St Trinian’s

Let me get this straight, right from the start: I am a massive fan of the original Ealing comedies. MASSIVE. My adoration for the original films is right up there with my love of The Importance Of Being Earnest and the Miss Marple movies… Hell. Anything with Margaret Rutherford in it. It was because of those films I wasn’t entirely dischuffed with the idea of boarding school.

Now that I’ve made that clear, I’ll explain how DVD swapping works in my family. Mum and I buy DVDs and swap them after we’ve seen them. If we don’t like them we don’t want them back. Hence I have a number of movies in my collection that frankly I would prefer not to own. So when Mum handed me this DVD and explained she and Dad had only managed twenty minutes before having to turn it off because it was so awful, I didn’t hold out much hope that it was any better than I’d been led to believe.

With that in mind, we put it on 20 minutes before bedtime the other night, expecting to be ready to turn it off in disgust by the time we’d finished our mugs of tea.

We went to bed unreasonably late.

Watch this film expecting it to be like the originals and you’ll be disappointed, however I think that if the originals hadn’t been made, and this was the first adaptation, Ealing wouldn’t have made it any other way. It’s aimed at those who are familiar with internet subculture, and the sense of humour is such that I’m not surprised my parents hated it. But from the moment I saw Rupert Everett doing an utterly superb job as Camilla Fritton, I knew I was in for a surprise.

There is a scattering of familiar faces from the great and the good of British comedy, including Celia Imrie, Kathryn Drysdale (of Two Pints… fame), Russell Brand, Fenella Woolgar (recently seen playing Agatha Christie in Dr Who) and Stephen Fry; and they all seemed to be having a marvellously good time. Relative unknown Gemma Arterton puts in an accomplished, confident performance as headgirl Kelly, showing more capable than the rabble of teachers who spend their time drunk on matron’s frightening cocktail concoctions. The scene in which new girl Annabel is introduced to the various cliques — which I particularly enjoyed as a survivor of the hothouse environment that is boarding school (“We’re not Goths, we’re Emo!”) — shows that this school isn’t just about social groupings but specialist squads all keen to use their criminal initiative.

“Daddy, you can’t expect me to stay here. It’s like Hogwarts for Pikeys!”

As well as random shots doffing the proverbial cap to English popular culture past and present (“You’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!”) there are plenty of references to current political arguments about how to run the UK education system and the tendency of the press to go for headlines rather than actual news.

This film isn’t just puerile comedy: it’s genuine satire. It may not be intellectual satire, but it is satire nevertheless.

It’s not as good as the originals, and to be honest I don’t think they ever thought it would be. The bad-girl-comes-good was never going to be an option with this film, and I did find the stupid-girl-gets-clever equivalent deeply annoying for making the tired old mistake of conflating intelligence with general knowledge. It is, however, a fun way to spend 90 minutes or so and if you can forgive the makers revamping a time-honoured classic for the internet generation, you could do a lot worse.

Me, Frood

My car has been away in Fife for a week having its suspension replaced. I’ve been borrowing my Dad’s car, because I’m contractually obliged to provide a vehicle for work (chiz chiz). Phone call last night: car’s ready. Yay! I’ve missed Claude. I need to go across to Fife to fetch him, on Tuesday after work.

I was thinking that I could take the train across to Kirkcaldy and ride Shackleton the 11 miles to my parents’ house, then drive home with Shack in the back.

Then one of my invisible friends observed that I need to give my Dad his car back.

Um. Yeah. I’d sort of forgotten that in the whole “But it’s only 11 miles from the station” part of the equation.

Jumper.

I’ll say from the start that it was a toss-up between this and 30 Days of Night (which I’ve got to watch tonight) and Munky chose Jumper on the basis he thought it would make excellent rant-fodder for Frood and myself. You know, get us (well, me) shouting at the tellybox the way we did at the execrable Core (long since out-shited by Sunshine).

For some reason he left it behind when he went down south again. I’ll put it in the post.

The film starts by making it quite clear, from the start, that our “hero”, played by Barbie-boy Hayden Cristiansen, is an utter wanker with no redeeming personality features who really needs a good smack round the face with a studded 3 by 4. It then moves into flashback mode to set out the unrequited love trope of young David and the girl Millie, during which there is an unfortunate river-ice accident and David finds himself involuntarily teleporting himself to the local library to avoid hypothermia and drowning. No hilarity ensues.

Young David, demonstrating that the cliché of boy hates father even though father is just trying to do his best in difficult circumstances is alive and well, then does a runner, just like his mum did. Frankly if I’d been his mother I’d have fucked off sharpish as well. He goes to the Big City [TM] and sets himself up as independently wealthy by using his new-found power to rob a bank. Henceforth he spends his time jumping around the globe, surfing in Hawaii after breakfast and lunching in London before enjoying the sunset from the top of the Sphinx. As you do.

At this point the plot thickens. Roland, played by Samuel L Jackson paying the rent with stupid-ass painted white hair, turns up and makes it clear that what could have been a semi-decent action flick has ruined all hope of identifying with any one of the main characters by killing some oriental bloke in a jungle and justifying it by saying only God should have the power to be all places at once.

Roland is head of a bunch of people going by the name of paladins, who apparently were responsible for the witch hunts (all witches were really jumpers, dontcha know) and their job is to kill jumpers. He goes after David and David heads home to pick up Millie and take her on a dream date to Rome. By plane. Because obviously he can’t tell his childhood sweetheart that they could just teleport there.

In Rome he meets up with Brit Boy Griffin, played by Jamie Bell, who is the only character in the film worth any split second of screen time. Griffin’s mission in life is to kill paladins. Henceforth the film devolves into a boring take on the reluctant buddy-movie, with much chase action involving jumping through each other’s “jump scars” and Griffin’s evidently superior personality being devalued by a trite moral bankruptcy that they didn’t even have the decency to justify adequately.

You know, I hate bipolar movies. My Dad loves them. He likes it when all things turn out right in the end and the good guy gets the girl. He’d really like this film if it were not for the fact that the plot, despite being straightforward and simplistic, is rendered disjointed by a complete failure to join the various sequences together in any way resembling a coherent picture. The continuity relies on the viewer having the attention span of a hamster overdosed on Sunny D and ephedrine and absolutely no interest in anything involving exposition or storytelling. You know exactly where the film is going to end up and yet the method of getting there seems to be a waste of screen time.

Verdict: dull as dishwater and thoroughly disappointing. They could have made so much with the premise, but apparently couldn’t be arsed. Zero chemistry, no humour, and a bunch of characters I’d quite happily lock in a room together until they’d killed each other.

Found on Dooj‘s LJ page. I thought this was utterly brilliant:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NSed1K-QNMc]

Takes me back, you know, to Vague Stevie’s poster of Kate Bush and, indeed, his obsession with the woman herself.

It’s the 3rd anniversary of Anth’s CityCycling E-zine. I’m not plugging this issue just because I have an article in there, but also because there are plans for it to go to print copy later on in the year so the more readers (and thus potential subscribers) the better.

So get reading!

About 15 years ago Frood and I were living in a little flat above a garage in Southampton, just off Highfield Road. After we moved out of that flat it wasn’t until we moved to Scotland 2 years ago that we had our own (i.e. not shared) place. That was a great year, in that tiny flat in Southampton.

We got engaged when I was just 17, and, having had him in my life ever since, Frood is responsible for many things about me. One of them is a liking for black pepper. Another is my rather eclectic music taste. He turned me on to English Folk Music. He also turned me on to prog and psychedelic rock.

I’m working from home today and thus have the benefit of the stereo system. Last year I finally bought my long-desired copy of Warrior On The Edge Of Time. We’d only had a copy on second-hand tape before. Today I stuck it in the stereo because I’ve been listening to Faith No More a lot and wanted something different.

As soon as Assault and Battery came on I was right there in that flat in Southampton, with the Morning Glory growing on the fence around the Scout hut opposite; the smell of that wooden dresser in which we kept all our student-cheap dried goods; the sun baking the bathroom; the cat sulking about not being allowed in the bedroom; the desk tidy I’d made out of Irn Bru tins taped together; and Frood chopping carrots in that purple top he used to own.

We both had long hair then. He has short hair now but I’ve grown mine again. Other than the hair, the rather less parsimonious diet and the change of scenery, I don’t think all that much has changed.

Exxon Mobil’s corporate citizenship report makes for some interesting reading. As someone working in environmental regulation, with an interest in language, what I noticed first was the structure of the writing.

Scientists are trained to finish with the conclusion. When they write a paper they start with the premise, move on to the theory, formulate a hypothesis, tell you how they tested it, and finally tell you what the results were. It’s logical and follows clear cause and effect.

It’s also desperately dull.

That’s not the way to engage with the public and with people who are short of time. The way to do that is to put the conclusion right up front, reinforce it at the end and bury anything you want people to skip right in the middle. Time pressures mean that people skim read most things, only paying more attention if they spot a bold heading that catches their interest. It’s a bit like being in a crowded bar and still hearing your own name over the general background noise.

This entire document is structured that way. Every paragraph invites reading only the first and last sentences. The bits they really want the readers to remember are highlighted in boxes and pretty colours. Look how green and responsible they are!

Compare the highlighted box on their attitude to corruption on page 39 (it says 37 but it’s 39 for the purposes of GoTo) with the paragraph misleadingly titled “Public Policy Research Contributions” on page 41.

In the highlghted box they tell you all about how they support human rights, are environmentally responsible and they are anti-corruption.

In their paragraph on public policy research contributions they slip in the admission that they’re going to stop funding certain climate change denial groups. Right in the middle of the paragraph, after a particularly dull and lengthy sentence. The idea there is that your mind will be so numbed by the first half of the paragraph you’ll miss that part (oh, um, yeah, we were, um, wrong).

If you have the time, and the patience, try reading it and looking for the things they know they have to tell you to be able to claim transparency (so that they can point to it when the auditors come round and ask) but they would rather slipped your mind. Try to find the things that they think detract from the message they are trying to send in the document as a whole.

It’s a bit like the Eurovision drinking game. Drink a shot for every confession…

It’s the British Fireworks Championships tonight. In Newhaven. About 4km away.

I don’t like fireworks. Big, nasty, sudden bangs. Remember when they used to tell you to keep pets indoors on Bonfire Night in case they were frighened? They meant me too. Indoors. Under a table.

Frood is playing Half-Life 2 to distract me. I don’t like the headlice. They have nasty legs!

I’ve come across a reference to Aepyornis and have to look it up. Then I see Pelagornithidae. I find the current lack of megafauna distressing. I wanna see a giant toothy albatross.

“Why don’t we have any big animals any more?”

“Because they’re tasty. Eventually we’re going to be left eating cats, dogs and hamsters. No moo-cows, no sheeps.”

“But we grow those.”

“Ah, but we won’t grow them fast enough because people are making too many babies. We’ll eat them faster than we can grow them and then we’ll eat cats and dogs and hamsters until we realise that children are bigger than cats. Then we’ll eat those instead. Then we’ll go extinct! Hamsters will rule the world!”