The Believer

 

It’s not bad I suppose, its heart is in the right place but, obviously, it’s not easy going.

For a kick off Billy Zane is wearing a wig, because we know in real life he’s as bald as a cootcunt. That was distracting.

The story revolves around a bright young nazi skinhead who is also a fully snipped-up Jew, though he’s a vehement anti Semite??!!! CRAZY. He blames God for, basically, being a control freak after the bit in the Bible/Torah where Abraham is commanded to knack his young son to show his allegiance to the Lord… This theme recurs in visions the young-skin has of being a Nazi impaling a child on a bayonet. It’s well clevah…

But here is the rub, it’s not half as clever as it thinks it is, moreover, it’s quite unbelievable. Not in terms of a Jew being an anti-Semite – Hitler’s mum was a Jew for example, which means he was too by Jewish law – but in terms of the logic and the subsequent practical manifestation of the young-skin who cannot resolve his Jewishness with his Skinheadness. Also, the police are notably absent throughout the film, in one scene he pulls a gun in full view of a café and pokes it into the mouth of a New York Times reporter without any consequence whatsoever. When he does get arrested for a racist fight in a Jewish eatery (you don’t see the fight or the arrest) he and his friends are let off without charge as the incident, according to the beak, was exacerbated by the two Jewish owners asking six enormous and verbally offensive skins to leave.

However, there were some interesting points made, in particular one about Holocaust denial from the point of white supremacists. The latter argue that Hitler killed no more than 200,000 Jews at best, but in doing so they are undermining Hitler’s ‘achievement’, indeed, his failure to make a dent on the Jewish population. It was argued by the young skin that this negates Hitler’s greatness.

I was also annoyed by the fact we see this cracking birds tits and not her bottom which I suspected was enormous – I simply wanted to resolve my suspicions. Is that wrong? No.

Anyway, I was only half watching it. If you go to the links on this page and pop off to Piqued *ahem* you’ll know why.

Invisible Monkey Movie

Watched Hollow Man this weekend pissed out m’mind and farting like a tramp. Thoroughly enjoyed the disappearing monkey but then it all got a bit rubbish when Kevin Bacon (who you may remember played a paedophile in Flatliners) vanished. That said, I did like it when he killed the dog and raped the bird with nice big knockers (though some anal penetration shots wouldn’t have gone amiss). The blonde couldn’t act to save ‘er fucking life, mind, and neither could the big lunk who’s dad gets shot in Westworld. Bacon dies in a lift-shaft after being burnt anyway, and killing a fat man.

RUBBISH!

Calm Down Dear, I’m Clearly Terminal

According to the lazy researcher’s resource, Wikipedia, between 1961 and 1962 Michael Winner directed four films, three of which were called ‘Some like it Cool’, ‘The Cool Mikado’ and ‘Play it Cool’

This, to me, sums up the early makings of a tit.

Apart from being unable to make a single decent film, despite having some of the best acting talent at his porcine disposal, this overpaid gitprong due to his ‘flair’ for self publicity managed to ingratiate himself into the hearts of the British public for being a bit of a womanising bon viveur. How the fuck this came to be I’ve no idea. He’s a fat useless cunt at best, at worse he an irresponsible corpulent sell-out, who’d fuck his own mother for 10p. Winners Dinners

So, moving on, his glittering career arguably ‘peaked’ when the crimson faced porker signed up with an insurance company, not just any insurance company, no, the sort that advertise in between Home and Away and Crown Court. Due mainly to the dope addled media students enjoying a 3-year ‘study period’ these adverts for Esure managed to gain somewhat of a cult status, the immortal ‘calm down dear it’s just a commercial’ uttered flarelessly day in a day out acted as some sort of quasi-religious chant to the vulnerable pond-lives happening to be watching daytime TV, which in tern permeated into the public consciousness.

Following a brief (albeit merciful) hiatus these adverts are now back on our screens, but something has gone terribly wrong.

Somewhere in between Esures ‘heyday’ and the current crop of commercials, Winner is quite literally half the man he used to be. The fat, red Winner with his booming catchphrase has gone, and been replaced by a pale, wizened little old man, replete with thin reedy voice, looking for all intents and purposes as if he’s one heartbeat from death. In fact he looks so ill that I won’t accept he’s not be held upright by a pole, he can’t even be arsed to say ‘…it’s just a commercial’ anymore, leaving the ‘Calm down dear’ to hang alone in the ghoulish air he now pervades like a pre-tombstone epitaph.

It’s a badly kept secret that the BBC agreed, if it came to it, to allow the late and great Alistair Cooke broadcasting ‘Letter from America’ on Radio 4 to die on air. Let’s hope Esure offer Winner the same gratuity, but only after he utters ‘Calm down dear’ simply because it will be funnier.

Be good if he threw up too. Ironic, even

Big Bloody Brother

Blimey – well there was a lot of controversy over this year’s Celebrity Big Brother, specifically the hullabaloo centring around evil, secret celebrity agent John Noel. It was as if, for once, us mere human beings were able to grab a glimpse of the machinery turning and churning between Endemol’s net curtains.For those who saw none of it, (and I confess I didn’t watch the whole lot – I found Jade and Jackiey Goody gave me ample reason to change channels) Jade called Bollywood actress Shilpa Shetty ‘Shilpa Poppadom’ and Channel 4 spent the next couple of weeks finding every method possible to defend Jade whilst ensuring they weren’t being seen to defend her. Very strange indeed. To my mind, talking about a person with different colour skin to you in a negative way is not racism, especially if they’re annoying you and you have to share a room with them. But the minute you start using that person’s background, race and ethnic identity as a means of insulting them you have been racist. So everyone who’s trying to defend Ms Goody can fuck off.And I’m sick of her blubbering, snotty face on my TV and on the tabloid covers, hawking around a highly orchestrated apology because agent John Noel demands she do it. She’s an idiot, she proved it. Here’s where the story ends. I hope.In the meantime, to see how complicit TV presenters and fellow housemates were in this farrago, lets take a look at how they reacted…Cleo Roccos, Housemate:
Client of John Noel’s PR agency. Stood by doing absolutely diddly squat whilst Danielle, Jo and Jade made offensive and xenophobic remarks about Shetty. Clearly didn’t want to rock her agent’s boat.

Dermot O’Leary, BB Presenter:
A client of Jade’s agent, John Noel. Cleverly defended Jade in a manner which suggested he may have been playing devil’s advocate, or presenting the opposite side of the argument. Can’t be faulted for that, even if his main focus was to not involve himself. He was Pontius O’Leary.

Russel Brand, BB’s Big Mouth Presenter:
Client of John Noel, who I believe is Jade’s agent too. Advocated peace, love and understanding throughout, rather than tell it like it is. That Jade, her high-density boyfriend and her pals should’ve been plucked from the house in order to stem the bullying and lower their profile to the largest possible degree. That’s not his responsibility but, still, slightly disappointing.

Davina McCall, BB Presenter:
Clearly rehearsed her questions a bajillion times in order to seem concerned but non-condemnatory, still somehow managed to let all four antagonists off the hook. It’s her show, she’s the head of it. If I’d done something similar at school, the Head would always tell me I’d let the school down. Like the time I was forced by peer-pressure to vandalise a church’s visitor’s book with pictures of phalluses whilst playing truant. McCall should have made it completely clear that they’d brought the show into disrepute. The excitable goon. She’s a client of John Noel’s, by the way. Quelle surprise.

It’s over now, and good bloody riddance.

Desperate

 

If you’re anything like me (and let’s get this fucking straight – you ain’t), you’ve been ‘aving a bit of bother over Channel Four’s Desperate Housewives. If, like me, your Wednesday evenings have been spoiled by your other half insisting on slapping this shit on your TV, then you’ll have faced this dillemma:

How in the hell do I have a wank over the little Spanish piece when the missus is sat right next to me?

It’s been on for a few weeks now and the problem is driving me ‘alfway round the damned bend.

Twenty Ate Days Later

 

Yes, ‘ate’.

I saw it again last night on Film4, but instead of occupying my usual position in the lounge I was reclined in my bed with wines and grass like a fucking KING.

Anyway (I was naked, ladies) it hasn’t aged well and had some classic ‘British Movie’ cock-ups.

Firstly, the contemporary soundtrack. Sheer luck for the producers – Dave Brock of Hawkwind wouldn’t have two beans to rub together to sue for plagiarism, the budget of the production of said plagiarised tunes is clearly lacking, as is technical know how, the resulting din wouldn’t sound out of place performed by a sixteen year old in the first term of Brit School. Then suddenly a song by Granddaddy appears…! Mental.

Secondly the haircut of the just-missed-being-beautiful black lady… It wasn’t made in the 80’s was it? No. Yet she looked liked she’d just been turned down for Bananarama. Judging by the way it had been coiffured, spiked and gelled she’d no more survived a pandemic than I had, lolling in my bed and sucking back on a fat bifter.

Now we get to the leading man. Apart from his Vidal Sassoon transformation midway through the film, there was woeful lack of characterisation at the end when he goes on a mad killing spree, at about the same point at the plot descends into twaddle. Quite honestly, despite the makeovers, up until the point that Christopher Ecclestone appears (and despite outclassing all the acting talent in one fell swoop) the film was engaging, and in places genuinely gripping.

We are led to believe that he can take on a bunch of fully armed up soldiers (stripped to the waist I hasten to add, it’s fucking cold and raining, he’ll catch his death) who he despatches brutally without necessity. And lets be honest, the Ecclestone character made a fair point, putting aside the plot-driven ‘I promised them women’ referring to the gormless lascivious troops who seemed to increase and decrease in number at will, if there was only one woman left in the world it’s fair to assume that the whole future of the human race depends on her.

Right?

RIGHT?

Of course I am, friends

So, nice idea, a good effort with sections of imposed belief-suspension (London Cab driving over a pile up?) and some thrilling shots of an abandoned London, it’s largely let down by the end, and I don’t find that acceptable.

No.

Come and See

 

Actually don’t.

I sat through this festival of utter misery for well over an hour before I was forced to turn the bastard off.

Feral-faced Russians populate a creepy albeit lush forest amid scene after scene of poverty, crying faces, corpses, skulls, uniforms and all round squalid shit. And mud.

There is no denying the quality of acting/cinematography/direction blah blah but I felt alienated and uncomfortable. It’s been said of Come and See that it’s the best war film ever made, hence my feeling of alienation and discomfort I should imagine. That may be the case but I confess, and in opposition to my nature, secretly wishing a cigar chomping Kurt Russell/Nicholas Cage etc., even that little turd Jean Claude Van Damn would appear framed by a fucking massive fireball and proceed to spray a million bullets into the foray.

I still feel depressed even now I didn’t watch it too the end. I don’t care what happens to the miserable boy and his peculiar companion.

To summarise. A pile of corpses outside a wooden shack in a godforsaken village.

Who Has Eaten Gilbert’s Grape?

This was one of those DVDs that come free with a newspaper – I can’t remember which one. Anyway, it dropped out of the paper and landed on my floor. ‘Have you seen this?’ my good lady asks me.‘I haven’t’, I reply. ‘Any good?’‘It’s not bad at all’.And so, one Saturday evening after a few drinks, we settled down to watch it.

From the title, which, lest we forget, is ‘Who Has Eaten Gilbert’s Grape?’, one would assume that this was some kind of mystery thriller. It’s an open ended question. I expected some kind of murder-mystery scenario based around the premise that someone had stolen Johnny Depp’s fruit snack. I hoped this mystery would be resolved. It wasn’t, at least, not explicitly. This film calls for an intelligent and questioning viewer.

After one hour and forty five minutes of watching an obese lady hugging a mentally deficient and snotty Leonardo DiCaprio I was growing annoyed. When would the grape appear? And why on Earth was Depp canoodling with Mary Steenburgen? Why was this Hollywood superstar hanging around with an insane family of oddballs? And who had removed Leo’s brain?

Finally, towards the closing moments, the loose ends began to tie up.

The obese woman who broke the floorboards, it would seem (though we never graphically saw evidence) ate the grape. I think Johnny Depp must have poisoned it, as she died as a result. He then set fire to her and they all celebrated by going somewhere nicer.

Worth watching if you are a fan of twisty turny grape-theft films that leave you utterly bewildered.