Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Punk, Sell-Outs, and The Great Rock 'n Roll Dream
Little Miss Lipstick looks from her window,
Everything is tarmac and asphalt
-Escalators
All the men here dress like kids,
and all the kids dress like super-heroes.
-Greenberg
I'm not going to say that when I was a younger man, music had far more to offer in terms of artistic value, or that back then, music was produced by people with real talent. I'm not going to take the parental, authoritative view that all us snotty nosed little punk rockers and new romantics balked at back then, and say that the music the youth of today listens to is mostly just a load of old bunk. Alright, I am.
I can see why the older generation of my youth would feel that the songs and bands that influenced them as adolescents were far superior to the angry, volatile clusters of anarchy that we drew our inspiration from, but of course one has to remember that music tends to reflect the times in which it's written, and the music of our generation was created in the jet-stream of the failed love gurus and harmony poets of the 60's, and the faded family man crooners and homemaker divas of the 70's. All the sun-bleached, potpourri twaddle about never-ending devotion and blossoming adoration in the face of the global political chaos that galloped and shrieked around the edges of all that fluffy nonsense, well…something had to give. Now I know that all sounds a little harsh, but I'm not belittling the stars of yesteryear, indeed, I hold the greatest respect for such artists as Shirley Bassey, Jack Jones, Karen Carpenter and all the countless other great voices that defined the music industry of their respective eras, but as a young, raging ball of existential frustration and indignant hormones, these figures were merely something to be ridiculed, the stuff that old people listened to, and were thus rudely trampled beneath the (air cushioned) soles of our rebellious Doctor Martens. Nowadays, the insurrectionary fires of my youthful (mis)guided-missile-crusades have long since been stamped out to make room for the real world, which is, on reflection, far simpler. However, in these times of sado/masochistic shlock horror, and woefully bad, IQ butchering, soulless TV, where music's new generation has been conned into the sell, rather than drawn by the concept, it's easy to see that any decline in musical standards that has occurred since the advent of such institutions as MTV, is wholly the work of the corporate establishment. To put it another way, it's a sellout unlike any the world has seen before; an entire art form, packaged and sold to a junk-food generation who have been served with far too much garnish, and not enough filling, so to speak. As a younger man, I was a member of several bands, one of them, Pearldivers, formed together with my two brothers, and though we never got further than the demo-tape stage, we produced music that actually had a point, that had something to say. Nowadays, it seems that it doesn't matter what your message is, as long as you have the right abdominal muscles. Oh, I know there are still artists around today both upcoming and established that have actual talent (and if any of you ever read this; you know who you are), but they have been back-shelved by the über-consumption bling that seems to define today's culture, where 18 is no longer considered young, and 40 is the age at which people start trying to find direction. I'm not as bitter as this post may come across as being, however, despite being well aware that the primal scream that we all followed back then is now but an echo in this new, shifting, high-speed jungle in which we find ourselves. I maintain that one should never be sad because something has passed, but should instead be glad that it has happened.
For after all, it was those wild, mutinous days that defined who we would, and in many ways shouldn't, be.
Angry Youth: Those were indeed The Days
Today's movie choice is Nicholas Stoller's Get Him To The Greek, a comedy starring Russell Brand, Jonah Hill, Rose Byrne and Elisabeth Moss. It's the story of a rookie talent scout from LA, Aaron Green (Hill) who gets roped into the arduous task of escorting fallen rock star Aldous Snow (Brand) from London to LA, so that he can perform a gig at the Greek Theatre, marking the ten-year anniversary of Snow's old band Infant Sorrow's infamous concert at the same venue. Snow has recently lost his superstar credibility following the release of his song African Child, described by NME as being "the worst thing to happen to Africa since apartheid". What follows is a roller-coaster ride of drugs, alcohol, women and more drugs, with Green trying desperately to keep up with Snow's formidable tolerance levels and equally punishing appetites while simultaneously trying to maintain his relationship with Daphne (Moss), his girlfriend. Similarly, Snow has issues with his ex, Jackie Q (Byrne), whose extreme lifestyle is the only thing Snow truly relates to. The film plays out at breakneck speed, resting only occasionally to allow the plot to thicken, before once again catapulting us into the mayhem of excess that is the world of rock. Funny and engaging, and spiced with the appearance of several big stars playing themselves, this is what has, sadly, become a rarity in today's cinema; a comedy that works. Both Hill and Brand are superbly cast, the chemistry between them perfectly conveying the confusion of social culture shock while generating just the right amount of sympathy for their lovably fallible characters. A slight dip on the overall performance scale would have to be said to be the ending, where the usual moral message is delivered which, after the quality and pace of the rest of the story, is about as welcome as the bill at the end of a meal, and is something you just have to accept. Stoller is no stranger to comedy, having already cut his teeth writing the screenplay for the Jim Carrey hit Yes Man. With the right creative licence, we could be seeing great things from this man in the future.
Rock Bottom: Hill and Brand on a collision course
Quentin Beck,
November 17th, 2010
Everything is tarmac and asphalt
-Escalators
All the men here dress like kids,
and all the kids dress like super-heroes.
-Greenberg
I'm not going to say that when I was a younger man, music had far more to offer in terms of artistic value, or that back then, music was produced by people with real talent. I'm not going to take the parental, authoritative view that all us snotty nosed little punk rockers and new romantics balked at back then, and say that the music the youth of today listens to is mostly just a load of old bunk. Alright, I am.
I can see why the older generation of my youth would feel that the songs and bands that influenced them as adolescents were far superior to the angry, volatile clusters of anarchy that we drew our inspiration from, but of course one has to remember that music tends to reflect the times in which it's written, and the music of our generation was created in the jet-stream of the failed love gurus and harmony poets of the 60's, and the faded family man crooners and homemaker divas of the 70's. All the sun-bleached, potpourri twaddle about never-ending devotion and blossoming adoration in the face of the global political chaos that galloped and shrieked around the edges of all that fluffy nonsense, well…something had to give. Now I know that all sounds a little harsh, but I'm not belittling the stars of yesteryear, indeed, I hold the greatest respect for such artists as Shirley Bassey, Jack Jones, Karen Carpenter and all the countless other great voices that defined the music industry of their respective eras, but as a young, raging ball of existential frustration and indignant hormones, these figures were merely something to be ridiculed, the stuff that old people listened to, and were thus rudely trampled beneath the (air cushioned) soles of our rebellious Doctor Martens. Nowadays, the insurrectionary fires of my youthful (mis)guided-missile-crusades have long since been stamped out to make room for the real world, which is, on reflection, far simpler. However, in these times of sado/masochistic shlock horror, and woefully bad, IQ butchering, soulless TV, where music's new generation has been conned into the sell, rather than drawn by the concept, it's easy to see that any decline in musical standards that has occurred since the advent of such institutions as MTV, is wholly the work of the corporate establishment. To put it another way, it's a sellout unlike any the world has seen before; an entire art form, packaged and sold to a junk-food generation who have been served with far too much garnish, and not enough filling, so to speak. As a younger man, I was a member of several bands, one of them, Pearldivers, formed together with my two brothers, and though we never got further than the demo-tape stage, we produced music that actually had a point, that had something to say. Nowadays, it seems that it doesn't matter what your message is, as long as you have the right abdominal muscles. Oh, I know there are still artists around today both upcoming and established that have actual talent (and if any of you ever read this; you know who you are), but they have been back-shelved by the über-consumption bling that seems to define today's culture, where 18 is no longer considered young, and 40 is the age at which people start trying to find direction. I'm not as bitter as this post may come across as being, however, despite being well aware that the primal scream that we all followed back then is now but an echo in this new, shifting, high-speed jungle in which we find ourselves. I maintain that one should never be sad because something has passed, but should instead be glad that it has happened.
For after all, it was those wild, mutinous days that defined who we would, and in many ways shouldn't, be.
Today's movie choice is Nicholas Stoller's Get Him To The Greek, a comedy starring Russell Brand, Jonah Hill, Rose Byrne and Elisabeth Moss. It's the story of a rookie talent scout from LA, Aaron Green (Hill) who gets roped into the arduous task of escorting fallen rock star Aldous Snow (Brand) from London to LA, so that he can perform a gig at the Greek Theatre, marking the ten-year anniversary of Snow's old band Infant Sorrow's infamous concert at the same venue. Snow has recently lost his superstar credibility following the release of his song African Child, described by NME as being "the worst thing to happen to Africa since apartheid". What follows is a roller-coaster ride of drugs, alcohol, women and more drugs, with Green trying desperately to keep up with Snow's formidable tolerance levels and equally punishing appetites while simultaneously trying to maintain his relationship with Daphne (Moss), his girlfriend. Similarly, Snow has issues with his ex, Jackie Q (Byrne), whose extreme lifestyle is the only thing Snow truly relates to. The film plays out at breakneck speed, resting only occasionally to allow the plot to thicken, before once again catapulting us into the mayhem of excess that is the world of rock. Funny and engaging, and spiced with the appearance of several big stars playing themselves, this is what has, sadly, become a rarity in today's cinema; a comedy that works. Both Hill and Brand are superbly cast, the chemistry between them perfectly conveying the confusion of social culture shock while generating just the right amount of sympathy for their lovably fallible characters. A slight dip on the overall performance scale would have to be said to be the ending, where the usual moral message is delivered which, after the quality and pace of the rest of the story, is about as welcome as the bill at the end of a meal, and is something you just have to accept. Stoller is no stranger to comedy, having already cut his teeth writing the screenplay for the Jim Carrey hit Yes Man. With the right creative licence, we could be seeing great things from this man in the future.
Quentin Beck,
November 17th, 2010
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Culture Clashes, Quiet Places, and Crap Vampires
We walked around the lake
And woke up in the rain
And everyone turned over
Troubled in their dreams again
-The Cure
Well, here we are again and as usual, it's been far too long since my last entry. Things have been busy aboard HMS Beck, the crew working on reduced rations and only a few hours of sleep, but we've a strong wind in our sails and spirits are high.
My latest exploits within the field of film making have been enlightening, the central focus of which have been culture. Early in the week, I began work on a project with my friend and sometime colleague The Kingpin, the theme being to examine the cultural differences between Sweden and well, everybody else. We started our day with a prodigious breakfast of fried eggs, bacon and potatoes, washed down with a nice, strong cup of tea. Once fortified with this honking great mountain of food, we were ready for anything. We then took our rented production car, a Citroen C3, and whizzed away to our first location of the day, the home of an Egyptian gentleman who we will call Bakari, who has been living in Sweden with his wife and child for some time, and who had plenty to say about Swedes as a people. It was interesting to hear his observations, which largely referred to the fact that Swedes are a lot less extroverted than your average European. I can't say I entirely agree, having always found them to be very open, and easy to make contact with. The other people that we interviewed throughout the following two days, who hail from countries such as Canada, Iran, and Japan held very much the same view, and although I can see what they are driving at, I don't think they quite hit the nail on the head. The thing with Swedes isn't that they are introverted, but rather, as a Swedish language student we interviewed put it, very lagom. Lagom is a word that the English language has no equivalent for, and means, translating as closely as is possible, just right. That is to say that Swedes like to keep a slightly lower profile than most, not wanting to stick out too much, or blow their own trumpet, as it were. Swedes themselves hold the general opinion that they are a shy race, and less outgoing than us loudmouthed Johnnies from across the water. On the whole, I find them pleasant company, good listeners, and satisfyingly enlightened. All in all it was a fun project to work on, although there is still quite a lot of material left to edit.
That, however, will have to wait, because this weekend finds us up in Värmland, a few hour's drive North of Gothenburg, where we are visiting relatives. Leia's grandparents, to be precise. Värmland is a beautiful place at any time of the year, positively bursting with birch and pine forests, and still, misty lakes that, as lakes have a habit of doing, seem to suck the sounds out of the air and produce a silence like that of an empty church, seeming almost unreal for an outdoor location. They are magic places, lakes, and when standing by them on these hushed, chilly days, I'm almost tempted to switch off my telephone for fear of breaking that perfect quiet.
Beautiful Silence: Lakes are nature's way of saying Shhhhhhh.
Winter is almost upon us, and it's once again time to fit the snow tyres onto the car, a job that my father-in-law can do in a tenth of the time that it takes me to do it. He is a man who has, and I quote, 'petrol in his blood', and what he doesn't know about cars isn't worth knowing. My daughter is fascinated by him, always breaking into a huge smile whenever she sees him, which in turn makes him visibly swell with pride, and go gooey in that special way that only grown men can. My own father is affected by her in the same way, and seeing how he is around her sends me rushing back to some of my earliest childhood memories, to a time when our home was a happy one, when Christmas was an enchanted time, and summers lasted forever. Those images have never entirely faded from my mind, but since Leia's arrival, something has stirred within me, bringing them back with far greater clarity, and along with them a strange kind of yearning sensation, as if some part of me longs to relive those days of simple, worry-free existence, when the world was further away from us. Today, everything seems inescapably close, and getting away from it requires real effort.
Ah well; there's always the lakes.
I always round off my blog entries with a small film critique, and this time won't be any exception. I'm not, however going to be as positive as I usually am. Three years ago, I watched a film about vampires. It was set in an Alaskan town called Barrow, and was different from other vampire films, being more (and I use this word with reservation) realistic than the usual yarns spun surrounding these eternally popular creatures. It was called 30 Days Of Night, and starred Josh Harnett, Melissa George, and Danny Huston. Directed by Hard Candy helmer David Slade, it was brutally simple, and filmed in a way that didn't employ the usual Hollywood film methods of making everyone look like they've stepped out of the make-up trailer before every scene is shot, and where the vampires are all eloquent goth-new romantics who are dreadfully bored with everything, except their wardrobe. I liked it. Along with the brilliant Swedish production Let The Right One In, and Tony Scott's The Hunger, from 1983, it's to my mind one of the only few vampire films worth watching. So, when I found out about the sequel, entitled 30 Days Of Night: Dark Days, I was naturally excited and perched myself in my seat, popcorn in hand, ready for more of the same. What I didn't consider however, was the fact that sequels to decent films are almost always terrible by comparison, created to turn a success into a franchise. Dark Days started out with a glimpse of the events in Barrow, and my hopes were high. What followed was, simply put, rubbish. The story quickly turned into a tenuous Let's-Form-A-Team-Of-Vampire-Hunters spiel, which was about as convincing as an episode of Dukes Of Hazzard. Why film makers insist on making their vampires act like brainless reptiles whose entire communicative ambit consists of baring their fangs at the moonlight, (or just the ceiling), hissing and screeching, is anybody's guess. Not even the DoP Eric Maddison's capable camera work could save the day. Painfully predictable and embarrassingly weak, this awful farce goes from bad to nonsensical. Relative newcomer Ben Ketai directed this film, and one can only hope he pulls his socks up in the future, because films like this are all too commonplace in today's cinema, and annoyingly, usually make enough money to keep the cash cow fed and milked. Or bled, as the case may be.
Bloody Stupid: Kiele Sanchez, soaked in....er....looks like Ribena.
Quentin Beck,
November 7th 2010
And woke up in the rain
And everyone turned over
Troubled in their dreams again
-The Cure
Well, here we are again and as usual, it's been far too long since my last entry. Things have been busy aboard HMS Beck, the crew working on reduced rations and only a few hours of sleep, but we've a strong wind in our sails and spirits are high.
My latest exploits within the field of film making have been enlightening, the central focus of which have been culture. Early in the week, I began work on a project with my friend and sometime colleague The Kingpin, the theme being to examine the cultural differences between Sweden and well, everybody else. We started our day with a prodigious breakfast of fried eggs, bacon and potatoes, washed down with a nice, strong cup of tea. Once fortified with this honking great mountain of food, we were ready for anything. We then took our rented production car, a Citroen C3, and whizzed away to our first location of the day, the home of an Egyptian gentleman who we will call Bakari, who has been living in Sweden with his wife and child for some time, and who had plenty to say about Swedes as a people. It was interesting to hear his observations, which largely referred to the fact that Swedes are a lot less extroverted than your average European. I can't say I entirely agree, having always found them to be very open, and easy to make contact with. The other people that we interviewed throughout the following two days, who hail from countries such as Canada, Iran, and Japan held very much the same view, and although I can see what they are driving at, I don't think they quite hit the nail on the head. The thing with Swedes isn't that they are introverted, but rather, as a Swedish language student we interviewed put it, very lagom. Lagom is a word that the English language has no equivalent for, and means, translating as closely as is possible, just right. That is to say that Swedes like to keep a slightly lower profile than most, not wanting to stick out too much, or blow their own trumpet, as it were. Swedes themselves hold the general opinion that they are a shy race, and less outgoing than us loudmouthed Johnnies from across the water. On the whole, I find them pleasant company, good listeners, and satisfyingly enlightened. All in all it was a fun project to work on, although there is still quite a lot of material left to edit.
That, however, will have to wait, because this weekend finds us up in Värmland, a few hour's drive North of Gothenburg, where we are visiting relatives. Leia's grandparents, to be precise. Värmland is a beautiful place at any time of the year, positively bursting with birch and pine forests, and still, misty lakes that, as lakes have a habit of doing, seem to suck the sounds out of the air and produce a silence like that of an empty church, seeming almost unreal for an outdoor location. They are magic places, lakes, and when standing by them on these hushed, chilly days, I'm almost tempted to switch off my telephone for fear of breaking that perfect quiet.
Winter is almost upon us, and it's once again time to fit the snow tyres onto the car, a job that my father-in-law can do in a tenth of the time that it takes me to do it. He is a man who has, and I quote, 'petrol in his blood', and what he doesn't know about cars isn't worth knowing. My daughter is fascinated by him, always breaking into a huge smile whenever she sees him, which in turn makes him visibly swell with pride, and go gooey in that special way that only grown men can. My own father is affected by her in the same way, and seeing how he is around her sends me rushing back to some of my earliest childhood memories, to a time when our home was a happy one, when Christmas was an enchanted time, and summers lasted forever. Those images have never entirely faded from my mind, but since Leia's arrival, something has stirred within me, bringing them back with far greater clarity, and along with them a strange kind of yearning sensation, as if some part of me longs to relive those days of simple, worry-free existence, when the world was further away from us. Today, everything seems inescapably close, and getting away from it requires real effort.
Ah well; there's always the lakes.
I always round off my blog entries with a small film critique, and this time won't be any exception. I'm not, however going to be as positive as I usually am. Three years ago, I watched a film about vampires. It was set in an Alaskan town called Barrow, and was different from other vampire films, being more (and I use this word with reservation) realistic than the usual yarns spun surrounding these eternally popular creatures. It was called 30 Days Of Night, and starred Josh Harnett, Melissa George, and Danny Huston. Directed by Hard Candy helmer David Slade, it was brutally simple, and filmed in a way that didn't employ the usual Hollywood film methods of making everyone look like they've stepped out of the make-up trailer before every scene is shot, and where the vampires are all eloquent goth-new romantics who are dreadfully bored with everything, except their wardrobe. I liked it. Along with the brilliant Swedish production Let The Right One In, and Tony Scott's The Hunger, from 1983, it's to my mind one of the only few vampire films worth watching. So, when I found out about the sequel, entitled 30 Days Of Night: Dark Days, I was naturally excited and perched myself in my seat, popcorn in hand, ready for more of the same. What I didn't consider however, was the fact that sequels to decent films are almost always terrible by comparison, created to turn a success into a franchise. Dark Days started out with a glimpse of the events in Barrow, and my hopes were high. What followed was, simply put, rubbish. The story quickly turned into a tenuous Let's-Form-A-Team-Of-Vampire-Hunters spiel, which was about as convincing as an episode of Dukes Of Hazzard. Why film makers insist on making their vampires act like brainless reptiles whose entire communicative ambit consists of baring their fangs at the moonlight, (or just the ceiling), hissing and screeching, is anybody's guess. Not even the DoP Eric Maddison's capable camera work could save the day. Painfully predictable and embarrassingly weak, this awful farce goes from bad to nonsensical. Relative newcomer Ben Ketai directed this film, and one can only hope he pulls his socks up in the future, because films like this are all too commonplace in today's cinema, and annoyingly, usually make enough money to keep the cash cow fed and milked. Or bled, as the case may be.
Quentin Beck,
November 7th 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)