Monthly Archives: January 2012

The Wrath of Me.

And so it was with some interest that I settled down last night to watch the new episode of Room 101, which I had recorded from the week before. I didn’t know Frank Skinner was hosting it now, but I like him so this got my seal of approval already. I noticed the format had changed too, and we now have three celebrities choosing their pet peeve or what makes their head burst in frustration, of which Skinner selects one out of the three choices and condemns to the eternal fires of Hades contained within Room 101.

When I was a teenager and first watching Room 101 back in the 90s with Paul Merton presenting, not only did I love the programme dearly, but I used to spend hours as I was walking down the street or watching television fantasising as to what I would throw into Room 101 if I had the chance. Some suggestions I think could be quite controversial so if you ever meet me in a bar, by me a cider and I’ll tell you them. However I don’t lack the courage of my convictions when I say that I would quite happily plunge into Room 101 Yorkshire terriers, Victoria Beckham and rhubarb. And those are the ones I consider non-controversial.

But I’m not going to sit here and type out my arguments for and against the ones that Peep Show‘s Robert Webb, broadcaster Danny Baker and TV presenter Fern Britton selected, I’d be here all day. I must get in though that I thought Webb’s choice of the
Jeremy Kyle Show was indisputably utterly correct and I for one will dance a merry dance when it no longer taints* our screens. The one argument I wanted to make was Fern Britton’s choice of science fiction, her even going so far as to ridiculously claim, “No science fiction is set in the modern-day, it’s all set in the past.” REALLY, FERN?! Really? All science fiction is set in the past? No present-day science fiction at all, or even set in the future?! I can sense Gene Roddenberry rolling his spiritual eyes. And to add insult to even further injury, Britton even had the audacity to yell out, “Science fiction isn’t even real; it’s not true and all fake!” Thank the lord and all His seraphim that Frank Skinner was there to boldly boom out, “That’s why it’s called ‘fiction’!” Cue great audience applause and a sheepish laugh from Britton.

To counter what she said, and to prove that I am normally right, I have put together a small selection of science fiction films and TV shows, all set in the present day, or at least at the time they were actually filmed themselves, and you will find them live on Hive from Monday on the homepage. Call me rather passionate and taking this to extremes, but when you know someone is wrong the temptation to prove them of this is just a normal human trait I feel and one that does not require justifying. If you’re interested in seeing my choices, then please log on, on Monday to the homepage and see how I am right and Fern Britton is wrong. Mwahaha.

=/\=

*putting it mildly

Costa Book of the Year 2011 winner!

Click pod above for the full list of winners

Congratulations indeed to Andrew Miller and his book Pure, which won one of the most coveted titles in the book industry last night, the Costa Book of the Year. Pure is Miller’s sixth novel, set in pre-revolutionary Paris in 1785, telling the story of Jean-Baptiste Baratte, an ambitious your engineer, who is assigned the task of emptying the noxious, overflowing Parisian cemetery Les Innocents, and of demolishing its church.

Miller faced stiff competition from works by debut writers Matthew Hollis, Christie Watson and Moira Young and Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy to claim the prize of a cheque for £30,000 and being the honoured as the overall winner of the five categories of the Costa Book Awards 2011.

If you want to read up more on the Costa Book Awards this year, you may do so by clicking here and please check out all the titles featured by clicking here.

World Book Night 2012

World Book Night 2012

Today sees talk of World Book Night 2012 go into overdrive! World Book Night is a celebration of reading and books which sees tens of thousands of passionate volunteers gift books in their communities to share their love of reading. In 2012 World Book Night will be celebrated in the UK, Ireland, Germany and USA on April 23.

You can visit our dedicated WBN page on Hive here to see the complete list of all the titles included in this year’s events.

If you want to find out more, then please visit the official World Book Night website at: http://www.worldbooknight.org/

Of dancing mice and psychokinetic schoolgirls.

On Tuesday, December 13th last year (as in just over five weeks ago), I read something in the news that once I’d finished reading it, and I do not mean this over-dramatically, I felt as though part of my childhood had died. This was the day that one of my most beloved authors from my childhood, Russell Hoban, had very sadly passed away.

Two other authors from my childhood I cherish to this day: Richard Scarry and Roald Dahl (and by extension Quentin Blake) are authors whose books, stories and illustrations I still go back to time and time again regardless of the fact I am well in adulthood. As a child I adored Scarry’s drawings, his big nursery rhyme book I still have though more sellotape now on the spine than actual spine. I remember a wonderful tale he wrote and illustrated called the Great Steamboat Mystery, which would be aimed at the readership of today’s Gruffalo fans. Dahl, well, he doesn’t need any introduction. Though I will say Matilda is my favourite of his tales and one which I will take with me to my grave.

And so I will too of the Marzipan Pig. Tenner to the man who says he has even heard of it, let alone read it. The Marzipan Pig was a short story that hasn’t received as much fame as Hoban’s more well-known works such as the Mouse and His Child or Riddley Walker. But then it doesn’t need to. I truly believe this story will find you, not the other way around. Those whom have loved it such as I will hopefully still ache at the burning romanticism within the tragic strains of loneliness that haunt this simple children’s book.

A short tale of very few pages, it was illustrated by Quentin Blake and told the story of a marzipan pig who is dropped down the back of a sofa during a party. He sadly begins to go stale as no-one notices he has gone. For weeks his just sits lonely, but never giving up hope that one day someone will find him and fantasises that there will be a party celebrating his rescue and return. One night a mouse comes along behind the sofa and upon discovering the now-hard pig devours him completely and says that she could still taste some of his sweetness as she ate him. Like some kind of spirit the mouse absorbs part of the pig’s soul, and thusly the story of how she made friends with a slowly breaking-down grandfather clock, fashions a dress from the dead petals of a hibiscus flower and is even made a meal of herself by a merciless owl, unfolds into a wonderful tale of night time dancing in the glow of taxi meter lights and bees falling in love with windowsill flowers. Those who fail to fall in love with this tragic but beautiful story must try harder. Wonderfully illustrated by Quentin Blake throughout too, I remember reading it over and over and over again when I as a child and not much has changed. When I heard the news that Hoban had passed away I was very upset; if you’ve ever read a book that has meant so much to you that you still go back to it over thirty years later, you’ll be on the same page as me.

I’m forever grateful this story found me.

RIP Russell Hoban, 1925-2011.

The devil wears pearls.

The movie poster for The Iron Lady

Wake up Maggie, I think I got something to say to you.

Well, not me really. Just still a vast majority of this country from what I’ve been reading.

On Friday just gone, I went to see The Iron Lady
at my local pictures. I felt quite good actually; I’ve never been to see a film on its opening day before. Go me. My companion and I were the youngest people in the cinema, and when I went to purchase the tickets an hour before the film started the usher told me he had “120 spaces left” in the cinema, implying that I really needn’t have pre-booked. But I just put this down to the early-afternoon showing on a Friday more than anything else.

My, has this film caused a furore already. I have done a fair amount of research on this – not on Margaret Thatcher’s political history, but more on the controversy the looming release of this film has caused – even before it was released. But first thing’s first. Plot spoiler warnings? Oh, I’m sure you know how it ends.

The film opens in the modern-day with “MT”, now suffering from early dementia, buying a pint of milk at her local corner shop. She plods home to continue breakfast with Denis (played wonderfully by Jim Broadbent), and complains to him about the price of the milk and inflation etc. etc. Oh, the irony right there. They carry on eating and talking away just like an old married couple would do and not one piece of evidence in sight that this frail old lady with grey hair and liver spots on her temples once lead our sceptred isle for eleven years under an unrelenting Conservative government. As she talks to Denis and he responds, padding about the house and performing their normal routines, it becomes clear that Denis is not actually there and she is in fact talking to a ghost of him; her memory.

And it is through this angle you see that Phyllida Lloyd, also the director of a Meryl Streep movie which is essentially an episode of Jeremy Kyle with a Grecian backdrop told through the music of Abba, will attempt to paint dear Mrs. Thatcher, she who abolished free school milk, as “human”.

What a task she has embarked on. You have to hand it to her; one of the most controversial figures in the history of British politics and not only are you going to do a biopic but you’re also going to show the still-very-much bitterly-stung populace how just-like-your-neighbour she is today. I take my feathered-porkpie off to her.

Memories of one of my favourite Streep vehicles came flooding back as I sat in the cinema and watched this, though ironically not for the role she played in it. I draw your attention to The Hours, a film that was released in 2002 and which I hold dear to me. Nicole Kidman whom you may remember played Virginia Woolf, and by Jove wearing prosthetics on her face did her absolutely no harm when she went to claim her little golden statuette the following February. For in The Iron Lady, the modern-day Thatcher necessitated Streep to wear prosthetics on her face and neck too, and coupled with her undisputable talent is it this I wonder which will help Streep win her third – yes, she’s only won two – Academy Award next month?

To be honest, I sincerely hope she does win it. I have read oh so much about how the bitter taste that has been left in Great Britain’s mouth since her reign is still being tasted to this day, and in my opinion since this film’s publicity, far too much has been said about Margaret Thatcher the Prime Minister as opposed to people just critiquing a film and the actors in it. You might say that’s easy for me to say, but then no-one is being forced to go and see this film, no one is being coerced and equally by all rights, everyone is entitled to choose not to go and see it. I went to see it because I am huge fan of Streep even if I was playing with my Sticklebricks at the time of the miner’s strike. I have no opinion of her ethics and ideals; because of my age I just don’t. But through archive footage and subsequently the hatred many people still hold for her I can draw assumptions and conclusions… I am just neutral to it all and interested to see her portrayal from a film point-of-view.

I only have a couple of niggles about the actual film itself. Whilst the majority of the film is told in flashback with the modern-day Streep playing the 1980s Maggie, the key moments during the time of her govern which are shown, for me, didn’t seem to be granted enough screen time. And please, I don’t mean that in a sadistic way. Instead we see these events as distorted fragments of memories shown through the often uncomfortable and unrelenting lens of dementia, again in an effort to humanise her. One of the major events included in the film was the IRA bombing of the Grand Hotel in Brighton in 1984 and this was merely shown in a matter of a few minutes, as was her leaving number 10, the assassination of Airey Neave and the Falklands War. They were almost like highlights, not really enough time for reaction. Meryl Streep’s performance on the other hand, regardless of what you might think of the Iron lady herself was unsurpassable and frighteningly accurate. The hair, fair play, easily styled by the make-up department. Clothes; Wardrobe can help there. But the voice – the voice imitation is just extraordinary and sure to evoke memories in all of us who were there in the 80s, as she thunders through the House of Commons in her debates.

People will always say what they think about Margaret Thatcher, that I know will never change. A film starring an American actress is not for one second going to change any views or memories or opinions on whether Margaret Thatcher improved this country or damaged it further; that’s complete personal opinion based on the degree of how her govern affected you. But Streep’s portrayal of her I hope earns her a third Oscar for her acting, whether she has “humanised” her or not – again personal opinion. I know it’s bizarre to see what was once the most powerful woman in Britain reduced to crying over repeated viewings of the King & I as she confusedly yearns for Denis and mourns the loss of her son Mark whilst he was missing in the Sahara; can this really be the same woman with a history in politics such as hers? Is this what she has come to? Is it in some way even justified, depending on your field? But I ask you this, as you contemplate giving an opinion on a movie you might refuse to watch… how many films about a particular Austrian dictator have you seen?

“That caviar is a garnish.”

The movie poster for You've Got Mail

So you know how it is. At Christmas and during the New Year period when you’re off from work, you find yourself watching dreadful-but-they-mean-something-to-you films at half 11 in the morning that you would have no intention of watching, you know, like you would a proper movie on a Saturday night with a takeaway and a beer. Yet somehow this activity is authorised around the birth of the baby Jesus, whilst you eat a healthy breakfast consisting of three-day-old cold roast potatoes and the orange crèmes out of the Quality Street.

I found myself conducting this unashamed behaviour over the festive season when I was channel flicking one mid-morning, and came across the start of a film I think I can genuinely say I had not seen since its release in 1998 when I saw it at the cinema. The film in question is the romantic comedy You’ve Got Mail, also known as the one-where-Tom-and-Meg-are-in-a-third-movie-together. I nonchalantly watched the first ten minutes or so, just for old time’s sake of the fourteen-year-old film, not in the least bit because I was drawn into the romanticism of the way New York is depicted like some kind of Monet masterpiece where Goodfellas never happened. We all have our weaknesses, don’t judge.

However it wasn’t so much all the cutesiness of New York “in the fawl” that made me want to hit record on my Sky+ a few minutes later when I had to go and run some errands; it was actually my remembrance of the storyline. Tom and Meg. Seen them before in other movies they’ve done together. Romantic comedy… yadda yadda… been there… but then – hold on! Oh yes, I remember! This is the one where she runs an independent children’s bookshop on the upper west side of Manhattan, and he is the son of a CEO of a huge, behemoth, chain bookstore! And he puts her out of business! Being fourteen years later and now working for a website such as this, I simply had to watch it again and see just how relevant any of it still was; could this fluffy Nora Ephron comedy actually have been ahead of its time?

The truth is, as I watched – whilst not paying much attention to the anonymous flirtatious emailing the pair indulge in throughout the movie – I had to admit there were some quite nerve-hitting moments, as Kathleen, Ryan’s character, often reminisced about the shop and her deceased mother with whom she had ran it with for forty-two years prior to her death. There were long, colourful, warm shots of the exterior of her children’s bookshop, stuffed toys of the Winnie the Pooh characters on shelves, fairy lights, jars of sweets, pictures of the Cat in the Hat on the walls and beautiful wooden interiors… all very attractive and very New Yawk. Just the sort of children’s bookshop you only see in the movies.

Ah, but then, the big bad wolf that is the chain bookstore sets up just around the corner from the little children’s bookshop and as the film progresses, Kathleen has no choice but to sadly close her shop down as she realises, with her heart breaking, that she just can’t compete. Life imitating art? Well, you decide. I just saw lots of bitter irony here. The storyline however that made it for me, was how she was quite willing to forgive Mr CEO-son (Hanks) when she finds out he is the anonymous email-pal, and finds herself falling in love with him… and of course, they live happily ever after. Even when he’s making millions from his department bookstore and she’s got a coffee shop-chain moving into her beloved bookshop’s premises.

But hey, it’s only a movie… right?

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