Tarantino interviews are great. Only he could get away with this quote:
"I am a filmmaker that critics have to deal with, and how they think about me will help define who they are and what they are about. So whether you accept me or reject me, I define you to some degree." (Shortlist, 6 August 2009).
I recently came across a YouTube vid where he talks about his favourite 20 movies. Unsuprisingly, it's a great list. Kudos for including Unbreakable, which is under-rated.
Off the top of my head, here's my top 20 films, in no particular order, since 1992 ... which is about as far back as I remember...
The Matrix
There Will Be Blood
Fight Club
Dead Man's Shoes
Battle Royale
South Park
American Psycho
The Dark Knight
Vanilla Sky
Pulp Fiction
Goldeneye
Lost in Translation
Jurassic Park
The Game
Casino
Old School
Momento
Carlito's Way
King Kong
Seven
Friday 28 August 2009
Thursday 27 August 2009
Me mate Dave's blog
Is a great read.
This is a particulalry amusing post about tea, which is a subject close to my heart.
This is a particulalry amusing post about tea, which is a subject close to my heart.
Wednesday 26 August 2009
Secret Histories: Phil Collins and the MOWO Awards
So, I've just written a news piece about the MOBO (music of black origin) Awards, which are happening next month. Event, the magazine I work for, may be attending the celebrations but, given what I know about the show's history, you'd have to hire a team of burly meatheads to force me into the star-studded ceremony.
My aversion to attending is not motivated by a belief that most modern r'nb is over-produced fluff (which it is) or because I'm a massive racist (which I'm not). The real reason I now carry precautionary cyanide pills is because of my ungodly fear of emerging from the ceremony with an newfound gravitas for the career of rotund drumming midget, Phil Collins.
You won't read this in your school text books, but the 2000 MOBO Awards was scene to the most heinous of mass indoctrinations. Its victims- entertainers from the world of black music- were subjected to a potent dose of pro-Genesis radiation, dealt by a so far unidentified pair of youngsters from stage-right during a particularly self-indulgent performance by Craig David.
The potent blast went largely unnoticed (such is the hypnotic lure of CD's unique beard topiary) but caused a spontaneous and unexplainable outpouring of bald drummer-love from black musicians everywhere, ultimately culminating in a veritable fruity guff of an album Urban Renewal: a tribute to Phil Collins.
The plot, of course, was masterminded by the pint-sized maniac himself who, since the dawn of disco music, had harboured a crippling rage at how white folk were being made to look uncoordinated and goofy by the emerging black music scene.
Collins' waking hours were spent searching for, and secretly financing, credible white alternatives to the likes of Michael Jackson, Tupac and the NWA. His bitterness, however, would only to grow stronger as he witnessed the public backlash to his carefully selected young fledglings: Rick Astley, Bryan Adams and Celine Dion.
Come 1998, fresh out of rehab from a harrowing Tab Clear addiction, Collins took matters into his own hands. He developed a mind-altering radiation frequency which, in tests, caused subjects to label In the Air of Tonight, "life affirming", "heartwarming" and "radically inventive".
For a while the plan worked, and Phil acted quickly to capitalize on his early-millennial success. His next project would be his most ambitious undertaking, the MOWOs, a celebration of white people's additions to rad new music, mainly focusing on the cutting-edge scenes in country and western, opera and English Baroque Chamber music.
The ceremony would be nothing if not memorable. East 17's Brian Harvey was set to make a speech about his influence on black fashion, whilst TV niceguy Ben Fogle had penned a stirring dialogue on how a Charles Mingus record inspired him to row across the Atlantic naked with another public schoolboy.
Sadly, after playing around with radiation, amongst other things, Collins was now an empty shell of a man, as documented to harrowing effect in this video, in which the once noble man is clearly docile, mute and in need of assistance from an entourage of rap musicians.
(PS- Yes, this was an overly long blog post to basically point out that I find Phil's presence in this video endlessly hilarious)
My aversion to attending is not motivated by a belief that most modern r'nb is over-produced fluff (which it is) or because I'm a massive racist (which I'm not). The real reason I now carry precautionary cyanide pills is because of my ungodly fear of emerging from the ceremony with an newfound gravitas for the career of rotund drumming midget, Phil Collins.
You won't read this in your school text books, but the 2000 MOBO Awards was scene to the most heinous of mass indoctrinations. Its victims- entertainers from the world of black music- were subjected to a potent dose of pro-Genesis radiation, dealt by a so far unidentified pair of youngsters from stage-right during a particularly self-indulgent performance by Craig David.
The potent blast went largely unnoticed (such is the hypnotic lure of CD's unique beard topiary) but caused a spontaneous and unexplainable outpouring of bald drummer-love from black musicians everywhere, ultimately culminating in a veritable fruity guff of an album Urban Renewal: a tribute to Phil Collins.
The plot, of course, was masterminded by the pint-sized maniac himself who, since the dawn of disco music, had harboured a crippling rage at how white folk were being made to look uncoordinated and goofy by the emerging black music scene.
Collins' waking hours were spent searching for, and secretly financing, credible white alternatives to the likes of Michael Jackson, Tupac and the NWA. His bitterness, however, would only to grow stronger as he witnessed the public backlash to his carefully selected young fledglings: Rick Astley, Bryan Adams and Celine Dion.
Come 1998, fresh out of rehab from a harrowing Tab Clear addiction, Collins took matters into his own hands. He developed a mind-altering radiation frequency which, in tests, caused subjects to label In the Air of Tonight, "life affirming", "heartwarming" and "radically inventive".
For a while the plan worked, and Phil acted quickly to capitalize on his early-millennial success. His next project would be his most ambitious undertaking, the MOWOs, a celebration of white people's additions to rad new music, mainly focusing on the cutting-edge scenes in country and western, opera and English Baroque Chamber music.
The ceremony would be nothing if not memorable. East 17's Brian Harvey was set to make a speech about his influence on black fashion, whilst TV niceguy Ben Fogle had penned a stirring dialogue on how a Charles Mingus record inspired him to row across the Atlantic naked with another public schoolboy.
Sadly, after playing around with radiation, amongst other things, Collins was now an empty shell of a man, as documented to harrowing effect in this video, in which the once noble man is clearly docile, mute and in need of assistance from an entourage of rap musicians.
(PS- Yes, this was an overly long blog post to basically point out that I find Phil's presence in this video endlessly hilarious)
Monday 24 August 2009
New Radiohead song
Is available free and, predictably, puts to shame most of the current indie scene even if it is one of their slighter efforts.
The song, These are my Twisted Words, is more about creating a mood than being lyrically insightful. The atmosphere, if you'll forgive me for being pretentious, is akin to driving at night in the fog with the suspicion that you're being followed.
The song follows the band's moving tribute to war veteran Harry Patch which features stunning orchestration by Jonny Greeenwood (who scored Their Will be Blood).
The band now seem to be planning random releases and EPs other than a full blown album.
Smug bank overdraft rant
I'm not a religious man, but I am partial to a pious rant as much as the next clergyman. A word doc on my desktop, addressed to my bank, recently reminded me what a self righteous git I am.
Woe betide anyone who crosses T Hall, for they shalt receive the most pompous strongly worded letter of their (quietly vindictive, pen pushing, serial masturbating, uncompassionate, computer-says-no) little lives.
Admittedly, I did enjoy re-reading my pull-pittin' rant as testament to power that comes when, as Kurt Cobain put it, "you know you're right".
The case in point was when I was fined £70 for going over my overdraft limit by less than a fiver, which then caused me to go over again the next month by less than the amount of the original fine.
This is a circle so vicious it would eat all the other shapes in the world and make everything spherical, essentially leading to a world full of Rick Wallers.
I won't put you all through the full version, but my reasoning for the banks utter immorality is pretty much this:
1. What do these transactions actually cost the bank? I would be more than willing to pay them the cost price, but for them to profiteer is retarded.
2. Granted, I should have been more careful, but banks, as we know, are not in a position to lecture us on foresight, and are the reason people are defaulting anyway. Gits.
3. The idea that punishing us will stop us doing it again is tantamount to making a spike come out of your steering wheel instead of an airbag.
Amen brothers. The collection plate is on its way around.
Woe betide anyone who crosses T Hall, for they shalt receive the most pompous strongly worded letter of their (quietly vindictive, pen pushing, serial masturbating, uncompassionate, computer-says-no) little lives.
Admittedly, I did enjoy re-reading my pull-pittin' rant as testament to power that comes when, as Kurt Cobain put it, "you know you're right".
The case in point was when I was fined £70 for going over my overdraft limit by less than a fiver, which then caused me to go over again the next month by less than the amount of the original fine.
This is a circle so vicious it would eat all the other shapes in the world and make everything spherical, essentially leading to a world full of Rick Wallers.
I won't put you all through the full version, but my reasoning for the banks utter immorality is pretty much this:
1. What do these transactions actually cost the bank? I would be more than willing to pay them the cost price, but for them to profiteer is retarded.
2. Granted, I should have been more careful, but banks, as we know, are not in a position to lecture us on foresight, and are the reason people are defaulting anyway. Gits.
3. The idea that punishing us will stop us doing it again is tantamount to making a spike come out of your steering wheel instead of an airbag.
Amen brothers. The collection plate is on its way around.
Thursday 20 August 2009
Takin' out the trash
So I just did what I usually do on Friday. I took out the trash. A phrase which definitely has a bad-ass sounding ring to it.
No, I didn't just dish out some street-level justice, like the phrase suggests. I did, in fact, actually do my bins. Sorry.
Anyway, whilst performing said task, it occurred to me that it's a part of my week I've always weirdly enjoyed. Why, you ask*, does tying up a stinking bag of week-old nosh enliven me so? Well, the answer is three-fold.
1. It's really the only 'manly' chore I do nowadays. One can almost imagine it's a slab of tender animal you've just killed- hoisted over your shoulder like an urban hunter gatherer.
2. The image of taking out the trash (yup, still sounds good) is used in the final scene of cult mob movie, Goodfellas. For all my chat show/sitcom guzzling neighbours know I could be on some Witness Relocation Programme, living amongst them after ratting out my psychopathic gangster cronies, who i probably still know. (I hasten to add this is not the case. My friends are mostly traffic consultants and editorial staff.)
3. The task itself only really takes thirty seconds, yet carries that Joe Shmoe, everyman kind of appeal. If I smoked, I'd imagine that this would heighten the affect.
So, this is the kind of life I, and I'm sure many, lead. One of harmless, but fun, delusion. It is also the reason I've set up this blog- to fill people's lives with so much pop culture and pointless crap that they'll have a cultural reference point to liven up nearly every task they do.
With these lofty aims, let's just hope I find the time to post between episodes of Fringe and sips of For Goodness Shakes vitamin enriched milkshake (a malty treat).
Goodnight.
*which obviously you didn't. My main problem with blogs per se- you're giving people an answer to a question they never asked.
No, I didn't just dish out some street-level justice, like the phrase suggests. I did, in fact, actually do my bins. Sorry.
Anyway, whilst performing said task, it occurred to me that it's a part of my week I've always weirdly enjoyed. Why, you ask*, does tying up a stinking bag of week-old nosh enliven me so? Well, the answer is three-fold.
1. It's really the only 'manly' chore I do nowadays. One can almost imagine it's a slab of tender animal you've just killed- hoisted over your shoulder like an urban hunter gatherer.
2. The image of taking out the trash (yup, still sounds good) is used in the final scene of cult mob movie, Goodfellas. For all my chat show/sitcom guzzling neighbours know I could be on some Witness Relocation Programme, living amongst them after ratting out my psychopathic gangster cronies, who i probably still know. (I hasten to add this is not the case. My friends are mostly traffic consultants and editorial staff.)
3. The task itself only really takes thirty seconds, yet carries that Joe Shmoe, everyman kind of appeal. If I smoked, I'd imagine that this would heighten the affect.
So, this is the kind of life I, and I'm sure many, lead. One of harmless, but fun, delusion. It is also the reason I've set up this blog- to fill people's lives with so much pop culture and pointless crap that they'll have a cultural reference point to liven up nearly every task they do.
With these lofty aims, let's just hope I find the time to post between episodes of Fringe and sips of For Goodness Shakes vitamin enriched milkshake (a malty treat).
Goodnight.
*which obviously you didn't. My main problem with blogs per se- you're giving people an answer to a question they never asked.
Saturday 15 August 2009
The Beginning
Ahoy. This is a blog I have created to collate my thoughts and share stuff with people that I think is interesting, amusing or useful somehow. I also plan to write the odd irony-free American Psycho style music review.
Good times.
Good times.
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