Saturday, 31 July 2010
Coffee, Monsoon Season and Missing Patients
Today it's raining with the volume one usually associates with a monsoon scene from a 50's jungle movie, falling heavily enough to cause small leaks in the roof of the tram in which I am currently sitting. I do confess to liking this kind of weather; buildings and structures becoming pleasingly reflective, bringing dull surfaces to life and lending the surroundings a vibrant, organic feel that always has me reaching for my camera.
I'm on my way into the city to meet The Stormbringer for a coffee, and as is always the case with him, he'll be there before I am. We'll talk about everything from guitar licks to classic cinema, rarely experiencing any prolonged moments of silence, and after about an hour we'll shake hands and say goodbye with a promise of lunch or another coffee during the next couple of days.
Two hours later, having bid The Stormbringer farewell, I'm on my way home. I'm watching the people through the rain-distorted glass of the tram's windows as they mill around under any available shelter. This time of year the weather can change dramatically from one day to the next, going from deluge to drought so suddenly that planning any kind of outdoor activity is more or less impossible. One of the things I've always liked about this country is the fact that the seasons are always clearly defined; the spring being fresh, colourful and green, the summers hot and lazy, the autumns bracing, wet and vibrant, and the winters white and crisp, but at this particular time of year the sun and rain seem to squabble with each other, locked in a shouting match that lasts for a month. The thing that takes the most getting used to here is that the winters last for six months, which means that the spring, summer and autumn are experienced as being over all too quickly. This does however make them seem far sweeter for their brevity.
My choice of movie for today is Martin Scorsese's brilliant Shutter Island, starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Mark Ruffalo and Ben Kingsley. Set in 1954, it's the story of US marshal Teddy Daniels (DiCaprio) and his partner Chuck Aule (Ruffalo), whose investigation into the disappearance of a patient from Boston's Ashecliff Hospital on Shutter Island turns into something far more sinister, as he races to uncover the truth about what's been taking place there. Shot with breathtaking colour and contrast, it leaves you with the impression that you've just watched a piece of true classic cinema, each scene painstakingly arranged with an air of pre-digital finesse, from a time when Technicolor was the word on everyone's lips. Based on the novel of the same name written by Dennis Lehane, who also wrote Mystic River, the story itself is compellingly and intelligently woven, and has you hooked from word one.
Fine performances from a cast that includes a quietly enigmatic Ben Kingsley as the hospital's director Dr. John Cawley together with Scorsese's scalpel-fine directing sew this disturbing tale up tightly, as the viewer is drawn inexorably into the island's mysterious web.
DiCaprio is an actor who has accomplished a great deal, from being a bit-part actor in various tv series before bouncing onto the big screen in the 90's, his big break coming in 1993 playing opposite Johnny Depp and Juliette Lewis in Lasse Hällström's much-loved What's Eating Gilbert Grape. He is currently appearing in Christopher Nolan's Inception, a sci-fi action thriller about dream invasion, and is due to hit the screen next year in Clint Eastwood's Hoover as J.Edgar himself. Another project he is rumored to be involved in, although at the moment only in pre-production stage, is the film adaptation of the comic-book hero Aquaman. Sounds like fun.
Quentin Beck
July 31st 2010
I'm on my way into the city to meet The Stormbringer for a coffee, and as is always the case with him, he'll be there before I am. We'll talk about everything from guitar licks to classic cinema, rarely experiencing any prolonged moments of silence, and after about an hour we'll shake hands and say goodbye with a promise of lunch or another coffee during the next couple of days.
Two hours later, having bid The Stormbringer farewell, I'm on my way home. I'm watching the people through the rain-distorted glass of the tram's windows as they mill around under any available shelter. This time of year the weather can change dramatically from one day to the next, going from deluge to drought so suddenly that planning any kind of outdoor activity is more or less impossible. One of the things I've always liked about this country is the fact that the seasons are always clearly defined; the spring being fresh, colourful and green, the summers hot and lazy, the autumns bracing, wet and vibrant, and the winters white and crisp, but at this particular time of year the sun and rain seem to squabble with each other, locked in a shouting match that lasts for a month. The thing that takes the most getting used to here is that the winters last for six months, which means that the spring, summer and autumn are experienced as being over all too quickly. This does however make them seem far sweeter for their brevity.
My choice of movie for today is Martin Scorsese's brilliant Shutter Island, starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Mark Ruffalo and Ben Kingsley. Set in 1954, it's the story of US marshal Teddy Daniels (DiCaprio) and his partner Chuck Aule (Ruffalo), whose investigation into the disappearance of a patient from Boston's Ashecliff Hospital on Shutter Island turns into something far more sinister, as he races to uncover the truth about what's been taking place there. Shot with breathtaking colour and contrast, it leaves you with the impression that you've just watched a piece of true classic cinema, each scene painstakingly arranged with an air of pre-digital finesse, from a time when Technicolor was the word on everyone's lips. Based on the novel of the same name written by Dennis Lehane, who also wrote Mystic River, the story itself is compellingly and intelligently woven, and has you hooked from word one.
Fine performances from a cast that includes a quietly enigmatic Ben Kingsley as the hospital's director Dr. John Cawley together with Scorsese's scalpel-fine directing sew this disturbing tale up tightly, as the viewer is drawn inexorably into the island's mysterious web.
DiCaprio is an actor who has accomplished a great deal, from being a bit-part actor in various tv series before bouncing onto the big screen in the 90's, his big break coming in 1993 playing opposite Johnny Depp and Juliette Lewis in Lasse Hällström's much-loved What's Eating Gilbert Grape. He is currently appearing in Christopher Nolan's Inception, a sci-fi action thriller about dream invasion, and is due to hit the screen next year in Clint Eastwood's Hoover as J.Edgar himself. Another project he is rumored to be involved in, although at the moment only in pre-production stage, is the film adaptation of the comic-book hero Aquaman. Sounds like fun.
Quentin Beck
July 31st 2010
Monday, 26 July 2010
Sausages, Kippers and The End Of The World
As I've mentioned before, I've lived in Sweden in the city of Gothenburg since the late 80's, and although there are things that I miss about England, I'll never move back there. It's merely a question of routine however, as I understand very little about how things work in England nowadays, and would quite frankly feel somewhat adrift if I were to try to settle there again.
One thing in particular that I often find my thoughts drawn to is English food. I have on numerous occasions heard Swedes mention the fact that we don't have any notable cuisine in England, and that the only dish we're recognized for is fish and chips. They are of course wrong, obviously never having tried a saveloy, and usually not having experienced England outside of the typical tourist guide areas of London, where one would be hard pressed to find any traditional English dishes*, settling instead for a plate of ribs or a curry. Hang on; I think curry might be considered traditional by now.
What then, is traditional English food? If I try to explain about Sunday roasts, (something I miss most of all from my time still living in England) people always look at me as though they're thinking: Nope. I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, but I'm just gonna keep smiling agreeably, with that fond, reminiscent expression on my face until I can change the subject. Yorkshire what? Eeeeuuuurrrrgggghhhh. Oh God, please stop talking. Basically, much like any other country I can think of, national dishes encompass anything that has traditionally been eaten by anyone but the wealthy, often composed of sausages, liver, minced meat or leftovers stuffed into pies or batter mix or sometimes thrown in with what basically can be described as edible waste, and given whimsically diverting names like Toad In The Hole, Spotted Dick, or Bubble & Squeak. No, people should definitely keep their weird, stodgy traditional food to themselves.
Another thing I can get a yearning for is being able to walk into a pub and get a ploughman's lunch, with decently fattening pork pie, a doorstop of good strong cheddar, a car-park-sized slice of thickly cut crusty bread, pickled onions and all the trimmings. Yum. But one can make do, if one knows where to look for ingredients and is prepared to spend a little more money, imported foods being smashingly expensive compared to domestic produce. We are lucky enough to have a specialist food shop here in Gothenburg called, unsurprisingly, The English Shop, and therein among the tightly packed shelves, one can find most of the old favourites, from Twiglets to Bisto Gravy Granules, to Quality Street. As I said, it's a little pricey but in my opinion, well worth it. Having said that, some foods are much cheaper and more readily available here. Yesterday for example, I fried some smoked kippers for dinner, which were picked up by a good friend of mine from a fish smoker north of here, who has a small shop on a boat. I served them with fresh mushrooms and aubergines, that I'd butter-fried with chives and a sprinkling of lemon pepper, and I have to say they were probably the most delicious kippers I've ever eaten.
Buuuuurrrrppp!!!!
Today's film mention is The Road, directed by John Hillcoat, and adapted from Cormac McCarthy's** novel of the same name. It stars Viggo Mortensen, Robert Duvall, Guy Pearce and Kodi Smit-McPhee, with a somewhat short appearance by Charlize Theron, and is the story of a man, (Mortensen) and his son (Smit McPhee) as they attempt to survive a post-apocalyptic America. Very little is said about the nature of the apocalypse, and we are left to assume that it was some form of environmental disaster that has killed virtually everyone and everything on Earth including all plant life, and has completely obscured the sun, causing temperatures to plummet to brutal depths. Bleak and honest, the story focuses on the duo as they pick their way south in the hopes of finding a better climate. Their path is strewn with hazards however, and they are forced to deal with everything from near-starvation to bands of wandering cannibals. A competent appearance from Robert Duvall as a lonely old traveller adds more human drama as the two traverse the desolate, lifeless wastelands in search of anything edible and adequately sheltered resting places. Other films have broached the subject of impending ecological doom, such as the ambitious but nonsensical The Day After Tomorrow, but few manage to deliver their message as effectively as Hillcoat's dark tale, and the secret is in its simplicity, and the fact that the aftermath, which is the film's focal point, is far more terrifying than the event itself. A fine performance by Mortensen, who has come an awfully long way since starting his screen career as a young Amish farmer in Peter Weir's wonderful Witness, in 1985. Expect more good things from this powerhouse actor, whose next project will be playing none other than Sigmund Freud in David Cronenberg's 2011 release A Dangerous Method, which I'll probably watch while eating a jumbo bag of salt & vinegar flavoured Monster Munch. Can't wait.
Quentin Beck
July 26th 2010
*Short of perhaps some of the traditional pies and puddings served at Porters restaurant-cum-winebar, just off Covent Garden
**Who also wrote the brilliant No Country For Old Men
One thing in particular that I often find my thoughts drawn to is English food. I have on numerous occasions heard Swedes mention the fact that we don't have any notable cuisine in England, and that the only dish we're recognized for is fish and chips. They are of course wrong, obviously never having tried a saveloy, and usually not having experienced England outside of the typical tourist guide areas of London, where one would be hard pressed to find any traditional English dishes*, settling instead for a plate of ribs or a curry. Hang on; I think curry might be considered traditional by now.
What then, is traditional English food? If I try to explain about Sunday roasts, (something I miss most of all from my time still living in England) people always look at me as though they're thinking: Nope. I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, but I'm just gonna keep smiling agreeably, with that fond, reminiscent expression on my face until I can change the subject. Yorkshire what? Eeeeuuuurrrrgggghhhh. Oh God, please stop talking. Basically, much like any other country I can think of, national dishes encompass anything that has traditionally been eaten by anyone but the wealthy, often composed of sausages, liver, minced meat or leftovers stuffed into pies or batter mix or sometimes thrown in with what basically can be described as edible waste, and given whimsically diverting names like Toad In The Hole, Spotted Dick, or Bubble & Squeak. No, people should definitely keep their weird, stodgy traditional food to themselves.
Another thing I can get a yearning for is being able to walk into a pub and get a ploughman's lunch, with decently fattening pork pie, a doorstop of good strong cheddar, a car-park-sized slice of thickly cut crusty bread, pickled onions and all the trimmings. Yum. But one can make do, if one knows where to look for ingredients and is prepared to spend a little more money, imported foods being smashingly expensive compared to domestic produce. We are lucky enough to have a specialist food shop here in Gothenburg called, unsurprisingly, The English Shop, and therein among the tightly packed shelves, one can find most of the old favourites, from Twiglets to Bisto Gravy Granules, to Quality Street. As I said, it's a little pricey but in my opinion, well worth it. Having said that, some foods are much cheaper and more readily available here. Yesterday for example, I fried some smoked kippers for dinner, which were picked up by a good friend of mine from a fish smoker north of here, who has a small shop on a boat. I served them with fresh mushrooms and aubergines, that I'd butter-fried with chives and a sprinkling of lemon pepper, and I have to say they were probably the most delicious kippers I've ever eaten.
Buuuuurrrrppp!!!!
Today's film mention is The Road, directed by John Hillcoat, and adapted from Cormac McCarthy's** novel of the same name. It stars Viggo Mortensen, Robert Duvall, Guy Pearce and Kodi Smit-McPhee, with a somewhat short appearance by Charlize Theron, and is the story of a man, (Mortensen) and his son (Smit McPhee) as they attempt to survive a post-apocalyptic America. Very little is said about the nature of the apocalypse, and we are left to assume that it was some form of environmental disaster that has killed virtually everyone and everything on Earth including all plant life, and has completely obscured the sun, causing temperatures to plummet to brutal depths. Bleak and honest, the story focuses on the duo as they pick their way south in the hopes of finding a better climate. Their path is strewn with hazards however, and they are forced to deal with everything from near-starvation to bands of wandering cannibals. A competent appearance from Robert Duvall as a lonely old traveller adds more human drama as the two traverse the desolate, lifeless wastelands in search of anything edible and adequately sheltered resting places. Other films have broached the subject of impending ecological doom, such as the ambitious but nonsensical The Day After Tomorrow, but few manage to deliver their message as effectively as Hillcoat's dark tale, and the secret is in its simplicity, and the fact that the aftermath, which is the film's focal point, is far more terrifying than the event itself. A fine performance by Mortensen, who has come an awfully long way since starting his screen career as a young Amish farmer in Peter Weir's wonderful Witness, in 1985. Expect more good things from this powerhouse actor, whose next project will be playing none other than Sigmund Freud in David Cronenberg's 2011 release A Dangerous Method, which I'll probably watch while eating a jumbo bag of salt & vinegar flavoured Monster Munch. Can't wait.
Quentin Beck
July 26th 2010
*Short of perhaps some of the traditional pies and puddings served at Porters restaurant-cum-winebar, just off Covent Garden
**Who also wrote the brilliant No Country For Old Men
Friday, 23 July 2010
Glaciers, Trains and Weapons of Mass Destruction
'And I'm waving through the window. As we go, somebody says "What are you waving at?" But what do I have to lose? Somebody might wave back.'
-Waterboys
I had one of the strangest dreams last night. I was piloting an enormous drilling machine, shaped like a giant, sharpened lipstick (I say piloting because I was actually sitting in a high-tech cockpit like that of a fighter jet, complete with joystick controls and wearing a mirrored helmet) drilling my way down through the largest glacier in existence. It was okay. I woke up wondering if I was going to get paid once I'd tunneled all the way through. I'm not sure I want to know the meaning of this one. Blisteringly Freudian.
Three hours later and I'm sitting at the central train station in Gothenburg, Sweden, where I have resided now for over half my life. Gothenburg that is, not the train station. I'm on my way to the main college in Uddevalla, north of here for a business meeting, and as usual I'm enjoying watching the crowds of people as they flow around each other at varying speeds. It's a little reminiscent of driving in Paris.
I like train stations a lot more than I like airports, the latter often being filled with tired, stressed individuals who look as though they might punch you in the face if you so much as ask them the time of day. Train stations are always permeated by a slightly easier energy; the passengers always travel a little lighter, and over shorter distances, meaning they don't usually get time to reach boiling point before arriving at their destination. The best way to move through a crowded train station is to wear headphones and listen to something organic, like Portishead or Morcheeba while watching the people around you. This instantly gives you the feeling that you are part of an elaborate video that, oddly enough, fits the music perfectly.
Another hour has tiptoed past and I'm on the train, sharing that quirky elevator anonymity with everyone else. The city starts to thin out as we speed past it's outer districts, and perfectly fluffy Simpsons style clouds hang in the tall blue sky like badly photoshopped cotton-wool. It's a fine day for getting out of the city.
I'm thinking of my wife, who is heavily pregnant with our first child, and I'm filled with a little rush of something that feels like positively charged vertigo. Becoming a father is something that I always knew I'd do, but now I find myself at this point, I'm a stew of pleasingly positive emotions, often catching myself staring at families with small children wearing a slight smile, my eyes with a watery glaze to them. I must look weird. A million questions about fatherhood cross my mind at those moments, and I push these aside, telling myself that as a human being my persona is in a constant state of evolution and therefore any answers, opinions or advice I may give my baby as it* grows while being (hopefully) morally sound and correct, will reflect the existential state I currently find myself in. Duh.
As I sit writing this, the scenery rushing by becoming greener with every minute, I note with some amusement that everyone in the compartment (including myself) is preoccupied with their own small piece of technology; phones, cameras, mp3 players and laptops. It seems we've perfected our own ingenious way of avoiding the awkward silence that deafens people when they're placed together in a small area. Sometimes I wonder what their reaction would be if I suddenly whipped out a kazoo and gave a noisy rendition of the theme from Rhubarb & Custard.
Yesterday's film was Green Zone, a modern war flick directed by Paul Greengrass about the controversy surrounding the American army's presence in Iraq, the plot focusing on the fact that the US action of sending teams of soldiers into the country to locate and seize weapons of mass destruction was merely a front to allow the strategic deployment of military forces in order to dissolve the already divided government and place a puppet leader in power. Starring Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear, it's a fairly run-of-the-mill Hollywood bash that focuses on a troop led by Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller (Damon) looking for Iraqi chemical weapon sites during the confused, powder keg days following Saddam's overthrow, with plenty of military terms and abbreviations thrown around to lend all the relevant characters the appropriate sense of authority. Scenes of hushed, high-level intrigue noisily intermixed with segments of chaotic mob tension and running, pitched nighttime battles. It's here, during the combat scenes that Greengrass finds his feet, the action taut and claustrophobically shot with hand-held cameras and a disturbing lack of music. While it's not the best film I've seen recently, the sensation of scuttling through the bullet-riddled streets of Baghdad in the dark will definitely stay with me for a long time to come.
I'm reaching for my headphones now, as I'm approaching my destination. Mazzy Star should suit the campus crowd quite nicely.
Quentin Beck
July 23rd 2010
*I use the word it as we don't know what sex it will be
-Waterboys
I had one of the strangest dreams last night. I was piloting an enormous drilling machine, shaped like a giant, sharpened lipstick (I say piloting because I was actually sitting in a high-tech cockpit like that of a fighter jet, complete with joystick controls and wearing a mirrored helmet) drilling my way down through the largest glacier in existence. It was okay. I woke up wondering if I was going to get paid once I'd tunneled all the way through. I'm not sure I want to know the meaning of this one. Blisteringly Freudian.
Three hours later and I'm sitting at the central train station in Gothenburg, Sweden, where I have resided now for over half my life. Gothenburg that is, not the train station. I'm on my way to the main college in Uddevalla, north of here for a business meeting, and as usual I'm enjoying watching the crowds of people as they flow around each other at varying speeds. It's a little reminiscent of driving in Paris.
I like train stations a lot more than I like airports, the latter often being filled with tired, stressed individuals who look as though they might punch you in the face if you so much as ask them the time of day. Train stations are always permeated by a slightly easier energy; the passengers always travel a little lighter, and over shorter distances, meaning they don't usually get time to reach boiling point before arriving at their destination. The best way to move through a crowded train station is to wear headphones and listen to something organic, like Portishead or Morcheeba while watching the people around you. This instantly gives you the feeling that you are part of an elaborate video that, oddly enough, fits the music perfectly.
Another hour has tiptoed past and I'm on the train, sharing that quirky elevator anonymity with everyone else. The city starts to thin out as we speed past it's outer districts, and perfectly fluffy Simpsons style clouds hang in the tall blue sky like badly photoshopped cotton-wool. It's a fine day for getting out of the city.
I'm thinking of my wife, who is heavily pregnant with our first child, and I'm filled with a little rush of something that feels like positively charged vertigo. Becoming a father is something that I always knew I'd do, but now I find myself at this point, I'm a stew of pleasingly positive emotions, often catching myself staring at families with small children wearing a slight smile, my eyes with a watery glaze to them. I must look weird. A million questions about fatherhood cross my mind at those moments, and I push these aside, telling myself that as a human being my persona is in a constant state of evolution and therefore any answers, opinions or advice I may give my baby as it* grows while being (hopefully) morally sound and correct, will reflect the existential state I currently find myself in. Duh.
As I sit writing this, the scenery rushing by becoming greener with every minute, I note with some amusement that everyone in the compartment (including myself) is preoccupied with their own small piece of technology; phones, cameras, mp3 players and laptops. It seems we've perfected our own ingenious way of avoiding the awkward silence that deafens people when they're placed together in a small area. Sometimes I wonder what their reaction would be if I suddenly whipped out a kazoo and gave a noisy rendition of the theme from Rhubarb & Custard.
Yesterday's film was Green Zone, a modern war flick directed by Paul Greengrass about the controversy surrounding the American army's presence in Iraq, the plot focusing on the fact that the US action of sending teams of soldiers into the country to locate and seize weapons of mass destruction was merely a front to allow the strategic deployment of military forces in order to dissolve the already divided government and place a puppet leader in power. Starring Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear, it's a fairly run-of-the-mill Hollywood bash that focuses on a troop led by Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller (Damon) looking for Iraqi chemical weapon sites during the confused, powder keg days following Saddam's overthrow, with plenty of military terms and abbreviations thrown around to lend all the relevant characters the appropriate sense of authority. Scenes of hushed, high-level intrigue noisily intermixed with segments of chaotic mob tension and running, pitched nighttime battles. It's here, during the combat scenes that Greengrass finds his feet, the action taut and claustrophobically shot with hand-held cameras and a disturbing lack of music. While it's not the best film I've seen recently, the sensation of scuttling through the bullet-riddled streets of Baghdad in the dark will definitely stay with me for a long time to come.
I'm reaching for my headphones now, as I'm approaching my destination. Mazzy Star should suit the campus crowd quite nicely.
Quentin Beck
July 23rd 2010
*I use the word it as we don't know what sex it will be
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Creative Progress
There is decidedly more that can be learned from watching films than I'd care to admit. I'm not talking about the complexities of life, being more than happy to leave that in the hands of those who experience cinema without ever so much as glancing beneath it's onion-skinned layers. I'm referring to the art itself.
One man's wine being another man's vinegar set aside, I enjoy disliking a film just as much as loving one, and that simple fact that makes me realize how lucky I am.
That being said, it's quite staggering to see how many films are being made (despite the recession) by people commanding astronomical budgets, their epic-scale offerings mostly having so little actual substance that they can be likened to nothing more than extremely long pop videos. This is of course hardly surprising, given that today's filmmaking generation was raised on the aforementioned medium. Paradoxically, Many viewed the video as the death of the music industry, at least as a source of true talent, while others saw it as a bright, challenging new platform from which one could rewrite the laws of The Moving Image.
This brings me somewhat tenuously to my point. There seems to be a general school of thought within the film industry that asks: Where to now? What haven't we tried? It seems that so many of today's up-and-coming directors, and not too few of the well established ones, are so caught up in this problem that they forget to ask themselves if they should be trying to find this particular holy grail. Don't get me wrong; if I see something that hasn't been tried before and it works, I'm all over it. But when I see something that leans entirely on that one technological crutch, I see a wasted opportunity. I want the twist. I want the impact. I want the sequel to have a point. Which brings us back to the wine and vinegar, which are becoming increasingly harder to differentiate between.
Flavour is a good comparison to most creative arts. Music, for example changes it's flavour constantly, as does cinema. The current trend of over-applying computer graphics to films, which often leaves us with a very flat plot or screenplay, can be compared to producing fast food. One thing that occurs to me is the change brought about by the advent of the synthesizer within the music industry. Bands like Depeche Mode, having achieved immortality early on, relying on the novelty of the synthesizer to capture the appropriate imagination, later reverted to using electric guitars, bass and drums, using instead the synthesizer as an ingredient rather than a recipe. This is much the same pattern I'd like to see emerge within the film industry regarding cgi.
I just watched (for the second time) John Turturro's brilliant Romance And Cigarettes, which I believe is his directorial debut, and is a poignant and ballsy musical, starring James Gandolfini and a wonderfully slutty Kate Winslet as his mistress. Superb stuff, and refreshingly human.
Quentin Beck
20th July 2010
One man's wine being another man's vinegar set aside, I enjoy disliking a film just as much as loving one, and that simple fact that makes me realize how lucky I am.
That being said, it's quite staggering to see how many films are being made (despite the recession) by people commanding astronomical budgets, their epic-scale offerings mostly having so little actual substance that they can be likened to nothing more than extremely long pop videos. This is of course hardly surprising, given that today's filmmaking generation was raised on the aforementioned medium. Paradoxically, Many viewed the video as the death of the music industry, at least as a source of true talent, while others saw it as a bright, challenging new platform from which one could rewrite the laws of The Moving Image.
This brings me somewhat tenuously to my point. There seems to be a general school of thought within the film industry that asks: Where to now? What haven't we tried? It seems that so many of today's up-and-coming directors, and not too few of the well established ones, are so caught up in this problem that they forget to ask themselves if they should be trying to find this particular holy grail. Don't get me wrong; if I see something that hasn't been tried before and it works, I'm all over it. But when I see something that leans entirely on that one technological crutch, I see a wasted opportunity. I want the twist. I want the impact. I want the sequel to have a point. Which brings us back to the wine and vinegar, which are becoming increasingly harder to differentiate between.
Flavour is a good comparison to most creative arts. Music, for example changes it's flavour constantly, as does cinema. The current trend of over-applying computer graphics to films, which often leaves us with a very flat plot or screenplay, can be compared to producing fast food. One thing that occurs to me is the change brought about by the advent of the synthesizer within the music industry. Bands like Depeche Mode, having achieved immortality early on, relying on the novelty of the synthesizer to capture the appropriate imagination, later reverted to using electric guitars, bass and drums, using instead the synthesizer as an ingredient rather than a recipe. This is much the same pattern I'd like to see emerge within the film industry regarding cgi.
I just watched (for the second time) John Turturro's brilliant Romance And Cigarettes, which I believe is his directorial debut, and is a poignant and ballsy musical, starring James Gandolfini and a wonderfully slutty Kate Winslet as his mistress. Superb stuff, and refreshingly human.
Quentin Beck
20th July 2010
Monday, 19 July 2010
The First Step
"No one likes clowns on the other side of the world"-Tom Waits
Somebody somewhere said something like: "The greatest of journeys begins with a single step."
This isn't actually true. It starts with packing.
This blog represents my first foray into this strange and enticing corner of the ether, and embarking on a journey is the only parallel I can draw in describing the experience.
Unfortunately for me, and presumably for anybody with enough spare time to actually read any of this, I travel light. That is to say that rather than a well-organized suitcase of verse, neatly folded and placed in the correct compartments, this will represent something more akin to a rudely thrown-together duffel bag, it's contents randomly balled-up and stuffed in.
My main motivation for starting out was my brother, an accomplished (and published) wordsmith whose talent for stringing together sentences positively dwarfs mine. Those not inclined to take my word for it can scoot over to his blog, aptly named: keepthinkingbutch.blogspot.com
Anyway, I'll try to keep things as concise as possible, whilst hopefully still holding your attention.
If you're reading this; thank you.
Quentin Beck,
July 19th, 2010
Somebody somewhere said something like: "The greatest of journeys begins with a single step."
This isn't actually true. It starts with packing.
This blog represents my first foray into this strange and enticing corner of the ether, and embarking on a journey is the only parallel I can draw in describing the experience.
Unfortunately for me, and presumably for anybody with enough spare time to actually read any of this, I travel light. That is to say that rather than a well-organized suitcase of verse, neatly folded and placed in the correct compartments, this will represent something more akin to a rudely thrown-together duffel bag, it's contents randomly balled-up and stuffed in.
My main motivation for starting out was my brother, an accomplished (and published) wordsmith whose talent for stringing together sentences positively dwarfs mine. Those not inclined to take my word for it can scoot over to his blog, aptly named: keepthinkingbutch.blogspot.com
Anyway, I'll try to keep things as concise as possible, whilst hopefully still holding your attention.
If you're reading this; thank you.
Quentin Beck,
July 19th, 2010
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