Three wise men.

He is the genius. He is completely devoted to his craft. He is the professional, the sage and the artist. He is lonely.

He is the celebrity. He knows everyone. To be social is to live and he lives for his friends. He is unfulfilled.

He is the balance. Jack of all trades and master of none. He is ambitious but not devoted. He is friendly but not a great friend. He fears mediocrity.

Climbing out of the ditch

There's been a sudden flood on the blog. Yet again, it was reflective of a bad mood. It was a long one this time- three days. New record?

But I'm coming back on top!

So for next time I think everything I'm doing is shit here's a reminder:

I'm still young.
I'm not a professional.
We made pretty big products pretty quickly for the number of us.
Not many other people can say they've done what I have.

Of course I'm going to worry about the future. Everyone does. And it's only natural I'm going to worry more as I get older. Working with a lot of successful kids doesn't help either. But if I keep positive, and keep learning, I'll be alright.

Chill the fuck out!

I'll try and get back on top of the blog for the back end of the year.

No promises.

"Blow this" he thought. That was enough! She wasn't really all that good looking and he was sick of feeling used.
"Wait here."
The command worked, even only if it was because the shock of being instructed to do anything by him caught her unawares.
He sauntered up to the first person he saw.
"Hi there!"
"Ugh... hi?"
Not put off by the stranger's confusion, he clapped a friendly hand on the stunned chap's shoulder and pointed over to her.
"I thought you should be the first to know, I'm breaking up with my girlfriend."
With a couple of pats on the shoulder he strolled off and left two utterly gobsmacked strangers staring at each other in the crowded street.

Elephants and llamas
Wear polka dot pyjamas.
Look them in the eye,
And you'll see they're not shy,
But neither are keen on farmers.

You can see them if you turn fast enough. You wouldn't want to though, they weren't made for our eyes.

The standing pigs are a mystery.

If you look at the back of the top sheld in a supermarket, you'll find bits of cereal and pasta.

The ground erupted. Tarmac and rubble flew into the air creating a lethal shower of rock and earth over the village.

Turning sharply, he stared back. His head whipped violently between the two, torn. Narrowing his eyes, he dropped the case and pounded back through the mist.

Welcome to hel young worker.
Welcome to the rest of your life.

Welcome to being trapped inside your own head with no glimmer of light or promise of hope.
All your dreams and aspirations were just tools to propel you through childhood so you could pretend you would achieve something.

The bigger picture will always be there, but you will never be in it.

Welcome to the frame.
Welcome to your boundaries.

Welcome to society imposing limits on you without prejudice.
Anything you thought you could do was wrong.
They'll subtly bog you down with trivialities and flood your mind with images of repression and revolution, poverty and luxary, order and chaos.

I WANT THOSE THINGS!
NOT THIS BLAND, FRUSTRATING EXISTENCE.

Take me away to that dark city.

That London of a time never passed.

Let me walk the streets of fear.

Overhead the angels war.

Below my feet the devils plot.

Politicians swarm the streets.

It’s the seat of power and I will find my throne.

The thoughts of a nation flicker blue.

They gather here, with capital interest.

Mine for the taking.

Overhead the angels fall.

All in the name of Grace.

What’s the point in me?

I make a lot of noise and know a lot of people. But when the day’s over and I’m alone in my room, who can I call? Who can I go to? I’ve somehow kept everyone at arm’s length. I have friends. I could call any one of them. But they won’t get me. When that calls end, however encouraging it might be, I’m back where I started. Alone in my room.

I don’t want to be alone in my room. I want to be doing what normal people do. I want to be surrounded by friends and family. I want to be doing something. I want reassurance and loyalty and love and affection and I want a fucking future.

What future do I have? One date cancelled and I crumble. The last year of my life has been spent churning out some shit I’m always going to compare to better things. The next year is going to be spent making something even worse.

I need a career, financial security and a family. I need freedom, adventure and company.

What am I achieving right now? What progress will I have made by this time tomorrow?

What difference will I ever make?

What is the point in me?

Speed writing

Eyes open.

Stand up. It’s all left for you. No one else will take this. No one else can do this. Now we find out who are, what you are.

Leave! Go! Ash will follow in your footsteps. Let your wings unfurl. Raise your sword high. Scream.

You’ll be surrounded. You’ll be alone. Be strong.

They can’t take you down. Cut your path and aim straight for destiny itself.

Veins glow with fire. Eyes shut.

Sword swings. Blind strokes. Change. The world is behind you know. You have ascended. You have fallen. Trapped between heaven and hell. Neither will take you. Your place is here, with this battle. Eternity at your feet. One corpse at a time. Have you seen yet? Do you understand? It’s you. It was always you. Him. The inevitable. The Repear. You are death, and these are your charge.

A lack of social skills.

I'm back! For now.

I've been away to write and shoot our new feature and I can safely say it has been the single most stressful period of my life so far.

And so I've returned. One thing which became very clear very quickly was that I was lacking a channel through which to vent my frustration so I have resolved to maintain a healthy flow of Internet bile (see previous post).

It's like the old medical practice of draining the four humours until they're in balance. What were they? Blood was definitely one and I have no trouble in accumulating the occasional scratch to keep that in check. Two shades of bile (one black... the other perhaps green? yellow? a perfect dusky orange?). Both varieties (whatever the colour) shall be expunged here. Obviously not physically but I'm choosing to keep it abstract. What was the other? Something minging like vomit or urine? Phlegm?

Not had hay fever at all this year.

Muse

I thought I had an ally.
I thought I had a partner.
I thought it was us against the world and I thought,
I had a friend.
But now I see it was all for you and I was just your tool.
You took from me all that you needed and made yourself look good.

But when I needed you my muse,
when I was left alone,.
I realised nothing had changed,
and I'd done everything,
on my own.

RetroFit

A charity shop that restores and tailers clothing. Ideal for trying to find that retro look in a style that suits you. Employees would ideally be voluntary fashion students working purely for experience with perhaps a commission based approach to items they sell.

Clothes would be sold at similar prices to other charity shops, with proceeds going to a registered charity but a little extra would be added for the personal service.

To attract volunteers, each shop must establish a link with local universities or colleges and offer promotions that would suit the students. For example, any rags or clothing unsuitable for sale could be offered as material for their own use. The focus would very much be on their creativity.

Ant Hill Terminus

All aboard for the marching ranks
Your final hour is at hand
Take positions on your leaf-green ferry
And sail across to the washed out graveyard

Light is made of old lighbulbs.

When a lightbulb dies, the light inside gets trapped.

So you have to send it to the light factory where they break the bulb open and let the light out. Then they grind up the glass into tiny little bits like talcum power and blow it all into the air so it can bounce the light around.

You get new lightbulbs when the Sun lays an egg.

Here we go again.

The current races down the wire towards its goal. Everyday the same, completely unable to stray from its copper laden path. But its worth it for that one moment.

Soon.

Up ahead paths cross. So brief, yet so important. Every day when the send the signal, the slightest contact is made with a crossing wire. That regular crossing of paths makes the whole arrangement bareable. The anticipation, the potential and the thrill of the captured attention.

One day, our paths could run together.

Documentary on giants.

"It's been almost a decade since the first giants came down from the Himalayas now and integrated into our society. Tonight, we examine their impact on our world and ask: can we really keep sustaining more of these people?"

Giants came from underground after a catastrphic event forced them to the surface. For the first couple of years they travelled the world locating burried pockets of other giants and releasing them from hibernation.

Now they take on work previously undertaken by machines. Industrial excavation, working as cranes in docks and building sites, transporting large objects.

Some of them have been more creative in their approach to employment, offering themselves as a unique form of transport, theme park attraction or living sculpture.

But the amount of food they require has created a vast job market in itself. The wor'd resources are being streteched to their limit.

Darwinists are arguing that these giants are against nature. Without their devised method of hibernation, allowing them to sleep for thousands of years at a time without sustinance, they should have died out before humans became dominant.

Idea for music video spoof:

Violently Cheerful

Camera follows singer around. Sing punctuates lines with acts of random violence.

"The Sun is shining,
and I'm violently cheerful.
People all around me,
are a little bit fearful.

What's with all the people
who do nothing but frown?

Smile you grumpy bastard
or I'll knock you out
Smile you miserable sod
or I'll put you down

Cos it's
Such

A beautiful daaaaaaaay!"


-Break into silhoetted ipod style violence montage.
-repeat verse & chorus with montage of "beautiful day" shots: sniffing flowers, running fingers through corn etc...
-end on camera pulling out to reveal a wake of devastation

Seven young children inveted a game. They played it for years to come. Others joined, they came and went. But the game belonged to the seven.

Take the ball. Run. Throw. Run. Catch. Score. Wait. Tag. Run. Bounce, bounce, bounce.

As they grew up, the game became more important. When the world became too much, there was the game. When love ended, there was the game. When times were hard, there was the game. When people died.

But when jealousy came into the group, the game broke. Suspicion and envy took root. Rules were forgotten. Violence gripped the players. The ball was lost.

And now the ball sits beside a rail. Dirty, discarded and deflating. If any of the seven were to see the ball now, years later, it would reduce them to tears.

That tainted symbol of innocence thrown away.

Shapes were invented very quickly after vision became popular.

The first few that gained sight didn't mind so much the blurry-greyness that surrounded them. The constant shift between light and dark was a thrill beyond comparison and when they created colour, well that was it! Job Done.

But as vision became more accesible and available to a wider audience, demands were soon being made. They wanted to use their new found sense to look at something. Anything.

So the leaders met and brainstormed. Many ideas came and went, but nothing really inoovitive.

It wasn't until someone tried to describe how objects should look, according to what their hands told them, that new words came into use.

Square. Circle. Triangle.

That was it! These new words had pattern to them, they had shape.

It only took a few weeks for the first prototype shapes to be rolled out. In very little time at all, they were combinded, increased, complicated, reduced, refined, simplified, compared and generally larked about with. The world became full of stuff.

And that seemed to please everyone.

Each footfall is pronounced with a distinctive click of the heel or jangle of instruments vital to his trade. Leather creaks on every confident swing of his leg, an easy swagger punctuated with menace. A symphony of deadly purpose.

There is no doubt. Each of them reek of fear. They are many and he is one, but doesn't ease their anxiety. He is so... sure. Panic is hanging thick in the air, a dense mist clouding vision. And judgement.

He draws a knife, the first of many. Beads of condensation cling to the steel, the evapourated sweat of terror drawn inexorably towards fate itself.

It be nigh on ten year since I made that deal.

I bin at sea e'er since.

If I could back an say t my young self, say "Jake lad! Don't be a fool! Ye just stick t what ye know and ye'll do right", it'd be none different. Har! I was never one to take no advice an' I wouldn' be avin none of it from an ole cripple like meself!

Nay, nay. The damage be done, and the damage was always gonna be done. I done it to meself with me cock sure gamblin an showin off te all the lads. It was a fall I was destined to take an I took it hard.

Me lesson be well an truely learned. All I can do now is wait it out. See if that harpie comes back to me with me arms an legs an gives me another chance.

She sure was a beauty.

No one eats anymore, they just chew that damned space-gum 24/7. Chew chew chew. What good's it doin em? Look at them, paper thin!

And what's it done to the streets? It's getting so a guy can't find a decent meal round town anymore. No one's interested in real food no more. What about all us normal types what appreciates a mouthful o steak or some real salty chips? Why don't they cater fer us no more?

God damn pretos comin here with all their fancy gadgets, preaching to us about "a better life" and "a higher plane". Tch! No one asked em to come here with all that crap, it's a damn imposition that's what it is! They've landed on our rock and sapped our culture right out of us! Turnin us into them! That's what they're doin with their damned space-gum!

I cried at the carvery.

Well, not in the carvery, but in the car outside.

Sometimes, trying to stick to your own morals can be humiliating. Here's the story...

We were walking in Rothbury around New Year's Eve time last year. It's a weird family thing. They all do a lot of walking but the week between Christmas and NYE is the one time of year that walking is mandatory.

So we went up a few hills and the snow was pretty thick. It was heading towards another blizzard by the time we cam back down. Had a pretty good time of it but we were all very cold, tired and hungry. Ever felt that special combination of the three when you've been outside for long periods of time? You're not ready to fall asleep, but just weary and the prospect of food in a warm pub is highly anticipated.

But then the sting. It was a carvery. Now my folks aren't to blame as such. Yes they booked it in advance, and no one had told me it was a carvery, but they always take me into account and went on the assumption there'd be a veggie option.

I had my reserves. This was at the point days before my "official" start of being a vegan. Things in the food world were... sensitive.

So we got sat down and began ordering. You had to approach the counter and tell them what to fill your plate with. I stood up last so there was quite a queue in front of me. From where I was standing I couldn't see much, but what I could see was largely meat.

My turn came around.

"Can I have the veggie dinner please?" I said, thumbing to a sign next to me with the options written on.

The cook frowned. A large, greasy hairy man covered in various stains, all in the spectrum of brown.

"You shudda asked in advance." He offered, already busying himself on the next customer. "We're gonna have to cook some fer ye".

"How long will that take?"

He shrugged, not even looking at me.

"20 minutes? Half an hour?"

I looked around. My family and everyone else were already tucking in. Plates full of steaming vegetables, gravy and whatever meat they chose. In twenty minutes they'd be finished.

I had a choice. Wait the twenty minutes and start my dinner once everyone else was getting ready to leave, putting myself once again squarely under the spotlight with my diet, or go without.

I went without.

I sat back at the table. My parents quickly asked where mine was. I said they had nothing on, I'd have to wait. I said I wasn't really bothered.

They offered some consolations and tried to offer me some veggies off their plates. It all got to me too much.

"I'll wait in the car." I mumbled and scurried out.

I bought what I could from the co-op: some salt and pepper cashews and a fruit salad. The cashews had whey powder in them.

I cried.

"My name is Freddie Jameson. I am thirteen years old. I have been working for the Justice Division for three years. My father is the man they are experimenting on"

These words changed history. When Freddie revealed himself to the world, companies were brought to their knees. Sponsors, merchandisers, film studios. Anyone that had endorsed the hero culture built over the previous twenty years had to quickly justify their motives. The Justice Division itself was put under immediate investigation. But when Freddie died, that's when it all truely ended.

Sitting in a cafe in Blyth. Rain outside. Black coffee, beans on toast. Toast is buttered. The plates are old, faded. Coffee cup is small, comes on a saucer.

Creaky brown tables with matching chairs. Air smells greasy, stale.

I sit next to the window, alone. Menu is leather-bound.

Tick.... tock.....

Slower than seconds. The weary arm swings lazily between its two eternal stops, sorting time into neat chunks and piling them onto the past.

The room is dead. Stubborn dust hangs thick, choking the air and shoving around tired, recycled light.

There they sit, framing the clock. Still and silent, ancient as tortoises in their arm-chair shells. They don't move anymore. Their concentration is at its limit. Between their dead-locked gaze the battle rages on an invisible plane.

Frail hands grip the peeling wood. Marks in the cracked varnish record where finger nails have dug in younger, more desperate times. The broken and burnt futniture filling the room around the old men remembers a time of physical fighting.

But no more. Now one vies for control of the other, and the war is a matter of will.

Defeat will fall on the first to succumb to age.

See the cleft in the rambling hillsmen.
Left. Right.
Here is my soul. I give you these seeds.

Leave it behind and avoid your doubters.
Numerous chances.
Time will tell. Watch the rise.

A man so purely evil.

He has a conscious. He know what is right and what is wrong. He uses it as an anvil to hammer out his corruption and thrust it into the world with white hot fury.

Others can be called evil, but they do not compare. Their schemes are motivated by petty greed or jealousy.

This man commits horrific acts of violence purely because it is wrong.

He has no ego. He has no vice. Destruction is his only purpose.

I did it!

They all called me mad! Insane they said! But I showed them! I showed them all!

Microwave. Peanuts. Raisens. Soya Milk. Chocolate Spread.

You can't know my joy.

Girls don't like.

Girls don't like things I pretend they do.
My clothes don't impress. My hair is nothing special.
I talk like I'm drunk. I talk mainly about myself.
They don't care that I'm a vegan. My opinion has no impact.
When I stare off into space and pretend I'm thinking, they don't like that.
If I tried to play the troubled artist they'd like me even less.
Trying to prove I'm different, just be sitting quietly has no effect.
I tell myself I'm interesting but girls would never agree.

There's a poem in here somewhere!

The story of the haunters.

A train shoots down the tunnel every night for one man. This is not a real train. This train carries the dead on an endless journey. Pale faces staring out of the windows at the same station night after night, year after year.

They come for one man.

He is living, but they want him. They need him.

He sees the faces. Every night, waiting to go home, he sees them. No one else notices the ghastly carriage screaming past, between worlds. He has learnt to control his fear others don't question him, but the terror feels just as fresh whenever the oncoming wind takes on that unearthly chill.

He has spotted her. One of the pale faces has features. She does not wail like the others, she just stares sadly out at him, hands pressed against the window. How did she end up traveling the eternal rail with the faceless horrors screaming through the night?

Idea for evil creature thingy:

A meteor falls to earth. Inside is near-microscopic creature and some black goop. The black goop spreads a highlycontagious virus. The infected are only weakened to begin with, giving them time to spread the virus.

In the later stages, the victim is slowly decomposed, turning into the same black goop.

The goop is a concentrated form of nutrients essential to the organism in the meteor. The creature uses the black goop in a form of photosynthisis to generate eletricity to stimulate the goop into movement.

As more people are infected, more goop is created and the creature grows in mass.

This was time-travel?

Everything was bright. Nothing seemed solid. People were faint trails in the air, featureless and grey. Cars were vivid streaks of light flashing in and out of existance. Buildings were more nrormal. Solid blocks of darkness. The occasional detail was visible on one or two shop fronts.

"Do you understand?"

Not yet. It was dawning slowly but took a moment to grasp it.

There! A tree, standing at the edge of the park. The tree was vibrant. Though only brown, the colour shone through the mist like a beacon. Form and detail streamed up its trunk. Individual fragments of bark stood out in perfect clarity.

"Yes."

No.

This wasn't time travel, this was merely watching time itself. A living picture of the last centuary. People and buildings coming and going, rising and falling. Colour seeping into itself forming the all encompassing grey fog. Only things which at stood longest were clear.

Turn it off!
Shut it down!
No more questions please.
Take it out!
Change it over!
Let me think in peace.

Peace.

Calm, quiet, no more of this.
Happy, content, let me live the dream.

I Know Nothing

What was the calling?
When did it pass by?
I scrape, scratch and scramble,
At dreams that were never mine.

Talent is for the gifted,
The blissfully arrogant few.
The other all have comfort,
They don't care what they do.

But I am in the middle,
I have neither gift nor grace.
People rise all around me,
They leave me with no space.

Despite all I have learnt,
I seem to have no options.
Relentless introspection,
Tells me I Know Nothing.

We are all fucking monsters. Each and every one of us. Don't let anyone tell you any different.

We are a selfish, violent, hideous blight on the planet tearing it apart for our own needs.

Think I'm wrong?

Go into a shop. What do you see? Chocolate made from the milk forced out of the tit of a cow wishing it was dead. Cakes made with eggs taken from hens locked in tiny cages or given a tiny bit of space to stretch their wings in so they can be labled "free range" for those with paper thin morals. And what else is in the shop? Meat. Refigerated pre-packaged...

Meat.

Skinned, sliced and boned for your convenience. No need to worry, death has been removed from the equation for you. You are free to chew on any piece of carcass from your chosen animal without having to go through the emotional turmoil of seeing it die in front of you. It was probably killed humanely anyway. As far as you know.

You idiot. You heartless bastard. There are murderers with more scruples than you. At least they have confronted death head on, they were not afraid to do their own work. How the fuck can killing by any method be called humane? You cower behind your prestigious place in society and you chew that fat.

And now take a step outside the shop. What else do we have?

Concrete! Smothering the land that nutured us for thousands of years! Conditions were carefully balanced for millenia so that we could rise from whichever puddle we originated in and flourish. And now we have decided we own it all. We have chained it and called it our own. It bends to our will and we are killing it.

And ourselves. Look at you with your cigarette. Gasping down the smoke so you can deal with the stress of you modern life. If you don't get that cigarette, then the whole world's going to go shit! You still look like you can walk alright though. Why don't you shovel a few more greasy burgers into your mouth and pile on the pounds before someone accuses you of being healthy.

But do we care about any of this? Of course not. We throw money at various charities to get an occasional fix of good will. We recycle the masses of packaging from our luxury sushi set or just our microwave dinner. We buy organic produce, because that makes us good people.

Give me a justification for any of this. Prove that you are truely detached from reality. Make it all ok.

Monsters. Every fucking one of us.

Went to see Crispin Glover at the Star and Shadow tonight.

It was weird.

The best bit was when he counted to 5.

"You idiot! Don't you know who I work for?!"

J stands mute, still gripping the hilt of the dager tightly.

"Get this thing out of me! What's wrong with you?"

Slowly, keeping his eyes firmly locked onto D's, J pulls the knife back up, freeing D's hand.

"Arrrgh! You're trying to make this hurt more aren't you?"

D holds his hand in the air to slow the bleeding. He steps up to J, snarls, grabs his collar, and yanks down. He tears a strip from J's shirt and falls to the ground, quickly wrapping his hand.

"Fucking idiot"

J kneels down to D's level and studies him silently.

"Don't see why I got to put up with this shit. I only do it for the buzz, I don't need the money"

J calmly grabs D's wrist and moves his arm down to his side.

"What? I'm a little busy here...."

J serenly plunges the dagger between D's ribs. D's expression ripples into stunned confusion. J pulls the knife out and pushes it back into a new hole in D's chest. D gasps, speachless.

J pulls the knife out a last time and stands. He paces around D, frozen in shock, and plces a hand on his shoulder from behind. Leaning down, without a sound, he lets the knife glide across D's throat.

J takes a step back. He places the knife neatly onto the coffee table. D slumps forward face first. J adjusts the position of the dagger so it lines up more pleasingly with the coasters.

Dead Frequency.

Well. This is difficult. As a fellow aspiring film maker a certain level of professionalism is expected when watching the premiere of a peer's work. Again. This is difficult.

I have to be honest. Dead Frequency was not even ready for a test screening. A premiere, with full red carpet treatment, private bar and black tie dress code was... embarrassing.

The film opened to cheers and applause each time another actor appeared for the first time. Sadly it wasn't long until this good natured self-congratulatory atmosphere descended first to baffled silence, then reserved snickering and by the end, undisguised laughter from large chunks of the audience and I suspect, cast.

Let's try to remain objective.

The premise: a group of vampires have established relatively ordinary lives for themselves as a close-knit group of couples. Most of them work for a local radio station. An agency of hunters has planted a spy in their midst and are closing down on the group. At the same time, a bailiff makes a personal call to a debtor who turns out to be one of the vampires. Most of the drama is centred on one of the recently converted vampires who has her lusty gaze fixed on her creator.

The first downfall of the film as a whole was the script. Aside from weak, expository dialogue, the actual plot was muddled and perhaps would better lend itself to a series of short films rather than a feature. The radio station and the relationships of the characters seemed to inhabit two separate worlds, until they messily collide in a vague are somewhere around the second act. The narrative with the bailiffs is introduced very late in the scenario and when put against the backdrop of the remainder of the story, seems to contrast wildly as a wacky buddy movie following a clumsy pair of adult themed chuckle brothers.

The editing did nothing to clear up the already muddled script. Large swathes of establishing scenes in the first act were given to abstract meanderings as the soundtrack turned to a seemingly musical interpretation of the characters thoughts. We'll come to that in a moment. With our focus on editing, these sections or interludes were thrown roughly together using a combination of overly long shots, repeated footage and some quite tacky fade transitions. In other place throughout the film, editing, even at a basic level, seemed to be abandoned. Characters were left on screen for no real reason well beyond any logical out point. More than one scene would even fade to black. I'm not certain if Dead Frequency was intended for TV, but if it was then space has been given to more than the usual amount of advertising in all the wrong places. There were no dramatic hooks or sudden revelations before any of the breaks, just meaningless dialogue drifting into the dark.

So the soundtrack. Bad.

The film was written around a radio station as a central location. The station was apparently running with the mandate of broadcasting low quality elevator music 24/7 with quite bland and seemingly bewildered presenters. One pseudo-positive comment I could make would be that the soundtrack at least stuck to its own theme. Any non-diegetic music was equally as banal, electronic and poorly constructed. The only difference was that the songs mentioned earlier were given the dubious blessing of additional lyrics, provided by a singer that came across as hesitant to reach any real notes. When these songs were compounded with the featureless montages already described, the overall effect was of watching a music video created by very young children, placed into a film with only a little bit more maturity.

If there were any strong points to the film, they would have to include some of the acting. I can't say it was all great. The delivery of the odd line or lack of response to quite alarming events raised the odd laugh. However, there were one or two strong performances in the face of a lack of direction.

One scene in particular was during a bout of editing fatigue. I suspect during shooting, the actress had been given a vague idea of the conversation she was to have, but no actual lines. The scene had a very ad-libbed tone to it which she pulled of masterfully. For the only time in the film, a comparison to anything else was possible. Whether intentional or not, the essence of banter from a Shane Meadows film was peeking up from under the grime of the murky plot.

The most alarming aspect of the film was the use of sex. As with most vampire fiction, there is always an undercurrent of sex and fetishism. Sadly, 'undercurrent' should be read here as 'raging torrent'. One of the key goals of a major character consists of nothing more than sex. Added to this, she bafflingly stomps about the place with no footwear. Though this is never really addressed, the camera is often drawn back to show us these feet in close up. In the film's outrageous office-based sex scene, we cut to the biggest foot close up yet on the moment of orgasm. Never have I seen a film so openly obsessed with fetish that hasn't marketed itself to a more appreciative audience.

All in all, not good. The plot takes some digging to summarise. Gratuitous sex and nudity. The editing is almost non-existent in places. The soundtrack is appalling. Acting flickers between extremes. I could also go on at length about a lack of lighting, poor camera skills, superfluous breaks in the narrative (other than the musical variety) but I have already ranted far too much to offer a balanced opinion. In short, there is no evidence of directorial ability. Dead Frequency is not a finished film.


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I should note that I wrote this review the night after seeing dead frequency, then lost half of what I wrote after the Internet cut off. In this rewrite I have been a lot more scathing than intended and rambled quite badly. Apologies to anyone this may cause offence to but I assure you my feelings are at least honest.

A warm breeze trickled past his nostrils, distracting him briefly from the job at hand. Flicking his ears and giving the world a quick sideways glance, he lowers his head and goes back to business. Bite, bite, bite, bite. Breathe. Chew, chew, chew. Slowly. That's th way. Make it last. There's a lot of grass in this field, but no point in rushing things.

The breeze plays around his hooves. Something is coming. He harvests a fresh mouthful of grass and flops heavily down, resting in the sun. He gets a steady chew going and watches with infinite patience.

Reflected against his wide-slatted eyes, a figure speeds across the horizon, a silhouette against the evening sky moving at surprising speed. Arms are flailing wildly and legs seem to be only just keeping up with knees being flung forward as if running was achieved through a yo-yo arrangement of limbs.

The figure just kept going, propelled by some inhuman locomotion. Right up until it ran into the only tree on the landscape. The was a moment of staggering confusion, but the runner's body took control before the head caught up and was already accelerating jerkily in a new direction.

Being an empty field exlcuding its thoughtful grazer, and having already hit the only tree for miles, it seemed very unlikely that the runner would encounter any more obstacles. Still, ten minutes later, the runner regained conciousness with a face full of very angry goat's arse.

Tangled!

That's more like it! Been a long time since we've had a good romp!

Really promising opening to this one: lots of narration and quick exposition to get us into the story and leave plenty time later for mucking about. Also helps to remind you that you're watching Disney do what the do best- telling us a fairytale.

Some really great animation more in the vein of Hercules and other more recent outings, with Maximus the horse being a great example of Disney's personified animals.

There are a few weak points however. In the tradition of the company's other features, Tangled is a musical... or tries to be. There are one or two really great stand out numbers, "I've got a dream" is immense fun with a horde (literally) of supporting characters taking the forefront. For the most part though, the musical interludes seem to have been created after everything else and forced into the narrative quite roughly. Lyrically, we are faced with quite mundane content littered with teen-friendly americanisms circa 2001. "Like" (as in "Like, no way man...) makes a less than subtle appearance in at least two songs. Ugh!

Narratively, everything is quite straight forward and predictable but that's not meant as a criticism. Disney don't really market themselves as being challanging, they're just telling a simlpe story. It's the characters themselves that keep us interested and constantly offer us surprising amounts of humour or depth.

All in all, Tangled is everything you would expect- a good natured buddy movie with a classic tale at it's heart. It does fall short in some areas and might not impress too much, but it's at least fun.

The King's Speech:

Well it had to happen. Too many films have lived up to their hype recently, one of them had to restore order.

I find it difficult to see what attracts people to this film.

To give it credit, this film meets the expectations of its name. The King does some speaking and that is the focus. There isn't much else going on.

The basic premise is that King George VI has a speech impediment. This is a problem, since he is (or will be) the King. We follow him from a disastrous public appearance through to hs first wartime radio broadcast.

Colin Firth does a brilliant stint as the eponymous monarch with a real sense of internal struggle pushing him through the film. His mentor provides a strong prop throughout but does push us into some very forced humour. Any laughs in this film seem to have been superficially glued on absent mindedly and without regard to flow.

Other characters encountered are shamefully exaggerated caricatures of yet-to-be famous figures (Churchill, QEII, the Queen Mother). Early on, there are some lovely quirks which I suspect were suggestions from the actors. Continuation of these ideas would have been nice but leaving them as brief one-offs without any effect later in the plot left them all sulking in the first act as tacky character definitions.

The biggest let down was liberal application of "emotion". Some very pointed expressions, over-long edits and painful breaks in dialogue (not caused by the central stammer) meant that as an audience, we were being told exactly when we should be sympathetic. Personally, I was left feeling as much sympathy as I could usually muster for a piece of damp cardboard.

The saving grace of the King's Speech is the camera work. From the get go the images themselves are beautifully constructed and wonderfully challenging. This isn't left to tail of like the plot either, throughout the film we are treated to increasingly adventurous angles and greatly artistic photography.

Unfortunately, some of the shots do become quite over-used long after their meaning has been mulled over a few times and I think this sums up the problem with the whole film: it's very arrogant. The plot has some very arrogant characters forcing others to accept their ideals and we are treated in much the same way. We are made to marvel at the great photography. We must accept that the cast are actors from the top of their game. We know this is going to win an award.

At no point are we given any decisions to make. This is a film which struts around with as much pomp as the central figures, and falters as much as its protagonist.

If you roll up the carpet at exactly the right speed, you'll pull open the door to the other place. The floor place. Careful when you step through, eveything is upside down through there. It takes some getting used to. People with faces stuck on the wrong way is always a shock.

Look at him there!

His carefully pressed uniform with the ridiculous hat!

Twirling those sticks, beating that drum. Look at him marching down the road!

Where do you suppose he's going? There's no parade!

Who is he drumming for? Why won't he stop?

He just keeps drumming and marching and marching and drumming.

Is he doing it for fun?

Freddie is pulling desperately at the machine. Marcus is barely conscious as the needle is slowly making its way through his skull. Freddie is crying with effort, straining with all the might he can muster from his scrawny frame. Blood if spilling freely now from his wounded stomach. He lets go of an anguished scream.
The machine gives.
Freddie rips the needle from his dad’s and tosses it away. With a final struggle, he heaves his father from the slab and onto the floor, before collapsing against a wall.
Marcus is starting to come round already, the wound on his head quickly knitting back together. His eyes focus on his son.
MARCUS
Freddie?
Marcus pulls himself over to his son. Strength us already returning to his limbs and his movements quicken.
MARCUS
Freddie!
Freddie is already gone. Blood has soaked through his costume and pooled around his legs. His head lols side to side, his gaze unfocussed. Freddie’s head sinks into his chest. He becomes still.
Marcus gets to his feet and stands over his dead son, blood on his hands. Behind him, the blast doors slide open.

Stephen Brighouse officially went into production today.

It's my first short film and I'm worried about stuffing it full of "themes". I think I run the risk of trying too hard to make it seem intelligent that it's just going to turn out studenty.

It's also time to put my photography skills to the test. Filming this one myself and I've planned it to be a very visual piece. No dialogue at all in fact!

Bout time we started putting out more content though, and this has put me into a very productive mood!

Why am I sitting around playing games? I have films to make!

Gomger is a salad lizard. He can only be found in the rarest of vegetable dishes around the Lincolnshire countrside.

It's no use searching for Gomger, he only appears in front of humans when lettuce supplies are critically low.

Legend has it, that if you catch Gomger and make him obedient, you will become the world's best salad tosser.

I think I know a few people that have come close.

Black Swan! Wow!

Inevitably going to be compared to The Wrestler, but for good reason. A film that draws you into an almost mundane tale of obsession sets up a climax almost overloaded with emotion. Realisations about the character you've been following dawn almost too late and make you want to reach into the screen and tell them not to do what they're about to. We're diving off the turnbuckle again, but this time in a tutu.

Halfway through the film I was feeling cheated. All that hype around the film, coupled with my own high expectations of the director were stinging sharply as I began to tire of family-centric drama and bitchy backstage loner story. There were shocks, some increasing abstraction and a few flourishes that hark back to Pi or Requiem, but for the most part I was felt I'd been presented with another award-friendly character piece.

So by the end, the sheer transformation of the character (literally) was so well placed against the backdrop of an almost everyday story (reflected by the shift in location from grotty apartments and basic dressing rooms to the crowded and brightly lit stage) that it was almost overwhelming.

Natalie Portman can't go without mention here. She plays a character so delicate and frail at the start that following her through her mental deterioration is difficult, especially when Portman takes us through that transformation very gradually and reflects our own fear while she's at it.

In places, the film does sag a bit. The odd line of dialogue bumps clumsily against top performances and as already mentioned, it can leave you wondering where it's all going at points around the second act. However, fans of Aronofsky's previous films will be thrilled to find themselves following a familiar structure steadily increasing frenzy. All those key themes seem to be in place too with obesession firmly in charge yet again. Even the old drugs make a quick appearance, although regrettably without much stylish editing.

All in all, it is not the perfection the titular Black Swan seeks for herself, but still ruffles more than a few emotional feathers. It leaves an impact I suspect will still be felt for weeks after watching.

I wonder whether Aronofsky attacks each film with as much vehemence as his characters chase their own desires.

Been in a foul mood since yesterday evening. I think I'm suffering from a bout of mental flu. You can come down with temporary physical illness so I guess temporary mental illness is fitting too.

I can't find any other explanation for a sudden shift in mood so overwhelmingly shitty. My temper just disintigrated! Normally, I'm quite thick skinned and very patient. Since last night though, I've been over-sensitve and quick to anger.

Usually I can pick myself out of a bad mood fairly sharpish (unless it's one of those low swings that come around once in a while) but at the minute I'm just angry. And there's no real reason to be angry!

I hope this shakes off soon, or someone invents a type of lemsip for it.