Lyrics To Live By

"Over and out. This is my final message.
I cannot shout above 8 billion screaming voices.
Severe the lines. Woe be tide the one who tries to hide.
I heard the starting gun.
I lost my taste for the race before I won"

From "Ripchord" by Olly Knights (2013)

Innuendo Bingo

Well...this made me laugh more than most things I've seen of late. Enjoy...

JB.

9-1-1

So today marks the anniversary of the September 11th Terror Attacks. The day the world as I, and everyone, knew it changed for good and certainly not for the better. In my humble opinion.
Out of respect for everyone who died on the day, or in the continuing aftermath that followed, I ask you to go out there and look for the truth. It's there, somewhere.

Of course, the act of writing this post - even as small, irrelevant and nondescript as it is - instantly puts me in a category with people who believe Elvis is alive and that Bigfoot walks the earth. So I should probably just leave it there.

JB.

The Phantom Menace

I'm sorry but Harry Plinkett's reviews of the infamous Star Wars prequel series are just too good not to share. The man's dark, absurd, brilliantly accurate dissection of these films is nothing short of perfection. Not many things have made me laugh harder in the past few months. I suggest everyone watch and enjoy the madness:



Cheers,

JB.

Great Reads: 'High Fidelity' by Nick Hornby

I first read this book back in the late 90's. I'd left school and found myself an impressionable working lad with no education in my future and hours to kill sweating on trains commuting to and from my place of work - which was undoubtedly some shithole on the other side of London. I think it would not be overstating the matter to say that, at that time, this book completely changed my life. For reasons I shall explain hereto. 

Hornby's second novel, released in 1995 after the monumental success of gooner-supporting "Fever Pitch", tells the tale of one Rob Fleming; a man who enjoys music, film, and lamenting his status in the world when it comes to money, power and, most of all, women. Rob owns a fledgling record shop in North London where he and his two friends sit around and make lists of stuff that they like. In fact, such is Rob's affinity for lists that the book begins with the opening heading: "Top Five Break-Ups Of All Time", wherein he begins to tell us the reader about the pitiful state of his previous failures with members of the opposite sex. All of this serves to provide the back drop to what is currently going on in his life - another break-up with a girl he loves - and there the story begins.

“What came first – the music or the misery? Did I listen to the music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to the music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person?” 

What follows is an absolutely hilarious, honest, unflinching portrayal of the modern man and let me tell you friends, it is a masterful depiction. Hornby writes with a sort of light-hearted scathing cynicism which, despite sounding like a massive contradiction, sets the perfect tone for the book. I defy any man on planet earth (well, at least, a middle-class white bloke from the western world) to read this book and not find yourself going "yep, I've done that". Indeed there are few subjects in life which fascinate me more than male patheticism and this book has it in spades. 

A little exercise for you -- pick a man. Someone you deem to be the coolest man on the planet. James Dean, Paul Newman, George Clooney maybe? All of those people, every last one, will absolutely turn into an insecure, whimpering, paranoid wreck if and when placed in the hands of the right (or wrong) woman. Of course, this is just my belief but it's a belief and that's all that f*cking matters, got it? Good. 

“Over the last couple of years, the photos of me when I was a kid... well, they've started to give me a little pang or something - not unhappiness, exactly, but some kind of quiet, deep regret... I keep wanting to apologize to the little guy: "I'm sorry, I've let you down. I was the person who was supposed to look after you, but I blew it: I made wrong decisions at bad times, and I turned you into me.” 

Now, how did a book about a bunch of music geeks eeking out an existence for themselves change your life? I hear you ask. Well folks, after reading this book, for the first time in my 19 or so years of existence (I think) I had the inspiration to write. I could hear my voice on the page. It was a work of art that spoke directly to me. Me?! I had never experienced that before. The characters were interested in things I am, talked the way I talk, thought how I do about stuff (if you read this blog ever, you'll know how much I f**king love writing a list for a start). Suddenly I felt the need to put pen to paper for the first time to express how I feel. For fun. Suddenly I had a thirst for knowledge and a yearning for experience that my shite office job which took me two hours to get to every day and night could not provide me. I felt a tidal wave of culture engulf my being. I mean, it was only the third book I'd ever read up to that point but we've all got to start somewhere, eh?

The following month, I handed in my notice at work, packed up and went to university and the rest, as they say, is history. Not necessarily history in the sense that anything profound or important happened on a global, national or even local scale. But a personal history was made, right there and then and here I am today as a result...writing, for nothing more than the interest of personal expression. Something that just wasn't an option until my eyes crossed this little gem. 

If you ever want to know anything about me, or indeed men in general, read this book. At once. That is all. 

“It seems to me if you have music (and books, probably, and films, and plays, and anything that makes you feel) at the center of your being, then you can't afford to sort out your love life, start to think of it as the finished product. You've got to pick at it, keep it alive and in turmoil, you've got to pick at it and unravel it until it all comes apart and you're compelled to start all over again. Maybe we live life at too high a pitch, those of us who absorb emotional things all day, and as a consequence we can never feel merely content: we have to be unhappy, or ecstatically, head-over-heels happy, and those states are difficult to achieve within a stable, solid relationship.” 

Nick Hornby -- High Fidelity (1995)

Cheers, 

JB.

Tunes Currently Licking My Lollipop

1) No Money - Kings of Leon
2) No Other Plans - Sunny Levine
3) Strange Fruit - Billie Holiday
4) M.a.a.d City - Kendrick Lamar
5) I'll Slip Away - Rodriguez
6) Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys
7) Castles In The Air - Don McLean
8) Lovin' I Lost - Common
9) Everything Means Nothing To Me - Elliott Smith
10) (You) Got What I Need - Freddie Scott

JB

Billy No Mates

"Oh, you've got a TV show? That's great"

So friends, here we are again. Stuck in the endless merry-go-round that is the entertainment industry complex. This is now my third time at the rodeo, as they say, and it gets no easier. In fact quite the opposite.

Last year, when doing the film festival circuit with my short film "Love Is...", I found myself at one of those panel Q&A sessions. The people on stage consisted of various actors, filmmakers and - most pertinently to this post - agents. Of course, a variety of shameless hacks in the crowd bombarded the agents with all manner of questions in the vein of "will you please watch my film?" or "will you please sign me?" or "will you please be godfather to my only child?" etc. So embarrassing was this relentless medieval-style baying that one agent eventually intervened and said "Listen, let me just say this. All of the time and energy and effort you guys are seemingly putting into getting an agent, instead put it into creating good shit. If you make something good, trust me we will find you"

Those words hit me like a pick-axe to the testes. At a time when I was feeling completely bewildered by the whole film festival thing, this saint came along and told me exactly what I always hoped in my heart would be true. You don't have to be a marketing genius, or indeed a silver-tongued door to door salesman, to succeed in this industry. It is, after all, about the art. I mean just look at all my heroes, they didn't sell their souls to the devil and they turned out just fine. In the everlasting words of "Field of Dreams" -- if you build it, they will come. Right?

Someone order a group of bell-ends?

Turns out that was a load of bollocks, and here's why...(Note: there's no way of writing the following without sounding bitter so please just rest assured that I'm not). The reviews thus far for "Starving In Hollywood" have been nothing short of spectacular. Literally everyone who has seen it has nothing but glowing things to say. From friends and family to industry veterans, the response has been the same - "I can't wait to see this on TV". However, the journey one must take from obscurity to...um...scurity(?) is a strange and twisted one, my friends. If I were a musician, it seems relatively simple. I write good songs. I play those good songs to people. I will be actively sought out by record companies who rely on new talent to keep the cash cow churning. I will be advanced money to record an album. I will tour extensively. I will thus have a career. Or at least the beginning of one. Do Film & TV reps have a similar philosophy as to unearthing new talent? Apparently not.

Instead, there seems to be an ever-growing wall of Mordor-type thing happening. By which I mean that if you are a nobody - which, at last count, I definitely am - then no-one gives a shit about you or anything you've done. We've tried calling producers, agents, tv networks and it's always the same: "(Fill in blank) does not accept unsolicited material. Now fuck off and have a nice life". Because the problem is, when swimming in the murky waters of the unsolicited, by default you are instantly lumped in with everything else floating around with you. I'm not putting our stuff on top of anybody else's, my point is merely that for anyone coming out of the pool, it's already a 'no' by virtue of where your material came from. However, if I'm soandsowhatshisname and I present my latest 'sidesplitting' venture, merely because of who I am, I am indeed now 'solicited'. This only confirms what I had previously written about here and here. If you get an in, you're laughing. Your stock instantly goes up about twelve-fold and whatever your peddling (in our case, abortion jokes and paper mache shark heads) is instantly met with not disdain and trepidation but with glee and giddy-eyed anticipation. The question, the dilemma me and my partners are currently facing, is...how do we go from no-one to someone?

Climb me...I dare you

Especially when all avenues seem to be a figure-eight scalectrix track of rejection. TV networks don't accept material unless it comes from an agent. Agents don't accept materials unless coming from a production company. Production companies don't accept material unless from an agent and, oh wait, I'm back where I started again. It is a very weird, surreal position to be in, and one which I am finding it most difficult to negotiate. I feel like a sperm frantically head butting away at the egg, watching all the millions of other sperms doing exactly the same thing and hoping to christ that I can burrow inside first.

However, this is the point. In every artist's, or creative-type's, career there comes a time when you have to strap on a pair and do the dirty work. It would be so easy for me to move on to the next creative endeavor. It'll be fun, keep me busy, and be another beautiful adventure to embark on. The problem with that philosophy is, however, that when done with that project, you're back to exactly the point you were before. You're still in the unsolicited pile and now a couple of years older and greyer. All you've succeeded in doing is turning a potential career into an actual hobby. Therefore, now is as good a time as any to get out there and do the awkward, uncomfortable, downright rubbish, part of trying to coerce people into parting with their hard-earned cash to take a chance on you and your project. No easy task but an abundantly necessary one.

Onwards and...onwards, my good people.

JB.

Dialogue Of The Day

Dan: "Everyone wants to be happy"
Larry: "Depressives don't. They want to be unhappy to confirm they're depressed. If they were happy they couldn't be depressed anymore. They'd have to go out in the world and live...which can be depressing"

From "Closer" - (Mike Nichols, 2004)

Only God Forgives

Well well well, so it transpires that I have just watched what may be the most bonkers film I've laid eyes on in my life. Nicolas Windig Refn's follow-up to 2011's ultra cool, ultra violent, Ryan Gosling starring "Drive" is an even cooler, even more violent Gosling re-teaming and the results are quite astonishing.

Dialogue? No thanks.

Now, call me crazy but I am bored to tears with the same old tentpole, superhero, generic bollocks that studios are churning out these days (Avengers, I'm looking at you). It seems more than ever that the divide between box-office success and good films is becoming inescapably large. Edgy, innovative, original content is being pushed further under the rug and loud noisy fanfare VFX shite is all over the place. I mean honestly, 'White House Down'? Do me a f*cking favour.

Thus it is my eternal pleasure to report on a film that made a point of grabbing hold of me by the proverbials, dragging me through the sand and refusing to let go. It made me squeam, made me squirm, made me laugh (unintentionally), made me cower, made me gasp and ultimately left me completely drained by the end. No real action to speak of, no noise, no special effects, no punchy dialogue (the entire script must've been about four pages long), the camera moves in an almost painfully slow, methodical way during each equally methodical scene, however this only goes to show that you need not the "ooo's" and "ahhs" typically associated with a movie-going experience to get something from it.

The plot is loosely based around a crime family operating out of Bangkok. Gosling, in mad silent mode, plays the youngest of three lunatic brothers who is charged with avenging one of their deaths. However, on the other side of the law is a man simply known as "The Angel of Death" who maraudes around the neon-drenched underworld handing out his own punishments to all who cross his path. The two are set on a collision course by Gosling's diabolical mother (played brilliantly by Kristen Scott Thomas) and there you have it. Pretty simple fare, right? Wrong.

Dream sequences, gruesome murders, torture, implied incest, completely random screaming and some first class battery are all shot and executed in such a way that completely blindsides you. It's like being in a terrible, terrible nightmare for 90 minutes, then being woken up by a lunatic singing karaoke. It is a completely brutal, unflinching portrayal of life in the underworld and has a claustrophobic, grim, blackness to it that I imagine people wrapped up in that side of life feel on a daily basis.

Refn is proving to be quite a master of his craft. I thought 'Drive' was basically a standard gangster plot but directed with such perfection that it elevated the film to a new level entirely. Something only a few people on earth are capable of. He does the same again here. The camera is smooth and steady. Every single frame is meticulously put together. The cinematography is absolutely outstanding -- possibly the best I've ever seen. Every shot looks like a painting. You could literally take any freeze frame from any scene and it would hang happily on your wall. The music is also great. At times very unsettling, at times pulsating, it subtly adds to the dread in the air quite beautifully.

"Wax on"....etc

When it premiered at Cannes this year, apparently half of the crowd booed and half gave it a standing ovation, and that really couldn't sum this film up more accurately. I can imagine many, many people thinking it's the worst film ever made, however, by the same token, I think if you appreciate cinema in any way, it'll be a treat that gets better with age. There are scenes which are beyond ridiculous (the dinner with mum and whore scene alone stands-out) but in the best possible way. It panders to no-one. Instead, Refn is just hanging his bollocks right there on the screen for all to see and screaming "have a load of that". Fair play, my friend. Fair play.

Much like last year's "Amour" I am completely shocked, appalled, and totally in awe of this piece of work. Also like "Amour", despite my love for it, I'm in no rush to ever see it again.

Over and out.

JB.

Absurd Rap Lyrics #558

"Stepped up to a jet-black kid, he started speaking Spanish. But he wasn't from Panama, I asked him how he get so dark? The n*gga said SUNTANAMA!!!"

From "Damage" - Ol' Dirty Bastard (1995)