A film blog beyond saving
Dear Fred, How has it already been two years since The Scarlet Letter I penned you? It was always inevitable I'd write part two. I just hope it lives up to the first in your eyes, or surpasses it. Should I make this requiem of lingering love grander in scale and scope as most sequels do: Aliens,... Continue Reading →
Ah yes, the John Hughes film we’ve all not been waiting for. The remake we never expected, or bloody wanted. Who would have seen this plot twist coming? The flare gun in the locker replaced with the bat in the soup, and now here we all are in furlough teen angst detention. What next... Ferris Bueller’s Day In; Planes, Trains and Automobiles Are Only to be Used for Essential Travel; The Great Indoors; Uncle Fucked!? You get the picture; a very morbid picture sadly: The Picture of Dorian Gray?
For those reading this open letter you may be wondering who Fred is. Is it Fred Astaire, Fred Flintstone, the Freddy who got fingered, or could it be the burnt jar of jam Freddy Krueger? The Fred I am referring to so fondly has infiltrated my dreams on several occasions, but unlike the cutlery fingered scorched paedophile Freddy Krueger, he has not sadistically terrorised me:
So, its nearly time for Avengers: Infinity War. I can’t wait to see millions of pounds wasted on an amalgamation of underdeveloped characters, who have fought over five minutes of screen time. Sadly, all we will be left with, is the carcass of a character’s ethos incorporated into a singular comic throwaway line, that twenty writers spent months working on.
I'm sick to death of the Morgan's, mullets and maelstrom that has poisoned the veins of this now rotting corpse of a television show. Maybe this is the artistic irony, the show has now become the barely functional braindead zombie that bumbles about in the background like the Butler from Tomb Raider II.
It was the year of our Lord, 2007, and I was 19 years old. I remember this year as one of the greatest amalgamations of hours and days on record, not because I had met the love of my life, no, that comes later (said in Bane's voice, though I haven’t broken her back or spirit and forced her to dwell in an uninhabitable hole… yet). This was the year that I believe to be the treasure trove of modern cinema, the Davy Jones locker of celluloid jewels. I felt it at the time, as I sat wide-eyed and motionless in the cinema every single weekend. Not only would I pay for my ticket and confectionary but hand over extras to pay for the gas, electric and other utilities for the upkeep of my home for the next 365 days.
Over the course of the past two weeks I’ve being watching Aziz Ansari and Alan Yang’s Master of None. After my brother informed me via phone, email and carrier pigeon how good it was and the Thanksgiving episode being one of the greatest pieces of television he has seen, I thought I best give it a go. Also, my cheques to Netflix hadn’t bounced, so I was all set.
I’ve being following Christopher Nolan’s work since Memento, though arguably I should have been following him since Following, but if you follow someone for too long they may have you arrested; and I very much doubt Mr Nolan would follow me to the gallows.
I love cinema, I love talking about cinema, unfortunately the latter involves looking another human being directly in the face for more than five minutes.
Inside The Thunderdome 