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.
Monday 28 February 2011
Sunday 27 February 2011
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.
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.
Saturday 26 February 2011
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.
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.
Friday 25 February 2011
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.
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.
Thursday 24 February 2011
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!
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!
Wednesday 23 February 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday 22 February 2011
"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.
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.
Monday 21 February 2011
Sunday 20 February 2011
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.
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.
Saturday 19 February 2011
Friday 18 February 2011
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.
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.
Thursday 17 February 2011
Wednesday 16 February 2011
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!
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!
Tuesday 15 February 2011
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?
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?
Monday 14 February 2011
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.
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.
Sunday 13 February 2011
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.
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.
Saturday 12 February 2011
Friday 11 February 2011
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.
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.
Thursday 10 February 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday 9 February 2011
Tuesday 8 February 2011
"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.
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.
Monday 7 February 2011
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.
___________________________________
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.
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.
___________________________________
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.
Sunday 6 February 2011
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.
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.
Saturday 5 February 2011
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.
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.
Friday 4 February 2011
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.
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.
Thursday 3 February 2011
Wednesday 2 February 2011
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?
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?
Tuesday 1 February 2011
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.
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.
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