brand itself, releasing self branded mix CDs from resident DJs. They were also fundamental in the recent success of singer Katy B, whose song ‘Katy on a Mission’ (Produced by Benga) reached number 5 in the charts.
Rinse continues to display the best of Londons electronic music; from dubstep to grime, house to funky- something for every musical palette. Will it be the birthplace of another rich sound of the City? There’s only one way to find out. Stay Tuned.
These days, pirates are either AK- 47 toting East Africans or they’re taking over the airwaves in your local area. Rinse FM is obviously the latter.
In 1994, DJ Geeneus set the station up in a secret location in East London. During the nineties, pirate radio was getting a pretty bad rap. There were news stories claiming that to gain access to the stations themselves, DJs would abseil in, with all their records in a bag. Obviously this is completely ludicrous, and about as plausible as them getting in by being sucked through a giant straw, but the viewing public undoubtedly eat it up and radio piracy was seen as more of a threat than it actually was. Every interview conducted with pirate radio heads got the same result: they were in it for the music, and that was it.
And this is certainly why Rinse was in it. The station was an integral part of the progression of Grime, a brand new genre of music straight from London.
An unnaturally dark progression from UK Garage, combining elements of Dancehall and Jungle, Grime is the truest sound of the City, representing its underbelly in an unflinching and uncensorable way. It allowed people to discover talents that perhaps they didn’t know they had, and reflected how they felt about their surroundings, about their lives and what they saw, what they wanted to be. Wiley, perhaps the strongest and most prominent member of the Grime scene, got his time to shine on Rinse FM. He, along with other early Grime artists like Dizzee Rascal and the Newham Generals, brought Grime to the listening public, and from there it blew up. Underground MCs were featured on various DVDs like ‘Risky Roadz’ and ‘Aim High’. The stations continuous support of this new and exciting music sealed its spot as arguably the most important pirate radio station in the UK.
Even legendary BBC DJ John Peel showered it with praise, saying “When I'm in London I listen to the pirates as much as I can. There's a station I like called Rinse FM, which is somewhere in the area banded by Kiss FM and Classic FM.”
In 2005 something strange happened. Ofcom decided that Rinse was not worth the airwaves it was broadcasting on, and disconnected its radio transmitter. One of the stations DJs, Slimzee, got tarnished with and Anti Social Behavioural Order (ASBO). Quite what is anti social about a radio station is beyond me. Maybe if you were driving a porous skinned child with leukaemia too close to the station and the radio waves shook the very bone marrow out of their dying femurs, but that’s not going to happen, is it?
A similar phenomenon to Grime has happened more recently to electronic dance genre Dubstep. As with Grime, Rinse FM saw the rising demand in this new, darker sound. With its wobbling bass and addictive drops, dupstep soon became huge in the London underground rave scene. Genre pioneers like Skream and Kode9 were frequently featured on the station. These DJs, among others, started the ball rolling on something that, in a few years, would grow to be one of the most popular types of music in the UK, and is on its way to achieving worldwide recognition. Rinses participation in the development and propulsion of this new music caught the attention of Radio 1 DJ Mary Anne Hobbs, whose consistent championing of dubstep brought it into the public consciousness.
What’s in the future of this innovative station? Thankfully, the station was given an FM broadcasting license in June 2010. This meant that they could broadcast new and exciting music, along with the classics that made the station so popular in the first place, legally. The station has become almost of a brand itself, releasing self branded mix CDs from resident DJs. They were also fundamental in the recent success of singer Katy B, whose song ‘Katy on a Mission’ (Produced by Benga) reached number 5 in the charts.
Rinse continues to display the best of Londons electronic music; from dubstep to grime, house to funky- something for every musical palette. Will it be the birthplace of another rich sound of the City? There’s only one way to find out. Stay Tuned.
Monday 11 October 2010
Inbetweeners vs Skins: Reality Check
When teen drama 'Skins' was first broadcast, it was sold as a believable account of how teenagers in Bristol live their social lives, with all the sexual, religious, narcotic and moral issues that plague every person aged 16 to 18, right?
The premise of The Inbetweeners is a bit different. Four unnaturally awkward teenage boys do their best to keep up with what's cool and try and get their ends away at every available opportunity.
Now which one sounds like the more typical teenage experience? I will now showcase the two most popular characters from either show and see what you think is more relatable. Why? Why not, I say!
Tony Stonem
Tony, played by Nicholas Hoult, is a pretentious arsehole. I first realised this when I watched Skins for the first time, and was met with the image of Tony reading some Nietzsche on the toilet. Now, I'm a pretty pretentious arsehole myself, but even I know that the only thing you can read whilst having a bowel movement is either Viz or... No, just Viz, actually. When I'm trying to relax on the toilet, I prefer to have a magazine brimming with crass double entendres, and not the grey clouds of existentialism that should only plague the terminally pessimistic. What's most annoying about this scene is the way Tony smugly grins at the literature, as if to say 'Hah. I get this. I get this cuz I have a better mind than most my age. God, am I clever or what? I am so getting this.'
But Tony isn't just an arsehole because of this, oh no. Tony extends his newfound philosophy to experimenting with homosexuality; not because he is genuinely attracted to men, but because of a try-everything-once attitude which leads to him fellating another cast member. I find it hard to believe that a young man experimenting with his sexual feelings will just release any trouser snake in the vicinity and inhale it like it's the last shred of oxygen on a crashing plane.
Naturally, Tony is promiscuous; a long line of conquests behind him at the tender age of 17. In one infuriating clip, Tony is seen auditioning for the part in a school musical or something, with excruciatingly posh groupie Abigail watching on, along with 50 or so other preening idiotic fangirls. So he's a deeply philosophical master mind and he's fit for broadway. All this before his 18th? Whooda thunk it?!
'Unfortunately' Tony is nearly killed at the end of the first series after getting hit by a bus. As a result of this, he loses a lot of his motor skills and thus becomes a bit less of an arsehole. No more Stonem kids to annoy me then? If only! Tony's younger sister Effy takes the reigns as a pseudo mysterious and still promiscuous 16 year old girl. Effy, played by Kaya Scodelario, holds all the interesting features as an ashtray, and because every teenager ever smokes until their lungs are but rotting apple cores, she most likely stinks of one, too.
Effy holds many of the same traits as Tony, but because she is a 16 year old girl, life is obviously really hard. Especially if you're really attractive and super popular. Poor mare.
Now, Jay, on the other hand...
Jay Cartwright
Jay is a chauvinistic compulsive liar with a ridiculous haircut. He tells tall tales of 'birds he's shagged', claiming to have lost his virginity at the age of 9 to his nanny. He has a hugely inflated sense of his own importance, attractiveness and intelligence, and frequently coins crass and misogynistic phrases and terms, popularising the use of the word 'clunge'.
Surprisingly, Jay is not as one dimensional a character as he may seem. He is shown to have compassion and sensitivity, especially when he acquires (what we must assume) is his first serious girlfriend. Jay becomes a soft speaking, sentimental but ultimately paranoid wreck, actions which leave him heartbroken, but still full of sexist bravado.
I reckon Jay is what Tony actually is. Someone who thinks they're better than anyone else, acting like a confident superior to his friends, which is his eventual pratfall.
I would rather watch a thousand hours of Jay graphically describing menage a trois with two implausibly attractive Swedish volley ball players than witness Tony read Atlas Shrugged on the bog for a millisecond.
The premise of The Inbetweeners is a bit different. Four unnaturally awkward teenage boys do their best to keep up with what's cool and try and get their ends away at every available opportunity.
Now which one sounds like the more typical teenage experience? I will now showcase the two most popular characters from either show and see what you think is more relatable. Why? Why not, I say!
Tony Stonem
Tony, played by Nicholas Hoult, is a pretentious arsehole. I first realised this when I watched Skins for the first time, and was met with the image of Tony reading some Nietzsche on the toilet. Now, I'm a pretty pretentious arsehole myself, but even I know that the only thing you can read whilst having a bowel movement is either Viz or... No, just Viz, actually. When I'm trying to relax on the toilet, I prefer to have a magazine brimming with crass double entendres, and not the grey clouds of existentialism that should only plague the terminally pessimistic. What's most annoying about this scene is the way Tony smugly grins at the literature, as if to say 'Hah. I get this. I get this cuz I have a better mind than most my age. God, am I clever or what? I am so getting this.'
But Tony isn't just an arsehole because of this, oh no. Tony extends his newfound philosophy to experimenting with homosexuality; not because he is genuinely attracted to men, but because of a try-everything-once attitude which leads to him fellating another cast member. I find it hard to believe that a young man experimenting with his sexual feelings will just release any trouser snake in the vicinity and inhale it like it's the last shred of oxygen on a crashing plane.
Naturally, Tony is promiscuous; a long line of conquests behind him at the tender age of 17. In one infuriating clip, Tony is seen auditioning for the part in a school musical or something, with excruciatingly posh groupie Abigail watching on, along with 50 or so other preening idiotic fangirls. So he's a deeply philosophical master mind and he's fit for broadway. All this before his 18th? Whooda thunk it?!
'Unfortunately' Tony is nearly killed at the end of the first series after getting hit by a bus. As a result of this, he loses a lot of his motor skills and thus becomes a bit less of an arsehole. No more Stonem kids to annoy me then? If only! Tony's younger sister Effy takes the reigns as a pseudo mysterious and still promiscuous 16 year old girl. Effy, played by Kaya Scodelario, holds all the interesting features as an ashtray, and because every teenager ever smokes until their lungs are but rotting apple cores, she most likely stinks of one, too.
Effy holds many of the same traits as Tony, but because she is a 16 year old girl, life is obviously really hard. Especially if you're really attractive and super popular. Poor mare.
Now, Jay, on the other hand...
Jay Cartwright
Jay is a chauvinistic compulsive liar with a ridiculous haircut. He tells tall tales of 'birds he's shagged', claiming to have lost his virginity at the age of 9 to his nanny. He has a hugely inflated sense of his own importance, attractiveness and intelligence, and frequently coins crass and misogynistic phrases and terms, popularising the use of the word 'clunge'.
Surprisingly, Jay is not as one dimensional a character as he may seem. He is shown to have compassion and sensitivity, especially when he acquires (what we must assume) is his first serious girlfriend. Jay becomes a soft speaking, sentimental but ultimately paranoid wreck, actions which leave him heartbroken, but still full of sexist bravado.
I reckon Jay is what Tony actually is. Someone who thinks they're better than anyone else, acting like a confident superior to his friends, which is his eventual pratfall.
I would rather watch a thousand hours of Jay graphically describing menage a trois with two implausibly attractive Swedish volley ball players than witness Tony read Atlas Shrugged on the bog for a millisecond.
Wednesday 29 September 2010
Scientology: A Lesson In Blackmail And Madness
I'll be frank: nothing much inspires me to write. This is problematic, especially as I want to write professionally. Most of the time I'll write something inflammatory, or a fanciful story, but these are sporadic. It's very rare that I'll hear or see something, on the radio or on the television, that will prompt me to start writing, to start showering my views and thoughts all over the freshly awoken shoulders of the internet.
So it came as a bit of a shock to me that I had this sudden impetus to write about something. I felt so compelled to put what I thought down in pixels, a feeling that was all to foreign to me.
It all came from a documentary. Journalist and author John Sweeneys' follow up programme on the Church of Scientology for BBCs Panorama, 'Secrets of Scientology', which aired last night, was in equal parts frightening, frustrating and just really, really strange.
Sweeneys original documentary, 'Scientology and Me', became quite popular because of one infamous scene. After being berated with beliefs by a loud middle aged woman in a museum dedicated to showcasing why Psychiatry has caused genocide across history, Sweeney lets his rag slip a bit. His rag is then stuffed in a bottle filled with petrol, lit, and thrown right in his face, agitated to the point of madness by press goon Tommy Davis. Davis accused Sweeney of being biased against Scientology, knowing full well that he'd been orchestrating teams of Scientology members in blacked out four-by-fours to follow Sweeney around everywhere he goes.
In the follow up, Sweeney focuses on the people who decided Scientology wasn't for them. Among these people was Mike Rinder, Former Executive Director of the Office of Special Affairs. That means he was in charge of purporting the Churches image as good for society and helpful and kind and all the other things it flagrantly isn't. Rinder speaks candidly about the churches abuses of power and invasions of privacy, such as the very sinister usage of secret cameras and microphones during an 'auditing' session.
Aside from the very creepy and, without a shred of hyperbole, sickening way the church sends a camera man and supervisor to any place Sweeney and the team happen to be filming, the most disturbing part of the whole thing was the destruction of families. Rinder is estranged from his wife and children. When he made the decision to leave the church, he was cut off from his family; they were told he was an enemy of the church, an undesirable. Years later he was confronted by his ex- family, accompanied by CoS goons. They shouted expletives at him, and attempted to have him tried for assault. This was all recorded as Rinder was on the phone to Sweeney at the time, and all charges against him were dropped.
This isn't a stand alone case. Sweeney spoke to a few others whose lives had been fractured by the churchs draconian policies; a woman who had multiple abortions due to her status in the church, a young mother whose fiancée left her to be with the church, and a woman who, after leaving, had private information about her sex life banded around on a CoS newsletter.
On the face of it, the Church of Scientology is a laughable state of affairs. A sect that so desperately wishes to be taken seriously, but inadvertently destroys any possible credibility with its pathetic and ridiculous strong arming and palatial monuments to its own deluded self worth. Let's not even get started on the concept of Lord Xenu and the volcano ghosts. It's hard to believe that someone could form a religion around what appears to be the plot of a weak episode of Scooby Doo, but then again anything is possible in America. Anything.
All mutant galaxy Field Marshals aside, the churchs actions are puerile and really quite childish. The best part is, is that when John Sweeney was being shouted at by the loud CoS member in the eerie, dark museum, she harked on about how psychiatry was used in Nazi Germany and was a contributing factor to the Holocaust.
What else was Nazi Germany guilty of? Intimidating muscle, surveillance, silencing people, manipulative propaganda... Sound familiar?
So it came as a bit of a shock to me that I had this sudden impetus to write about something. I felt so compelled to put what I thought down in pixels, a feeling that was all to foreign to me.
It all came from a documentary. Journalist and author John Sweeneys' follow up programme on the Church of Scientology for BBCs Panorama, 'Secrets of Scientology', which aired last night, was in equal parts frightening, frustrating and just really, really strange.
Sweeneys original documentary, 'Scientology and Me', became quite popular because of one infamous scene. After being berated with beliefs by a loud middle aged woman in a museum dedicated to showcasing why Psychiatry has caused genocide across history, Sweeney lets his rag slip a bit. His rag is then stuffed in a bottle filled with petrol, lit, and thrown right in his face, agitated to the point of madness by press goon Tommy Davis. Davis accused Sweeney of being biased against Scientology, knowing full well that he'd been orchestrating teams of Scientology members in blacked out four-by-fours to follow Sweeney around everywhere he goes.
In the follow up, Sweeney focuses on the people who decided Scientology wasn't for them. Among these people was Mike Rinder, Former Executive Director of the Office of Special Affairs. That means he was in charge of purporting the Churches image as good for society and helpful and kind and all the other things it flagrantly isn't. Rinder speaks candidly about the churches abuses of power and invasions of privacy, such as the very sinister usage of secret cameras and microphones during an 'auditing' session.
Aside from the very creepy and, without a shred of hyperbole, sickening way the church sends a camera man and supervisor to any place Sweeney and the team happen to be filming, the most disturbing part of the whole thing was the destruction of families. Rinder is estranged from his wife and children. When he made the decision to leave the church, he was cut off from his family; they were told he was an enemy of the church, an undesirable. Years later he was confronted by his ex- family, accompanied by CoS goons. They shouted expletives at him, and attempted to have him tried for assault. This was all recorded as Rinder was on the phone to Sweeney at the time, and all charges against him were dropped.
This isn't a stand alone case. Sweeney spoke to a few others whose lives had been fractured by the churchs draconian policies; a woman who had multiple abortions due to her status in the church, a young mother whose fiancée left her to be with the church, and a woman who, after leaving, had private information about her sex life banded around on a CoS newsletter.
On the face of it, the Church of Scientology is a laughable state of affairs. A sect that so desperately wishes to be taken seriously, but inadvertently destroys any possible credibility with its pathetic and ridiculous strong arming and palatial monuments to its own deluded self worth. Let's not even get started on the concept of Lord Xenu and the volcano ghosts. It's hard to believe that someone could form a religion around what appears to be the plot of a weak episode of Scooby Doo, but then again anything is possible in America. Anything.
All mutant galaxy Field Marshals aside, the churchs actions are puerile and really quite childish. The best part is, is that when John Sweeney was being shouted at by the loud CoS member in the eerie, dark museum, she harked on about how psychiatry was used in Nazi Germany and was a contributing factor to the Holocaust.
What else was Nazi Germany guilty of? Intimidating muscle, surveillance, silencing people, manipulative propaganda... Sound familiar?
Saturday 31 July 2010
What It Means To Win
As both the Barclaycard Mercury Music Prize and the MOBO’s draw nearer, we ask what happened to the past winners, and where are they now?
It’s been an interesting year so far. Icelandic volcanos thwart thousands from going on their anticipated holidays abroad, the England teams performance in the World cup would have you believe they all had severe trench foot, and Amy Winehouse still hasn’t released a new record in four years. But two upcoming awards are about what has been particularly exceptional this fine year, each very different in the ideas they purport, and the impact they have.
The Mercury Prize was established in 1992 to showcase the best of British music, with a panel of judges ultimately deciding on the album of the year. The first ever winners of the award were Glaswegian alt rock band Primal Scream for their record Screamadelica. Leaving behind their indie sound in favour of a more acid house influence, Screamadelica received widespread critical acclaim, something that helped them win the prize ahead of such artists as The Jesus and Mary Chain and U2. But what happened then? The band developed drug problems which stunted their creativity. A single in March 1994, ‘Rocks’ was released, to commercial success, but critical failure. An album Give Out But Don’t Give Up received mixed reviews, and subsequent singles charted lower and lower respectively.
That’s not to say that this is a regular occurrence with the Mercury Prize. In 2003, Grimes prodigy Dizzee Rascal won the prize for his debut solo release Boy in da Corner, described by many as one of the most important albums in modern British music. Dizzee took the statue home to his estate in Bow, not entirely sure what it was or what it represented, but secure in the knowledge that what he’d made had garnered recognition and acclaim. After that, all of Dizzees albums have done well commercially and critically. His most recent album, Tongue N’ Cheek, is a certified platinum selling record, shifting over 300, 000 units. His transition from visceral and cutting Grime records to a more mainstream modern pop sound is still a contentious subject among fans, and granted, if you were listening to Dizzees collaboration with D Double E on Run The Road Vol. 1, then his more recent union with Florence Welch and Calvin Harris must feel strange -, like watching Robert Plant carelessly brush Led Zeppelin reunions away with one hand, and click his fingers to Alison Krauss’ country fiddle with the other.
Although the Prize’s validity and helpfulness is subject to some debate, due to the larger number of nominees and wider selection of genres, there are always strong views on who will win the prize. This years nominees showcase what has been, for me, a very hot and cold year in popular and unpopular music. Foals’ very impressive sophomore effort Total Life Forever should be up there with the big contenders, as well as The XX, whose self titled debut has garnered them international recognition. My internal jury is still out on works that have crept into the frame, such as Mumford and Sons Sigh No More (which, ironically, makes me sigh more than usual). Dizzee is back with the aforementioned Tongue N’ Cheek release, with such hits as ‘Bonkers’ and ‘Dirtee Cash’ solidifying his position in the nominations once again. Scottish rock band Biffy Clyro are almost a surprise entry, their fifth album Only Revolutions up for the prize. Biffys’ transition from an underground hardcore punk style band to a matured set of artists with immaculate song writing skills is definitely worthy of some recognition.
The MOBO award nominations have yet to be announced, but it is to be assumed that the usual suspects will appear ie US based hip hop and RnB artists who more than likely will not turn up to receive their three awards ie Beyoncé.
MOBOs, or Music of Black Origin, (a somewhat redundant name seeing as essentially all modern music is of black origin) is a curious awards show. Created in 1995 by Kanya King MBE, the MOBO awards show gets more peculiar every time I watch it. The 2009 ceremony, awkwardly presented by an enthusiastic Reggie Yates and someone-please-prod-her-to-make-sure-she’s-still-breathing Keri Hilson, with backstage interviews being conducted by the largely irrelevant yet amiable Peter Andre, epitomised, for me, what the MOBOs was about.
The prizes for the less commercial categories, like best Jazz Act and best African Act, are all but lost on the regular viewer; these artists and their music would only be known to real fans of the genre, and it’s wonderful that these musicians, successful in their respected field, are brought to the fore- into the spotlight for all to see. Then, suddenly, the tone changes. The awards for such categories as Best UK Newcomer and Best Album are presented to JLS, a manufactured boy band marketed to fourteen year old white girls (trust me, I’ve been to one of their concerts -don’t ask why) and N- Dubz, which is essentially the same thing without the manufacture. The opportunity to bring the real talent, raw, unwavering, colourless talent, is lost.
This seems to happen every year. Not to mention the sore feelings towards the American winners, who often feel their presence is not needed unless their award is not in the shape of a giant MTV logo. Commercialism should not encroach on these types of awards; awards that were created specifically to showcase something special, something we should all be taking notice of. Instead, what becomes of it is a cavalcade of standardized pop fodder, bounding carelessly past on a conveyor belt from a giant Pop mega machine.
Don’t get me wrong, I think the MOBOs is a great idea. The ubiquity of black music is something I feel is never appreciated or understood enough in the very Eurocentric society we live in, but you have to award the right people for the right things. Dizzee Rascals mentor Wiley, quite possibly the best, for want of a better word, rapper to ever have come out of this country has yet to win an award. An innovator in the London underground music scene, Wiley’s ability to reel off hundreds and hundreds of bars is nigh on inhuman, like his brain is just filled with endless Word documents. Hopefully Wiley’s talent will be recognized properly soon, as well as genius grime producer Skepta, whom I assume will be a firm competitor for best UK Act this year.
Either way, the awards will be a talking point. Perhaps a subject of controversy, who knows? What is certain is that, with all things of this nature, someone will be enraged or disappointed, while others will be elated and joyful. Which side of the fence do you think you’ll be sitting on?
It’s been an interesting year so far. Icelandic volcanos thwart thousands from going on their anticipated holidays abroad, the England teams performance in the World cup would have you believe they all had severe trench foot, and Amy Winehouse still hasn’t released a new record in four years. But two upcoming awards are about what has been particularly exceptional this fine year, each very different in the ideas they purport, and the impact they have.
The Mercury Prize was established in 1992 to showcase the best of British music, with a panel of judges ultimately deciding on the album of the year. The first ever winners of the award were Glaswegian alt rock band Primal Scream for their record Screamadelica. Leaving behind their indie sound in favour of a more acid house influence, Screamadelica received widespread critical acclaim, something that helped them win the prize ahead of such artists as The Jesus and Mary Chain and U2. But what happened then? The band developed drug problems which stunted their creativity. A single in March 1994, ‘Rocks’ was released, to commercial success, but critical failure. An album Give Out But Don’t Give Up received mixed reviews, and subsequent singles charted lower and lower respectively.
That’s not to say that this is a regular occurrence with the Mercury Prize. In 2003, Grimes prodigy Dizzee Rascal won the prize for his debut solo release Boy in da Corner, described by many as one of the most important albums in modern British music. Dizzee took the statue home to his estate in Bow, not entirely sure what it was or what it represented, but secure in the knowledge that what he’d made had garnered recognition and acclaim. After that, all of Dizzees albums have done well commercially and critically. His most recent album, Tongue N’ Cheek, is a certified platinum selling record, shifting over 300, 000 units. His transition from visceral and cutting Grime records to a more mainstream modern pop sound is still a contentious subject among fans, and granted, if you were listening to Dizzees collaboration with D Double E on Run The Road Vol. 1, then his more recent union with Florence Welch and Calvin Harris must feel strange -, like watching Robert Plant carelessly brush Led Zeppelin reunions away with one hand, and click his fingers to Alison Krauss’ country fiddle with the other.
Although the Prize’s validity and helpfulness is subject to some debate, due to the larger number of nominees and wider selection of genres, there are always strong views on who will win the prize. This years nominees showcase what has been, for me, a very hot and cold year in popular and unpopular music. Foals’ very impressive sophomore effort Total Life Forever should be up there with the big contenders, as well as The XX, whose self titled debut has garnered them international recognition. My internal jury is still out on works that have crept into the frame, such as Mumford and Sons Sigh No More (which, ironically, makes me sigh more than usual). Dizzee is back with the aforementioned Tongue N’ Cheek release, with such hits as ‘Bonkers’ and ‘Dirtee Cash’ solidifying his position in the nominations once again. Scottish rock band Biffy Clyro are almost a surprise entry, their fifth album Only Revolutions up for the prize. Biffys’ transition from an underground hardcore punk style band to a matured set of artists with immaculate song writing skills is definitely worthy of some recognition.
The MOBO award nominations have yet to be announced, but it is to be assumed that the usual suspects will appear ie US based hip hop and RnB artists who more than likely will not turn up to receive their three awards ie Beyoncé.
MOBOs, or Music of Black Origin, (a somewhat redundant name seeing as essentially all modern music is of black origin) is a curious awards show. Created in 1995 by Kanya King MBE, the MOBO awards show gets more peculiar every time I watch it. The 2009 ceremony, awkwardly presented by an enthusiastic Reggie Yates and someone-please-prod-her-to-make-sure-she’s-still-breathing Keri Hilson, with backstage interviews being conducted by the largely irrelevant yet amiable Peter Andre, epitomised, for me, what the MOBOs was about.
The prizes for the less commercial categories, like best Jazz Act and best African Act, are all but lost on the regular viewer; these artists and their music would only be known to real fans of the genre, and it’s wonderful that these musicians, successful in their respected field, are brought to the fore- into the spotlight for all to see. Then, suddenly, the tone changes. The awards for such categories as Best UK Newcomer and Best Album are presented to JLS, a manufactured boy band marketed to fourteen year old white girls (trust me, I’ve been to one of their concerts -don’t ask why) and N- Dubz, which is essentially the same thing without the manufacture. The opportunity to bring the real talent, raw, unwavering, colourless talent, is lost.
This seems to happen every year. Not to mention the sore feelings towards the American winners, who often feel their presence is not needed unless their award is not in the shape of a giant MTV logo. Commercialism should not encroach on these types of awards; awards that were created specifically to showcase something special, something we should all be taking notice of. Instead, what becomes of it is a cavalcade of standardized pop fodder, bounding carelessly past on a conveyor belt from a giant Pop mega machine.
Don’t get me wrong, I think the MOBOs is a great idea. The ubiquity of black music is something I feel is never appreciated or understood enough in the very Eurocentric society we live in, but you have to award the right people for the right things. Dizzee Rascals mentor Wiley, quite possibly the best, for want of a better word, rapper to ever have come out of this country has yet to win an award. An innovator in the London underground music scene, Wiley’s ability to reel off hundreds and hundreds of bars is nigh on inhuman, like his brain is just filled with endless Word documents. Hopefully Wiley’s talent will be recognized properly soon, as well as genius grime producer Skepta, whom I assume will be a firm competitor for best UK Act this year.
Either way, the awards will be a talking point. Perhaps a subject of controversy, who knows? What is certain is that, with all things of this nature, someone will be enraged or disappointed, while others will be elated and joyful. Which side of the fence do you think you’ll be sitting on?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)