I made a whistle-stop visit to the Creative Republic/Created in Birmingham party in Hockley last night. I was there to catch up with and congratulate my pal Pete on CiB's MediaGuardian Awards triumph. I didn't stay for long, partly because I'd misread the start time on the invite and partly because my day job isn't in a creative industry. In fact, I felt like an imposter. It's a bit like arriving at a WI meeting in drag: if you stay for too long there's always the danger that someone might expect you to have an interesting opinion about something you don't understand.


That didn't stop me, of course.

444 Club on Friday

For the benefit of all those Birmingham-based, gig-going, uplifting gormandizers out there (Heyyy now, Daddy-O...), The Courtesy Group - Al Hutchins' awesome band of Scrotnig noizemeisters who've been mentioned here on many an occasion - are supporting London-based up-and-comers XX Teens at The Rainbow in Digbeth tomorrow evening. XX Teens sound like a lot of fun - plus I'd like to see the mighty CG playing a non-Curate's Egg event - so I'll endeavour to get my pert wee Irish arse there. I think you should, too.

It's one of Kamikaze Events' 444 Club nights, in which new acts share the spotlight with local bands. Alongside The Courtesy Group, there'll be sets from Magnificatz and Betty & The ID.
Plastic Noise DJs will be, um, DJ-ing. They look as though they'll be fun, too. I purloined this wonderful image from their Myspace page:


That looks disturbingly like a mindmap of what I listen to while I'm driving.

Anyhow, here's the flyer:

Be Seeing You

I almost forgot to mention... after leaving Hafod Elwy Hall in Denbighshire last Sunday, Clare and I embarked on a Keruoac-lite drive around North Wales. We headed west along the A5 and through Betws-y-Coed (or, as my brother prefers to call it, "Betsy Cohen") before veering off in a random direction to see where the Road would take us.

Well, it took us past Moel Siabod and Snowdon and through some of the most rugged and gorgeous landscapes I've seen in quite some time. We stopped at a few places, took quite a few photos and ended up in Portmeirion. As you do.

In the popular imagination - well, in mine, at least - Portmeirion is the place where Patrick McGoohan's famously numerophobic, former-government agent was sent to prison for a resignation he didn't explain. As a huge fan of the cult 60s show The Prisoner, it was weird walking past all those odd buildings, so many of which have been hard-wired into my imagination since Channel 4 repeated the series in 1985. I was pleasantly surprised at how little The Village had changed in the 40-plus years since the show was originally made: Portmeirion's Pantheon, for instance, was still recognisable as the green domed home to Number 2, while the stone boat on the shore still looked as mad and as incongruous as it did back then. Then again, it's a boat. It's made out of stone. How could it not look mad and incongruous?

Anyhow, here's Portmeirion:




And there's me, up there, by Number 2's ornate lair:

And there I am again, outside Number 6's home, cheerily refusing to be "pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, de-briefed or numbered.":


I guess it pays to put your trust in the Road: sometimes it can take you to where you've always wanted to go.

Our Weekend in Wales

Clare & I spent last weekend in North Wales. On Saturday we went for a ten mile walk around the Alwen Reservoir and surrounding hills, woods and countryside.

My legs have since recovered.

This first pic was taken just around the corner from the gorgeous Hafod Elwy Hall, where we stayed.

And here's the Alwen Reservoir:




And here I am at Denbigh Castle:


Don't worry, I won't make a habit of this...

Steve Gerber, 1947-2008

I was sorry to hear that Steve Gerber, one of my favourite comic book writers, passed away on Sunday.

Gerber was best known as the creator of Marvel Comics' Howard the Duck. Forget the atrocious George Lucas-produced 80s movie adaptation, Gerber's HTD was the real deal: a cynical, cigar-chomping, anarchistic antidote to the traditional funny-animal strip. Although I read it at as a kid, Gerber's HTD - with its strong vein of subversive satire and narrative experimentation - had a lasting impact on my sensibilities.

At one stage, The Walt Disney Company famously threatened to take Marvel Comics to court, claiming that HTD infringed on their Donald Duck copyright. In 2001 Gerber returned to the character, producing a more explicit version of the strip for Marvel's adult-orientated 'Max' imprint. In this story - and for reasons too ludicrous to explain - Howard finds himself transformed into an cynical, ugly, cigar-chomping rodent.

Needless to say, he wears white gloves...

Roy Scheider, 1932-2008

Rest in Peace, Chief Brody.

'Your Arse An All'

Hidden away in the comments section of an entertaining blog post from Rol about Morrissey and his arse is the following gem:

Apparently, if you look very closely at the cover of Achtung Baby, you can see Adam Clayton's winkle.

However, it's rather overshadowed by the much bigger knob who's also pictured on the cover.

Priceless.

The Great Outdoors

This weekend Clare & I are off to Snowdonia. We'll be stopping at Hafod Elwy Hall, deep in the gorgeous Denby moors. This is what it looks like:



Yummy.

The hotel owners were kind enough to email us instructions on how to get there. It's not located in what you might call the most accessible of places. In fact, the quaint Irish expression "The arse end of nowhere" springs sluggishly to mind:

You will pass Cerrig-y-Drudion. A few miles after that you will take the A543 signed ‘Denbigh’ on the right. (just before Pentrefoelas). Go 5.6 Miles. You will see a telegraph pole on the left with wires going over the road toward the right. Turn right in to the track at that point. (Italics mine)

I don't think I'm clued up enough on telegraph poles to recognise one from another. I certainly couldn't identify one in a police line-up, let alone whilst driving in the dark. Proper dark, that is, not city dark. It never really gets that dark in the city.

The last mile or so of the journey will be along a rough, suspension-knackering country track. In the proper dark. I hope my functional-yet-fashionable Citroen Saxo finds it in its bonnet to forgive me.

Needless to say, I can't wait...

Because I'm Fickle

Well whaddaya know: I've changed my mind already.

Since watching Rocky Balboa last week with Clare I've decided that it deserves a place in my Top 10 Films of 2007. Yes, I saw it during the last week of January 2008, but it was released in 2007. My list. My rules. Don't argue, Clare.

It's either at number 9 or number 10. I haven't quite decided yet. Tell you what: I'll be decisive and make it Number 10. That knocks Beowulf off the list. Sorry, Beowulf. Empty your desk and hand your security pass in at reception. You know the drill.

Rocky Balboa resonated with me in all manner of ways. For one thing, well, you know... it was a fecking Rocky film, fer Chrissakes. Do I really need to elaborate on that? Alright, I will. As a kid I'd get so pumped up after watching a Rocky film that, next morning - without fail and without exception - I'd always go for a vigorous early-morning run in Birmingham's Perry Barr Park. Now, I've never been much of a jogger - I'm just not the type - but after watching a Rocky film I would, betwixt dusk and High Noon, mutate into a hardcore fitness fanatic.

Maybe I should have watched those Rocky films more often.

Or maybe it's just as well I didn't. After all, I didn't just imitate the Italian Stallion's hardcore physical regime but copied his bizarre eating habits, too. These were the days before Edwina Currie and her salmonella scares: gulping down a pint glass full of raw eggs didn't seem quite as breathtakingly stupid as it does now. It just seemed stupid.

Perry Barr Park was the ideal venue for these pre-pubescent, post-Rocky flick runs. As you entered the park from Aldridge Road there was a path lined with park benches, ideal for leaping over systematically a la the Rocky II training montage (which, of course, I did). At the other end of the park was a steep grassy slope that led to the bright yellow perimeter fence of Alexander Stadium. As I punched the air and whistled Bill Conti's theme tune, I felt like Rocky running up those famous steps of Philadelphia's National History Museum, except for the fact there weren't any steps. And it was covered in grass.

But it wasn't just these somewhat embarrassing memories that made Rocky Balboa chime with me. I've always loved stories about ageing heroes who come out of retirement to kick some serious arse. This isn't just about me being a decrepit old fart, you understand. It's always been the case. I've always loved movies like Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch and Ride The High Country, Richard Lester's Robin and Marian, Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven, Don Siegal's John Wayne swansong The Shootist and, yes, Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan. Despite becoming somewhat disillusioned with Frank Miller over the years, one of my favourite comics is still 1986s Batman: The Dark Knight Returns. That, in case you don't know, is a story about an ageing bat-themed vigilante who comes out of retirement to kick some serious arse.

These are all stories about old-timers who get one last shot at being a hero or finding redemption, and they've all resonated with me throughout my life. With Rocky Balboa, Sylvester Stallone has crafted a worthy addition to this honourable genre. In fact, I've just decided to move it up to number 9 on my Top 10.

Just don't expect me to jump over any park benches in the morning.

My Top 10 Films of 2007

I started putting together a list of my Top Ten films over Christmas - around about the time I did my list of favourite gigs - but I had to put it to one side to do some overdue research on my forthcoming novel about procrastination.

I've been quite stringent here. I'm only including films that had a UK theatrical release between January 1st and December 31st 2007. This means that there are plenty of great films from the tail-end of 2006 that I saw for the first time in 2007 that can't be included in this list. I'm sure the makers of The Prestige and Children of Men will be devastated by this. Oh, well.

I'm very fickle with stuff like this. I like to convince myself that this is because artistic judgments are, by their very nature, ongoing processes subject to perceptual re-evaluation. I might even claim that my shifting sands of perception are due to the fact that I am a verb and not a noun. The sad truth, though, is that I'm fickle with stuff like this because I'm fickle. If you asked me again tomorrow I'd probably give you a very different list.

Here's how I feel right now:


10. Beowulf (in Gob-Smackingly Glorious 3D!!!)
We're all allowed guilty pleasures, and this one's mine. I thought it was visually breathtaking and tremendous fun, a Frazetta portfolio brought to life and set loose on an unsuspecting crowd of popcorn-chompers. Not everyone agrees with this, of course. In some quarters - even amongst some of my friends - disparaging comments have made about this film. Phrases like "crass" and "noisy" and "CGI wankfest" have been uttered, but I don't care. They can leave Beowulf off their Top 10s. This is my list: I say who gets in.

I wrote about it here and here.

9. 28 Weeks Later
I like to think that over the years I've developed an natural immunity to the horror genre, but this film proved me wrong by genuinely scaring the blue-bejesus out of me. A superior sequel.


8. 3:10 To Yuma
I love Westerns, I do. I was raised on them. Despite the fact the genre's obits were written-up decades ago, 2007 saw the release of two high-profile Westerns, namely, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford and 3:10 To Yuma. I haven't seen the former yet (otherwise I suspect it would have featured prominently in my Top 10), but I did see 3:10 To Yuma and loved it to bits.

A remake of a half Century-old Glenn Ford flick (which was based on a short story by the mighty Elmore Leonard), it was helmed by the somewhat dodgy euphemistic-sounding director James Mangold and starred Russell Crowe and Christian Bale. It was refreshingly old-school in its storytelling. A far cry from the post-Leone/Peckinpah Revisionist take on the genre, it was more in the tradition of John Ford and Howard Hawkes and featured meaty-yet-nuanced performances from its leads.

While I expect nothing less of Bale, Crowe's performance was less a revelation than a reminder of what I liked about him in the first place. His every glance, gesture and movement seemed to capture, channel and convey the classic, archetypal Western anti-hero. I'd go as far as to say that Crowe's Ben Wade might have earned himself a barstool in the Eternal Saloon alongside the likes of Eastwood's Josey Wales and The Duke's Ethan Edwards.


7. The Bourne Ultimatum
In my humble opinion, The summer blockbuster of this year from The action film franchise of the decade. Kinetic, smart and slyly subversive.


6. The Darjeeling Limited/Hotel Chevalier
Wes Anderson is one of those filmmakers who seem to polarise audiences. Some people love his self-consciously quirky, stylised tales of dysfunctional oddballs. Other people hate his self-consciously quirky, stylised tales of dysfunctional oddballs. I fall into the former camp, but those in the latter camp would probably dismiss me as a self-consciously quirky, stylised, dysfunctional oddball.

While not quite up there with 2004s The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou - his masterly splicing of the life of Jacques Cousteau with the cult 80s oddity The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai - this tale of three estranged brothers (Owen Wilson, Jason Schwartzman and Adrien Brody) embarking on a train journey of heavily-medicated reconciliation across India was a welcome despatch from Wes World.

Special mention should go to Hotel Chevalier, the short film that accompanied - and acted as a sort-of prologue to - The Darjeeling Limited. A lovely little whimsical gem that probably deserves an entry of it's own.


5. The Lives of Others (Das Leben der Anderen)
Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck's directorial debut is a mesmerising, meticulously crafted thriller set during the final years of Communist-rule in East Germany. It's 1984 (appropriately enough) and a loyal, methodical, unambitious Captain of the Secret Police or Stasi (the late Ulrich Mühe) finds redemption and reconnects with his humanity while carrying out a surveillance operation on a playwright and his actress lover (Sebastian Koch and Martina Gedeck).

Utterly, utterly brilliant - and if the final, devastating coda doesn't make you gulp, sob or bawl your eyes out then you really are a hard-hearted bastard.

I hear a Hollywood remake is in the works. For some reason, when I think of the casting of the central character the name "Tom Hanks" comes to mind, but I might be wrong. Let's hope so, huh? Watch the original now so you can annoy people later on by saying: "It's not as good as the original, you know." That's what I plan to do.


4. Hot Fuzz
I was a fan of Spaced. I was a fan of Shawn of the Dead. Now I'm a fan of Hot Fuzz.

It's as simple as that.


3. Tell No One (Ne le dis à personne)
Director Guillaume Canet proves that no one does Hitchcockian suspense quite like wot the French do. In this taut and twisty psychological thriller, paediatrician Alex Beck's wife is brutally murdered and he is left for dead. After a three month coma he awakens to find he's the prime suspect. The charges are eventually dropped, eight years' go by but he's still grieves for his wife. Then an email arrives that seems to prove she's still alive...

A great story brilliantly told - with faultless performances from François Cluzet, Marie-Josée Croze and the always-dependable Jean Rochefort - make this an instant classic. The fat old misogynist from Leytonstone must be rubbing his hands with glee.


2. The Fountain

Darren Aronovsky's follow-up to his mindfuck masterpiece Requiem For A Dream (2000) wasn't everyone's cup of tea. The fact that it had about a lunchbreak's worth of screentime at my local multiplex seems to confirm this. Maybe this was due to the fact that genre-breaking meditations on love, loss and duty rarely appease the popcorn-munching masses. Or perhaps it was on account of the film's unorthodox narrative structure, which featured three interwoven plotlines spanning a thousand years.

I suspect, though, that the real reason for the film's meagre bum-to-seat ratio was because it featured Hugh Jackman travelling through through the cosmos inside a big glass bubble, with a tree. Some people can't get their heads around stuff like that.

Fuck 'em, I say.


1. Zodiac
After the misstep that was Panic Room, the news that David Fincher would be returning to the world of serial killers generated a sizzle of anticipation amongst moviegoers, cinéastes and Birmingham-based, blather-prone Irishmen alike. This, after all, was the genre in which he made his reputation. Zodiac, though, is more than just a re-tread or sequel-of-sorts to Se7en ("Ei8ht"?). It’s a different beast altogether. Based on the true story of the hunt for San Francisco's notoriously elusive Zodiac serial killer (the real-life inspiration behind Dirty Harry's fictional nemesis 'Scorpio'), Zodiac is a methodically researched, meticulously-crafted, perfectly cast procedural drama. On another level, though - and there are many, many levels to this film – it’s a compelling character study of three men obsessed with finding the truth. The film’s three main protagonists - cartoonist Jake Gyllenhaal, cop Mark Ruffalo and crime reporter Robert Downey Jr - make for an unlikely triumvirate, but they’re drawn together by a common obsession which – over the decades – takes its toll on them in different and sometimes tragic ways.

Film critic Roger Ebert called it the "'All The Presidents Men' of serial killer movies”, and the mood, themes and grown-up storytelling - as well as the bewildering abundance of clues, counter-clues and Goddamn misdirections - certainly reminded me of the Robert Redford/Dustin Hoffman classic. In fact, Fincher’s meticulous attention to period and personal detail is so authentic and evocative you could be forgiven for thinking that you’ve stumbled across some lost classic of early-1970s Hollywood.

Whoever said “They don’t make them like that anymore?” might want to think again.