Double Bill: Stranger Than Fiction and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

Double Bill: 

Stranger Than Fiction and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

I had every reason to suspect that I would hate Stranger Than Fiction (Marc Forster, 2006) and The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty (Ben Stiller, 2013 – the remake better suits my purposes!): both star actors that I go from not really minding to actively disliking, depending upon he direction of the wind; both appeared to be deliberately faux-indie major studio releases, striving to be cool with hipster soundtracks and muted colour schemes; both are about stuff that I didn't think I'd find interesting. I have rarely been more delighted to be proved wrong! These are two surprisingly good low-key comedies starring two of today's biggest stars of comedy, who, love them or hate them, turn in sterling against-type performances in films about how the little things can reveal the big picture. Together, they'd also make a fine evening's viewing.

Both films revel in their metaphysical leanings, carefree tinkering with film form and playful double entendre titles that become clear as the stories progress. Mitty shows Ben Stiller's titular hero's flights of fancy writ large onscreen, playing out his fantasies and mixing them with his actual adventures which are often just as fantastical, the effect being that you are often swept along with how joyfully ridiculous the story gets, without ever really questioning it. Fiction opts for a more structured conceit, where Will Ferrell's dull tax auditor Harold Crick's life is interrupted by its own narration, which only he can hear, and describes incidents varying from his morning routine to his untimely death. This creates an interesting dramatic tension: is Crick imagining the voice narrating his life (personified by Emma Thompson's troubled author), or is he the product of the narrator's imagination and bound to her every whim, even if it means his death? This is a film that is a Freudian slip away from being a Charlie Kaufman/Spike Jonze collaboration.

Despite my misgivings about the stars, Ferrell and Stiller play against type and in doing so make their characters hugely likeable. I am not a fan of their more slapstick tendencies and it's refreshing to see them stretch their other comedy muscles with deadpan and fantastic timing. Both play dull-but-likeable men stuck in loveless routines of jobs but over the course to the films, both learn to grab life by the scruff of the neck and write their own script or live out their fantasies respectively. Both are played out at a satisfying pace, allowing the characters to evolve naturally despite the more fantastical aspects at work. The one exception to this is Maggie Gylenhaal's love interest for Ferrell. She does good work with an interesting-if-underused character but the softening of her spiky exterior is too fast and smells a little of narrative convenience.

These are two films that are directed affectionately and with a quirky indie sensibility. Stiller throws in bizarro moments like an entire sequence set in Greenland culminating in Kristen Wiig's eminently loveable love interest Cheryl singing Bowie's 'Space Oddity'. Fiction director Marc Forster, the man responsible for the one recent Bond film that nobody liked, fills his film with keenly observed details (a couple lie in bed, his face lying nose-to-nose with the silhouette of hers), thoughtful framing and almost expressionistic scenery (the IRS records room is something from an unmade Kubrick film about taxation). If you look for them, there are nuggets of cinematic gold in two fairly understated films.

As the narratives deal with blurred lines between fiction/fantasy and reality, ultimately setting on the real, the here and the now, these are films you can get lost in; films that you can sit back and smile at. As each reaches its final denouement, the 'reveals' (the end of Crick's story, the reveal of Mitty's lost photograph) we feel like we've been on the same journey as the character, feel more positive about life, more passionate, more willing to do stuff; we just feel more. Ultimately, these films are thoroughly enjoyable marriages of major stars playing against type but totally on form, with directors (in Stiller's case, himself) who 'get' the material and know how to make it sing. Do yourself a favour and set aside a few hours to get lost in the narrative.

Gig Review: Slayer - Leeds Academy, 28/11/15

Extend your index finger.

Now hold down your middle and ring fingers with your thumb.

Extend your little finger.

Repeat with your other hand, if you so desire.

Now hold your hand in the air and scream like you mean it. You are now 'Throwing The Horns', and shows like this are why it's still done.

Despite the theatrics of tonight's headliners, Slayer are about as satanic as The Horns themselves (originally a sign of defence against evil, appropriated in the name of heavy metal by Ronnie James Dio) and their 35-year performance as a satanic band goes on with no signs of stopping. In the immortal words of Henry Rollins, Slayer are a band who are 'sticking to their story', and doing so with an incredible level of commitment. Playing such fast, intense music to the standard they do, at the age they have now reached is no mean feat: Metallica, while rarely as fast as Slayer, don't seem to be able to do it any longer. So when Slayer announced a show just down the road in Leeds, supported by the just-as-legendary Anthrax, I had no choice but to go.

As far as I understand it, it's always raining in Leeds so I can't really complain about the weather but the city was fucking drab that day. We found a nearby pub beside an incongruously lovely Christmas market and commenced drinking with some serious anticipation.

First up were Kvelertak. Hailing from Stavanger, they arrived on stage to a barrage of riffs and hair, with singer Erland Hjelvik wearing what appears to be a stuffed bird as a hat. Yes, really. Seamlessly moving between black metal, hardcore and bluesy hard rock, their three-guitar lineup makes them a fine visual and sonic experience. Lots of heads start to nod. Alas, there is no justice in the world or these guys would already be huge.

Quite unfairly the least well known of the 'Big Four', Anthrax don't have the status of Slayer or the sales of Megadeth but are more a lot more fun than either. While all four bands went through some strange musical times in the 90s, Anthrax have survived changes to both lead guitarist and singer and come up smiling. This mostly comes down to the sheer unrelenting commitment of core members Scott Ian, Frank Bello and Charlie Benante. These guys are metal to the core. Scott Ian takes stage-right and spends the set, from the opening 'Caught In A Mosh' to the closing 'Among The Living', tossing out riff after riff as if he had a suitcase full of them to spare. I wish that I enjoyed anything as much as Frank Bello appears to enjoy playing bass for Anthrax. It is hard not to get on board with his enthusiasm. 'Indians' is as brilliant and anthemic as ever and new track 'Evil Twin' shows that there's plenty left in the tank yet.

Topping it all off is singer Joey Belladonna, whose high-end vocals cut through the riffs like a knife. He's one hell of a showman, too; pointing out audience members to cheer on, never still for a moment. His Freddie Mercury-style mic stand is apt. If there's a problem, and it is a minor one, it's that their recent troubles finding a lead guitarist are telling. Not that former Shadows Fall member Jonathan Donais isn't up to the task – he's a fine guitar player – he just looks a little like a hired hand, appearing nervous while the rest of the band go for it. That said, Anthrax were comfortably the band of the night and deserve much more attention.

The sold out Academy is then treated to a 20-song set by the band who personify heavy metal perhaps more than any other except Iron Maiden. Slayer are the kind of band who inspire such loyalty that more than a few people were wandering around with prominent Slayer tattoos (I was a little concerned that my Pearl Jam and Biffy Clyro tats would make me the target of a glassing, but I survived unscathed). I suppose it's easy to get on board with their sheer naked aggression, speed and ferocity; a healthy outlet for angry young men like myself and my friends.

A curtain screen drops, revealing inverted crucifix lighting rigs (sticking to their story...) and the band themselves, no frills, just riffs. Opening with recent single 'Repentless', their set takes in most of their 35-year career, including early songs 'Chemical Warfare' and 'Black Magic' and recent numbers 'Vices' and 'Take Control'. Despite projecting a fuck you attitude for most of their career, thanks largely to guitarist Kerry King, Slayer are not above overt crowd pleasing, playing the likes of 'Dead Skin Mask' and set highlight 'War Ensemble' before ending with 'Reign In Blood' and the thrash masterpiece that is 'Angel Of Death'.

A combination of tragedy and personality clashes has robbed Slayer of the late Jeff Hanneman and the ousted Dave Lombardo. While the latter remains one of the planet's more talented drummers, it's probably not speaking ill of the dead to say that Hanneman was starting to struggle with the pace at times. Paul Bostaph put in a fine display on drums but recruitment of Gary Holt, formerly of Exodus, has been a masterstroke. Clearly playing within his level of ability and comfort zone with crowds of this size and ferocity, he sounded incredible all night. So much so that the sound man appeared to favour his guitar above that of Kerry King for the whole show. This became somewhat distracting, bordering on annoying whenever King played an almost inaudible solo. It's a shame to be let down by poor sound because the fact that anyone, let alone 4 guys in their 50s, could play that fast, that well, and stay that tight is nothing short of amazing.

Singer Tom Araya, strangely the world's calmest man despite what he does for a living, bids us farewell and they fuck off with no encore. Not really their style I suppose. This was a triumphant night for thrash metal; a maligned genre that they tried (and failed) to kill with introspection and then rap in the 1990s, but one that has never been stronger. This was metal in its purest form and a room full of people who love it like it was family. Rob Zombie once said in a documentary, “I don't know a casual Slayer fan. I only know the guy with Slayer carved into his chest.” You might want to stop short of that but go on, be one of us, throw the horns. You won't regret it.

Film Review: It Follows

It Follows (David Robert Mitchell, 2014)

There's an unspoken rule in horror films (unspoken in any film except Scream) that if a character engages in any form of sexual behaviour, they will surely die. Puritanical as this may seem, I like to think that it's simply horror writers having a bit of fun and producers throwing some sex in to get the box office up. It Follows takes this concept and makes it literal: by sleeping with a 'carrier', protagonist Jay (Maika Monroe) becomes the target of an unstoppable 'Follower' (replacing the current target, who passes it on through sex), visible only to her and taking on various guises as it attempts to reach and mutilate her.

There are obvious parables here and several ways of reading the film. I'll get these out the way so we can all relax... The Follower could be read as an STI; a manifestation of HIV or AIDS, passed on from one carrier to the next and killing one after the other. This seems a little obvious to me for a film which is clearly very intelligent and respects its audience. It could also be read the the Follower represents the loss of innocence; engaging in sexual behaviour effectively ends your childhood, marking you out as mortal, and draws you inexorably towards death (or draws death inexorably towards you). There are several literary passages in the film on the subject of mortality, and it is interesting to note that adults and authority figures are largely absent or marginalised throughout. With this in mind, you can easily read the film as expressing anxieties about first sexual encounters, first loves and the pain that can come with them.

One one hand, it can be seen as a conservative viewpoint; that having sex, breaking some unspoken code of morality, will ultimately result in your death. However the film dashes this logic with the rule that the Follower can be passed on to another person by sleeping with them. In this sense, promiscuity is rewarded, turning the horror film rule mentioned earlier on its head.  Either way you read it, it's a great idea.

After all that interpretive nonsense, you'll be pleased to know that the film is really good. I would almost put it up there with The Babadook, In Fear and You're Next as a modern great horror, although suffering from the logical problems that affect almost all horrors.  Director Mitchell has crafted a unique look for a horror, his washed out palette closer in tone to indie drama than slasher movie. The cinematography is striking; shots mounted from cars and a chair to which Jay is tied are unusual and unsettling; mixtures of extremely deep and shallow focus are used to draw our eye around the frame where you don't necessarily want it to go; Mitchell also has a tendency to linger on details, showing patience in a genre where many directors would settle for music video-style staccato editing. He has an eye for a shot, too: some of the swimming pool scene in particular is hauntingly (pun intended) beautiful. There are some quite brilliant moments where he focuses on the background of a shot to draw your eye, sometimes at nothing, to creating a paranoid atmosphere and the sense that something is always there, even if it isn't.

There are some bold choices which give It Follows a distinctive look. It's set in an ambiguous time: while one character uses a Kindle-style tablet, another watches a crappy old television (perched on top of another crappy old television); a cinema date shows a man playing an organ before the film; none of the usual technology you would associate with teenagers in horror films is present. It has an odd 80s tone, echoed in the soundtrack, costumes and promotional poster. The film appears to be set in a post-recession Michigan, although this is not explained. There are constant images of urban decay. Boarded up houses and derelict buildings serve as backdrops, settings and refuges; everything of the 'grown up' world is failed and broken. This could be for a number of reasons: a warning against the perils of growing up and losing innocence, therefore warning against sex; or a declaration that the adults fucked it up and hope, life even, lies in youth. It may just be a cool, distinctive look, but in a film where everything else feels so deliberate, I doubt it. For example, conspicuous by their absence for most of the film are the characters' parents, and there is good reason for this.

It isn't perfect by a long stretch: given the established rules that only some characters can see the Follower, shots where the other characters interact with 'nothing' tend to look silly. These shots are over quickly and don't spoil much but are jarring a in a film where a natural tone has been prevalent. There are a few truly awful examples of visual effects as well (a storm, blood swirling in water). I also found the climactic swimming pool scene quite disappointing and something of a 'horror movie logical jump'; why they jumped to the conclusion that the Follower could be stopped by swimming pool electrocution is anyone's guess.

It's admirable to trust your audience, to let them make their own conclusions, but when this is done too much the result can be frustrating. So when a character drives past some prostitutes, are we to assume that he's slept with one to give her the Follower? He drives past them and doesn't stop, and it would seem out of character for him, but are we being led to this conclusion? There are also ill-defined physical rules for the Follower; for example where did it go from the swimming pool? Although I liked the ambiguity of the final shot (what was that in the background?), after too much ambiguity it felt like Mitchell had moved away from trust and into the realms of just fucking with you, which is ironic considering the content of the film... (sorry). These are quite minor quibbles and won't spoil a superficial watch but may leave you a little unsatisfied at the end (ok, enough with the sex jokes, Adam).

I was impressed by It Follows for the most part. Admirably, it doesn't rely on jump scares to be effective and will therefore stand up to repeat viewings. It's well thought out with a brilliant postmodern concept and distinctive production design. The director knows what he's doing and is daring enough to make this closer in tone to Noah Baumbach than James Wan. This is a unique indie-horror experience, although one that probably won't get you laid.

Gig Review: Every Time I Die

Every Time I Die, Newcastle Riverside, 14/11/15

“The world is too incredible to bring such ugliness into it.”

Lyrics taken (out of context) from Every Time I Die's 'No Son Of Mine'. Nights like tonight make me realise that this is true; whatever ETID singer Keith Buckley meant when he wrote that line, to me it means something entirely different in the sweaty wake of one of the best nights I've ever spent watching live music.

I get emotional about music. I'm not ashamed of it; music can hit me on an emotional, visceral level and when I love something, I really love it. Now I love ETID and have done for years. But this, my third experience of seeing them live, managed to transcend being just another night when a band hits the town (like their parachutes failed, as the song goes...), and managed to be an emotional, draining and cathartic experience.

Now tonight didn't have anything to do with what happened in Paris the night before. Other than my honeymoon and Yohan Cabaye's unfortunate transfer, there are no real connections, spiritual or otherwise, between Newcastle and Paris. But when Buckley announced only a few minutes into the show that “this is proof that there is good in the world” in response to the crowd's enthusiasm and energy, he and the crowd alike made the night about positivity, togetherness, and enjoying something you love alongside people who feel the same way.

An early curfew forced Icelandic opening band, Muck to waste no time in walking on, tuning up and blasting out a wall of black metal riffs. They look too young to get served at the bar and are perhaps the skinniest people I have ever seen. The BM riffs gave way to the kind of death n' roll that the likes of Kvelertak and Trap Them do so well. One tune has an almost Dinosaur Jr/early Soul Asylum slacker vibe to it and breaks the set up nicely. They were sloppy but earnest, enjoyable and really fucking loud. Best of luck to them.

Superheaven were up next and I'm sorry to say that they both look and sound like the last 25 years, musically speaking, didn't happen. I'm convinced that they played at least 2 covers of Nirvana's 'Rape Me' and one of Stiltskin's 'Inside', such was their commitment to the loud-quiet-loud grunge dynamic. In fairness, a good number of people seemed to enjoy them, judging by the nodding heads in front of me but it struck me as being very plodding and mid-tempo throughout. They played well, seem to have two good singers, but I'm afraid that when your bass player is enjoying your show more than anyone else in the room, you're doing something wrong.

It goes dark in the Riverside and four members of ETID walk on and go into a pretty impressive introductory riff. Keith Buckley bounds onstage full of energy and starts making the universally-recognised hand sign for 'circle pit'. He needn't have asked; within seconds of opener 'Bored Stiff', The Riverside is chaos, grown men throwing themselves into each other with gleeful abandon. As always, ETID and really tight and Buckley is a fine showman, his voice much improved from the last time he graced our fine city.

New songs 'The Great Secret', 'Thirst', 'Idiot' and 'Decayin' With The Boys' were showcased in 17-song a set which represented just about every album. Conventional wisdom dictates that when a band starts to get some attention and a bit of popularity, having released some shall we say 'softer' songs ('Wanderlust', 'Revival Mode'), that their records start to take that direction. Not so ETID. Latest album From Parts Unknown is a brutal blast of punk fury, the tracks fitting right in alongside older songs 'Ebolarama' and 'Floater'. ETID show their versatility with more straight up rock tunes like 'No Son of Mine', 'The New Black' and a stunning 'We'rewolf' (dedicated to a distinctly lycanthropic member of the audience) before hitting us with the one-two combo of 'The Marvellous Slut' and 'Underwater Bimbos from Outer Space'. Closing with 'Moor' and then 'Indian Giver' we're left with the refrain of “So I make a vow to forget you,” hanging in the air, oddly beautiful after all the carnage.

That they played so well was extra impressive, given that for 90% of the set the stage was so crowded they could barely see each other. People were grabbing the mic from Buckley and screaming along, giving it their all, and it was amazing. Complete strangers were throwing their arms around my shoulders to join in with some air guitar or sing the next chorus. I have never in my life seen a show with so little distance between band and audience, both physical and in terms of status. There was no 'us and them'; they encouraged us to be onstage, to take the mic over and to look after each other. We did.

There was an overwhelmingly positive atmosphere, as summed up by Buckley: “when people ask us what was the craziest show we ever played, they'll ask were there people fighting and blood everywhere? And we'll say, No: it was this show in Newcastle where they all turned out to be the most hopeful, optimistic, positive motherfuckers we've ever seen.” In the wake of something fucking awful happening in the world, which might make you think that something so trivial as a rock show might not matter anymore, this made everyone there feel like a rock show was the only thing that mattered. That togetherness and unity, the sheer positivity of it; all differences went out the window and for about 70 minutes nothing mattered but riffs and vocal chords. That is why I have an emotional connection to music, and if you don't then you won't understand, so please go read something else.

He's right: the world is too incredible to bring such ugliness into it.

Film Review - Mr. Brooks (2007)

Film Review: Mr Brooks (2007)

This Kevin Costner thriller slipped under the radar. Rightly so, some might argue, but for others the radar should have been paying more attention. For me, however, this was an opportunity wasted; a great idea let down by muddled direction and a so many sub-plots that you start to wonder if you can start deleting the 'sub' from the synopsis part of your review.

Costner is undoubtedly a great actor; Hollywood darling of the late 80s and early 90s, when he wasn't churning out great work as incorruptible G-Man figures like Elliot Ness or Jim Garrison (The Untouchables and JFK respectively), he was mining box office gold with trash like The Bodyguard and Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. There was a time when he could do no wrong, but a combination of Hollywood's fickle fancies, some poor career choices (Waterworld, The Postman, 3000 Miles To Graceland) and maybe one too many films about baseball, has meant that he's no longer the go-to guy if you want an everyman leading man. However a quick look at his CV shows you that he's never really stopped turning in great performances (Thirteen Days, The Company Men); people just haven't really been watching. So it isn't really surprising that Mr Brooks (Bruce A Evans, 2007) features a great Costner performance; what is surprising is that he's playing a bit of a shit.

A serial killer whose 'urges' are personified by 'Marshall', a dead eyed William Hurt (also brilliant. Imagine Jiminy Cricket replaced by Fred West), Costner's titular Mr. Brooks has to balance a daytime life as a corporate success and family man, with hobby as a meticulous murderer. It's all going so well for him when he's apparently discovered by a kindred spirit (Dane Cook, decent but a bit meh) who blackmails Brooks into teaching him the deadly arts.

I was quite taken by the concept and the presentation, Consner's constant sparring with his conscience depicted as actual conversations with another person (who of course nobody else can see) and some of the scenes in which Marshall takes the back seat of a car, doling out murderous advice are darkly brilliant. However, the film's inability of focus on this strong thread is it's downfall and it often feels like episodes of various TV police, legal and family dramas have been crammed in for good measure. Demi Moore, bless her, tries her best with a beleaguered cop trying to balance a) catching Brooks, b) a messy divorce, c) an escaped convict that she put away!, and d) a different killer, and e) daddy issues. There are also sub plots involving Brooks' daughter and company, which don't really go anywhere.

It's a shame because with a cast featuring Costner, Hurt and Moore, one could be forgiven for expecting some good B-level thriller action but ultimately it's fumbled by an inexperienced director. Costner should play villain more often; he does some great work here, removing his glasses and adopting an icy resolve that's a million miles from JFK's idealist Jim Garrison. Known for playing whiter-than-white heroic types in his heyday, he has graduated from leading man to character actor and does well with what he's given here. Likewise Demi Moore, whose days of opening a film are surely behind her, does well with the underdeveloped plot threads and aside from one scene where she effectively turns into The Terminator, shows she can still turn in good work when she wants to.

So it's not an overly bad film, it's just disappointing that such a good idea has been lost in a really muddled film. A few years have passed since Mr Brooks' release and while Costner and Moore continue to appear in decent supporting roles, it's worth noting that Evans hasn't directed another film since.

Gig Review: Skindred, Newcastle Academy, 08/11/15

I wrote one of these things a while back (here and here), complaining (like I do) about the lack of suitable headliners for rock festivals. All of the 'big' bands, capable of drawing a big crowd are getting old and surely soon to retire (Sabbath are bowing out next year, Metallica are already complaining about their health). This is no good and rock, as a genre, needs new heroes. Six studio albums in and Skindred are staking their claim. They're already big, but that these guys aren't huge is a national travesty.

I'd seen them once before and so good were they that my personal heroes, Therapy?, weren't the best band to play that night. So much so that I made this the latest in a long line of weird gigs I've brought my wife along to. Given that she endured the likes of Every Time I Die and Vista Chino and still married me says something about her resolve, I think... Skindred, however, I had promised were nothing but fun. No screamed vocals, no complicated time signatures and breakdowns, and no stoner rock wig-outs. Just fun. And fun is exactly what they delivered.

We walk in following some cultured pub conversation in one of Newcastle's finest establishments, The Bodega, to find Crossfaith well into their set and the floor of the academy in a somewhat chaotic state. A Japanese crossover band, Crossfaith had eluded my attention until now. Probably because whenever I saw them I was convinced that they were more interested in cool haircuts than doing anything musially interesting, but it serves me right for judging a book by the haircut on the cover. While I still don't think I'd rush out and buy their records, they are an alarmingly intense live act. Fusing heavy guitars with dance and synths is hardly new (elements of Pitchshifter, The Prodigy, Die Krupps), but the sheer energy that goes into tonight's show is infectious. Ending their set with 'Wildfire', for which they are joined by Benji from Skindred, and a cover of The Prodigy's 'Omen', the crowd are eating out of their collective hand and the headliners suddenly have a job to do.

AC/DC's 'Thunderstruck' blasts over the PA and the lightshow starts. This then segues into 'Imperial March' for the band to walk on. Singer Benji Webbe is a natural showman; sporting a red sequinned jacket and sunglasses he epitomises the band's energy, positivity and confidence. He has a hell of a voice, too. Equal parts Freddie Mercury's flamboyance and Bruce Dickinson's boundless enthusiasm, there are few frontmen about these days that can match him.

The don't get off to the best of starts and I'm immediately worried that I've invited my wife to witness a damp squib. Opening with recent single 'Under Attack', it's apparent that the Academy's legendary sound system is up to its usual tricks and they sound kind of tinny and light on bass. The song itself also fails to ignite somewhat, perhaps a little bit too new to get the crowd on side. This is all rectified within the next two numbers, 'Roots Rock Riot' and 'Stand For Something', punctuated by some hilarious banter from Webbe (including the priceless line “Stop fucking smiling, you cunt!” delivered to an audience member). From that point on, they sound massive and the crowd has well and truly warmed to them.

Musically, Skindred meld together a few different styles, borrowing from reggae, ragga and hip hop but usually their songs are built around a huge, bouncy riff. On record, I can sometimes find this a little repetitive however the formula makes them an ideal live band, with songs designed to make you dance, bounce and headbang, often all at the same time. It's hard not to get involved, even if you're bordering on “too old for this shit” as I very nearly am. Personal highlights were the brilliant 'Doom Riff', whose soaring chorus, 'woah-oh' singalongs and, well, doom riff are the stuff of genius, as well as new tune 'Volume', which sounds immense.

Set-wise, they play a good chunk of songs from their new album Volume, a surprising number from Roots Rock Riot and only 2 tracks from 2011's brilliant Union Black record. Obligatory early singles 'Pressure' and 'Nobody' are belted out, the latter bringing the main set to a close. They return with help from the support acts to close with a frantic 'Warning'. Benji's inter-song banter is great; universally positive, funny and appreciative. The admission that he and drummer Arya Goggin were missing Downton Abbey to play for us had me in stitches. It's this kind of charisma that should be propelling them to the upper echelons of the rock scene. It's the kind of positive message that needs to be heard, without the band being overtly political and po-faced about it; if they declare world peace tomorrow, this should be the band they book for the party.

So why aren't Skindred huge? They're certainly big, probably on par with the likes of Bullet For My Valentine or at least Twin Atlantic, but nowhere near as popular as the likes of Bring Me The Horizon or Biffy Clyro. And why is that? They're a peerless live band and a lot more fun than any of the others I've just mentioned. Sadly it may be that too many people in the metal scene are purists and just won't accept the stylistic mix. If that's the case then guys, please, get over yourselves. This is the next big band to fill out a festival; Benji is destined to be stood there, probably wearing a top hat and jodhpurs, demanding 'Scream for me, Donnington!” We just need to buy their records and make it happen. Go on then, what are you waiting for?

Film Review - Crimson Peak

Film Review - Crimson Peak

Guillermo Del Toro is a talented director with a fine CV under his belt. Aside from a few forays into Hollywood blockbuster-dom, he's a fully-fledged auteur: key concerns, a visual style all of his own and everything else you'd expect from the word. I'm going to avoid talking about Pacific Rim as much as possible in this review, as it frankly doesn't support most of what I'm going to say...

I'll get it out of the way now: I thought Pacific Rim was unintentionally hilarious and a really bad film. An admirable attempt at something quite new, spoiled by some baffling set pieces, silly plotting and truly abysmal acting (the continued popularity of Charlie Hunnam continues to baffle me). As his most recent film, I wasn't exactly full of confidence going into Crimson Peak. But how wrong I was to allow my faith in an artist to be shaken.

Crimson Peak is a fine slice of Gothic horror, almost Hammer-like in its atmosphere, shocks and cleavage (in terms of both boobs and knives). Likeable protagonist Edith Cushing (Mia Wasikowska. Brilliant as ever, even if the character name is a bit obvious) finds herself embroiled firstly with the unsettling ghost of her dead mother (effective, kind of dementor-like) and the mysterious Baronet Thomas Sharpe (y'know, like a knife) for whom she falls as quickly as women do in this type of film. Tom Hiddleston (Sharpe) looks unassailably cool in Victorian costume and does well with a part which in the wrong hands could have been shrinking violet or scenery-chewing panto villain. His delivery (along with his jaw line) is somewhere between serpentine and gentlemanly and keeps you guessing despite some telegraphed plot points. Completing the love triangle on which the film stands, is Jessica Chastain's Lucille Sharpe, symbiotic sister to Thomas. Again, in lesser hands she would be drenched in cliché but lucky for us Chastain is one of the finest actresses on the planet and elevates a potentially thankless character into something truly scary. It's worth pointing out that this is a much better, more atmospheric and scarier horror than her last foray into the genre, Mama (Andres Muschietti, 2013).

The film is going well, and veers effectively between creepy and downright unpleasant, for the entire first act. Then we arrive at Allerdale Hall, the Sharpes' dilapidated family mansion, for the second act onwards. The hall is pure Del Toro and a masterpiece of set and production design. Built over and gradually sinking into a clay mine, Allerdale has fallen into disrepair and you can sense the demonic glee Del Toro takes in torturing you with every noise, locked door and darkened corridor. Much like the tree in Pan's Labyrinth, this is location as character and works brilliantly. The clay mine motif is a brilliant one, allowing Del Toro to justify Allerdale's walls oozing with red goo and the snow turning, well, crimson. It's the House of Usher, cracked but bleeding rather than falling; the house is the Sharpe family.

Del Toro turns the expected horror screws throughout, filling his shots with ominous images: the creepy photographs and wax recordings; the marble walls of a bathhouse look like they're splattered with blood; the wooden embellishments of Allerdale's doorways look like spearheads. All of that Victorian machinery has something deliciously torturous about it, too. The film is littered with foreboding in the corners of the frame. Del Toro is also quick to reference horror classics such as The Shining (a rotting body in a bathtub, a bouncy ball returned along an empty corridor) and Rosemary's Baby (what exactly is in the tea they're feeding her) and the aforementioned nods to Poe. Far from being a pastiche or an ironic tribute to horrors past, this is resolutely Del Toro's own film. Key motifs of his such a child (or an innocent) in peril, a family unit featuring a monster, and an unhealthy obsession with insects are prevalent throughout.

It's far from perfect, though. Simply referencing your knowledge of horror without using it to drive a plot or create suspense can make its own problems. For example, you'd be hard pressed to find somebody who didn't work out what the evil plot was from some distance off. Likewise the Sharpe family 'dynamic'. The film skirts dangerously close to camp at times, with some overwrought moments. While Charlie Hunnam is less awful than usual in this – his appalling mid-Atlantic accent kind of suits the proto-American period – he is still a terrible actor, and his sub-plot feels tacked on (often with a long knife).

So often is the case with horror, a film will treat you to 80 minutes of enjoyable foreplay and then offer a disappointing climax, normally by showing you some duff CGI which lessens the effect of all the good work before it. Pleasingly, this boils down to a quite brutal throwdown between two beautiful women (the sight of Chastain in clingy Victorian undergarments is worth the price of admission alone... sorry). Lots of blood is spilled and no concessions are made for younger viewers. Exactly what horror should be: horrible.

So it's kudos to Del Toro for getting his mojo back after a disappointing foray into robots and giant monsters. This time he keeps his monsters human-sized and suitably monstrous. Leaving the cinema, I can't help but wonder how good his version of The Hobbit would have been if he hadn't walked. Del Toro would have made you really believe that Gollum would eat Bilbo during 'Riddles In The Dark'. If instead of that, we get more personal and passionate films like Crimson Peak, then I'm happy with the trade.

Film Review - Spectre (contains top secret spoilers)

Film Review: Spectre

Daniel Craig is my favourite Bond. Followed by Tim Dalton. Then (in this order) Connery, Moore, Brosnan, Lazenby and finally Niven (sorry...). Such is the regard I have for his four outings, that I actually quite like the maligned Quantum Of Solace (Marc Forster). He's brought an icy seriousness to a role made silly by an increasingly smug Brosnan, and has a nasty streak not seen since Dalton. For evidence, I give you the killing of a henchman in Quantum where Bond applies a choke hold while checking the pulse to calmly confirm the kill. Craig's Bond is what Bond should have been all along: not a suave, Teflon-coated, womanising super spy, but a damaged, alcoholic killer.

I suppose only Doctor Who is the only other franchise allowed to reinvent itself when age and contractual squabbles rob them of their star, but, overtaken in the excitement stakes by the likes of Jason Bourne and Jack Bauer, the series was forced to reinvent or retire and in the pairing of Craig and director Sam Mendes, Bond found its perfect cocktail. Casino Royale (Martin Campbell) was a fine film, although the final shootout felt a little tacked on. Quantum suffered from a muddled plot and a weak villain but still delivered some fine set pieces. Mendes' Skyfall saw the Craig era, arguably the entire franchise, hit new heights. It simultaneously threw away the rulebook and raised the bar, mixing insane set pieces (the digger-train jump is a stroke of genius) and personal touches (Bond actually comes from somewhere??) which gave our hero an emotional heft not seen since Rosa Klebb (Lotte Lenya) ruined his wedding day back in 1969.

This brings us to latest offering Spectre, again directed by Mendes. First things first: bringing Mendes back is a wise choice; he is a craftsman and not just a bloke who's handy with a set piece. His attention to detail and ability to create an atmosphere makes his two entries into the Bond canon easily the best-looking in the series. Bond movies with distinct colour palettes might sound odd but trust me, these films will endure more than previous efforts. You want evidence? Look at Brosnan's four films: they already look and feel dated, and whose fault is that? The directors. Good films don't get old.

Spectre is also follows the Craig-era tendency for continuity; something quite alien to previous incumbents. Where Quantum took place minutes after the end of Casino, this takes plot threads left dangling in the other three and knots them together in a nice big noose for Bond. While the cynic in me would say that shared universe continuity is in cinematic vogue right now and that this is a marketing strategy, I honestly think its just more satisfying to have them all connected. There surely can't be that many insane billionaires in the world without them occasionally getting together to compare notes, can there?

As a film, it has a lot to live up to and this is perhaps unfair. Pre-Skyfall, audiences perhaps just expected another Bond films every couple of years, with no exploding alarms and no surprises, but now that Mendes made one so damn good and so damn different, we're perhaps asking a bit much of it. As it happens, Spectre is at times disappointingly by-the-numbers. There are satisfying plot turns (finding out who Christoph Waltz's Oberhauser is, and who he is, turns out to be great fun) but at the same time the ease with which Bond finds, escapes and destroys his (actually brilliant) hidden headquarters is quite unsatisfying and feels unearned. Also, the two female leads, the Rome-based car chase and main henchman Hinx (Dave Bautista) are weak (that latter only figuratively). Overall, while it's nice to see him flying round the world doing actual spy stuff, and Craig has only really done this in Quantum before now, parts are a little too as-expected, and other parts could do with a trim in the editing suite for the sake of pace.

There is also a lack of a defined global threat for Bond to combat. This may sound silly, but Daniel Craig has genuinely not had to save the world during his tenure. He's prevented terrorists getting rich through poker, saved Bolivia's water supply, tried to prevent a revenge attack on Judy Dench's M and now prevents the titular Spectre organization from accessing your porn preferences and private emails. Yes, Craig's films have done admirable jobs in contemporising what was originally a Cold War character, and cyber terrorism, environmental issues (Dominic Greene's evil plan in Quantum appears to be just Nestle's corporate strategy, according to this film) and Orwellian surveillance are all real concerns covered by Bond recently, however none of the villains are trying to provoke nuclear war with China like they did in the 70s.

Bond himself, however, is still very good. Mendes likes his Bond just the right side of funny, with the eyebrow primed but not quite raised. He is also emotional but controlled, simmering rather than boiling over. Craig once again nails it: cocky but not arrogant, funny but never silly. Skyfall's genius was in weakening Bond early on; this sees him in full flow, recovered and deadly.

The set pieces are again mostly brilliant. The Mexico City-set pre-credits sequence is stunning, both perilous and cheeky, and a train based throwdown between Bond and Hinx is brutal and well choreographed. It also features a nice hat-tip to Jaws, thereby acknowledging Robert Shaw's Red Grant (From Russia With Love), who was the first of Bond's first 'superhuman' opponents, of which Hinx is the latest.

Mendes does a nice line in referencing previous Bonds without being all Die Another Day about it: Skyfall saw the “for her eyes only” line and the obvious Goldfinger special edition of Top Gear. Spectre is loaded with them if you know where to look. The exploding watch is a Brosnan device (in the plot sense...) all day long, as is the MI6 boat launch from The World Is Not Enough. The train smackdown echoes Russia as well as Live And Let Die. Oberhauser's costume design and choice of pet are obvious callbacks to Telly Savalas and Donald Pleasence villains from previous eras (but I won't get into that...). The enemy base in a freakin' meteor crater is a pure Bond villain moment and recalls You Only Live Twice or even Moonraker. My favourite, however, was the almost Joker-like house of horrors booby trap left for Bond in the ruins of MI6. The whole sequence is pure Man With The Golden Gun and works a treat, even if the ensuing chase is one helicopter-in-peril too many.

I liked Spectre but I didn't love it. It's a well crafted film, not just another Bond film with trope after trope, and as such will endure. Mendes uses every trick at his disposal to make Bong jump out of the screen with maximum practical effects and minimal CGI nonsense. It has a strong, if underused villain, half the battle when you have such a brilliant hero. It's contemporary, relevant and to my knowledge only the second film (after the 9/11 reference in Casino Royale) to make reference to an actual date. So don't get me wrong, it's a fine evening's entertainment, even if it's an evening that is naggingly familiar in places. If this turns out to be Craig's swansong, and I really hope it doesn't, then he's doing out with a bang and on top of his game. It's a very very good entry to the Bond canon... but it's just not Skyfall.

Film Review: A Walk Among The Tombstones

A Walk Among The Tombstones

A heavily-hyphenated-review

Admittedly, I was less than excited about this one. It's fair to say that this was only made on the back of the success of Taken (Pierre Morel, 2008) and its sequels; a producer hoping that the very idea of Liam Neeson as a retired dangerous-man-of-some-type running about with a gun and distributing righteous vengeance to deserving bad guys would be enough to entice the same audience. See Non Stop, Unknown or Run All Night for further evidence. Well, I sincerely hope that people hoping for Taken 4: The Piss, were left disappointed because this was not the film the posters pitched.

Don't get me wrong, this was an interesting film, containing some good moments and a decent central thread: two psychos kidnap and murder the relatives of drug dealers, knowing they can't call the cops. They try a bit of extortion, but are really just sick bastards intent on rape and murder. Retired badge Liam Neeson investigates, prick-teasing us into thinking that he's going to dish out some torture a-la Taken. He doesn't. What he does do is investigate the shit out of the case through grim New York locations. This part of the film is good, with Neeson convincing as the seen-it-all-before detective. Director Scott Frank creates some effective mood, using non-Manhattan New York locations in almost French Connection-like states of decay.

Neeson's character is good enough without being particularly memorable. His frankly ridiculous name, Matthew Scudder, escaped my memory almost instantly, leaving me to refer to him as 'Liam Neeson's character' throughout. He's a dedicated and moral man, one that we can get behind, but I got the impression that the filmmakers were relying on Neeson's current 'hard man' reputation rather than the script to generate dramatic tension. Scudder is good at what he does but will he throwdown with a goon? Will he kick and ass or two? Well, no, this is not that film and its much better than Taken for it. What it's less effective at is building Scudder's (seriously, guys?) backstory. An opening shootout which feels tacked on, is followed by some by-the-numbers personal tragedy and a barely developed alcoholism sub plot. I was, however, grateful that they didn't develop his relationship with homeless try-hard TJ (Brian Bradley) into a full-on sidekick thing. For the most part, this works nicely but the less said about a scene where Scudder tries to convince TJ that owning a gun is a bad idea the better. So cheesy you could top a pizza with it.

A Walk Among The Tombstones delivers some (pleasingly) unpleasant moments. The kidnappers' deeds are genuinely horrible, the film again playing on our knowledge of Neeson's recent work to make us want him to break out the jump leads and go to town on them. However.. this is not that film. Tombstones wins when it tries to find its own feet: Neeson stalking dingy cafes, graveyards and deserted apartment blocks for information. It's less successful when it reverts to type. Scudder is almost inevitably put in phone contact with bad guys (who are a more threatening cover version of the kidnappers from Fargo, underdeveloped and by-the-numbers: one is a too clean-looking Dexter-alike, and the other has a goatee), resulting in gravelly exchanges of threats. Again, I've seen Neeson do this before (not as well as he does it here, as it happens) and for me this was more desperate coattail-riding than it was tension building.

It also throws in a post-climax set piece, which is supposed to be tense but by this time the main plot is pretty much resolved and we care so little about the characters involved that the outcome barely matters. In the previous scene, Scudder informs kidnapper Ray (David Harbour) that he doesn't really care if he dies, so why the hell would we care? It ends in a downbeat fashion but establishes enough of a relationship between Scudder and TJ that, if I were a more cynical man, I would swear was angling for a mismatched buddy-cop sequel. (A Walk Among The 2mbstones anyone?) Sorry guys, but this is not that film.

Overall it has its moments, it has its awful moments and it has its moments where you just want to roll your eyes and wish you'd never seen Taken (last mention, I promise). For a better version of the retired-hard-man-solves-crimes-in-his-spare-time sub-genre, I would recommend The Equalizer (Antoine Fuqua, 2014) or even Jack Reacher (Christopher McQuarrie, 2012). For me, A Walk Among The Tombstones does exactly what the title suggests: it's impressively gloomy, but unlikely to raise your heart rate and comes with an unfortunate sense of inevitability.

Blockbusted Part 2 - Androids and Dinosaurs

Blockbusted Part 2 - Androids and Dinosaurs

Anyone who read my last article, decrying the lack of originality in blockbuster cinema, should not interpret it as a statement of preference for independent cinema. I'm not going to start bleating on about obscure French auteurs and brave new voices in moody Scandinavian drama, or how Shane Carruth is going to save cinema. I still love a blockbuster: one of those films that gets your blood pumping, your eyes open that little bit wider. Let's face it, would you rather pay what is now bordering on a tenner to sit in the dark among a legion of rude-to-the-point-of-offensive teenagers, and feet sticking to the floor to watch the new Woody Allen movie, or watch Captain America and Iron Man throw down? Be honest...

Don't get me wrong, I love Woody Allen; few directors see the world as the horrible Godless place that it is like Woody Allen does. But this article isn't about introspective drama and meditations on the human condition, as littered with zingers as they may be; no, this article is about explosions, insane stunts, implausibly attractive women and dinosaurs eating children. Actually, Woody...

I participated in a conversation recently (not unheard of for a blogger...) and it got me thinking about how I watch films and why the medium is so important. Over the last year it has been recommended to me several times that I invest in an Android Box. The reason? People know I'm a cinephile and would get a lot of use out of it, watching films for free and thereby depriving the medium from which I derive hours of entertainment and inspiration of much needed revenue. I don't want to get into the ethics or legality of downloading and streaming; I lack both the knowledge and motivation to talk about it. No, I want to talk about the experience of watching a film. Not just a film, but a bloody great blockbuster of a film.

I mentioned in the last article that I went to see Jurassic Park when I was about 12 years old. It's amazing now as it is then and I'm the proud owner of the DVD, but somehow the experience of seeing it now isn't the same as it was for the naïve, pre-critical faculties 12-year-old. Maybe I'm just a cynical mid-30s keyboard warrior. Maybe the weight of the world has long since crushed my fragile spirit, but something has changed. The thrill of Spielberg's masterful use of suspense. The pockets of sheer terror. The virtuoso, almost nonchalant direction, making you love one character and despise another with minimal characterisation, never wanes and never gets old. What I don't get these days is the sense of awe. Remember when you first saw those grazing brontosaurus? When Dr Grant (Sam Neill) stood up in the jeep and removed his hat, just as amazed as you were? When John Williams' score swelled and just owned you? There was a freakin' dinosaur on the screen! Remember the shiver down your spine? That, ladies and gentlemen, is cinema. That moment of awe, that moment where you're always 12 years old. It doesn't happen on DVD.

Naturally, I saw Jurassic World (Colin Trevorrow) this year. And I did it properly: I bought snacks and went to see it at the pictures, and not at home via an internet stream. My home town, Newcastle is lucky enough to have a fine independent cinema, but due to scheduling times I saw this at a frankly disgusting multiplex, complete with sticky floors, horrible children and questionable hot dogs. So in front of a stupendously huge screen, I witnessed a blockbuster done exactly how it should be done. Trevorrow absolutely nails what previous sequel directors Joe Johnson and Spielberg himself failed to manage: the sense of sheer awe, shared by us and the characters. The tracking shot taking us through the window of the Jurassic World Hilton to the first 'reveal' of the park sent shivers up my spine. I was 13 again. That scene where the island's SWAT containment team are effortlessly taken out by a largely unseen creature: efficiently establishing a threat for the audience while adding a nimble 2^nd act set piece, it's more Spielberg than Spielberg.

Now, I've asked some of the few people I know if they've seen Jurassic World and an awful lot of them who have, said that they watched it via an internet stream at home. Home cinema is fine by me. Most nights, I will choose a film over television. I have an embarrassingly huge collection of DVDs, but for a childless man in his 30s I suppose I have to spend my heard-earned on something, so it might as be something I love. However, if there's a film out that I expect to be spectacular, impressive, awe-inspiring or just plain huge, then I will make the effort to go see it at the pictures. These people I asked: sure, they know what happens in Jurassic World, (spoiler alert: the dinosaurs get loose, the cute kids don't die) but have they truly seen it? Not the way I have.

This doesn't apply to everything; much depends upon your particular brand of vodka (as Danny Ocean would put it). I'm not likely to go see Woody Allen's latest existential comedy in IMAX, neither am I going to queue in line for popcorn before seeing Noah Baumbach's latest offbeat mumble-core drama about too-cool-for-school New Yorkers. Earlier this week, I saw Ridley Scott's latest sci-fi, The Martian. Did I fire up the Android box and look for the strongest stream? Did I hell. The latest Bond is out this month. Will I be scouring the web for a link so I can see it first? Not a chance. Films like that are made to be seen on a huge scale. When they're done well, they deserve to be experienced in full-on projected glory. I already know James Bond will win; he'll pull the mysterious woman, kill the bad guy, fire off a one-liner and probably have a drink. I already know that; I just need to see it happen 20 feet high in front of me. That's what blockbusters are for.

Blockbusted - Rise Of The Planet Of The Reboot

Blockbusted - Rise Of The Planet Of The Reboot

I love a blockbuster. One of those films that you just have to see at the cinema because it's so massive and, well, cinematic that your TV at home just wouldn't do it justice. I remember being a kid and being in awe of the sheer size of the films that came out. When I was 12, Jurassic Park came out and was so huge I remember it being difficult for my mother to get tickets. It was also something new and original; something that hadn't been seen before and I remember it being more than just a big new film, but that it had a cultural impact. Had you seen it yet? You almost weren't a proper person if you hadn't.

Well fast forward several years and I think we've lost something in the live action blockbuster. With very few notable exceptions there is a serious lack of originality in the big scale tentpole movie. Yes, box office records are broken year in year out, yes there are some great films made, but films from new ideas? Few and far between (yes, I know Jurassic Park was based on a Michael Crichton novel, but so was The Andromeda Strain, and you don't hear anyone talking about that). Studios, it seems have become so interested in sure things that they have forgotten how to take risks. Granted, if $200m is going into making a film, I would want to see some serious return, too but there's being risk averse and then there's being just plain cowardly.

I'm drawing out some pretty strict boundaries here to make my point. For example, the Harry Potter, LOTR, Twilight and Hunger Games movies (and to a lesser extent Divergent and Maze Runner) are based on popular books and carry with them huge amounts of cultural currency; people will go see them no matter what. I'm also discounting most superhero films. With the exception of a few surprise successes, these films are based on popular media and have as ready-made an audience as Harry Potter. I'm also discounting the odd drama that makes huge amounts of money. For example, the likes of Argo or American Sniper are not what I would call blockbusters, despite their huge success. Were they not so culturally relevant at the time of release, they would probably not have been so successful, critically well received as they were. They are intended as dramas rather than crowd-pleasers.

So I took a look at the most successful live action films of the last few years (info taken from www.the-numbers.com) and from 2010 onwards, the vast majority of successful films have come from pre-existing properties, sequels of the aforementioned films which are already in the zeitgeist through popularity in other media. In terms of truly original products, 2010's Avatar (James Cameron) is the stand out example (I know I'm pushing it a bit by saying it's live action, and anyone who's seen Pocahontas might argue that it's not original at all). And what do studios do now that they have a massive hit on their hands? Invest in finding the next big new idea? Don't be silly. They have greenlit several sequels to Avatar, due in the next few years.

Comic book films are an interesting example. Once seen as nerdy and niche, they are now absolutely the mainstream thanks to the success of Avengers and Batman franchises. But even they started small, Marvel dipping their toe with Blade (Stephen Norrington, 1998) before adapting bigger properties in Spider-Man and X-Men. These were risks at the time, and one could argue that Marvel took a big risk with their current 'MCU' crossover series. Iron Man was not a widely known character but in throwing a lot of money at the property with a less-than-A-list director in John Faveru and a former star in Robert Downer Jr., they took risks and it paid off. One could argue that subsequent successes of Captain America and Thor have largely fed off and built on the cultural impact of Iron Man. Now, I'm a comic book reader (there, I said it) and I had never heard of Guardians Of The Galaxy before James Gunn's 2014 adaptation. This could be taken in two ways: that the studio took a risk with an unknown property and an idiosyncratic director, or that it's a safe bet, attracting punters vicariously following the success of The Avengers. Nevertheless, it made more money than Man Of Steel and is a lot more fun. Now, though, you can hear barrels being scraped for caped characters to use because producers can smell more money. Shazam, anyone? I reckon it'll be the new Ghost Rider...

Looking at the last few years, only really Oz The Great and Powerful, Ted and Malificent have breached top ten lists littered with comic and literary adaptations, sequels and films based on theme park rides. Ted, being an adult-oriented comedy rather than a made-for-the-multiplex blockbuster, is a surprising inclusion but then again so was The Hangover (2009) and they spectacularly failed to recapture the magic with their safe-bet sequels to that. The others have done well to turn over as much business as they have but don't forget they too are follow-ups and variations on pre-existing films.

2012 is a great example of studios using the safe bet model with varying results. Some great films were made, but also some turkeys which did less business than expected. Take the top grossing films: Avengers Assemble (comic/sequel), The Dark Knight Rises (comic/sequel), The Hunger Games (popular adaptation), Skyfall (series), The Hobbit (series/popular adaptation), Twilight: Breaking Dawn (sequel/popular adaptation), The Amazing Spider-Man (comic), and then Ted. After that we have prestige films such as Lincoln and Les Miserables, which attract a broad mix of audience. It's pleasing to see that Django Unchained did so well but it's not an original film either (although I doubt many people went to see it on the strength of the 1966 Franco Nero original). True blockbuster fare such as Snow White And The Huntsman, Prometheus and The Bourne Legacy all did less well than studios expected and the less said about John Carter the better. And none of those films came from original ideas. Further down the chart of 2012's box office, it's pleasing to see originals such as Looper (Rian Johnson) and Chronicle (Josh Trank) do decent amounts of business but both were dark enough to dry up beneath the $100m mark. Ho hum.

So where do we stand now? Looking at the most popular films of 2015 (before either Bond or Star Wars is released), the highest grossing film that isn't a sequel or drawn directly from other popular media is American Sniper (Yeah, its based on a book but not in the same popularity league as Harry Potter or 50 Shades). Avengers, Jurassic World, Pitch Perfect 2, Ant-Man, Fast & Furious 7 and Mad Max; all sequels, series and 'reboots'. I actually quite like to see studios fail when they try this: The Lone Ranger was both an attempt to cash in on the Pirates popularity (director and star) and an old TV series. While no means bad, it didn't exactly tear up any trees. This year saw Terminator: Genisys be both awful and rightly unpopular and Josh Trank's Fantastic Four blighted by apparent studio interference and die on its arse. Original ideas such as Tomorrowland and Jupiter Ascending enjoyed varying degrees of success; for the Wachowskis, The Matrix must seem like a very long time ago. Perhaps studios have simply backed the wrong horses there.

There is talent out there and it should be encouraged to flourish. I will defend Christopher Nolan's work to anyone and his recent non-Batman films have been fine efforts (The Prestige, Inception and Interstellar). Some of the directors hired to take over major franchises have cut their teeth on some brilliant original work: Colin Trevorrow (Safety Not Guaranteed), Gareth Edwards (Monsters), James Gunn (Super), Rian Johnson and Josh Trank have all been trusted enough to helm some seriously big names (Trusted? maybe not Trank...) but I would argue that they should be encouraged to pursue their own ideas and not simply tethered juggernaut sequels. If they don't do something soon, we'll be stuck with horrible remake after horrible remake (Robocop, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and ...Ghostbusters). Mark my words, it'll be Indiana Jones and Back To The Future next, and then we'll all be sorry...

Double Bill: Rocky vs. Taxi Driver

Double Bill: Rocky vs. Taxi Driver

Despite not being born when it happened, I'm a big fan of 70s cinema. Cast your eye over the list of Best Picture nominees alone and many of them would be high up on lists of best films of all time. Take 1975 as an example: Jaws, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest and Dog Day Afternoon. I'm afraid that American Hustle and Gravity simply lack the same 'timeless' quality their 70s counterparts seemed to have in abundance. Will some self-righteous keyboard warrior such as myself be writing about them in 40 years' time? I doubt it. For a start, I'll likely be eating my meals through a straw and shouting at the pigeons by then...

But depending on your point of view, there was a grave injustice committed in 1976, where the Oscar committee saw fit to give the statue to Rocky (John G. Avildsen) ahead of Taxi Driver (Martin Scorsese). Now don't get me wrong, both are fine films in their own way, and would make a brilliant double bill, but I think Taxi Driver is the better film, but only just. I'm going to have a look at both of them and try to decide who wins the fight between Taxi Driver's Travis Bickle (Robert De Niro) and Rocky's Balboa (Sylvester Stallone).

Round 1 – Philadelphia vs. New York

Both films have a strong sense of place, integral to the story. Balboa's soul is being eroded by his job collecting debts for local mafia, such is the level of poverty in his town; something for him to escape from but simultaneously stay loyal to. Bickle's character is driven (pun intended) by his disgust for his city. New York is depicted as an endless, neon urban sprawl, full of sleaze and dirt. Balboa's Philly is a working class dead end from which he escapes, through sheer bloody hard work; the American Dream punched into reality. Bickle's New York is more of a nightmare, both literal and figurative. He wants change, he wants improvement; but it's not himself that he tries to change or improve; it's the streets.

Round 2 – Yo Adrian, You Talkin' To Me?

Rocky Balboa is so often defined by his relationship with Talia Shire's Adrian Pennino, always there to worry about him when he's having his ass handed to him, that it's easy to forget how they got started. A huge part of Rocky's charm comes from how clumsy and oafish Stallone makes him. He's a boxed and a mob enforcer but he's totally unthreatening. Seeing the big lug dance circles round the shy Adrian, nothing to say but never shutting up, is disarming and makes us love and root for him. He's a hero with a heart but before Adrian comes along, it's empty.

Bickle on the other hand is a masculine crisis personified. Cocooned in his cab, the wounded and disturbed Vietnam vet has nothing in his life but his impulse to lash out at society and in doing so change it for the better; his 'real rain to wash the scum from the streets' takes the form of vigilante violence. Any why? We aren't really told but presumably it's because he can't think of anything else to do. His abortive relationship with Cybill Shepherd's Betsy is uncomfortable to watch and highlights how isolated he is from the world. He needs a cause, something to live for and to fight for but can find nobody who wants his help. If only he'd taken up boxing...

Round 3 – Livin' In America...

While parts of Taxi Driver revolve around a political campaign, which Bickle volunteers for and then attempts to violently end, there's more going on here; there are differing ideological viewpoints. Rocky is a more traditional American, almost conservative film; it presents the idea that anyone, literally anyone, can succeed at anything, literally anything, if they try hard enough and believe. This is the standard excuse wheeled out to justify the inequities of capitalism time and time again: work hard enough and you'll be rich. Rocky works hard enough and he's fighting the champ (an implausible amount of luck aside). The film is smart enough not to give you the pay off you want when Apollo wins the fight (and I think this has contributed to the film's longevity; had he won, it would not have been as powerful), but ultimately Rocky Balboa personifies the working class Joe, for whom the American Dream is always just around that next corner...

Paul Schrader wrote a much more cynical view of the world in Taxi Driver. While the vigilante aspects therein could be read as conservative, that social problems can only be dealt with through violence, I would argue that it presents a more anarchic, almost nihilistic worldview. Where are the authority figures in Taxi Driver? Peter Boyle's older, wiser cabbie has no answers, Senator Palantine offers nothing for Travis to cling to, even Betsy has little to say. The wisest character in the film is arguably Jodie Foster's teenage prostitute. It also takes a very dim view of traditional relationships, highlighting how ill-equipped men are for them and how infantile they can be about sex. Bickle's spectacular lack of connection with Betsy, coupled with his infamous choice of first date venue results in rejection and anger. This episode says more about men than it does women; Betsy is a smart, sophisticated and ambitious woman, while Bickle is little more than a caged animal, sharpening his claws on the bars. By contrast, in Rocky the relationship with Adrian is sweet and charming, very much the emotional centrepiece of the film.

Round 4 – The Italian Stallion vs. God's Lonely Man

Where Rocky shows the importance of ambition, Taxi Driver highlights the lack of belonging and the destructive power of isolation; not exactly an endorsement of American rugged individualism. Neither protagonist really knows what else to do with their lives. Balboa punches folks and takes a beating, Bickle builds inexorably to a violent confrontation (unsanctioned by a boxing commission...). Despite the differences, their stories make for two of the greatest films made in a decade of great films. One, an American classic in which a man fights against the odds and triumphs (but doesn't win); the other, a more European-influenced film, non-narrative and meandering where a man tries to change the world and ends up changing absolutely nothing. He saves the girl but everything else is doomed.

Do yourself a favour and watch these two together. You can decide for yourself who deserved the Oscar (I'm deciding against both and giving it to Network) but I would recommend watching Taxi Driver first and Rocky second; you'll have a much happier ending!