Thom Yorke in Copenhagen

While Obama's lacklustre address in Copenhagen makes all but a splash, there's someone there who we really should pay attention to. Yes, Mr Thom Yorke, servant to all that is sublime, has made the trip over in an attempt to quell his growing frustration. Not for the first time he's been using the band's website to (with uncharacteristic eloquence) publicise reporting on the ramifications of inaction. Now he's getting his hands dirty for real, submitting to knee-jerk interviews with The Guardian; here's a clip. He really is adorable, isn't he? You get the impression that it would take a much longer interview to get any sense out of him, or indeed, for him to get everything off his chest.

PS. - I see, in the photos he's posted online, that he's been wearing his red trousers again. Hero.

Sunset Boulevard

In an article for Vanity Fair back in April 1995 entitled, It Happened on Sunset Boulevard, Christopher Hitchens makes reference to Bret Easton Ellis' classic, Less Than Zero.

There is a tradition of louche to live up to. And so Bret Easton Ellis' affectless bastards cluster in Carnay's railcar diner on the strip, and his narrator in Less Than Zero is knocked back by a Sunset billboard that reads, DISAPPEAR HERE.

The parallel between the article and the underlying theme of Less Than Zero stretches much further than Hitchens cares to mention, or indeed, realizes. Sunset Boulevard runs East to West through the heart of Los Angeles. It's conclusion at the shores of the Pacific is as far as you can travel westward in mainland America. As we all (should) know, Less Than Zero tracks the aimless wandering of our vacuous, despicable protagonist, Clay through the boulevards of LA. Singificantly, a Led Zeppelin lyric appears in the forepages of the text:

There's a feeling I get when I look to the West...

As the novel reaches its conclusion, or rather, anti-conclusion, all meaning is lost; even wandering the streets of LA is given up, replaced by ambivalence. Clay's words:

...I sit on a bench and wait for them, staring out at the expanse of sand that meets the water, where the land ends. Disappear here.

The industrial, commercial, vehicular, political expansion of the United States is complete. The East coast has bridged the gap with the West. Our feelings of impending doom are realized. Not only has the implication come full circle during the pages of the novel, but outlived it also. This is the great triumph of Ellis' novel, and why the task of writing the sequel is only about to be finalised, thirty years on.

For what it's worth...

Atheist Christmas

As Christmas approaches, atheists like ourselves incline towards a collective sense of superiority. We are not haggard with religious obligations; we can enjoy the time off and excuse ourselves while we lap up the mulled wine, spoon ourselves some extra sausage meat, and exchange very middle-class gifts with one another. Heck, one of those gifts may even be the Atheist's Guide to Christmas (nudge nudge*). Indeed, we are prey to no particular tradition or outlook. As Christopher Hitchens remarks in a feisty article about the White House nativity scene:

I myself repose no faith in any man-made text or made-man redeemer, so when it's Christmas I say "Merry Christmas" with a clear conscience, as I respect Ramadan and Passover, and also because "Happy Holidays" is so thin and insipid.

No doubt that strikes a chord. However, what are we to do when approached by a non-Christian (likely these days, you know)? The New Yorker is on hand as always with their guide to a 'Happy Interfaith Holiday Season'. Our host, Paul Rudnick begins rather boldly, thus:

Just because anyone with half a brain celebrates Christmas, no one should ever use the holidays to make non-Christians feel uncomfortable.

He enlightens us with a few tips and suggestions to ensure a successful, communal Christmas period, Jews included. Here's tip number 7, for example:

For a jolly holiday film festival, invite your Jewish neighbours over and screen White Christmas, Miracle on 34th Street, and Munich.

Byron

Christopher Hitchens on Lord Byron's childhood, in 2002:

His years of innocence were brief: at the age of nine he was subjected to much groping and fondling by his nurse, May Gray, who also used to whip him savagely and to terrorize him with hellfire religious rants. In other words, before he was ten, Byron had been made intimately aware of the relationship between sex and cruelty, and also the relationship between authority and superstition. I once proposed that a search be made for the gravesite of this sordid woman. It should be restored and preserved as a temple of the Romantic movement.

Nobel Aversion

Following up on what I just said, as I'm wont to do, it would be remiss not to point out that not only has Philip Roth not been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, but neither was a certain John Updike. The Swedish academy had plenty of time to do so. What's the root of the European aversion to American literature? Admittedly, Faulkner and Bellow were worthy recipients, but now we're pushing it back thirty-five years. Europeans don't go unscathed in the Nobel oversights either: Nabokov? Joyce? Proust? Slate had a good piece on this last year. Here it is.

Obama's Nobel Address

I'm not the only one a little impressed with Obama's speech. After failing to see the immediate merits of graciously turning down the award on the morning of October 9th, he's gone some way toward redeeming the apparent inconsistency of announcing the Afghan surge days before his Nobel recognition. Admittedly, the Peace prize has discredited itself over the years with awards to Henry Kissinger and Mother Theresa, and so too has the prize for Literature (Philip Roth, for instance, still criminally overlooked), but the political implications are huge. After a shaky affirmation of the non-violence (cough*) of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in the presentation ceremony, Obama followed up the reference with his own slant:

As someone who stands here as a direct consequence of Dr. King's life work, I am living testimony to the moral force of nonviolence. […] But, as a head of state, sworn to protect and defend my nation […] I face the world as it is and cannot stand idle in the face of threats to the American people. […] To say that force is sometimes necessary is not a call to cynicism. It is a recognition of history, the imperfections of man, and the limits of reason.

Though that last bit about the "limits of reason" is rather questionable, what he's saying is admirable, and the argument holds. His rhetoric walks a tightrope, a tightrope stretched over a ravine of jagged rocks, but he balances the dichotomy nicely. The task, he explains, lies in "reconciling these two seemingly irreconcilable truths — that war is sometimes necessary, and war is at some level an expression of human folly." Our innate shortcomings, then, manifest themselves through War. This seems fair. He goes on: "yes, the instruments of war do have a role to play in preserving the peace." That's a fairly bold thing to say in front of the committee for the Nobel Peace Prize, as I'm sure you'll agree. His command of the language is impressive, and he uses it to good effect here. He acknowledges the contradiction, rather than evades it. Would Bush, or even Brown have done the same?

Paranormal Activity

I've just watched Paranormal Activity under perfect circumstances (alone, at night, darkened room) for which I allow myself some congratulations, and I'm rather disappointed. Readers of this blog will know that I like to be scared; I revel in a film's ability to escort me some way towards terror. I scary film is a successful film. This, however, did not engage me in the way I hoped it would, but I think I can pinpoint why.

First, the makings of a a good horror film rest in the audience's emotional resonance with the characters. This the film attempts by allowing us plenty of time at the beginning to get to know the two protagonists. No harm there. However, as the film progresses, the male character is much more likeable, both in his sense of humour and his overall approach to the phenomena. Take, for example, the following line of comfort and reassurance:

I'm taking care of it. This is my house, you're my girlfriend, I'm gonna
fucking solve the problem.

C'mon, when's the last time you didn't say something like that? Unfortunately, all da bad shit goes down with da ho, and, therefore, I didn't care as much for her as I perhaps should have done. For this reason, I think female viewers would enjoy the movie a lot more. Nothing patronising in that at all, just misogyny.

Second, the handheld thing has been done before, and the effect is wearing thin. A while ago I tipped my hat to the brilliant [rec.], which managed to tick all the right boxes for the handheld horror genre whilst maintaining the sense that this was fresh, what you were seeing was happening for real. Paranormal Activity, on the other hand, doffs its cap to the Blair Witch Project and Open Water in its conveyance of a psychological drama, with the intention that it's not so much the events, but rather the surrounding emotional furore. The friendship breaks down, the communal resilience is lost, trust fades, and hope is lost. In this regard, although by no means a failure, it comes up a long way short of Blair Witch.

Finally, the main problem is the believability factor. If you're like me, a sceptical, cynical, grumpy old man, you know full well that spirits, ghosts, demons, angels, whatever you want to call them, do not exist. No matter what websites you pull up, the air of explainability never goes out the door. For this reason alone, a film like this is totally lost on me. Point towards any successful horror film and you'll see that plausibility lies at its heart. What scares us most is the possibility that what we're seeing might actually be real.

What annoyed me most, however, was the obvious parallel with The Exorcist. Before you all write in, I know that this was intended. It is a nod of recognition of the highest order, and I don't blame them for it. What nagged me though was the feeling...hmm, you know what? I'll just go watch The Exorcist instead, and have the proverbial S scared out of me, thanks.

Sing A Song For You

In my mind is where I long for you
In my soul I search for you
Each time you turn and run away I cry inside
In my silly way to young to know anymore.

Deprave

"A paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on."
~ William S. Burroughs

Lists

It's that time of year again, where every journalistic outlet worth no salt at all compile their personal, definitive list of everything that's been hot and everything that's not throughout the year. Seeing as we're moving into a new decade, they seem to think this gives them some authority to compile a list for the last ten years.

The Guardian posted their top sporting moments of the decade, failing to mention Michael Phelps at all, reminding everyone why we don't buy The Guardian for the sports supplement. Similarly, with no less vigour, The Times put Brazilian classic, City of God and P.T. Anderson's masterpiece, There Will Be Blood behind the likes of The Incredibles and Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy in their list of the best 100 films of the noughties.

Beware: Epic Fail alert! The Times go one further in their countdown of the best 100 books of the decade, placing the likes of Coetzee's Youth and Dawkins' The God Delusion behind (yes, you guessed it) The Da Vinci Code.

What really pisses me off though, what really grates at the tip is when columnists flat-out get something wrong. We're not talking difference of opinion, we're talking flagrant mischief of the lowest calibre. Take a certain Books Blogger over at The Guardian Online, Sam Jordison. He asks:

Who passed the law that everybody had to give a good review to On Chesil Beach? What fear prevented so many journalists from admitting that McEwan had laid down a stinker?

Well, Mr Jordison, you're wrong. I don't think there's any ulterior motive to his claim, I think he's just, in the words of Stewart Lee, 'a idiot'.

Equally, this month's Spin magazine provide their grimy, restless, half-inarticulate, vomit-scoffing readers with a list of "16 Rock myths", managing all the while, to forget the sixteenth, settling instead for fifteen. Nevertheless, they set about "debunking" them one by one, concluding in their No.1 Rock myth: "Radiohead can do no wrong." They gracefully set us straight:

REALITY: Radiohead kinda blow.

There's no arguing with that kind of logic, dear reader. And yet, the author, Chris Norris solidifies things for us all the same:

So we sit, wearing headphones and frozen grins, and continue denying that guilty, nagging feeling that actually, in some ways, when you think about it … Radiohead kinda blow.

I'll just leave that out there. Spin even put a picture of Thom Yorke on the cover of the magazine. Honestly, you wouldn't spit on them, would you?

Stewart Lee Again

In quirkier news, The Guardian published a nice little interview with our mentor and guide, Stewart Lee, which touches upon the recent Richard Hammond fiasco, the Jerry Springer scandal, and Lee's current commercial popularity. As we know, Lee's comedy is a delicate thing, balancing financial reward with critical acclaim. He says himself:

It would be nice for the TV show to be recommissioned so I could have a year off the road. Then again, I've worked out that the economics of a being an obscure cult figure might just work out better in the long run than the economics of being a discarded television performer.

Should he reach broader audiences, or should he remain touring the world's smaller venues, speaking to the niche and the cult audiences that this very blog finds itself among? Thankfully, Holly and I have our tickets for his latest routine, currently at the Leicester Square Theatre (a larger venue than the club we saw him in during the Summer). If you read the article, you'll notice that Sean O'Hagan, the author links to a YouTube clip of a "long and inspired tightrope walk of a routine which targets the Mail's reigning loudmouth, Richard Littlejohn". That particular clip, taken from Lee's 2006 show, is one that I posted online. As a result, I've had a few more hits than usual, plus a wealth of intelligent, Guardian-reader-esque-type comments in the comment section. It's worth rewatching for a quick laugh. I suppose, it's nice to be involved somehow.

Success

Sorry for the lack of more succinct posts over the last few days. As per the yearly routine, I was away in the weird, grimy capital of Texas, pitting my flesh and blood against the scum of the College Swimming community. (Well, that's not fair on Stanford). Those hotel wi-fi connections rarely provide anything other than an irritating distraction. But I return to you now, triumphant.

Apparat

Mischa Barton is going on the list...

Rusty Nails

Moderat on Top Gear? I've said it before...

Original Pirate Material

This weekend's Observer Music Monthly gave their album of the decade spot to The Streets for their 2002 debut album, Original Pirate Material. It's the wrong choice, obviously; the accolade should, by definition almost, go to Radiohead for one of their four albums released in the noughties. Admittedly, Kid A came in a solid second, but why? Well, I have to say, I have some sympathy for the Observer's decision. Original Pirate Material was the first album I ever bought and listened to from first to last. Something about the aura that surrounded the music endeared it to teenagers of my generation. We were well below the threshold of the topics under discussion (drinking, clubbing, drugs, and love), and yet you felt as though you were being spoken to, or spoken for. This was music produced with us in mind. Undoubtedly, the social message of the album was strong and, probably, ignored by listeners of similar years, and yet you felt as though The Streets were a band for you and about you. We were being directly addressed through the lyrics spoken, not sung by Mike Skinner in his inimitable, characteristic style. Repeat a line in the school corridors and, chances were, you'd have the next line delivered to you.

I produced this using only my bare wit.
[then, from elsewhere...]
Give me a jungle or garage beat and admit defeat.

Similarly, with not infrequent tenderness, during the song It's Too Late:

We met through a shared view;
She loved me and I did too.

As a whole, the album is not without its faults. It is two or three tracks too long, and it tends to lose its way between the more popular songs. Indeed, a focus or a direction are nowhere to be seen. Those of us who listened to their follow-up, A Grand Don't Come for Free, will know that OPM is weak by comparison, but I agree with the Observer; what OPM brought to British music, a unique gelling of genres, able to bring together grunge and goth, townies and kevs, far outweighs what it lacks in refinement. I relent for those kids, reaching their teenage years, who don't have a voice like The Streets. Where will they turn? The Arctic Monkeys? Perhaps. Snow Patrol? The Killers? Please.