The Colorado Movie Tragedy

Today, the world of cinema changed forever. And it really fucking sucks.

What was once holy ground for cinema-lovers, and has been for over a century, has now been tainted  by the mindless, cruel and downright abhorrent actions of one hideous, hideous man.

The tragedy of the whole event goes beyond what words can describe. I’m sitting here trying to write, and words are simply failing me. That rarely happens.

This is a tragedy which strikes us on multiple levels. As movie lovers, as parents, as children, as brothers and sisters, as partners, but on a more primal level, as human beings. But it is one we have to overcome.

There’s talk of people being too afraid to go back to the cinema. Of it no longer feeling a safe place. This talk needs to stop. Cinema needs to prevail. It needs to continue. It needs to live.

These victims were people who had queued up, bought tickets weeks in advance, so excited were they by the prospect of seeing this movie which has been so anticipated for four long, long years. We need to take this to heart. These were movie lovers. They loved the cinema. And so do we.

To let this bastard’s actions taint the purity of cinema is to let him win, in simple terms. I can’t think of a more succinct way to put it. I could ramble on about gun control law and how fucking insane it is (particularly considering that it’s legal for pretty much anyone in the USA to own a gun but not for a person of the same sex to marry another person of the same sex), but this isn’t a time to stand on my soap box. This is a time for me, and us, to unite in the loss of movie-lovers. These were our people.

My thoughts are with all of the victims, both living and deceased, and of course their families. But please, please, do not let this scare you away from the cinema. It’s our home. It’s where we go to escape. To elope. To run away to fantasy worlds, and to jump back and reflect on reality. It is not a human right to own a gun, but is a human right to be able to go into a cinema, and come back out alive. It’s simple. We can’t let that change. 

Where Do All Bad Girls Come From?

After the massive response to Kay’s bad boys feature, it got me thinking about bad girls, and I noticed an opposite pattern emerging. While all bad boys may come from Britain, it doesn’t seem to be the case for female villains.

Let’s have a look at some of the more famous female screen villain’s. Kathy Bates terrifying mallet wielder from Misery – American. Fatal Attraction’s Alex Forrest, as played by Glenn Close – American. Meryl Streep’s bitch editor, Miranda Priestley – American. The Dark Knight Rises’ Catwoman (and, for that matter, Batman Returns Catwoman) – American.

Of course, as with all men being British, this seems to be the rule, not the exception. So why exactly is it? Well, for a start, British male actor’s seem to have more success across the pond than actresses (unless they’re Judi Dench or Maggie Smith, and any film with them as villains is a movie I would pay good money to see). The recent Snow White & The Huntsman saw Charlize Theron (who, for the record, I love), playing an evil queen with a british accent. Would it have been so hard to cast a Brit in the role?
English actresses seem to play the romantic interests, the ‘english rose’, and when that’s whats in demand, whose to blame them. I’ve no doubt that Emily Blunt or Kate Winslet would relish the opportunity to play a super bitch, they just haven’t found the right opportunity. Imagine, for a moment, Kate Winslet as a vampy, bitchy evil queen with men falling at her feet. Emma Thompson as a pistol-toting super spy. Hell, I’d even take Victoria Wood chasing after some pure white trash with a chainsaw. The fact is though, the roles just aren’t there.

Then of course there’s the fact that there are less opportunities for female villains, and those that are there have pretty much been eaten up by Helena Bonham Carter (who, of course, is british. Perhaps she should spread the parts about a bit more? We’ve seen her do crazy more than enough times, it’s time to give some of the other girls a go.)

Come on Hollywood, isn’t it time some of our british girls got a chance at playing the big bad?

GUEST POST: Are English Accents Really Evil?

Recently my friend, Kay Dekker, whom I went to uni with and who recently joined me as a write on the Lost In The Multiplex team, asked if she could be a guest writer for the blog. Seeing as I’m lazy and rarely have the time to write anything for the blog myself, I of course took her up on the offer. No mission statements. No briefs. No word limit.

Picture this, there’s a new blockbuster just released at the cinema. It’s a typical good versus bad guy story and you’re pretty sure the good guys are going to win, so you’re not expecting many surprises. The thing that really takes your interest is the bad guy. Is he going to be close to the good guy? Will he have some sort of secret power? In what way is he going to be different to the thousands of other evil characters that have come before him? I’ll tell you one thing that probably won’t be different. The bad guy, evil dictator or crafty villain, he’s going to be English.

Take a second and think about the four biggest films that have come or are coming out this year. The Avengers, The Dark Knight Rises, Star Trek and The Hobbit. Now what do these four films all have in common? The Avengers has Tom Hiddleston, TDKR has Tom Hardy, while Star Trek and The Hobbit both have Benedict Cumberbatch. That’s right. English Villains.

Take the character of Loki from The Avengers and Thor. Tom Hiddleston was cast thanks to the persuasiveness and dedication of Sir Kenneth Branagh. The pair knew each other after working on the BBC show Wallander and Branagh suggested Hiddleston audition. Hiddleston did, however he did so for the role of Thor. Branagh immediately stepped in and gave him the part of the mischievous Loki. But would the film have been as good, or made a similar impact in the Marvel world, if the roles were reversed? What would have happened if Thor had been English and Loki was a posh American? It would have totally messed up the films equilibrium right?

But why?

The fact of the matter is, villains need to be English in order to sound truly menacing. During my English Language A Level, I undertook a project that looked into the speech patterns of villains in film and television. The villains I studied were Voldemort from Harry Potter and Sylar from Heroes, two fairly different characters but with many parallels. I discovered that both spoke softly and slowly when talking normally, similar to Loki. This makes them sound knowledgeable, in control and aware of their surroundings. When they became angry their controlling voices became louder and more menacing. They forced attention and respect. Although Sylar was American his speech patterns were astonishingly similar to a typical English villain. He could have easily been cast English, but had he made his accent sound any more American, it would have ruined the whole tone of the character.

But what is it that makes the English accent the go-to choice for villains in film? Is it the politeness? Is a polite villain a scary villain? (Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter immediately springs to mind.) Or is it that the largest audience for films, Americans, find the English accent evil?

It’s a difficult question to answer, and I doubt there is any real reason to this typecast. For the moment it seems to be working, so I guess there is nothing else we can do except to accept the fact that anyone with an English accent in film is going to be the bad guy.

(Note- I LOVE BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH I LOVE TOM HIDDLESTON)

Nora Ephron, Thankyou

I’ve been a film lover for as long as I can remember, and for almost as long as that, I’ve been a fan of Nora Ephron.

Sleepless In Seattle is one of the first movies I can clearly remember not just watching, but loving, as a child. Silkwood was the first movie I watched with Cher in it, and being a lifetime of devotee of Cher, that was a pretty big deal. You’ve Got Mail was one of the first films my family got on DVD, so naturally it was watched approximately a million times. Julie & Julia was one of the few movies I allowed myself to go and see at the cinema in my third year of university despite the fact that I had a)no time and b)no money. Nora’s always been there, whether I knew it or not, and now she’s gone. She is linked with my childhood, my teen years, and my adult life.

What made her so special? Was it the fact that she was a woman in a man’s world and had to work that much harder for her success? I don’t think so. That’s what’ll come up in every obituary and feature written on her over the next few days, but that wasn’t her defining accomplishment. For me, it was her warmth, her humour, the ease with which she took to so many different skills, the effortlessness with which she displayed her craft.

Her films are comfortable, warm snuggly hugs on a cold day when the world’s getting you down. To me, they’re the film equivalent of comfort food. I know, no matter how crappy I’m feeling, I can put one of her films in the DVD player and I will instantly feel better, despite the fact that Meg Ryan is bound to be in it. (I have a completely unfair and unjustified hatred of Meg Ryan which I have never been able to describe but which has always filled me with bile. I inherited this from my mother. ) They’re not all perfect, and some of them have pretty major flaws, but I don’t care. I loved them, and they’re there when I need them. That’s all that matters to me.

There’s so much that I want to say in this, but really, I think to realise what we’ve lost, all you have to do is go and watch any of her films. You’ll immediately feel a warm glow somewhere deep inside your tummy, and a smile will slowly creep across your face. The easy music will wash over you, the performances will make you laugh, the locations will make you envious. Then you’ll realise, the woman that managed to do that to you is no longer with us. That’s what we’ve lost. That indescribable cuddle from a woman we never met.

A L I E N

With the release of Prometheus fast approaching, I recently treated myself to the Alien Anthology on Blu-Ray in order to write a complete retrospective of the series before the release of aforementioned film.

Now, naturally, I have left things to the last minute. The film is released in less than 24 hours. Pat on the back for Matt. However, I will still attempt to write a series of reviews/ponderings on each of the four films, beginning with, of course, ALIEN. Seemed like the best place to begin, to be honest. This one, at least, will be finished before Prometheus is released, however momentarily, and that, of course, is what really matters, seeing as this is the most closely related film in the series, sharing a director.

First things first. The blu-ray looks fucking stunning. That’s the only way it can be put. The film is twenty years older than I am, and it puts me to shame. The image is to die for, as is the soundtrack. Heaven. There’s no dialogue in the film for almost seven minutes, and when someone eventually did speak I found myself willing them to shut up so that I could continue just staring at the wonderment on screen.

It’s difficult to describe my love of ALIEN and it’s successive films. It’s a bit of an inner conflict I have with myself. I’m utterly terrified of anything even remotely scary, dark or generally aggressive. (I genuinely thought I was going to die whilst viewing Harry Potter & The Chamber Of Secrets at the cinema, for instance. You have no idea how much I wish that were a joke.) When it comes to ALIEN, however, I can’t get enough. I find myself wanting to be terrified. I am in love with the xenomorph. It’s a thing of sheer, visceral, glistening beauty.

It always surprises me when coming back to the first film in the series just how little we actually see the titular alien. It’s a masterclass in ‘less is more’, Scott gives the beast as little screen time as possible, and the movie is all the better for it. What we do see of it is utterly terrifying, and it truly is one of cinema’s greatest creations. Scott shoots it in a way that makes it seem incredibly acrobatic, flexible and, well, alien, and it’s very rare that it resembles anything even close to human looking, a remarkable achievement considering at the end of the day it’s just a tall dude in a suit with a very big hat on.

Upon this viewing, I started wondering who the real monster of the piece is. Now, of course, we know that underpinning the whole series are the mega bastard villains that are Weyland-Yutani, but the character I found scariest in ALIEN for sheer creep factor is Ian Holm’s Ash. His passivity and aloofness are chilling, particularly in the infamous chestburster scene. He is the last to react when the hideous, screeching mini-cock erupts from John Hurt’s chest, and there’s a glint of glee in his eyes as he see’s the payload appear. Remember, at this point, we don’t know he’s a bucket of bolts. To all intents and purposes, this is a human being failing to react when a man’s ribs are torn open and blood is sprayed all across dinner. Spine-chilling. (Sidenote: My notes from watching the film regarding the chestburster scene simply state FUCKING HORRIFIC. Useful notes.)

ALIEN is a film which blurs the genre’s. There are moments of sheer horror – the alien unravelling from the chains floating above, it’s arm jerking out at Ripley on the escape pod, and moments like these genuinely give you a jolt. It masterfully handles the sci-fi genre, giving it a gritty, dark, slimy edge. Where it excels, however, is as a thriller. The search for the escaped facehugger, devoid of soundtrack and dialogue, is unbearably tense. Ripley’s attempts to first start the self-destruct sequence, and then deactivate it, all while being chased by an acid slobbering monkey and carrying a fucking cat, are heart-stopping. This is Ridley Scott at his absolute best. The empty corridors. The flashing lights. I honestly don’t think he’s ever topped this movie. I’m sure most will disagree, but hey.

Of course, an article about the genius of ALIEN would be incomplete without a mention of it’s reluctant heroine, Ellen Ripley. Weaver, then an unknown, is an absolute revelation in the role, transforming from a stickler for the rules (her refusal to breach quarantine) into a suited and booted xenomorph destroyer is nothing short of wondrous, especially considering that for a good portion of the film, it’s her and her alone on screen. This, however, is not the film where she becomes action hero. The final scene, where she slowly clambers into the suit, is perfectly acted by Weaver, and if Scott had been going for absolute realism, the back of her trousers would surely have been shit stained. The fear felt by Ripley is palpable in a way rarely seen on screen, and I struggle to think of a more gut-wrenching moment than when she slowly croaks ‘You are my lucky star’ over and over. Seriously. It creeps me the fuck out. Her repeating that chorus is the stuff of nightmares.

As for the other characters, they’re a sparsely written, but well cared for bunch. In just a few brief scenes at the beginning, we feel a sense of camraderie, even if it is fractured. The actors are good, but this is really the Weaver and Alien show. (I will say, however, that the character of Lambert is one of the most annoying creations I have ever come across. Every time she opens her mouth, I want to shove my fist down her throat, but then I suppose she reacts exactly how anyone put in that position would, so props to Veronica Cartwright for that. Even if I do have to repress a cheer when the bitch gets killed).

ALIEN is one of those rare things – it’s a classic which actually lives up to the legend that precedes it. It began an entire mythology, it redefined horror, sci-fi and the thriller, and it created not only one of the greatest screen villains, but also one of the greatest screen heroines to combat it, in cinematic history. I’ve tried time and again to pick fault with it, and I simply can’t. There’s the odd dodgy effects shot, and poor old Ian Holm looks more like Derek Jacobi once his head gets caved in, but that is purely down to the age of the thing, and in my book, only endears the movie more to me. I rarely call a film perfect, but this might just be that.

30 Rock, or, When Good Shows Get No Appreciation

Once again, I venture outside of the stated topic zone of this blog, and today we find ourselves settling on the world of television. 

After a whole season of worrying that my favourite show, 30 Rock, was going to get cancelled, it was announced that it had been…kind of renewed. A thirteen episode final season. Fans are in uproar, devastated, as they are when anything gets cancelled. 

Me? I’m just grateful the show got renewed at all. Viewing figures had plummeted to an all time low, and a large part of me can see why. This season has been brilliant, a real return to form in my opinion. As for Season 5, however? Those were some dark days. Couple a poor last season with the fact that it changed broadcast seasons due to Fey’s pregnancy, and ratings were bound to dwindle. I get the feeling Fey was aware of this, seeing as this last season has been so batshit insane and bloody fantastic that it seems as though she’s stopped caring what people think, which is exactly when she is at her best. 

I’m over the moon that it’s been renewed, if only for a final farewell, because it felt very possible to me that NBC could just cancel it, and that would be that. At least this way we get to say goodbye to characters who, while on the whole are obnoxious and hideous, we love for some reason. The vile Jenna Maroney, the ridiculous Tracey Jordan, the pathetic J.D. Lutz. 

It remains a mystery to me why 30 Rock has never been more of a hit. Sure it did well with critics, but this was a sitcom which was ridiculous, with it’s fair share of pratfalls and slip-ups, as well as smart and endearing. Fey’s sense of humour knows no limits – after star Tracey Morgan made a cock-up of massive proportions in slating gay people during his stand up act, Fey released a press statement saying what an idiot he was, and then used it for her show. A special length episode in which Morgan’s character, Tracey Jordan, does the exact same thing, and then when attempting to write an apology writes one to the wrong organisation. 

30 Rock has been a treasure. The fact that it wasn’t a hit over in the UK at all defies logic, seeing as we love ourselves some slapstick mixed with witty repartee, but go figure. I’m just glad I got to see the show at all, and I know it’ll be on I revisit regularly, if not every damn night.  Bravo, Fey and co, and I look forward to seeing just what you can achieve next season now that the boundaries are well and truly out of sight. 

The Problem With The Oscars

Oscar and I have a difficult relationship. Living in the UK without Sky makes it nigh on impossible to watch the ceremony live, and as a film obsessed night-owl, this doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t want to see it the next day, I want to see it as it happens. So, inevitably, I end up trawling the internet for a live stream, which usually isn’t a problem. The livestream will work for three quarters of the ceremony without bother. Just as Oscar brings out the big guns, however, the Academy decide to close every single livestream. It’s like taking candy from a child. So I end up frantically searching for other streams while instead I should be hearing Natalie Portman tell us how fabulous the Best Actor nominees are just to make them feel a little better when Jean Dujardin inevitably wins. Oscar is punishing me for loving films.

Enough about my problems, anyway. How did I find the ceremony? It was an improvement on last year, that’s for sure. Billy Crystal, while not astounding or innovative in any sense of the word, was a safe choice, which is no bad thing when the last few years have been fairly painful to watch. Cirque De Soleil were alright, as were the montages where the stars described how film made them feel, the first movie they saw. It was time which could have been used in a better way however, specifically by letting us see the Muppets perform their nominated (and winning) song, as well as Rio’s Best Song contender.

It was nice to see Hugo win it’s fair share of awards, even if they were technical. Hugo is a film I have a soft spot for, and I actually much prefer it to The Artist, particularly when it comes to films which are a ‘love letter to cinema’, as both have been described by anyone who can put pen to paper. Do I like The Artist? Sure. Do I think it’s deserved every award under the sun? I’m not so sure about that. It feels as though, once again, the Academy have opted for the safe choice, the one which they think people want to win. A bit like Crash.

There have been a lot of comments about Queen Meryl’s triumph, mainly people saying ‘Oh so Meryl wins AGAIN’. I take issue with this. Meryl already has two Oscars, that much is true. Before last night, however, she had not won for 30 years. Three decades. Considering the number of times she has been nominated, that’s a fairly low success rate. Her performance in The Iron Lady, regardless of the quality of the film itself, is simply astonishing. I would have been equally happy had Glenn Close won. Her performance in Albert Nobbs is truly wonderful, full of nuance and subtly beautiful.

Lows of the ceremony? Billy Crystal’s scripted moments were slow, painful and altogether not that funny. When he began ad-libbing and became a little more at ease, he was good. Before that, no. Just no. J.Lo’s nip slip was simply depressing, and how no-one noticed it before she walked on stage defies logic seeing as the dress was so tight she looked like a sausage. I wasn’t a fan of Robert Downey Jr and Gwyneth, but everyone else seemed to be so I’ll put that one down to personal preference. The biggest low, however, was having to watch it along with Alex Zane and the simply insufferable Nick Moran, who I have no been able to form an informed opinion of, and who is, as it turns out, a complete cock.

Highlights of the ceremony, then? Christopher Guest’s focus group skit was a joy to watch, it was almost like a mini For Your Consideration sequel and that’s never a bad thing. Emma Stone was hilarious, adorable and generally all of the things we expect Emma Stone to be, and she made Ben Stiller look like a grey haired schoolboy stood next to her, so that was an added bonus. Christopher Plummer’s acceptance speech was beautifully funny and sincere, and the man couldn’t be more deserving. The In Memoriam was tastefully done, as always. It’s a constant surprise how many we’ve lost in the last year, but we lost a few true greats in the past 12 months.

The problems which blighted the Oscars this year are the problems which blight it every year. It’s too set in it’s ways, too afraid to offend. There is no better feeling than when the Oscars truly shocks us, like when Kathryn Bigelow snaffled Best Picture for The Hurt Locker from her tosspot ex-husband James Cameron and his wet dream, Avatar. I’m not saying The Artist isn’t a good film, it’s just not a truly great one, and it certainly wasn’t what I consider to be the best from the Best Picture nominees. This was going to be a bad year for me anyway, I suppose. I was pissed off from the moment they overlooked Tilda Swinton for her stunning turn in We Need To Talk About Kevin. For what has been a pretty stunning year for cinema, we ended up with a painfully middle of the road Oscars.

Every year, I get myself excited about the Oscars. This will be the year of change, I tell myself. This will be the year the right stuff wins, Oscar will shake himself out of his fuddy-duddyness and come striding into the modern age. And every year I’m wrong. Whoever they choose to host is irrelevant, instead of focussing on catching the right demographic and faffing about with the next big thing hosting the show, they need to look to their voters, and ask themselves why the boring choice is the winning choice, 95% of the time. Cinema is daring, exciting, provocative, and the Oscar’s just…isn’t.

What It Means To Be A Writer

It’s a question often asked of writers, mostly, I find, by themselves. Allow me, if you will, to digress from the original mission statement of this blog, and to talk for a little while on what being a writer means to me.

 

I’m 22 years old. I’ve not long graduated from university, with a degree in Creative Writing and English Literature. I didn’t do amazing things at university. I wrote a few interesting bits here and there, but what I mainly got out of the whole experience was a chance to escape from home. I should have grabbed the opportunity with both hands, learnt all I could from the amazing lecturers I had (one of whom, the fabulous Mimi Thebo, can be found here). I regret missing the opportunity, sure, but there’s no point in looking back. All I can do is move forward.

 

I currently write this blog (intermittently, as you can well see), as well as writing for a movie website (www.lostinthemultiplex.com) a lot less than I should be, and at the same time trying to get somewhere with the novel I started writing in my third year. It sounds like I’m doing an awful lot, but I’m not. I’m not doing anywhere near as much as I should be. I’m currently working two part time jobs, one in a call centre, which is, for lack of a better expression, completely soul destroying, and one in retail, in a shop I adore. Even though these are both part time, I find myself so exhausted by the time that I get home, that it takes all my strength to rise from the sofa and do some writing.

 

And this kills me.

 

A few years ago, a thought strayed across my mind, from nowhere, and a feeling of absolute fear took over my body. I thought of myself in twenty years, unable to write. I don’t mean physically unable to write, just without the time, or the facility, to write. I can’t think of anything worse, I simply can’t. To me, that is what it means to be a writer.

 

Even though I so rarely put pen to paper, or finger to keyboard as it were, I am constantly writing. I frequently go out for cigarettes (I know, I’m trying to quit) at 2 or 3 in the morning, and my head is racing with ideas. I’m constructing sentences, hell, whole paragraphs, of my novel in my head. Dialogue is so easy to write in my head, and yet so difficult to put down in words. I need to get a dictaphone. The great tragedy of this though, is of course that none of this ever gets written. It remains in my head, and that destroys me a little bit. I have written fantastic paragraphs, invented interesting, unique plots, and not even I, let alone the world, will ever see them. It may not be a loss to the world, but to me, it’s a tragedy.

 

Every now and then I’ll write a few thousand words here and there, and give myself a little pat on the back. It’s not enough, and I know it isn’t. But a part of me has resigned myself to the fact that writing will more than likely become a hobby, rather than an aspiration. I’m okay with that, I think.

 

Since I was very, very young, my mind has been racing with these ideas for stories, characters have appeared fully formed in my head. The fact that I have managed to even get a tenth of those onto paper fills me with joy. Even if nobody else ever sees them, I at least have the knowledge that they are there. Would I like to become a proper writer(whatever that is)? Of course I would. I want it more than anything in this world. I’m my own worst enemy though. If I don’t write, then how the hell can I ever expect to be a writer.

 

I call myself a writer, but am I one? A large part of me feels as though I’m simply masquerading in a writer’s clothes.

 

And the self pity ends…..here!

Cinematic Flickbook – Birthday Movies Over The Years

So, today is my 22^nd birthday, and I thought I would mark it by taking a look back at some of the films I have seen for my birthday. The only thing I ever wanted to do from a very young age to celebrate my birthday was go to the cinema, but the films I’ve seen to commemorate my passage from young awkward boy to young awkward man are an odd bunch of mainly awful blimps on the screen. I blame this on the time of year – by the time October comes around, there are none of the award grabbers or the blockbusters, just the waifs and strays. I’ve been looking for a film to go and see for my birthday this year and have found myself at a complete stand still, there is nothing I want to see.

For my 9^th, I was welcoming in the new Region 1 DVD player my father had procured, and was bought Lost In Space to watch with friends. I don’t think I’ve watched it again since. My overwhelming memory of the film is Matt Le Blanc being a prat and drawing Bugs Bunny on a steamy window, and being in love with the CGI creation, I think it’s name was Binky? Since seeing that movie, when reading the Harry Potter novels, all I could see when Dobby was on the page was Binky. I was most disappointed when the film came out and he looked nothing like that.

For my 11^th birthday, I forced my father and best friend to come with me to see that marvellous film, The Nutty Professor 2: The Klumps. My main reason for wanting to see it? I really liked the Janet Jackson song that accompanied it. The main excitement factor for me in seeing the film was that the film was a 12 certificate (remember those?!) and I was 11. Oh, what larks.

For my 12^th, I had apparently garnered an interest in actual decent cinema (well, at least a step up from an Eddie Murphy film), and forced both my parents to take me to see Spielberg’s A.I. My parents have never quite forgiven me, and all I remember is being absolutely petrified at the time. Haley Joel Osment is terrifying to an impressionable young child. It struck me recently that the main reason I wanted to see it may not have been the desperate need to see Kubrick through the eyes of Spielberg, but that I had recently developed somewhat of a crush on Jude Law. Oh, to be a 12 year old again, and find a receding hairline and a penchant for nannies attractive.

Fast forward to my 17^th birthday, and my best friend took me to see The Devil Wears Prada, possibly the only film I have ever seen on my birthday which I do not look back on and cringe. What is most surprising to me, however, is the fact that the friend who took me to see this did not know I was gay. No-one did. How that one passed by, I will never know. Or did every 17 year old boy have a longing to go and see Meryl Streep play the bitch editor of a fashion magazine?

Those are the films which I definitely remember seeing. There are vague memories of others – a Disney here and there, but in recent years, I’ve found the offerings on my birthday to be pretty sub-par. Perhaps it’s not that, though. Perhaps it’s the fact that more often than not, now, I’m paying for my own ticket, and am much more picky in what I actually go and see. I’ve an overwhelming urge to move this article into a rant over the rising costs for cinemagoers, but that’s a well-worn topic.

What I find interesting when I look over these films is the sheer range of films I’ve thought it necessary to see in a cinema. Even from a young age, it’s become apparent to me, I was reaching out to see as much as I could. How many 12 year olds would beg their parents to see A.I, albeit for slightly bizarre reasons? This year, I imagine I’ll be settling down with my other half to watch an old favourite – I’ve got a selection ready already, including Fried Green Tomatoes, Pretty In Pink, A Single Man and Alfie (never did quite shake that Jude Law thing…). These are all comfortable movies for me, movies I’ve seen a thousand times over and will see a thousand times again.

Am I becoming too comfortable in my movie-viewing habits? Is that necessarily a bad thing? Perhaps I’ll toddle off to the local indie cinema tomorrow and see what’s on offer. Hopefully I’ll be pleasantly surprised. Who knows, there might even be a celebratory showing of The Nutty Professor 2 in honour of my birthday…

A Pause For Reflection

I don’t live in America. I live in Sheffield, in the UK. I know what I have to say about 9/11 may be worthless, and not worth the webspace it’s written on. I know that this is a film blog, and I should really only write about film. But today, on the tenth anniversary of the most devastating terrorist attack in my lifetime, I need to write something, whether or not anybody reads it.

Everyone remembers where they were when they heard, so I won’t bore you with my version. Suffice to say, I was eleven years old then, and I am twenty-one years old now. A lot happens in ten years. An eleven year old boy who couldn’t possibly comprehend the sense of loss and devastation that befell the world on that day has turned into a twenty-one year old young man compelled to write something because he suddenly found himself so moved and at a loss for words for no other reason than the date.

What happened on that day affected all of us in some way. It sounds awfully grand and melodramatic to say that the world changed on that day, but it did. So many lives were lost, the course of history changed entirely.

What is important to remember from all of the devastation, and the loss, and the pain, however, is the sheer resilience of mankind, and, corny as it may sound, the redemptive power of love. None of the people on those planes were calling people to tell them they hated them, they were messages of love. In these peoples last moments, they wanted their loved ones to know that they were just that – loved. On one of the most hideous days in the 20th century, people showed their most beautiful selves.

Now, ten years have passed. Lives that were damaged, tattered and torn by the events of that day are beginning to get back on track. Building work has begun on Ground Zero. The world is still spinning, and, while it’s important to commemorate this day and remember those we lost, it’s also important to look to the future. The TV channels here and I imagine in America and other places around the world have been inundated with programmes about 9/11, its victims, its heroes, its attackers. Perhaps it’s time we stopped focussing on the past, and looked to the future. Don’t misunderstand me – I would never for a moment suggest that we forget what happened, nor brush it aside or ignore it. This day will always be remembered because of what happened on it, and rightly so. What would be refreshing, however, would be if the media were able to look to the future as well as the past, because it’s a future we’ve fought hard to achieve.

Some of the programming has been deliberately headline-seeking, some of it simply cheap and unnecessary, much of it serving to cheapen the memories of what happened. I’ve no problem with quality programming focussing on the events of that day, just with programming for the sake of it. Thousands of lives were lost on that day, and I think sometimes it would serve the heads of TV stations particularly well if they were to think of that while they commissioned yet another tacky attempt to uncover some hidden secret of that day.

As I said, I’m just a twenty-one year old lad who sometimes likes to write vaguely funny things about films. These words are probably falling on deaf ears, but I feel better having written them. Today, on the eleventh of September, pause for a moment to remember what happened in the past, and look forward to what our future brings us.