Film Review: Hail, Caesar!

I once tried to write one of these about what the Coen brothers' 1998 masterpiece The Big Lebowski was all about. All I managed to do was try. A detective movie where the detective is so inept he barricades his door from the wrong side, and a bowling movie containing almost no bowling; it had to be about something, didn't it? I might get round to finishing it some day. In the meantime, the Joel and Ethan Coen continue to be brilliant and frustrating in a ratio of about 80% to 20%.

Whatever you think of them, they generally don't make objectively bad films. With the possible exception of a mid 2000s blip which saw them try to apply their trademark screwball comedy slant to screwball comedies Intolerable Cruelty and The Ladykillers which yielded mixed results, they have been a uniquely odd and addictive proposition. Their idiosyncratic tendencies towards repeated dialogue, bizarre character names, plots involving botched ransoms, and the vague notion that they are deliberately undermining everything they do mark them out as both pioneering auteurs and almost reliably safe at the same time.

From 2004s The Ladykillers, they have (almost) alternated between fun capers and intellectual dramas, with the lines blurred between the two. They have followed classy New York folk scene snapshot Inside Llewyn Davis with another light caper, Hail, Caesar! and this follows a vague trend. 2007's brutal and sparse Cormac McCarthy adaptation No Country For Old Men was followed by the underrated Burn After Reading. Too silly to be anything other than a caper, albeit a creepy and violent one, they made a film about the complex workings of the CIA with a plot so complex that trying to follow it was a redundant exercise; a screwball meta-comedy? It then ended with the brilliant J K Simmons' CIA chief stating “I guess we learned not to do it again... I'm fucked if I know what we did.” At this point I was doubled over with laughter in the cinema, having realised that the Coens, as well as mocking the workings of the intelligence services, had been laughing at us, the audience, all along.

Had they been doing this all along? Is trying to unravel their mysteries another redundant exercise? Weird plot tics like the cat from Inside Llewyn Davis, the siren/frog sequence from O Brother Where Art Thou, or the the actual detective popping up in The Big Lebowski; have these all been jokes at our expense? If so, I applaud them for it.

More so than the audience, they appear to have been poking fun at aspects of American culture and cinema genres from very early on: gangsters, divorce lawyers, folk musicians, cowboys, the CIA, detective noir, the Deep South and the birth of the blues, various geographical oddities (Arizona, Santa Rosa, Minnesota, Texas) and Hollywood itself. Their films can simultaneously have both a strong sense of time and place, and be strangely otherworldly and detached.

Hail, Caesar! while in no way a classic, is a thoroughly enjoyable caper through the glorious studio system era of Hollywood. Josh Brolin's studio 'fixer' (think Malcolm Tucker without the mobile phone or the swearing) attempts to arrange the release of George Clooney's kidnapped leading man so the titular biblical epic can be finished. This effectively sums up the plot, however the Coens embellish it with a series of loosely woven vignettes, the point of which... well I'm really not sure. Perhaps they're just poking fun at another aspect of Americana: the film industry.

The subjects covered are well known aspects of 1950s Hollywood lore, shown through the prism of Brolin's Eddie Mannix whose job is to protect the studio's finances and public image by ensuring that actors don't 'misbehave', and that films are completed. We get to see Mannix at work: he prevents an up-and-coming actress damaging her image (and that of the studio) with sleazy nude photos (he knows the police officers who show up by name); arranges potential marriage partners for Scarlett Johannsen's stroppy pregnant-out-of-wedlock star; finds a last minute replacement for an actor in a expensive period picture (resulting in Alden Ehrenreich's popular singing cowboy hilariously miscast in the role); and keep embarrassing stories out of the gossip columns with promises of exclusives.

Hail, Caesar! shines a spotlight on things that were major issues at the time but are now the stuff of comedy: Communist writers secretly influencing the content of films (the Senator McCarthy witch hunts were a huge issue in the day, with several people blacklisted as Communists); the moral outrage at an actress being pregnant but not married; the idea that an actor could be homosexual could cause reputational damage (Clooney's character is an amalgam of several actors, including Rock Husdon); the bloated Biblical epic, and the requirement for the studio to seek approval from religious groups. There is also a brilliantly inappropriate moment where a man trying to headhunt Mannix for munitions company Lockheed discusses nuclear testing in a Japanese restaurant.

Bearing all that in mind, you would think that Hail,Caesar!, too comic in tone to be a drama, is a satire of the period. But the Coens, as they frequently do, keep the tone too detached to do anything approaching making a point. This is where they can be frustrating. They stage brilliant parodies of Hollywood staples in Johannsen's aquatic musical number, Ehrenreich's cowboy ditty 'Lonely Old Moon' and Channing Tatum's pitch perfect Gene Kelly musical parody 'No Dames', but don't do so with any real degree of affection. They seemingly refuse to condemn, condone, or even really comment on any of the content. Granted, the Communist writers' cell is largely comprised of idiots who are unable to agree on their own ethos (brilliantly, Alfred Molia's character is told to shut up every time he speaks), but so is the entire film studio. None more so than Clooney whose A-list star is easily converted to Communism without understanding it, and then back from it via a slap from Mannix. Nobody is presented as right or wrong, good or bad and the only real emotional payoff is Mannix' decision to remain with the studio instead of moving to Lockheed, ending the film with a smile. All they're really doing throughout the film is showing you stuff and saying “this happened”. The most satirical thing they do is cast some of the biggest stars in the world and then barely use them.

The Coen brothers off-form are comfortably better than most directors on top form, and they're not even really off form here. Hail, Caesar! could be a warm and affectionate love letter to their industry at a time of strife; it could be a satire of an absurd industry at a particularly absurd time. It manages to be neither. It's thoroughly enjoyable but, like Burn After Reading or Lebowski, don't bother trying to work out what they're getting at; it's probably nothing. In my opinion, the joke is again on the viewer for trying to work it out: you find yourself looking for subtext throughout the film and then two thirds of the way through, an actual submarine turns up...

*applauds the Coens.

Film Review: Batman vs. Superman

Film Review: Batman vs. Superman

It's not really fair to judge a film by comparison to others but sometimes it's inevitable. Such is the weight of expectation on Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice that it's almost impossible to view it on its own merits without some comparison to previous entries in the series, successful or otherwise. Also, as unfair as this might seem, it's really tough to view it without at least giving a passing thought to the competition: much like that of the titular characters, DC vs. Marvel isn't so much a rivalry, but different approaches to the same crimefighting agenda.

One thing that can be ignored for the purposes of reviewing is preconceptions. This film's success was predetermined in some quarters and judgements made (unfairly) in the wake of Ben Affleck's casting as Batman, and (probably fairly) Zack Snyder's appointment as director. Affleck is a much improved actor, and respected director, since his poor showing in Daredevil (Mark Steven Johnson, 2003), however Snyder has his own style and appears incapable or unwilling to change it. Of his films so far only Dawn Of The Dead and Sucker Punch aren't based on comic book source material, and almost all show moments of light comic relief. He has made a very very serious film in BvS. It is based on fantastical source material, but neither that source material nor his CV really warrants the gloom on the screen.

Affleck, however, should have millions of keyboard warriors eating their words. A brooding presence, he shows hints of Batman's ocean of grief, whose currents drive him into conflict with Superman's perceived global threat. With no full origin story (although we get a brief flashback for the benefit of anyone who didn't already know how Bruce Wayne became Batman by now), a lot is asked of him to convey motivation, and he manages this admirably. His interplay with Jeremy Irons' Alfred offers the film's only, and all too brief, moments of levity. Affleck is without doubt the highlight of the film and one can only hope that a solo film is greenlit to further showcase what he can do.

Henry Cavill's Superman does well well. Much like Captain America, Kal-El is a thankless task with much of the work done in the gym before a single frame is shot. Both are fish-out-of-water characters with a moral code but a certain distance from the world around them. However unlike Chris Evans' increasingly strong performances as Cap, coupled with scripts that bring the best out of a potentially dull character, Cavill plays a dour, dull Supes whose Clark Kent alter ego is simply the same character with a flannel shirt and huge glasses. He has a comfortable relationship with Lois Lane and is apparently immune to being fired by Laurence Fishburne's Perry White. There is almost no character dynamic here and the best he does is looking surprised when his kryptonite-weakened punch fails to damage Batman and some daddy issues being resolved with Kevin Costner's Obi Wan-like ghost. Remember David Carradine's speech in Kill Bill Vol. 2 about how Clark Kent is Superman's critique of humanity? Well there's none of that here, and it only helps to keep the tone deadly serious throughout.

The film also struggles under the weight of Snyder's Man Of Steel and the upcoming Justice League instalments. Almost in retaliation to the spectacular destruction of Manhattan in Marvel's Avengers, Man Of Steel saw it necessary to tear down swathes of skyscrapers while the Kryptonian characters responsible barely registered a scratch. Stakes were raised too high too soon and one wondered where Superman could go from there. Well BvS answers by simply throwing another borderline-invincible villain into the mix, resulting in a difficult-to-follow throwdown where every punch seems to result in a minor earthquake and the mortal Batman is largely sidelined, bringing a grenade launcher to a god fight. Gal Gadot's Wonder Woman is admittedly very cool in a fight but is thinly drawn otherwise, and given little else to do. Hopefully the solo film will do her justice (pun intended).

I'll get to Doomsday in a moment, but firstly there's the small matter of Lex Luthor. Jesse Eisenberg had big shoes to fill with Gene Hackman and to a lesser extent Kevin Spacey bringing malevolence and gravitas to one of the more fun roles. His histrionic sociopath is destined to be divisive. That he is thoroughly unworried by the heroes' actions is effective, his convoluted schemes less so. He is up to a lot throughout the film, but ultimately his goal is to engineer a scrap between Bats and Supes. The specifics of this, including controlling public perception of Superman, are frustratingly nebulous. Scott McNairy's character, for example, is both complicit and a victim; he is dispatched just as he's getting interesting. I don't know if it's fair to criticise an actor for the pitch of his voice but Eisenberg's is often like nails on a chalk board; he does well to be menacing without a formidable physical presence, but his voice does him no favours. A slew of clunky dialogue (an Icarus analogy. Really?) doesn't help matters, but this is something almost the entire cast has to deal with.

Doomsday is a difficult one. Being a reader of the comics, I knew how this would turn out but I tried not to let that affect my judgement. Where Zod was an (augmented) human character, and Christopher Nolan's Batman films admirably limited the amount of CGI effects in use, the animated late arrival Doomsday is something of a waste. Much like how Venom in Spiderman 3 was simultaneously the biggest threat and completely superfluous to the plot, this huge Abomination-lookalike feels like Snyder playing one-upmanship. What little drama there is comes in the conflict between a tooled-up, Kryptonite-powered Batman and an angry, compromised Superman. Throwing in another monster to finish them off is not necessary. Also, Luthor's skilled manipulation of literally alien technology is implausible and his ability to gene-splice Zod and himself is not effectively sold to us.

Poor quality CGI in a film of this magnitude is unforgivable. One could expect relatively minor effects-driven films like Wrath Of The Titans, Seventh Son or Pompeii to look like crap but with the stakes and expectation this high, photo-real is a minimum requirement. Example one: a sequence where Batman returns the Batmobile to its home under the lake by Wayne Manor looks very much like a cartoon. There are Pixar films that look more realistic; this really is close to the infamous Die Another Day sequence. Following the practical effects used in Nolan's Batman trilogy, particularly the car chases, it's a shame that the same property has resorted to sub-par effects. Example two: the climactic Doomsday battle. Snyder is in serious danger of becoming Michael Bay. It simply isn't enough to say “lets have one super-being fight the other super being and watch stuff blow up.” Silly though they are, when Marvel do this there are always higher stakes: an alien invasion; Hydra's takeover of the world; genocide by robot army. The problem here is that Doomsday's threat is so undercooked that we really aren't worried about the consequences of his victory. The fight in Richard Donner's Superman 2 already looks better than this and feels like there's more at stake.

That said, it's not all bad, just muddled: Affleck is very very good and has massive future potential. The supporting cast does admirably with paper thin roles, including Amy Adams' Lois Lane (no Margot Kidder but she's ok), Fishburne's Perry White, Holly Hunter's inquisitive senator, while Kevin Costner is fatherly grit personified. The Kryptonite angle is the right way to go and helps negate the godlike power established in the last film. Future Justice League members Auqaman, The Flash and Cyborg are deftly introduced without too much strain put on casual fans. What I really liked, however, is the adherence to details from the source material, including Frank Miller's peerless The Dark Knight Returns: from Batman's power suit, hints at a deceased Robin, and previous encounters with The Joker (“clowns in tights”), down to certain shot choices, as well as the Kryptonite-artefact-in-a-pool nod to Donner's 1978 Superman.

It's clear the film is made with reverence and care, and that there is a lot more potential in some aspects of it. It's just such a shame that Snyder has put too much stock in spectacle rather than scripting. The drama is undersold, the effects are overused and the whole endeavour has the seriousness one would normally expect from a Joe Wright literary adaptation, but Batman is as good as you want him to be and Luthor has the potential to be a huge menace. However when the points decision comes in at the end of the fight there is one clear unanimous winner, by technical knock out, and it's Captain America.

Film Review: Victor Frankenstein

Victor Frankenstein: No Spoils, But Definitely Spoiled

Studios these days seem determined to make big budget adaptations of period characters: anything from swords 'n sandals, via the Bible, to Victorian literary characters is getting the blockbuster treatment. So determined are they for a sure thing that huge coin is thrown at better-known properties. They also know that the public loves franchises and familiarity right now so one hit can all but guarantee the next. Outside of the realm of Marvel/DC the studios are casting their nets for origin stories from which to spawn a hit machine. Call me cynical if you like, but they started it.

I blame Sherlock. Not so much the Guy Ritchie-Robert Downey Jr. films (although they do fit my argument a bit better), but the successful BBC adaptations. Along with the Lord Of The Rings-Harry Potter-Chronicles of Narnia films, it's international success has made studios thirsty for another franchisable literary character to throw money at. Take the literary gravitas attached to the LOTR series, the period aesthetic given to the Harry Potter films, and the current studio penchant for reboots and re-hashes; all of this makes contemporary versions of well known characters catnip to executives looking to inflate the bottom line. Which brings me to Victor Frankenstein (Paul McGuigan, 2015) which uses all of the above to demonstrate how to cynically drain the blood from a potentially brilliant property.

Failing to learn lessons from unsuccessful recent adaptations of the classic Universal monsters, such as Dracula Untold (Gary Shore, 2014), I, Frankenstein (Stuart Beattie, 2014) and The Wolfman (Joe Johnston, 2010), another studio attempt to breathe life into the undead sees existing franchise superstars James McAvoy and Daniel Radcliffe leap gaping plot holes in a single bound and dodge huge reanimated monsters such as CGI zombies and narrative logic. Although, truth be told, Victor Frankenstein is not all bad. And that's the frustrating thing here: at least the aforementioned films were nailed on turkeys, guaranteed to be awful from the moment Voice Over Man dutifully introduced the appalling trailer, but this at least had the balls to try something new, and then utterly cop out half way through by reverting to type.

A Victorian-set blockbuster can go one of two ways: You can go for the knotty plot and character dynamics of The Prestige (Christopher Nolan, 2006), or the fun-but-slight Sherlock Holmes films; or you can go for the full CGI, logic-be-damned, studio-molested messes that brought us Van Helsing (Stephen Sommers, 2004) or The League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen (Stephen Norrington, 2003). Victor Frankenstein at least attempts the former in terms of a character-driven story based around a central relationship, rather than just build up to an implausible CGI throwdown (although it does eventually do just that). The master-apprentice dynamic of McAvoy's Frankenstein and Radcliffe's Igor serves the film well at first, using the Sherlock dynamic: one of them is the audience's proxy, good but not brilliant; the other is stupendously intelligent, a visionary, but also a bit sociopathic. Like our proxy, we are swept along on his ride. It's no coincidence that director Paul McGuigan helmed four episodes of the BBC series.

There is a lot about Victor Frankenstein which reeks of a studio betting on a sure thing. As well as the Sherlock-isms, there is the casting. McAvoy is one of the stars of the X-Men franchise and Radcliffe's eternal fame was cemented the first time he shouted “Expelliarmus”. Radcliffe tries manfully to shake his acting origins (Talking to a girl! Having a physical deformity!) but is still lumbered with the role of wide-eyed apprentice. I half expected him to summon his patronus when things got dicey towards the end. Then there's some of most obvious stunt casting I've ever seen: Sherlock's Andrew Scott plays almost the exact mirror opposite of his Moriarty persona and doesn't suit the role one bit; more laughable was a brief cameo from Charles Dance, playing Frankenstein's dictatorial father, er, Frankenstein, who is uncannily similar to Tywin Lannister from Game Of Thrones.

However, the biggest sinner on show is McAvoy. He's a talented actor but there are times here when he's so over the top that he makes Nicholas Cage look like Ryan Gosling. Remember the scene in Heat where Al Pacino is questioning a suspect and unexpectedly screams “Yeah, but she's got a GREAT ASS!” to throw him off guard? It marked the start of Pacino's Late Overacting Phase. If this marks the start of McAvoy's, I fully expect him to scream “I'M READING YOUR MIND BECAUSE I'M A MUTANT!” every time he does that fingers-to-his-temple thing in the next X-Men film. At times, he is inexcusably bad in this film.

Narrative-wise, you've seen this all before. That may seem like an obvious thing to say about a reboot of a classic character taken from a classic novel, but from the 2^nd act onwards it really is painfully obvious. The only interesting thing it does is to tell the story from Igor's point of view, like Dr. Watson or R2D2. Correcting Igor's posture so that the shoehorned love interest seems more plausible does not quality as surprising because it's such a cop out. The plot goes as follows: Igor is rescued from a life of misery as a circus performer, he becomes inexplicably good a medical stuff very quickly, the police disapprove of their methods, the first experiment fails, a rich investor steps in with his own nefarious plan, the protagonists are split up, much to nobody's surprise they end up making a monster, the protagonists are reunited, stuff catches fire for some reason and they have to kill said monster. I've saved you 110 minutes of your life with that synopsis (you're welcome, send chocolate to show your gratitude).

It's such a shame, because with the talented cast, a decent director and some initial good ideas, they could have breathed new life into a much loved corpse. Instead, it looks very much to me like an exercise in studio box-ticking, one so shallow that the final coda, suggesting further adventures to come, seems pitifully optimistic. Much like reanimating the dead.

Gig review: Therapy? - Infernal Love Tour, Northumbria University, 27/02/16

Therapy? - Infernal Love Tour, Northumbria University, 27/02/16

Much like the subject of today's review, I don't like repeating myself. I wrote a glowing review of Therapy? last time they graced my hometown, so I'm going to have to think of a fresh approach which doesn't rely on me heaping praise on a band you've never heard of in a vain attempt to sound clever. Let's face it, that's all I ever really do since I rarely go see bands that I don't like. Having ran out of superlatives in my last review of a Therapy? gig in Newcastle, I'll try to keep this one objective, factual and brief. Here are some facts, most or which relate in some way to the events of Saturday 27^th February:

• I love Therapy? They've been there for me through every major event of my life since I was 15 and their name works on more than one level for me. I have a tattoo of their logo on my arm.
• Tonight they were playing their 1995 album Infernal Love from start to finish, as part of an ongoing 20-year celebration. It's a fan favourite these days, having been largely unappreciated on release.
• While Troublegum was the album which stole my heart, Infernal Love was the first one I bought.
• This makes me feel old.
• I met some friends in Trillians before the show. Drinks were downed. We moved on to The Five Swans by mistake.
• The Five Swans was full of posh looking, extremely rude students who were dressed like they had just returned from a fox hunt or Tory conference. And people watching rugby.
• 'Hunt' rhymes with the word I used to describe them. Realising our mistake, we left in search of food (two drinks later).
• The kebab wraps in Munchies are spectacular and I wish I had another one right now.
• The venue was worryingly empty when we arrived.
• Opening band The Membranes didn't play terribly well, were let down by some questionable sound, but were more interesting than 90% of the other punk bands of their era. More cerebral than snotty, their influence on Therapy? is obvious.
• With the absolute minimum amount of fucking about, Therapy? played Infernal Love from start to finish.
• It was glorious.
• 'Me Vs. You' is an incredibly sinister piece of music and they should play it more often.
• Their 'encore' was an entire set of other songs, starting with 'Still Hurts', taking in 'Potato Junkie', 'Tides', 'Teethgrinder', 'Helpless, Still Lost', and 'Screamager' among others on the way to a resounding 'Nowhere'.
• Jumping up and down on the spot is fucking exhausting.
• I can't sing but that doesn't stop me from trying.
• Two days later, my actions of the night of the 27^th are still causing me some pain.
• It is entirely possible that I'm too old for this shit.

Ok, that was easy. I'll try to stay objective from here to the end.

They played impeccably well. Rhythm section Michael McKeegan and Neil Cooper do so much more than simply keep time; the fat bass sound and drumming flourishes add so much to the dark personality Andy Cairns brings to the guitar and vocals. This is a band in top form: tight, precise and clearly still loving being on stage even at this point in their lives. Promising to return to a city they apparently have a lot of affection for, they are grateful to an impressed crowd (which thankfully filled out a lot) and even throw in a cover of The Police's 'Message In A Bottle' to say thank you.

It's unlikely that they'll do a tour to celebrate the less loved Semi-Detached album, or any of their subsequent releases for that matter, but if they do you know where I'll be.

I grow weary of this objectivity (not that I did a very good job of it...) . It's my review and I can sound clever with words like hyperbole all I want! Therapy? are untouchable. There's a good reason they remain my favourite band after all these years, and I won't get tired of repeating myself about them. Until next year...

Art vs. Outrage: Phil Anselmo, John Lennon and the half life of controversy

Art vs. Outrage: Phil Anselmo, John Lennon and the half life of controversy

“One ought to be able to hold in one’s head simultaneously the two facts that Dali is a good draughtsman and a disgusting human being.” - George Orwell, Dickens, Dali and Others

Is it possible to dislike what a person stands for, believes in or does, yet still appreciate and enjoy what they produce? Does it(and should it) make it harder to like something if you know that the artist is someone or something you dislike? Can you appreciate talent objectively, with no consideration of whether you like the talented person in question?

Ok, I cheated a bit with the Orwell quote because he apparently didn't approve of Dali's art despite appreciating his talent, but I think the point still stands. My Ipod, in a cunning attempt to test me, played a song by Down the other day. Normally I like Down; a supergroup featuring members of Corrosion Of Conformity (ace), Crowbar (ace), Eyehategod (kind of ace) and fronted by Phil Anselmo of Pantera fame. Anselmo had recently been filmed affecting what appeared to be a Nazi salute and shouting what sounded distinctively like “White power” to the crowd. With this fresh in my memory, it felt distasteful to listen to something Anselmo had performed on and the song was skipped. My liberal sensibilities and conscience appeased, my ego started to nag at me, almost saying “but you like that song. You're allowed to listen to it, even if the singer is apparently a big racist.” By this time I had moved on to another tune and realised that an inner dialogue between conflicting parts of my psyche is probably not healthy while you're out buying teabags and oranges.

To put this into a more relateable context, take the example of John Lennon. I am not a Beatles fan by any stretch, but I can appreciate their influence on popular music and the many artists that followed them. I also appreciate John Lennon's anti-war stances and willingness to use his celebrity to promote peace, however much of a douchebag it made him sound. He was also shot on the day I was born, but that's another story. What isn't remembered or acknowledged about Lennon is that he allegedly had a tendency towards domestic violence among other unpleasant things. Like Anselmo's apparent racism, this is abhorrent and inexcusable behaviour. But is this forgotten because of Lennon's lingering cultural legacy, or simply because he's dead? Should you think of a bruised Cynthia Lennon every time you hear 'Imagine'? Should I think of a burning cross every time I listen to Pantera's 'Fucking Hostile'?

Not a Beatles fan? We'll take a look at some other examples of moral and legal crimes: Jimmy Page, according to Led Zeppelin biography Hammer Of The Gods (Stephen Davis, 1985), had a relationship with 14 year-old Lori Maddox; singer Chris Brown was charged with assaulting Rihanna in 2009; Tupac Shakur was awaiting sentencing for sexual assault at the time of his death; Lostprophets singer Ian Watkins was sentenced to prison for child sex offences; Pete Townsend and Bill Wyman have both been the subject of allegations regarding their sexual preferences; Metallica's James Hetfield apparently likes to shoot animals for fun; James Brown and Ike Turner were famously accused of domestic violence; Eminem has been accused of homophobic attitudes , not to mention domestic violence. Granted being a racist or homophobe, and shooting animals aren't criminal acts per se, but they're the sort of things that anger people and rightly so.

Millions of records sold between them. Millions of hero-worshipping fans around the world, and people inexplicably still buy Chris Brown records. Is it ok for me to dance to 'Get On Up', knowing that Brown may have had his wife's blood on his knuckles when he recorded it? Can I listen to 'Enter Sandman' knowing that my purchase probably contributed to the death of some poor bear. Am I still ok to listen to 'Stan', knowing that the man behind it is promoting backwards attitudes towards gay people? Sadly, I think the answer is yes. Time, it seems, is a great healer for better or for worse. I'll never be a Beatles fan but trying to imagine (pun intended) pop music without their legacy is difficult. Try to imagine the man who wrote 'Twist and Shout' smacking a woman around a hotel room.

Maybe it's the severity of the crime that drives the moral compass away from the record needle. You come across as a racist and people will rightly shun you, ostracise you from the community and as in the case of Anselmo promoters will refuse to have anything to do with you. Good. However if you beat your wife up, they'll make films of your life story and name airports after you. The weight of cultural legacy, it seems, outweighs social concern over treatment of women. Likewise, selling 100 million albums with Metallica means animal rights activists are quickly shouted down by 100 million voices, and being the world's foremost hip hop artist means you can be as homophobic as you like. Does this say more about social attitudes towards women, or did John Lennon just have a better publicist?

Take a look at another medium: director Roman Polanski is wanted for statutory rape in America and would be arrested were he ever to return. Does that dampen my enjoyment of Rosemary's Baby? Not one bit. Orson Welles was by all accounts a monster, particularly towards women; Alfred Hitchcock, a terrible misogynist, depending upon who you ask. Does this stop me marvelling in the artistry of Citizen Kane or Strangers On A Train? Not even slightly.

Does producing memorable art (however you cut it; I'm not getting into an argument about heavy metal being art) outweigh the crimes of the artist? It seems that our desire to be moved and entertained, to be made happy, outweighs our outrage. One thing to learn from these incidents is that generally the less you know about your heroes the better; you find something out about them that you don't like and it's harder to worship them. The example might seem a little trite but watching the Metallica documentary Some Kind Of Monster (Joe Berlinger, Bruce Sinofsky, 2004) made me realise that one of my favourite bands in the world is at least 50% comprised of petulant, spoiled, arrogant brats. Does that make me love them any less? No, but I do have to apply a degree of cognitive dissonance to forget who the people are behind the music.

Ultimately, we want to be entertained, or we wouldn't be buying the records to begin with. Personally, I find it difficult to overlook that the work I love may have been created by somebody I would hate, but if it's good enough, if I connect with it on the right level, that of, say, Master Of Puppets or Rosemary's Baby, then I can get over it. It may sound like a cop out, but quality goes a long way: John Lennon, Jimmy Page, James Brown, Pete Townsend are all beloved musicians, talented in their own way, and have made a difference to countless lives. Oddly enough, I haven't had the same moral dilemma when it comes to Lostprophets. Is this because of a 'worse' incident? No, I think it's just that hearing about it made me realise they were shit to begin with. Pantera weren't. For the time being at least, I'll miss the music, but not the man.

Gig Review: Cancer Bats, Newcastle Academy, 26/01/16

“So who are you going to see tonight?” people asked me out of politeness, not really caring bout the answer, half expecting it to be somebody they've never heard of.

I've been sheepishly responding “Cancer Bats,” expecting a twisted face at best, a 'what the fuck is wrong with you?' at worst.

People normally don't have much to say after hearing the name. But the name really shouldn't put people off because the Toronto quartet are gradually repairing a Canadian musical reputation so badly tainted by Bryan Adams, Celine Dion, Bieber and Nickelback. They have some work to do.

I had initially dismissed them as a less interesting Every Time I Die; kind of an unnecessary soundalike hardcore band. But I wasn't listening properly and across an impressive career (now on album no. 5) they've grown on me and now tickle my musical taste buds like maple syrup; the southern rock licks, the breakneck riffs the infectious grooves al gel together beautifully. Even the songs I didn't like before are now favourites of mine, such is the infectious energy and positivity these guys throw out at will. And that's the key thing: yes they're aggressive in their delivery but they are never less than positive and optimistic.

Arriving in time for appropriately-titled opening band Incite to close their set with some Pantera/Lamb Of God-like grooves and breakdowns coupled with DM vocals, I saw that the smaller Academy room was a lot fuller than that last time Cancer Bats graced it. Personal tragedy may have curtailed next band Lord Dying but it certainly didn't stop them delivering a set of Crowbar-like sludge with a dash of Slayer's slower, more evil moments. Impressive vocals and some seismic riffing left me impressed enough to buy a CD before they'd even finished. That members of the other bands had to fill in on guitar made for a nice collaborative atmosphere, the kind of thing you want to see at shows like this.

I am a big fan of Woking quintet Palm Reader, rating Beside The Ones We Love as one of 2015's top albums, so I was suitably excited to see them on the bill. Although the guitar players look like two metal heads had wandered in to join a much more hip band, they don't disappoint, delivering a set full of passion and fury, sounding clear and tight throughout their many breakneck tempo changes. Keep it up, lads.

Cancer Bats open with 'True Zero' from recent album Searching For Zero. While the album has grown on me, I wasn't taken with it at first. Production-wise, parts of it sound like the mix is off. The same can be said for the sound tonight, with the opening few tunes sounding a little tinny and thin, with drums way too high in the mix. It's a shame, and a relief when it's fixed because they really do sound good; a road-hardened band who are tight and intense. A band you couldn't imagine phoning it in even for one night. Singer Liam Cromier is an immediately likeable frontman, full of energy and charisma. His voice is better than it used to be, and while he's never going to be the most dynamic singer, it suits the music. He doesn't do 'clean' vocals per se, but his scream has enough personality to make him stand out from legions of similar singers.

Guitarist Scott Middleton is a riff machine of Dimebag Darrell proportions, and while Cancer Bats' songs rarely call for guitar solos, his groove-heavy riffs are rattled out with an easy confidence. It's appropriate that they do a sideline in Black Sabbath covers (Bat Sabbath) because the band mixes the grooves and riffs of Birmingham's finest with the frantic hardcore delivery of Black Flag. That Middleton's riffs on the likes of 'Pray For Darkness,' 'Sorceress' or 'Pneumonia Hawk' don't get lost in the tempo it testament to their quality.

The set gives a fair hearing to all five albums and while they are understandably promoting their new record, the highlights for me are from 2012's brilliant Dead Set On Living. 'Road Sick' and 'Bricks and Mortar' are uplifting and anthemic, while 'Drunken Physics' is as nuts as the title suggests, all tempo shifts and lyrics about the Large Hadron Collider. Such is the confidence of this band, though, that they can throw top tunes like the cathartic 'Rats' (the set closer last time round) and the riff driven 'Hail Destroyer' in mid-set and still have enough killer material left for the end. They mix the tempo up throughout and the value-for-money 19-song set doesn't get dull at any point.

Cromier's stage banter is priceless, stating his affection for 80s stadium botherers Foreigner on several occasions. His enthusiasm is infectious and never wanes, making what could be an angry and aggressive show turn out to be actually a lot of fun, and credit to them for refusing to be po-faced hardcore/metal scenesters. They play Beastie Boys cover 'Sabotage' before ending with catchy new song 'Satellites' before thanking us and buggering off.

So next time anyone scoffs at me for going to see a band with such a ridiculous name, I'll politely explain to them that I probably had a better night than they did.

Double Bill - Predator vs. The Thing: Invasion Of The Bloody Splatters

Double Bill - Predator vs. The Thing: Invasion Of The Bloody Splatters

It's always fun when aliens decide to pay Earth a visit. Well, maybe not always (I saw about half of Battleship before I decided to take the side of the alien species who didn't make the film) but it can be a lot of fun when it's done right. So I've picked two of the best films featuring, er, unfriendly aliens to make a killer double bill. And I'm promising right now not to use the term 'out of this world' from this point on. I also promised when I started doing this that I wouldn't do any really obvious Double Bills; well, sorry, but this one is only kind of obvious and too much fun not to go for.

John Carpenter's The Thing (1982) and John McTiernan's Predator (1987) are two of the best examples of the horrific consequences of close encounters. Both take the idea of a hostile alien visitor and spin it into two genre pieces, with two very different aliens and contrasting leading men. Both are fine examples of 80s cinema, for better or worse, and hark back to a time when something as imaginative as an alien species could be rendered with minimal CGI and an emphasis on practical effects and make-up. As a consequence, these films have aged brilliantly.

Part of this lies in their settings. While they are both about aliens, The Thing's Arctic tundra and Predator's Central American jungle present the action in settings that are both recognisably Earthly but also unfamiliar and hostile. It's a minor point but the fact that all of the characters are clothed practically for their surroundings, rather than fashionably, has helped the films age so well. More important is the effect the settings have; characters are isolated, helpless and alone, and this is scary. There is also something more scary for the viewer in knowing that the action takes place in some frontier wilderness and not in their back yard (as in the less-successful Predator 2); as if hinting that this could have happened and you wouldn't even know about it.

Carpenter's film is a horror, crafted by an absolute master of the genre. He is wise enough to know that your gory money shots, of which there are plenty, will be more effective if they follow steady build up. So he sets about ratcheting up the tension with his camera creeping around crowded and claustrophobic corridors, the frame often filled with distracting detail to draw your eye to the corners where something might be lurking. The idea of paranoia is woven into the plot, too. Taking cues from the peerless Invasion Of The Body Snatchers (Don Siegel, 1958), we never see the alien's true form, only its interpretation of whatever species it occupies. Anyone at any time could be the titular thing and this makes for a tense experience for audience and cast alike.

McTiernan follows his success with Die Hard by crafting another of the quintessential 80s action films. While Arnie's character is initially part of a team, this sits nicely with the 'one man army' ethos of Reaganite 80s action. The power of an individual, often but not always one of superhuman stature, can defeat any invading force (Die Hard, Rambo, Commando, and satirised so well in Robocop). Take, for example, the 'rescue' scene; a wonderfully over the top slaughter of faceless foreign enemies, establishing the collective force of the team. The team is then chipped away, leaving Schwarzenegger alone against the titular Predator, which has single-handedly annihilated his team.

The protagonists are an interesting mix: Schwarzenegger doing his fearless war machine thing, impossibly buff and bulletproof, his size and strength important in that they make the bigger, stronger Predator seem all the more insurmountable. And if he is the best Earth has to offer, what does that mean for the rest of us? Interestingly, it's his cunning and resourcefulness, his ability to use nature to his advantage that wins the day, not the size of his guns.

Kurt Russell's RJ MacReady is, by complete contrast, a human character caught up in an alien encounter. The Thing being a horror and not a gung-ho action film, the audience needs somebody to get behind, somebody to relate to, somebody grounded and ultimately, somebody who could be a shapeshifting alien at any time. Hard-drinking, jobbing pilot and cant-be-bothered-with-this-shit at first, he doesn't so much assume the role of leader, but that of man with flamethrower who works out what's going on. He's the only member of the ensemble cast with enough of a character drawn out to make you want him to survive. Russell's performance is brilliant; you like him, you want him to kill the alien, but you never at an point think of him as anything other than a normal guy. He's the Anti-Arnie; handy with a blowtorch but not about to take an alien on in a fistfight.

Both films use the group dynamic to great effect: you don't get bored of the same character the whole time; you get enough sense of conflict and camaraderie; and each given just enough character for you to be bothered when they die (a lost art, I think: the best example of a recent film to get this wrong is Prometheus. Remember how disappointed you were when Sean Harris was killed? No, me neither, but I bet you remember Gorman and Vasquez hugging a grenade in Aliens). Predator absolutely nails this, giving you almost no background, no development, but enough charisma and quirk to be bothered when Jesse Ventura is turned into mincemeat.

Ultimately, the films' similarities and contrasting viewpoints can be summed up in the endings. Victorious, Arnie (having just walked away from an apparent nuclear blast) is ferried back to civilization in “the choppa!”, leaving the jungle wilderness conquered. His victory is more complete, a ringing endorsement of military might and the power of one man over anything. Very Reaganite, very safe. Carpenter, however is a bit more cynical (this is the man who had a cute child shot in the chest during Assault On Precinct 13). Knowing that they a) have no means of escape, and b) can't risk the other being infected, therefore spreading it to the rest of humanity, MacReady and Keith Davis' character Childs, settle down to die with the remaining fires, their wilderness also set to be their tomb. Theirs is a hollow victory, and one not ever fully confirmed. It's entirely possible that the alien 'thing' will outlive the heroes and that, my friends, is how you do a dark ending.

Fantastic couple of films. Grab a beer, order a pizza and get ready to quote some out of this world dialogue...

Mad Max and Women Drivers: Putting Furiosa Behind The Wheel

James Cameron famously removed a dream sequence from Terminator 2 (1992) in which Kyle Reese visits an institutionalised Saran Connor, convincing her to escape. The scene is restored to the 'director's cut' version of the film, but my understanding is that it was removed because it diminished Connor's autonomy: she only does what she does when prompted by a man. Cameron wanted her to act on maternal instincts, to be a strong character in her own right, and this scene didn't show that. I wouldn't go so far as to call Cameron a feminist, but he's pushing in the right direction with characters like Connor, his version of Sigourney Weaver's Ripley and to a lesser extent Zoe Saldana's Neytiri from Avatar. Strong, self-motivated and, importantly, not sexualised or compromised.

Why is this significant? Consider the vast majority of action cinema. The main characters are predominantly male: men drive the narrative; men kill the bad guy; men protect the innocent; men have the autonomy; men hold together the fabric of society (I'm going somewhere with this, honest). Consider Die Hard (John McTiernan, 1988) as probably the best example of modern action cinema. The only real female character in that film is Holly McClaine (Bonnie Bedelia), who, while forging a successful career, has allowed her marriage to suffer. The film punishes her for this (it can be read as a reactionary tale about reclaiming 'traditional' values, Nakatomi Plaza a microcosm for America) and she is only redeemed by her returning husband, who eliminates all of those pesky foreigners and finally reclaims his wife (and surname) with the symbolic removal of Ellis' Rolex watch from his wife's left arm. While Bedelia does wonders with this thankless task, her arc drives home a simple mantra: it's a man's world.

Fast forward almost 30 years and we're not really much further forward. We've seen Trinity from The Matrix bend physics but even she ultimately left all the heroic stuff to Keanu Reeves, even legitimising his status as 'The One' by inexplicably falling in love with him. We've seen Sandra Bullock get to drive the bus for a while before turning into rescue fodder and girlfriend for Keanu Reeves (really, ladies?). A woman seemingly can't feature in an action film without being sexualised or existing only in relation to a man.

So what exactly is the function of a female character in any of these films? Certainly not as hero and barely as protagonist, female characters often serve as at least one, sometimes all of the following: a source of information, a love interest, sex appeal (for the audience), a reminder that the male character is not gay, a magnet for peril, an anchor to traditional values (i.e. the home and the family) or a narrative goal (see Lethal Weapon 2 for proof of all of this). Is this really fair? Does this really represent 21^st century popular culture? Does this really represent over 50% of the population? No, of course it doesn't. But fortunately things are changing, albeit ever so slowly.

The Hunger Games series has been hugely successful recently and features a more positive female character. Jennifer Lawrence's Katniss Everdeen is brave, strong, able, has a defined character arc, is not sexualised (the films play on this in the ridiculousness of her pageant dresses) and crucially, not defined by her relationship with a man. In fact, the two male characters are such wet blankets at times that you feel the unfortunate love triangle is missing two points. What Katniss does to start the story off is done by her own decision, not influenced by a man. So there's some progress in the Young Adult market.

What really impressed me recently, however, was the representation of female characters in George Miller's Mad Max: Fury Road. This is impressive because given the title and history of the franchise, the sheer weight of expectation, you would not have seen it coming. One would expect a post-apocalyptic road movie in which a stoic hero fights for his own survival, perhaps saving a few locals on the way. Cars will be crashed, stuff will explode, and things will have weird names.

Well all of this is present and correct, but what Miller has brilliantly done is taken his own franchise and turned it into a story about a woman striking back against a hideously mutated patriarchal world. 'Mad' Max Rockatansky is a bit part player in his own film, has little story arc to speak of, barely gets to drive the War Rig, and is at no point superior to Charlize Theron's wonderful Furiosa. The fact that her name is echoed in the film's sobriquet Fury Road is telling. This is her film and that Miller has snuck a female-led story into a $150m franchise reboot (sadly) is daring but ultimately contemporary and necessary.

Let's look at the evidence. From the moment we see her, Furiosa is in control. A trusted lieutenant of the hideous tyrant Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne), she is driving the prestigious War Rig vehicle on a mission to 'Gas Town' but quickly moves to see out her own plans. Yes, this is a female character in a major action movie with narrative purpose, goals and the means to achieve them without a man's help. Her goal? The rescue of Immortan's breeding partners, the Five Wives. Fitted with bladed chastity belts and ironically dressed in virginal white, sexual slavery is implied. One is pregnant with his child. That they are largely played by models and show a fair amount of flesh never feels gratuitous or exploitative (despite the franchise's roots). It feels like Miller knows exactly what he's doing, playing with expectation and imagery: while they are displayed as attractive we are also aware that they are rape victims, making us sympathetic to Furiosa's cause. We as an audience are never encouraged to see them as objects of desire. And Furiosa's motivation for doing this is all her own. The best explanation we get form her is “redemption”. For what, we don't get to find out but it's a fair bet that she's making up for being part of Immortan Joe's immoral world. It's also significant that she's the main driver of the War Rig, and a much better shot than Max; how often does that happen in an action film?

The design of Furiosa's character is important, too: female characters are typically sexualised or domesticated, and the rejection of this is reflected in how Furiosa looks. In short, she looks absolutely bad-ass! Close-cropped hair, face covered in engine grease make-up/war paint, and missing an arm, she is far from an objectified and sexualised character. She is cunning and driven and gets the better of her male counterparts on more than one occasion. Has her innate femininity been compromised to achieve this? Yes, to an extent. But more importantly her gender is less important than what the character does and how she is motivated

Looking at the gender balance of the whole film, men do not come off well. Aside from Max whose sole motivation is survival until necessity and conscience lead him to help Furiosa, only Nux (Nicholas Hoult) has anything other than an instinct for destruction. As the pregnant fifth of the Five Wives, The Splendid Angharad (Rosie Huntington-Whiteley) asks of Nux, “Who killed the world?” She's asking rhetorically, meaning all men. One of many nice touches of weirdness in the film is that Joe's army is called the War Boys, but this is also pertinent. Men, in the world of Fury Road are nothing but a destructive force, childishly clinging to the Norse (ironically, since the film is set in a desert) mythology used by Joe to keep his troops in line. Women, on the other hand, seek the mythic Green Place, one of the tribe they meet carries seeds and tries to grow plants, and they overall represent life, togetherness and hope.

My arguments here may be trumped by the film arguably reverting to type at the end, where Furiosa's life is saved by Max. This could be seen as satisfying that patriarchal urge that drives Hollywood to keep men on top (steady...). I disagree with this, though. Yes, Max battles the 'end of level boss' giant Rictus Erectus (Nathan Jones, making Bane look like Ghandi) and it's Nux's act of sacrifice that saves them all, but I would argue that these are dramatic beats rather than an ideological about face; after all, Furiosa gets to kill Immortan Joe. Max saves Furiosa by giving her a blood transfusion, giving part of him to her (steady...) via an umbilical connection rather than using his strength or saving her from a fall. This is a loving, almost motherly act from Max and the film steadfastly refuses to cop out with a romantic concession. Furiosa gets to a Green Place, saves the Five Wives and wins, and she probably would have managed it had she not bumped into Max anyway. Max gets nothing. He keeps wandering.

Fury Road is not alone. Marvel's latest, Jessica Jones is female-led and works well because of it; their next few properties include female heroes in Ant Man and The Wasp as well as Captain Marvel while DC are finally taking Wonder Woman seriously. Alongside this year's The Force Awakens, which gave us our first female Jedi (background characters aside) standing up to a powerful male opponent, Fury Road has tried to put an accepted pattern of gender roles in reverse. It isn't perfect and there is some way to go to redress a decades-long imbalance in film as a whole. But Miller has done something very important in hiding a feminine-led if not wholly feminist story inside a film where most viewers are probably just enjoying watching cars explode. Go men!