Posts Tagged ‘Crisps’

Hills Have Eyes 2 / 28 Weeks Later

July 17, 2007

Begbie and loads of infected freaks 

If you’re going to make a genre movie, or a sequel to a remake of a genre movie whilst going out of your way to avoid cliches, you’ve got an uphill struggle ahead of you. If you’re Wes Craven, you don’t need to avoid cliches, as you invented the cliches in the first place. If you’re a little-heard-of Director tasked with following up a zombie movie which itself avoided a few of the usual trappings then what do you do to make your new movie relevant? That’s it, you try and comment (with bloody heavy hands) on today’s political climate.

All the critics seem to disagree with me when it comes to horror films, so balls to them in their Islington and nouveau-Hackney homes, pumping out a word an hour of drivel. With these movies a viewer needs to automatically lower their expectations to the level of their stinking feet, otherwise disappointment will generally smack them headlong in the face.

The fun of a horror film is that it’s the opposite of high art. Very few horror movies can be said to be masterpieces. Maybe The Shining. Maybe Night of the Living Dead. American Werewolf In London, but in that instance we’re veering towards horror/comedy, which is a different kettle of fish. Beyond that, it’s pretty much semi-wooden acting, jumps and  gore, and thank crikey for that, says I.

So the critics savaged Hills Have Eyes 2. Hackneyed scripts they said. Expected shocks. And these things, they reckoned, combined to render it worthless. Only one or two stars. 11% on rottentomatoes.com

Well, bollocks. It’s a no-nonsense stomp through a script that’s only even present to transfer us to the next set piece. And those set pieces include a pair of mutant testicles getting flattened by a sledgehammer, a brain being finger-tweaked and an eyeball being thumbed out – which is all fantastic stuff. This is the point of the genre.  Admittedly the rape element is a bit much, but we forgave the EvilDead for that, so we can forgive this.

If an auteur (like Romero used to be) manages to squeeze in a clever analogy to a horror film, then so much the better – I take my hat off. But when the central premise is the analogy, a la Land of the Dead, the whole things fall apart and we’re left discussing how there were too few zombie maimings.

Speaking of a dearth of zombie maimings, the only memorable zombie death in 28 Weeks Later was the helicopter scene, ruined by the use of rapid editing and CGI.

Add to that the fact that the film was a complete mess, featuring an American army as aggressive as the zombies (apart from the good guys who end up the saviours of the Brits, obviously) and the presence of a ‘lead’ zombie, and you have yourself a disappointing wreck.

If I rent a horror film or spend my hard earned down the local multiplex, I expect rubbish. Please deliver.

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Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps

July 5, 2007

Two Pints of Piss 

Too pointless for laughter and a sackful of shit

In the absence of Tycoon, I realised that I would have to turn my attention elsewhere this week, and as I was drifting aimlessly through the channels late last night, I came upon an easy target. Not just an easy target mind, but an insipid, zombified beast wearily waiting to be put to sleep forever. And while, unfortunately, it is not yet within my power to do so, I was nevertheless struck with the irresistable urge to clobber such a pathetically inept and flailing subject on it’s sickbed. No, I am not referring to Make Your Play or indeed Glitterball, though you would be forgiven for thinking so. No, I’m talking about Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps.

Canned laughter aside, there are no indications whatsoever that this is indeed intended for the purposes of humourous relief. In fact, any claims at all that this is funny are just out and out lies and anyone who even so much as smirks at the situation-based japes therein should be punched in the face for days, mercilessly relieved of their scalp, tossed into a volcano and shot at on their way down. Especially since those who enjoy its witless attributes are clearly chavvy types anyway. This is not intended as a purely throwaway remark either. It’s bland, shallow and utterly void of redemption, as well as being as much a reprehensible enemy of intelligence as anything else, anywhere on this knackered planet. As such, it is not just a programme for chavs, it is a fucking chav.

Taking into consideration that I have yet to encounter another human being who speaks well of this awful show, I am somewhat bamboozled as to the reasoning behind BBC 3’s incessant airing of it. As soon as it strikes midnight, it’s there. Multiple episodes, back to back, five nights a week. Lord above, how many series of this cascade of rancid camel shit have been commissioned? Someone, somewhere, needs a rare old twatting.

Ralf Little has long since bypassed his own sell-by date and must no longer be allowed to surf his own faded projection of success. Granted, he was quite funny in The Royle Family, but time has passed and now he’s just an offensive stain. I don’t even know the names of the rest of the cast but quite frankly I pity the joyless wankbags. I find comfort in assuming they’re all two strokes short of a climax.

I realise that this is not the only British sitcom guilty of bringing comical emptiness to the masses, (My family, My Hero, anything with Nicholas Lyndhurst post Only Fools And Horses) but Two Pints of Lager should voluntarily die for the sins of all the others as far as I’m concerned, minus any kind of resurrection.

Already, I have devoted a near-regrettable amount of my own precious life-span to this unworthy subject, and if I dedicate any more then I’m in danger of becoming a fool to myself.

McCoys Crisps.

May 22, 2007

Have you seen this crap? A young gentleman and his mates stand at a bar, all of them the types of chap who could make Guy Richie collapse in an onanism-frenzy due to their Fred Perry attire. Two of them sip lagers and munch McCoy’s crisps. They are wearing suits and V necks. Not work suits. They wear suits on what would seem to be an evening away from work – a leisurely drink with their mates. There are no women in the pub from what we can gather, just East End gangster types with shaven heads. The whole thing is stylised like a Lock Stock nightmare. It is the sort of pub you would never want to go into in your right mind.

The protagonist of this little piece of crap goes over to the jukebox to put on some tunes. He is knocked into by a man with a tray. Cripes! His finger slips on the jukebox! He’s put in a song and he doesn’t even know what it is! 

He shrugs. He returns to his mates. As he crosses the room, the tune he has inadvertently selected kicks in. It is Puppy Love by 70’s teen heart-throb, Donny Osmond. Good heavens! What will the lads think?

We gather what the other drinkers think from a couple of split second shots. A cropped bloater looks across with incredulity. What was he thinking? A fellow pauses at the pool table to look across with disgruntlement.

The crisps are removed from his hands and he is removed from the pub via a large suction tube and the words MCCOYS – MAN CRISPS dominate the screen, after one of the party asks where they’re all going to be meeting at some future arrangement.

What are McCoys playing at?

Error Number One 

Is it just me, or is a pub in which there are only well-groomed men seem a bit at odds with the notion of complete masculinity? Isn’t it suggestive of a gay bar, where more likely than not one or two of the clientelle will be a tiny bit feminine?

Error Number Two

Puppy Love is a song about a young man yearning for a woman. ‘They’ll never know…just why I love her so’, go the lyrics. It is, in fact, an apt song for the young man to play. It would assert his masculinity, surely? He’s yearning for female company for Christ’s sake, and it’s no surprise as he’s surrounded by pink, spherical men.

Error Number 3

When he is ejected from the pub, the tool used to do so is a long, spherical item which I wouldn’t hesitate in dubbing phallic. He is literally sucked off in a pub filled with men. The fact that once this act is concluded, when we are at the point of climax, one of the men asks where they’re all meeting at a future time – essentially arranging another time to do exactly the same thing – it seems we’ve just watched a massive gay East End orgy.

It seems that the advertisers, whilst brainstorming in the boardroom, took the branding up the wrong alley. Mrs.