I don't bother posting blogs here anymore and haven't in ages. If you want to know what I'm up to, follow me at: http://thewordywench.wordpress.com I post regularly.
Pasted from my external blog. The other night my darling boyfriend took me out on one of our awesomely customary dinner and film dates. I got to see a scary movie (or was it? We’ll get to that in a moment) and chomp on deliciously spicey, snot-enducing spaghetti and prawns and strolled hand-in-hand through the darkened, moonlight streets of Southend. It was lovely, as ever. So don’t go thinking that the bitch-bomb I’m about to drop in regards to my cinema experience ruined my night in any fashion; I just like to rant, that’s all. I’ll begin by briefly mentioning that Paranormal Activity 2, whilst being quite a clever sequal, lacked in the same way the first did. It was long, boring and repeatitive, barring a couple of genuinely scary moments. These moments, however, were only really scary because of the sheer volume of the screams and BANG! noises, which aren’t very original for such highly acclaimed horror films. Matthew aptly named one of these events ‘The Great Kitchen Sneeze’, whereby our leading lady is scared out of her slacks by all the cupboards and doors bursting open in one great calamity, whilst she’s supping a coffee and nose-deep in Marie Claire. This scene was quite clever, I thought, and did make me crush Matt’s dear little hand to oblivion. However, I saw it as more of a tribute to Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense, when Col is amidst the same spooky occurrance in his own kitchen. A little subtler on the creepy scale than PA2, I have to say; PA2′s version was jumpy, as were many scenes towards the climax, but it lacked that skin-slithering gruesomeness that every good horror film should have. This was a movie that, rather than filling you with dread and really screwing with your mind, it did the ol’ clap in your face thing. The director might aswell have popped out of the breadbin and said ‘HAH! You blinked!’. Yeah, big deal? My dog’s scared of fireworks, clapping, and balloons for that very same reason; even she would’ve said this technique was average. In one of the less-jumpy scenes, where the baby-born doll toddler appears to slide from his cot by the hands of some invisible demon, the crowd actually started laughing. Yes, I know it’s difficult to make this stuff look real, and I know you’re trying to create suspense – but we all know there were strings attached. This isn’t the silent film era – give us more to chew on, I thought. So anyway, I have a question for you guys. Why do the Paranormal activity films attract cluster upon cluster of Cheryl-obsessed, bleach-doused bimbos? Don’t get me wrong, it’s not their image that bothers me the most; I’ve been looking like a cross between Little My and Snuffkin from The Moomins all year and gotten away with it. It’s those loud, obnoxious, irritating voices that come in those packages! Every bump, jolt and scare in this film made every girl wearing Uggs shriek like they’ve just spotted Will-I-Am in the rows in front of them, and that’s not all. They then proceeded to laugh about how awfully frightened and dainty they are, before having a not-so-intellectual discussion about what just happened. Loudly. All the while the film is rolling, my teeth are grinding, and we all die a little more inside. If I had a tank of petrol and some matches, I’m not sure who I’d rather cast ablaze first – them or me. I daresay they’re more flammable with all that cotton wool padding out their heads, you know; where their f/cking brain should be. Bugger me, is it the 25th already? I have two dvds to review. What’s that popular, appropriate saying? F/ck my life?
Copied and pasted from my external blog. Today we reallygot back into the swing of things at uni. We were given a writing excersize in a certain teacher’s class; a teacher who, last year, would always ask us to read our ‘efforts’ to one another in our groups, before picking the best and reading it to the entire class for feedback. Last year I found this nerve-racking enough, even after I got used to it. This year, after having gone months and months happily submitting and publishing (sometimes mostly rejecting!) away without prying eyes or ears from anyone, I have to say it was worse. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t suffer with a stutter, nor do I slip-up on my words or throw the papers down in disgust. I’m a surprisingly good reader for a social spazz. What I suffer from is a chronic case of blushing. No, not adorable rosy cheeks, not a mousy little flush – we’re talking cherry from the neck up. I can’t help it; sometimes I blush for no reason in conversation, just because the attention is on me. It comes in little bursts around my fish-belly-pale skin too, making me look like some sort of leper; think Bianca Jackson with an allergy to air or speaking. What’s worse is when people point it out. I know, I know, they’re just trying to comfort you by acting like they’re familiar with your anxiety and in turn making you feel more relaxed, but frankly, it don’t work darlin’s. The best way to make a pale girl go from cherry to fire engine in 0.2 seconds is to actually voice the fact that she’s blushing, and as an almost-ginge and a recoverring goth, this was never a favourable look for me. I’ve often found that stress is actually the problem; I get the same thing whenever I’m angry or frustrated. So I guess, visually, it’s not all that difficult to tell exactly how i’m feeling, and this is always an utter pain in the arse. Not only am I forced to be honest in every respect, because lying is just futile, but I get to look as much of a fool as I feel. Now I know people probably aren’t judging me badly. They probably think, ‘Aaw, she’s trying.’ Nicer, but is pitty a good thing? No? A-thank-you. It doesn’t help that when I speak aloud it feels like I can’t breathe, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I actually did hold my breath ’til the point where my blood rises to the surface to desperately scream for help. Anyone else suffer from this problem? Anyway, either my body gets the f!ck over the stage fright or I’ll never be a successful author; we’re expected to do public readings, after all. But maybe it isn’t so bad; you couldn’t accuse me of being pretentious, arrogant or vain, could you? I mean how many self-righteous literaries blush when all eyes are on them? Then again, how many self-righteous literaries would give two sh!ts either way?
Copied and pasted from my external blog I’ve just started my second week back at university, and I’ve already developed cranium-throb. The work load has doubled, and although it’s managable, it’s still dawning on me that this time, there are no second chances. I can either get it right the first time, or be miserably second-class. I know, I know; writing isn’t easy – you think I don’t know that? I pride myself in the knowledge that I’ve only taken a few steps further into the writing world than most of the students on the course right now. That’s not to say that I’m more talented than them, or harder working at all; just more experienced. So the fact that I still find myself worrying about ending up with 2:1 at the end of next year, rather than a glittering first, is a little bit silly. I should know by now what it takes, and that once the work has been handed in, the ball has rolled right out of my court. However, I’ve made plans to make life for myself a little easier. I’ve decided to get up early, and stop rushing to class with one minute to spare. I’m going to keep on top of my work, and be bright eyed and bushy tailed, even at the ungodly start of 9:30 am. Don’t think that’s early? Well, I never said I’d grown up – just that I was trying to be more responsible. So anyway, this experienced writress was a big idiot and set her alarm for 8pm instead of 8am this morning. After being shaken awake, I had fifteen minutes tops to spare, in order to go to the loo, get washed, dressed, smellified, straighten my hair and apply make-up. As well as this, I had to email my tutor to tell him I was going to be late, to avoid the humiliation of bursting into the room, red-cheeked, just to be marched back out again. I then had to dash out of the door without my obligatory diet-breakfast-banana, and walk briskly (I don’t run) for 15 mins to the Cat Hill campus. Sadly, there were no cats when I arrived; just a grim looking secretary and a few 3rd year students who’d lost so much heart in the business that they couldn’t even be arsed to help me find my new classroom. After two tries finding room 172, I went and asked the secretary if she knew where I could find it. ‘Down the ramps,’ she said. I blinked and replied, ‘I’ve already been down there, and couldn’t find it. Can you be more specific?’ She pursed her lips and retorted with, ‘I’m not sure. Just go down the ramps.’ Yeah, really helpful, moron behind the desk. So off I trotted, the face of the clock on the wall practically burning a hole in my back as I went. I went down the ramps yet again, turned a few corners, looked bewildered at passers by and begged a few others, all to find myself outside. So I turned some more corners, and ended up back where I started. Time was ticking. Now I was pissed. ‘I’ve been everywhere, and I still can’t find the room I asked for. Do you have any idea where it might be?’ I ask the pug-faced secretary once more. She folds her arms, narrows her eyes, and says, ‘I really don’t know. You might have to go down the spiral staircase.’ A spiral staircase now!? I just give her the stink-eye and march off again, just catching the words ‘That was the girl from earlier…’ being hissed maliciously to some other member of staff, before making my way “down da ramps” once more. This time I find myself turning into a corridor of freaky self-portraits, apparently by photography students, and go through the maze of corridors to search for the mysterious spiral staircase, which the middle-aged bitch at the front desk had conveniently forgotten to mention the first hundred times I asked. It’s only when I peek into an open door that has a sign saying, ‘Stairs to lifts’ that I catch a glimpse of a stairwell going down, and somehow, by some miracle, I find this spiral staircase. I decend, probably looking as lost and enchanted as the kid from Pan’s Labyrinth, and find myself in a some Jacob’s Ladder inspired basement. I was afraid. But I wonder along and eventually find some large red doors, and at the very end, is room 172. What a ****ing battle that was, I think to myself. So I breeze in, trying hard to be silent and respectful, only to hear “It’s actually past the 15 minute mark, so…” behind me. I plonk myself down, and, quite ****ed-offedly yet reservedly say, ‘I sent you an email explaining I’d be late.’ I was let off, and although I wanted to add that I’d just had to treck through ****ing Nania just to get there, so he should be grateful I arrived in one piece, I decided against it. I got on with the class, and actually really enjoyed the excersizes. I just made myself a mental note to climb the front desk and take a massive, steaming, satisfying **** on the secretary’s head on the way out. That’ll show her, I thought.
Please check out my external blog, for links to my reviews and news about my fiction acceptances. This is just a quick update. Three of my film reviews are now up at VideoVista(dot)net! .Review of Tears For Sale .Review of The Haunting Of Marsten Manor .Review of Zombie Women Of Satan Recently I've also sold a piece of dark comedy to the Rotting Tales anthology at Pill Hill Press, and two pieces of chick lit to ChickLitShorties.com; Your Daily Dose Of Chick Lit I also have other things sent out, and I'm awaiting my responses. Fingers crossed!
Copied & pasted from my external Blog To whom it may concern, I am writing to confirm that I have recently become accustomed to the genre of gay literature, specifically that of Sarah Waters, amongst a few others. I am also writing to inform you that whilst I am appreciative of gay and lesbian literature, this does not obligate me to be gay, nor does it obligate me to accept the judgement that I must be gay to enjoy it. This may come as a shock to you, sir/madam, but there is no logically correct theory that states “I read gay, therefore I am”. The ability to become immersed in another world is one that has aided me into becoming an avid reader, and as a consequence of this, an open thinker. It is precisely this quality about gay fiction, particularly by Sarah Waters, that has delighted me so much; the fact that I can experience different things through another’s eyes is compelling, and if it isn’t for you, then you can’t possible enjoy books – let alone any other creative outlet. If this is the case, then you don’t deserve the right to judge me at all. Subsequent to this, I implore that you reconsider the notion that reading lesbian fiction makes me a raging feminist. The ability to express myself and my views about female equality, whilst having feminist themes, do not make me a bra-burning throwback from the 60s. It just means I am able to question views and opinions without having to resort to personal jabs, and am able to acknowledge, understand, and yes – admire another’s ability to do the same. It just so happens that, in alot of instancies, gay fiction explores these themes. Labels are there for the benefit of chainstores, who are obligated to categorize books for the sake of their customers; nothing more. The fact that such genres make some people feel uncomfortable would only leave me to suggest that they ask – why? Kind regards, A book lover.
Since my last blog, I've: .Published more at Mookychick .Become a book reviewer for Shroud Magazine, and published reviews online with them .Become a DVD reviewer for VideoVista .Published my first piece of fiction, which will appear in Fem-Fangs by Pill Hill Press So now, whilst I wait to leave and go to Nandos and a film with my boyfriend, I'll answer this random blog survey. 1. Your ‘ex’ and you: Best stay well apart - the man makes me sick, and the entire occurance was a foul joke to humanity. 2. I am listening to: The television 3. Maybe I should: Get up off my arse? 4. I love: Matthew, Pebbles, my friends, my family, and writing. 5. My best friends: Are the coolest people in the world. 6. I don’t understand: Why everything has to cost so damn much. 7. I lost my respect for: Self-professed "Nice people"- there's a reason why they have to give themselves the title. 8. I last ate: A naughty piece of Manor House cake 9. The meaning of my display name is: Ash Trees, or some bull like that. It's my name in the real world. 11. I will always be: Ambitious 12. Love is: All around us; just be open to recieve it. 13. I never ever want to lose: Oh, too much to list. Life's too precious. 14. My MySpace is: Long gone! 15. I get annoyed when:...anything goes wrong? 16. Parties: Are fun with friends. 17. Kisses: Are nomful. 18. Today: I have read alot, written some, gotten a DVD review job, loved-up my boyfriend, lounged around, and will be enjoying dinner and a film later. 19. I wish: I had lots of money. Or a job, atleast. Hell, an interview would be something. 20. I regret: Nothing that I'm willing to remember. Only good, positive things get a place in this girl's noggin'.
So my recent review of the novel Tipping The Velvet by Sarah Waters has made its way onto the fantastic gurrrrl-power website, Mookychick! If you'd like to see it, then here it is! Huzzah!
[Copied and pasted from my external Blog ] Gollancz, RRP £11.99 Throughout this character-driven horror/fantasy cross-over, Joe Hill weaves a controversial tale of cruelty, loss, and revenge, combining it with a daring religious slant. As a stand-alone novel, the fragmented approach works well in an omniscient 3rd person viewpoint, instilling a sense of mystery as the tragic, yet empowering journey of Ignatius Perrish unfolds. This piece both horrifies and delights, and its gradual pacing made it a pleasure to absorb. Iggy Perrish realised as he awoke one morning that he’d spent the night drunk, and had done some bad deeds. But although he’d predicted his hangover, and a splitting headache, nothing could’ve prepared him for what’d soon be peering back at him from the mirror: a pair of sharp, protruding horns. Languishing in pain for the last year, Iggy cannot haul himself from the clutches of the trauma he faced when Merrin, the love of his live, was brutally raped and murdered. Ig is lusting for answers, and the horns bring him just that; forcing even the darkest, cruellest confessions from everyone he meets, the horns unleash a power greater than he could ever conceive of. But soon the horns become a burden, and then his duty; the knowledge that his best friend Lee Tourneau is responsible for Merrin’s tragic end awakens the devil inside of him, and he begins his burning, torturous quest for revenge. His journey is teamed with religious aspects; a plague of serpants at his beck and call; fire that heals and strengthens his metamorphosis; and the horns, that can unveil priests as hypocrites. Ignatius delves into a new reality, with a new order; he’s the new lord of the underworld, and the boot fits pretty well. Horns is a delicious examination of broad, hell-deep characters that boasts a controversial agenda of betrayal, love, cruelty and sacrifice of the darkest forms. After the success of Heart Shaped Box, with its startling, frightful imagery, Horns is a contribution to the genre that challenges even the works of the King himself, and is a substantial addition to Hill’s growing collection of pure, masterful suspense.
[Copied and pasted from my external Blog Virago, RRP £7.99 [This blog has been removed, as it has since been published in the reviews section of Mookychick! You can read it here: Review]
I've been reading alot of fiction lately about gender and sexuality, so I thought I'd have a go at writing a piece of flash fiction around that theme. ---------------------------------------------- < SNIP! > Attempting to get this published, so it'll no longer appear here. :3
[Copied from my external BLOG, which has pweddy pictures] When it comes to alcohol, I’m a Magners kind of girl. I might have a Pear or Summerfruits Kopperberg, a Jacques fruit cider if I’m feeling saucy, and perhaps a Bulmers if they’ve nothing else on offer! One thing’s for sure, though; something you can absolutely count on. I will drink some form of cider. None of this ‘sours’ rubbish, no whimpish ‘Archers and lemonade’ (though it does taste nice, I shan’t lie), and no bloody Rosé! Cider suits me just fine…Usually. Now given that I’m tighter than a crab’s arse with my money, it’s a rare occasion that I stray from my usual, manly choice of beverage on a night out. For one, you’re commonly presented with an entire bottle and a glass, which psychologically makes me feel as though I’ve purchased more than just a test-tube of water for my money, and on a student budget that can be difficult to avoid. Cider has its setbacks, though. For one, it’s customary to appear blokish when swigging your cider; but don’t bother trying to avoid it, because it’s impossible. I’ve tried pouring the frothing, golden substance into dainty feminine glasses; I’ve tried sipping in a child-like fashion through a straw, and just about every leg-crossing, bust-protruding pose in which to strike whilst I drink it. But short of hiding it in a brown bag and taking naughty swigs at the back table, nothing works! I often receive a few rolled-eyes and tongues-in-cheek from my friends when I make my order, and although men might avoid the girl that could drink them under the table like the plague, I’m usually content with my apple-juice. Last night, however, was different; my friend suggested I have a couple of cocktails with her before we rang for the taxi, and rather than being a party-pooping bore, I thought ‘what the heck!?’. They smelled so candy-licious that I was almost convinced I’d be gulping cherryade, and so I eagerly held out my glass. I ended up guzzling down three “Woo-Woo”s and one “Sex On The Beach”, before leaving the house feeling happy as a clam. On arriving at the cool, dimly-lit bar, I assumed I’d be ordering my single bottle of cider and that’d be me set for the evening. But once I’d clocked those glittering menus, with their 2-for-£5 offer on more fruitilicious cocktails, I simply couldn’t resist the luring fun of it all. We took turns in buying, and I consumed Tecquila Sunrise, Long-Island-Iced-Tea, two shots entitled ‘Blowjob’ (which had the peculiar taste of a mint Cornetto!) and lastly, a Carrie Bradshaw Cosmopolitan. After that I gave into trying an Archers and lemonade, which plunged nicely into the highly varied concoction that already sloshed about my stomach. If I drank any more than that, I can no longer remember. Then commenced the giggling, photo-snapping events of every fabulous evening, and I left the place on a high note. I wish, however, that I’d had the sense to leave the evening there. But we’d made plans to go clubbing, and so I tottered off down the highstreet in my aching heels, and paid £7 for entry (I know!). The club was 3-floors of pumping, steamy club-goodness, and 40-minutes into boogey-time, I made for the bar to buy a Smirnoff. It wasn’t until I finally stood still, however, that I came over all claustrophobic; bodies writhed everywhere and I couldn’t decipher a single exit. I became fish-belly pale, hot, and excreted a cold sweat. Within moments the room started spinning, and I could only thank my lucky stars I had a friend with me to guide my quivering-wreck of a body out of that place, before I gave someone’s shoes a rather disgusting make-over. Being a sweetheart, she asked if I wanted to leave, and got a taxi back with me. By the time I crawled into bed that night, my head was splitting. Despite having a fantastic evening ‘til that point, I couldn’t help but regret my greed, and my weakness above it all; I felt like a school-kid again, venturing into the unexplored world of drinking. I thoroughly enjoyed the cocktails, but have learnt to adjust myself to a new set of limits. But I’m pleased to announce I shall be returning to my beloved Magners, whom I know and trust so well, and who hasn’t made a teetering trollop of me yet. I guess you can take the girl out of the cider, but you can’t take the cider out of the girl.
[Copied and pasted from my external BLOG ] After the conclusion of the first film being that Big finally boots his pride up the arse and marries Carrie in a humble registry office, which we’re apparently supposed to accept as being a romantic alternative to Carrie’s Westwood extravaganza, you’d think there wouldn’t be much else Darren Star could squeeze out of the previously successful sitcom. Opening with Stanford’s lavish, oh-so-camp wedding, a hideously masculine outfit for Carrie (because all gays love a good cross-dresser) and a guest-star performance from Liza Minelli performing Beyonce’s Single Ladies (because she’s the next best thing to Judy, and all gay guys love Judy), I was sufficiently convinced that this would be one film without clichés. Oh yes, I wasn’t disappointed. I’m happy to say it didn’t feature a complete trashing of all previous characterisation for the sake of (poor) comedy, such as Miranda the workaholic, quitting her job and planning a fun-filled week of partying in Abu Dhabi. You won’t find Samantha looking like a ropey old spinster with a face so tight she resembles a Jim Henson puppet from The Dark Crystal, and both Carrie and Charlotte will have no qualms regarding their perfect luxurious lifestyles, and their hot, romantic marriages. When the credits role, you’ll realise how horribly wrong you were to ever doubt this sequel; and by the end of this paragraph, you’ll realise I’m talking ****. It was all those things, and worse. From the moment they announced a second movie, I knew it was doomed. For a start they took the girls out of their natural habitat – New York-, which is always a massive no-no for any sitcom. I believe doing this only caused confusion for the writers, who clearly knew so little about their characters thus far that they completely misgauged their approach to new cultures and instead created this hideous menagerie of patronising, insulting, and -dare I say it?- racist scenes from start to finish. It seemed like the only way the women were able to relate to those of another race, specifically Islamic people, was to assume that beneath those torturous burkah disguises lay thousands of fashion-obsessed women just itching to break free. That’s right, behind all that religious dedication on which they’ve built their very lives, behind the facades of their faith, is….Gucci. Dior. Well bugger me! I thought these Islamic women were practising their commitment to Islam, but really they’re just sheltered tarts. I needn’t say this, but I shall; this was just pure ignorance. Of course a lot of modern Islamic women wear –get this – clothes under their burkah, but why must we be so obnoxious as to suggest that they’ve needed to create some sort of underground cult, primarily dedicated to western fashions? Not only that, but Samantha’s contribution to the film was to shed light on the fact that public displays of intercourse and foreplay are frowned upon in Abu Dhabi, so much so that after such an event takes place in a public restaurant, some silly old Arab man actually gets offended! Heavens! Because us hip-hop-‘n’-happenin’ western bunch wouldn’t bat an eyelid at that sort of behaviour in one of our restaurants, would we? And just to prove this, Samantha finally escapes the jaws of the Arabic community, where she can have full-frontal sex on a beach in New York, “the land of the free”. Sadly, the scene in which she’s hauled to a jail cell and given 6 months community service and a whopping fine for indecent exposure never made the final cut. So far removed are they from this culture, (which we’re supposed to believe they simply adore), is that they insisted on including a gay Muslim called Abdul, who swings his shopping bags, wore yams to cleanse his face, and happily became Samantha’s gay BFF for the entirety of the film. Yes, I’m sure there are closet-gay Muslims, and openly gay Muslims, and what have you – but that was just hideous, tacky, and sadly predictable. Did I mention this film was patronising? In short, the entire film was one tacky, contrived event after another; a moment seemed like an hour, the story took us nowhere, and as those precious seconds which could be spent doing more productive things such as crochet knitting (or cleaning out your sink unit) tick on by, you’ll feel yourself die a little more inside. This film was dull, ignorant, clichéd and fruitless. I’m a massive fan of the series, but honestly? Save yourself the £7.50 ticket to buy your Muslim friend her first bra, or perhaps a tour of the outside from your car window. Apparently, she’d/he’d be eternally thankful!
[Copied from my external BLOG, which I advise you read for the super-duper pictures!] Director: Mike Newell Rating: 5/10 My initial response to the advertisements of Prince Of Persia was decidedly ‘meh’, and the film itself didn’t do much to change my mind. As a fan/groupie of the doe-eyed-dreamboat Jake Gyllenhaal, and an admirer of the fantastic Ben Kingsley (Sexybeast), I was first and foremost interested on seeing the two work together. On the whole, their acting was pretty sound; Gyllenhaal upped his masculinity sufficiently and had me believing he was a Persian hunk, and Kingsley truly pivoted from his role as Don in the cockney-masterpiece Sexybeast, as well as his more recent role of the professor in Shutter Island. However, something struck me about the whole movie that I really cannot get to grips with. These were Persian men, right? I wouldn’t have expected them to speak the native language, but why on earth did they have standard English accents?! They could’ve had an exotic twang to their voices at the very least; I wasn’t expecting them to start doing a Banderas, but is it too much to ask that they make it a little more realistic? It would’ve taken Mr.Gyllenhaal the exact same effort as it’d taken him to put on the English accent, so I just didn’t grasp the logic there. Surely it wasn’t all for the sake of making Ben Kingsley’s job a little easier? Though judging by the climax of the film, this wouldn’t surprise me at all. I’ll get to that later. The plot was awfully predictable, to the point of nausea. We knew there was going to be a romance story from the moment that bloody princess comes into view, and frankly such things bore me to death. I was hoping they’d save me the faux-arguments and stereotypical arrogance on both parts, but they didn’t. The whole ‘I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last hot guy in Iran!’ bollocks followed by the dreamy-eye-locking moments was just cliché, and whilst I don’t mind clichés if they have a little twist them, this one unfortunately lacked. Not only that, but I had a real problem with the whole ‘smarter than I look’ rubbish in regards to the leading female, particularly when every ‘cunning’ act she demonstrated involved using nothing but her looks and sexuality to get whatever the job is done! I’m sorry, are we supposed to pretend those were examples of intelligent, feminine prowess of the highest form? Give me a break; Heather Trott from Eastenders could’ve pulled that one out the hat. Whilst we’re on the subject, I truly cannot stand these tactless actresses draping themselves all over the visuals, particularly when their skills consist of nothing but haughty expressions, pouting, and incredibly poor tantrums. Time and time again movie-makers use sex appeal as a way of making our gender seem a little witty, and end up rowing down stereotype-creek. I mean, really? Fainting episodes, come-ons and sex-slavery? Oh dears! The visual effects, setting and action scenes were sufficiently impressive, but nothing tantalising. It seems a real shame to me that these directors, with all the tools at their disposal, consistently fail to distinguish themselves in the film industry, choosing to bring just a few lame crumbs to the table. To me it just feels like I keep getting invites to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, only to be greeted by a few caramel wafers and a mandarin flan. Not good enough. Finally, the ending. This was down-right laziness if you ask me, and I knew from the very second that daft cow fell into the abyss that dear ol’ princey would just turn back time and make it all betters. And to my disappointment, he did. Not only that, but it was painfully obvious that the only reason the film ended this way was because A) The bitch can’t die, they’re destined to be together, and B) The film is called Prince Of Persia. The events that occur would result in Dastan becoming king, and it was obvious to me that the entire finale was all for the sake of saving the title. Pretty lame, eh? So Alladin, Oops! I mean Dastan, goes back in time with all he’s learned and stops his uncle before the **** hits the fan, then swans off with the princess anyway! Who, incidentally, no longer gives a crap about all the beloved villagers they slaughtered when invading her kingdom, as she had done before. Fickle cow. Subsiquently, did anyone remember the Hassansin dudes with all the snakes? You know, the freaky guys with the black robes that were sent to kill them…? Oh, they irrelevant now. Alrighty then… All in all, the film’s only worth a go purely for the sake of the adorable ostriches, Gyllenhaal’s gorgeousness, and Kingsley’s famously disgruntled face. I’ll give it a 5/10
[This is copied from my external BLOG, which I advise you read for the accompanying pictures ] One of my favourite TV shows of all time happens to be Showtime’s Dexter, starring the deliciously-rugged Michael C Hall in the role of the world’s favourite serial killer. It’s my belief that this is the best crime/thriller on television to date, and right now, I’m all about telling you why. Jeff Lindsay truly created the most uniquely plausible killer, making no excuses for his darkly demented mind other than the purest truth: he kills because he needs to. Dexter is a man with a dark past, one that he continues to unravel throughout his career in the Miami forensics department as a blood-spatter specialist; and yet it’s his constant struggle with pretending that I found so intriguing, as opposed to the former aspects. Unlike most psychologically-influenced shows, Dexter doesn’t tend to dwell on all the usual tedious drivel of living with themselves as killers; Dexter fits the psychopath skin well, and reacts as though each kill were like slipping into a warm, inviting bath, or a pair of cosy jeans. It’s being human that’s second nature to Dexter, which creates problems as he finds himself developing nurturing feelings towards Rita and the kids, whom he describes as being ‘Just as damaged’ as he is. Huzzah for original approaches on an already well-explored theme, I say. When it comes to Dexter, for me, it’s as simple as this: Michael Hall is Dexter. If any other actor were to portray his character there would simply be no comparison; it’s in the penetrative depth of his voice, those devilish eyebrows, his cruel, calculating smile. His stance, his presence, it speaks more than just power; even his walk seems to seep a kind of dark reckoning, only recognisable to us secret surveyors (viewers). After thoroughly enjoying his performance as villain Ken Castle in the sci-fi film Gamer, I really fell in love with the guy. He’s diversity all over, going from cool, calculating Dexter to smarmy, cackling Ken Castle in all kinds of awesome that I can’t even begin to describe. I adored Gamer, by the way; go buy it. It’s every nerd’s passion on screen. Incidentally, I’ve just begun watching another one of Hall’s performances in the show Six Feet Under, in which he plays a gay funeral director. If that doesn’t spell out his quality as an actor, then I don’t know what will. I’m both concerned and grateful however, to learn that Hall is currently in remission after receiving treatment for cancer. He soldiered on and kept his private life discrete and respectful, which I find to be a truly admirable quality above all else. You might’ve noticed my extensive use of alliteration thus far, and those who’ve read the books will realise the reference. It’s Lindsay’s style, which is almost as unique as the story. However, (and this’ll be a first for me) I have to say that I suspect the TV show is actually of a much higher quality than the books. Granted, I’ve only read part of the first, so I can’t be completely valid in this opinion; but I have to say, the writing didn’t do Dexter as much justice as the screenplay did. The dialogue is delivered by the actors with great clarity, and the cast truly have me believing in their performance; Debra, Masouka and Angel being a few of my favourites. Finally, the score of the show is consistently cool and sinister, the kind of spine-tingling eeriness that tugs you deep into the depths of Dexter’s mind. You won’t find any Americanised-high-speed pumping beats in this drama, thank you very much; nothing less than quality atmosphere here. Speaking of which, the opening sequence speaks a thousand awe-inspiring words that I couldn’t even articulate. The entire show emits a superior sense of style and quality that’s difficult to come by these days, and although you don’t need me to tell you this, I shall say it out of duty anyway. Watch this show, damn you. Watch it, love it, honour it; nurse it to your heart like a baby at your breast. Do it, and experience the swell of glee in your stomach like a heartily consumed meal. Lord knows I do.