Saturday, 25 August 2012
Radio clichés
X'crpt fromYKNY2.0, copyright Uma o'Gil 0018-0012
(...)
Finally, if I'm really desperate for topics and pressed for time, I can always resort to the Disguised Overkills. These are deadly: they bypass the brain almost entirely and go straight for the jugular; they tick the boxes that haven’t even been built. When I'm really stumped for ideas, I don't think twice, I bring out the big guns. Here is a selection of what I mean by that -Enjoy!
"Politicians -who do they think they are? Do you think they are special? In your judgement, do you think they deserve special treatment?"
"Traffic wardens eh... -shouldn't they be employed catching criminals instead?"
"Billions are starving in the world and we have this obesity problem here in Western Europe ...what gives??"
"The Queen of England... isn't it time she came to Ireland on a State visit? What do you think?"
This one is an all-time favourite with right-wing loudmouths, it is so wrong on so many levels it becomes sheer genius. Introducing the Political-Correctness-Gone-Mad sledgehammer: "How do you feel about this school in" (insert place name that can't be checked anyway) "that wants to ban Christmas this year for fear of offending non-Christian pupils?"
"Heard the latest from the European Community: they want to ban bendy bananas / they want to force circus acrobats to wear safety hats in keeping with the new Health and Safety regulations?" -This one adds a further layer: the European Community has actually become the European Union for fifteen fecking years now.
Sure, there is an awful lot of old junk out there, right up for recycling.
And that's even before the "cyclicals".
Now, the basic principle behind the "cyclicals" is simplicity itself: it is about hailing the socially established landmarks that time our lives ("-Eh?") ...or what regular events happen every bleedin' year. You start with New Year resolutions and move on from there. In no particular order (that'd take me too long), we certainly have plenty to choose from:
-the officially most depressing day of the year: January the 5th
-the shocking discovery that, three weeks on, gym attendance by New Year recruits is already collapsing
-the Chinese New Year
-much chin stroking and finger wagging after the quarterly publication of various official statistics detailing such things as personal debt figures and road fatalities numbers :-(
-the sitting of Leaving Certs exams throughout the land -i.e. the usual advice to be administered to the nervous young wans
-the publication of Leaving Certs results and attending condemnation of the drunken mayhem ensuing
-Saint-Patrick's Day, the inevitable warnings against public drunkenness followed by consternation at the nighttime vandalism
-the arrival of spring (hurrah!)
-the arrival of summer (hurrah!)
-the official end of the summer, and the countdown towards the end of the year: aren't days getting shorter?
-Left-handers day
-Women’s Day
-Mother's Day
-Father's Day
-Nan's Day
-Doris Day
-Easter
-Passover
-First communions
-the wildly (widely?) awaited Christmas office parties. How to avoid gross personal misconduct, wink wink
-Christmas and its shameless commercialism (there's always a Grinch on hand to solemnly declare in the mike that "This year, that's it, I won't be celebrating!")
-Valentine's Day and its shameless commercialism -but then no fellow out there would dare ignore it
-Bloom's Day and its shameless commercialism
-the Roses of Tralee, its innocent kitsh gone astray and its shameless commercialism
-the (January) sales and their shameless etc.
-the Easter Rising
-the end of WW2 (in which Ireland didn't take part)
-the start of the GAA season. The rising sense -mainly in the Dub' media- that this could be the year the Dubs will be mounting a credible challenge for the title
-the deflation at the Dubs' defeat
-the GAA final
-the rugby Six Nations, and how outstanding-yet-unlucky-with-injury Drico seems to be (the main thing being that we beat you-know-who, though)
-the FA Cup Final, featuring these well-known Irish teams Manchester United, Arsenal or Liverpool
-the summer music festivals, their line-ups, and the cheeky advice to mete out to revellers preparing to undergo the gruelling experience
-the presentation of this summer's uniformly American megabudget blockbuster sequels
-that one day in the year apart from Christmas when alcohol is scandalously not on sale
-the mad Irish horse race festival, over the water in Cheltenham
-the failure of the Irish soccer team to qualify for a forthcoming tournament ("to be honest with you, we're a small country")
-the Eurovision song contest, and why we should win really
-the Eurovision song contest, and how the "new" Eastern European countries have ruined it for everybody else
-the election of "Alternative Miss Ireland", and what it says about our new tolerant mores
-the release of the new U2 album, its importance for the national psyche and prominence on the world stage
and on and on. Like I said, simplicity itself! Pick an agenda (any agenda), leaf through the holidays marked, select the ones for which you have old bollix to recycle, and there you are: job done, boxed off!
Ah yes, there is a lot to be said about recycling old chestnuts ...right?
Sadly, this is not how it went today though; today I tried to be cute. Went off the script, went for originality -and now am pretty much up the proverbial creek. Luckily my allocated time is coming to a merciful end and my ordeal will soon be over. Enough with off-the-cuff sez she, enough with material that doesn't tick all the pigeonholes! (or something like that) Sometimes one shouldn't try to be too clever, the beaten path is the safest.
Marina's helping me out though; Marina's on my side. She is the programme's co-presenter and is dutifully emitting the little snorts of appreciation / disbelief befitting my edifying diatribe ("Fancy that! / Well I never! / Good girl yourself!"). I owe Marina big time.
I owe her even more when compared to a certain someone who is staying quiet -very quiet indeed- throughout the course of my ordeal.
That someone is Timothy O'Arnlan.
(tobecontinued)
An Evening At The National Library Of Ireland
xc'rpt from YKNY2.0 copyright Uma o'Gil 00000012, naturally subject to re-re-re-re-re-editing.
(...)
The National Library director strides in, preceding Paddy McCabe and his interviewer. He (the host) climbs onto the makeshift podium and invites him (the guest) to join him there. The third man consults his notes and joins the party. The other two makes themselves comfy under the spotlight, spread out their notes on a little table and, without so much as a "do you mind, folks?", totally help themselves to a glass of water. One of them loosens his belt and lets out a fart ("Aaah, that's better…"). The soundman climbs up onstage to part your men’s chest hairs and adjust the microphones on their medallions. Silence ripples through the rows like dominos falling. The start has never been so close...
The NLI Director has a quick moustache check and puts away his comb. Coughs. He begins by welcoming everyone to this edition of "Library Late" ("welcome, everyone") then half-turns towards the two seated figures on the podium and confidently states that the guest of tonight need no introduction -which he proceeds to deliver. "Paddy McCabe was born blah blah blah, first published in etc., came to fame with yadda yadda -and there he is with us tonight". Big round of applause for Paddy Mccabe.
The next hour or so passes reasonably fast. The journalist feigns to enquire about the writer’s earlier work (which he's obviously re-read before tonight's assignment), gently probes into his writing discipline (morning or night? write or type? whisky or beer?), and generally leads him to recount amusing anecdotes, most of them relating to the recent adaptation of "Breakfast On Pluto" on the big screen (the filum came out last week).
"And I suppose, in a way, it could it be said, given your very pronounced style, would you agree that (...) what did you have in mind when you wrote (...) were you drunk or what? Obviously, you must have been very flattered by the success of "The Butcher Boy", that sick piece of sh(...) where do you get your inspiration (...) does it come naturally to you (...) do you ever read your critics? How much do you pay them to (...) any chance of an autograph for me old Mah, she's like your biggest fan?" (Hang on, cross the last one out!)
Before you know it, the interview comes to an end and we face the moment dreaded by every pupil:
"I'll have to stop you there Paddy, even though that’s -like- totally fascinating yeah, but I'm afraid we're running out of time -Oh my goodness, how time flows in my company!- we've just about five minutes left to take questions from the floor. Now does anyone have any question for our guest tonight? ... Huh? … Anyone? .......... Now don't be shy... (Come on you bunch of mothers)"
Finally someone raises her hand: "What advice would you give to an aspiring writer? Do you know any good agent?" As soon as the ice is broken, someone else does, and someone else -and here we go. Twenty minutes of questioning ensue:
"Hey Pat, remember me? We met –what- five years ago... Bought you a pint in this pub... Anyway, meant to ask you, what's with your obsession with sex, what's the subtext here? What are you like, man? a total perv'??"
"Have you heard the one about the bishop and the rabbi?"
"Why aren't you funny anymore?"
"So who dunnit in the end then? Didn't get it..."
"I have a question. Do you get paid for writing this rubbish? How much?"
"On page ten, you tell us your man is wearing a flat cap; then, five pages later, you write -and here I quote- that "Quentin mournfully took off his delightful panama" -What gives, pal?!"
"Me ma says I've got lovely handwriting, do you reckon I should become a writer such like yourself?"
"Is it me Pat, or aren't Gardai getting younger every year?"
"Me nan says that you're very bold, and a gutter mouth to boot, but I've found copies of your bewks in her house."
"What's your problem with decent ordinary folks who can't abide flaming poofters?"
"Sorry, is this the National Museum or the National Library?"
Twenty hundred minutes of questioning ensue when I, for one, can't wait to go investigate who the big hunk is. Expletives are fully deleted, yawns admirably repressed. A solid half-hour behind schedule, the lit' shindig eventually comes to an end and the Library bigwig grabs the mike back to thank us all again ("Thank yous all …again"). Why, thank you too, Mister. As the National Library staff stand poised to unlock the doors and let us out wild in the street, he informs us of the next event and invites us to a glass of wine upstairs. His intervention serves as a twofold signal:
-Left side, a gaggle of fans swarms onto the visibly gasping author, pressing into his hand copies of his books for signing ("Here, here, I 'got 'em all pal -all of your bewks! Read all of them too, right till the end. Now wait a sec', they're in me bag, ah here they are, shit! the stupid bint's forgot to take the price tags off! / Ah here you are, the man himself! I'm -like- your biggest fan! Can you sign 'em "to me old buddy Deco", that'd be massive!")
-Right side, a substantial crowd rush up to the café to claim their complimentary glass of plonk and low-fat cream cheese canapé. Better hurry, or there won't be any left for everyone.
I hesitate between the two groups, try to hover about and keep an eye on you-know-who: what's the story here? what's he up to? Finally, I have no choice: I let myself be dragged away by the receding flow ...which just happens to have engulfed the hunk. The café it is then (although I can't drink since I'm driving).
By the time I arrive there, no more than five minutes at the most since the end of the talk, half of the booze has gone. Guests in berets and goatees hold gripping conversations, pausing only to refill their glass. Some men do too. Meanwhile, the in-house photographer snaps away at the various personalities in attendance ("snap, snap, snap") -What about "lovely Lily Monaghan off Radio 101, yesterday" eh? But he doesn’t want to know, I don't seem to register -Is this is turning into a regular occurrence or what? Your man prefers to concentrate on some professor type, all wild hair and scuffed Hush Puppies, schmoozing with the Library director. Well suit yourself eh! I won’t insist. So I scan the room and snake my way back into the throng. Ever the accomplished socialite, I work the room; I make sure to salute the faces I recognise; I nibble; I circle back anti-clockwise; I munch some more; I pause five feet in front of the photographer and don't even notice him turning away; I wonder; I worry; I ponder; I even engage in light banter with someone I don't recognise. But still no sign of our Johnny. ?!!??!!! Sigh sigh sigh internally, sigh nevertheless. Well that's a bit of an anti-climax! Where the hell could he be?? Another one clearly biting the dust! Entertaining evening to be sure, pleasant interview that is certain... but massive anti-climax at the end of the day –The hunk is gone!
OK.
So be it, then.
At least I will have shown my nose around and pressed flesh, "Lily woz here" like... I decide to give it a last try just to make sure -let's work this room solid. Deep breath. Poise, posture, and glide, sashay, twist, turn, breathe, pause, repeat. Very good. One more time with feeling. Back straight, head high, elbows tight -here we go. And one, and two, and three, no slouching, "how do you do?", "yes Ma'am", "no Ma'm" -nothing doing. He's deffo gone. (massive :-(( ) Maybe he got bored... maybe he had a bus to catch... maybe -could that be it?- there is a match on the telly and he fecked off to catch it! Oh, whatever.
"How enchanting oh yes, truly delightful evening indeed, that's right, absolute gentleman -and so well spoken too, who would have thought! Oh yes, wild imagination, wild imagination's right! A true original to be sure in the grand tradition of -Pardon? The toilets are this way, yes... Maaarvellous yes, and so entertaining too -can you believe how fast time flew? Yes yes, I am aware he uses profane language, he's very bold. Takes the Lord's name in vain does he? Ah well, you know with these artistic types, they're very bold they are, I was just remarking, and in a sense -well I suppose-, could we maybe suggest it's their prerogative or... Come again? Of course I can take your picture -you two stand right there and... Say "cheese"! No bother at all, you're very welcome. We were saying? Right you are, a colourful bunch they certainly make! Half of what they write is just to fill up the page anyway, it's all fillers; they may just have a vague idea to start with and then... they pad it out is what they do, 'pile on the lines -Excuse me? I left the cap on? Dreadfully sorry about that -here, let me take another one... Oh. As you wish. No no, I don't work here but yes, I know where the toilets are: on your left, then your right, all the way down the corridor, you take the stairs and then you'll see the sign -you're very welcome. Now then. Truly enchanting, yes. And very bold. Too much bad language though. Bohemian type. Bunch of chancers. Totally imaginative and. Unsettling stuff to be sure. Dead queer, oh aye. Maaarvellous. Am afraid 'must dash though, lovely talking to you -Toodleoo now, cheerio! Until next time, absolutely!"
Not a moment too soon I take my leave and, gracious as can be, proceed to repair to the Lilymobile -no cab tonight, thank you very much. Internally, I'm peeved as hell. !!!!! Should have made my move right there and then, what was I waiting for?! ("Excuse me lady, but would you awfully mind fecking off so that I can take your seat? Thank you kindly. Now then. ... And what's a nice young man like you doing in a place like this, big boy?") Oh well, let's concentrate on getting home now. School night after all. Professional, remember? Totally professional. Hopefully they won't have clamped it again, them wardens they can be such a pain, what's their problem, ah let's not tempt fate now, would put the icing on the cake, deffo, keys keys, where are me keys now, never where you left them now that's for sure, sure need a better bag, one with pockets, pockets and flaps yeah, one more practical like -and I don't care if it'll look less "feminine"! A Marc Jacobs tot, that's what, that's what I should have got, a tip top one, that'd be deadly, but when oh when oh when will they come up with one fitted with a little lamp inside, a little lamp, you click it open and it lights up -alleluia! 'Not too much to ask, is it? Not too difficult! Ah but no, that'd be too easy, much too easy for the
So here I am, lost in my thoughts, foraging through the damn thing moving mountains inside in search of them fecking keys when who do I crash into but the man himself:
"Vvvvvlam"!
Flat out on my fanny.
(tobecontinued)
(...)
The National Library director strides in, preceding Paddy McCabe and his interviewer. He (the host) climbs onto the makeshift podium and invites him (the guest) to join him there. The third man consults his notes and joins the party. The other two makes themselves comfy under the spotlight, spread out their notes on a little table and, without so much as a "do you mind, folks?", totally help themselves to a glass of water. One of them loosens his belt and lets out a fart ("Aaah, that's better…"). The soundman climbs up onstage to part your men’s chest hairs and adjust the microphones on their medallions. Silence ripples through the rows like dominos falling. The start has never been so close...
The NLI Director has a quick moustache check and puts away his comb. Coughs. He begins by welcoming everyone to this edition of "Library Late" ("welcome, everyone") then half-turns towards the two seated figures on the podium and confidently states that the guest of tonight need no introduction -which he proceeds to deliver. "Paddy McCabe was born blah blah blah, first published in etc., came to fame with yadda yadda -and there he is with us tonight". Big round of applause for Paddy Mccabe.
The next hour or so passes reasonably fast. The journalist feigns to enquire about the writer’s earlier work (which he's obviously re-read before tonight's assignment), gently probes into his writing discipline (morning or night? write or type? whisky or beer?), and generally leads him to recount amusing anecdotes, most of them relating to the recent adaptation of "Breakfast On Pluto" on the big screen (the filum came out last week).
"And I suppose, in a way, it could it be said, given your very pronounced style, would you agree that (...) what did you have in mind when you wrote (...) were you drunk or what? Obviously, you must have been very flattered by the success of "The Butcher Boy", that sick piece of sh(...) where do you get your inspiration (...) does it come naturally to you (...) do you ever read your critics? How much do you pay them to (...) any chance of an autograph for me old Mah, she's like your biggest fan?" (Hang on, cross the last one out!)
Before you know it, the interview comes to an end and we face the moment dreaded by every pupil:
"I'll have to stop you there Paddy, even though that’s -like- totally fascinating yeah, but I'm afraid we're running out of time -Oh my goodness, how time flows in my company!- we've just about five minutes left to take questions from the floor. Now does anyone have any question for our guest tonight? ... Huh? … Anyone? .......... Now don't be shy... (Come on you bunch of mothers)"
Finally someone raises her hand: "What advice would you give to an aspiring writer? Do you know any good agent?" As soon as the ice is broken, someone else does, and someone else -and here we go. Twenty minutes of questioning ensue:
"Hey Pat, remember me? We met –what- five years ago... Bought you a pint in this pub... Anyway, meant to ask you, what's with your obsession with sex, what's the subtext here? What are you like, man? a total perv'??"
"Have you heard the one about the bishop and the rabbi?"
"Why aren't you funny anymore?"
"So who dunnit in the end then? Didn't get it..."
"I have a question. Do you get paid for writing this rubbish? How much?"
"On page ten, you tell us your man is wearing a flat cap; then, five pages later, you write -and here I quote- that "Quentin mournfully took off his delightful panama" -What gives, pal?!"
"Me ma says I've got lovely handwriting, do you reckon I should become a writer such like yourself?"
"Is it me Pat, or aren't Gardai getting younger every year?"
"Me nan says that you're very bold, and a gutter mouth to boot, but I've found copies of your bewks in her house."
"What's your problem with decent ordinary folks who can't abide flaming poofters?"
"Sorry, is this the National Museum or the National Library?"
Twenty hundred minutes of questioning ensue when I, for one, can't wait to go investigate who the big hunk is. Expletives are fully deleted, yawns admirably repressed. A solid half-hour behind schedule, the lit' shindig eventually comes to an end and the Library bigwig grabs the mike back to thank us all again ("Thank yous all …again"). Why, thank you too, Mister. As the National Library staff stand poised to unlock the doors and let us out wild in the street, he informs us of the next event and invites us to a glass of wine upstairs. His intervention serves as a twofold signal:
-Left side, a gaggle of fans swarms onto the visibly gasping author, pressing into his hand copies of his books for signing ("Here, here, I 'got 'em all pal -all of your bewks! Read all of them too, right till the end. Now wait a sec', they're in me bag, ah here they are, shit! the stupid bint's forgot to take the price tags off! / Ah here you are, the man himself! I'm -like- your biggest fan! Can you sign 'em "to me old buddy Deco", that'd be massive!")
-Right side, a substantial crowd rush up to the café to claim their complimentary glass of plonk and low-fat cream cheese canapé. Better hurry, or there won't be any left for everyone.
I hesitate between the two groups, try to hover about and keep an eye on you-know-who: what's the story here? what's he up to? Finally, I have no choice: I let myself be dragged away by the receding flow ...which just happens to have engulfed the hunk. The café it is then (although I can't drink since I'm driving).
By the time I arrive there, no more than five minutes at the most since the end of the talk, half of the booze has gone. Guests in berets and goatees hold gripping conversations, pausing only to refill their glass. Some men do too. Meanwhile, the in-house photographer snaps away at the various personalities in attendance ("snap, snap, snap") -What about "lovely Lily Monaghan off Radio 101, yesterday" eh? But he doesn’t want to know, I don't seem to register -Is this is turning into a regular occurrence or what? Your man prefers to concentrate on some professor type, all wild hair and scuffed Hush Puppies, schmoozing with the Library director. Well suit yourself eh! I won’t insist. So I scan the room and snake my way back into the throng. Ever the accomplished socialite, I work the room; I make sure to salute the faces I recognise; I nibble; I circle back anti-clockwise; I munch some more; I pause five feet in front of the photographer and don't even notice him turning away; I wonder; I worry; I ponder; I even engage in light banter with someone I don't recognise. But still no sign of our Johnny. ?!!??!!! Sigh sigh sigh internally, sigh nevertheless. Well that's a bit of an anti-climax! Where the hell could he be?? Another one clearly biting the dust! Entertaining evening to be sure, pleasant interview that is certain... but massive anti-climax at the end of the day –The hunk is gone!
OK.
So be it, then.
At least I will have shown my nose around and pressed flesh, "Lily woz here" like... I decide to give it a last try just to make sure -let's work this room solid. Deep breath. Poise, posture, and glide, sashay, twist, turn, breathe, pause, repeat. Very good. One more time with feeling. Back straight, head high, elbows tight -here we go. And one, and two, and three, no slouching, "how do you do?", "yes Ma'am", "no Ma'm" -nothing doing. He's deffo gone. (massive :-(( ) Maybe he got bored... maybe he had a bus to catch... maybe -could that be it?- there is a match on the telly and he fecked off to catch it! Oh, whatever.
"How enchanting oh yes, truly delightful evening indeed, that's right, absolute gentleman -and so well spoken too, who would have thought! Oh yes, wild imagination, wild imagination's right! A true original to be sure in the grand tradition of -Pardon? The toilets are this way, yes... Maaarvellous yes, and so entertaining too -can you believe how fast time flew? Yes yes, I am aware he uses profane language, he's very bold. Takes the Lord's name in vain does he? Ah well, you know with these artistic types, they're very bold they are, I was just remarking, and in a sense -well I suppose-, could we maybe suggest it's their prerogative or... Come again? Of course I can take your picture -you two stand right there and... Say "cheese"! No bother at all, you're very welcome. We were saying? Right you are, a colourful bunch they certainly make! Half of what they write is just to fill up the page anyway, it's all fillers; they may just have a vague idea to start with and then... they pad it out is what they do, 'pile on the lines -Excuse me? I left the cap on? Dreadfully sorry about that -here, let me take another one... Oh. As you wish. No no, I don't work here but yes, I know where the toilets are: on your left, then your right, all the way down the corridor, you take the stairs and then you'll see the sign -you're very welcome. Now then. Truly enchanting, yes. And very bold. Too much bad language though. Bohemian type. Bunch of chancers. Totally imaginative and. Unsettling stuff to be sure. Dead queer, oh aye. Maaarvellous. Am afraid 'must dash though, lovely talking to you -Toodleoo now, cheerio! Until next time, absolutely!"
Not a moment too soon I take my leave and, gracious as can be, proceed to repair to the Lilymobile -no cab tonight, thank you very much. Internally, I'm peeved as hell. !!!!! Should have made my move right there and then, what was I waiting for?! ("Excuse me lady, but would you awfully mind fecking off so that I can take your seat? Thank you kindly. Now then. ... And what's a nice young man like you doing in a place like this, big boy?") Oh well, let's concentrate on getting home now. School night after all. Professional, remember? Totally professional. Hopefully they won't have clamped it again, them wardens they can be such a pain, what's their problem, ah let's not tempt fate now, would put the icing on the cake, deffo, keys keys, where are me keys now, never where you left them now that's for sure, sure need a better bag, one with pockets, pockets and flaps yeah, one more practical like -and I don't care if it'll look less "feminine"! A Marc Jacobs tot, that's what, that's what I should have got, a tip top one, that'd be deadly, but when oh when oh when will they come up with one fitted with a little lamp inside, a little lamp, you click it open and it lights up -alleluia! 'Not too much to ask, is it? Not too difficult! Ah but no, that'd be too easy, much too easy for the
So here I am, lost in my thoughts, foraging through the damn thing moving mountains inside in search of them fecking keys when who do I crash into but the man himself:
"Vvvvvlam"!
Flat out on my fanny.
(tobecontinued)
Wednesday, 22 August 2012
"Life Of Oharu" Revisited
xcrp't from "You Know Yourself 2.0" Uma o'Gil
I remember the time Sean and I met. It was at the IFI, at some... dreary retrospective of a Japanese director -Mizubishi or some name like that-, some high faluting function sponsored by RTE and the "quality broadsheet" (hee hee) The Indo. As it happened, I was less than overwhelmed by "The Life Of (Wretched Woman's Name)" and so was Sean. Give me strength: what a drag that yoke was.
To start with, we're talking black and white filum here. Yes. That put me right in the mood. But I gave it a chance I did, I suspended judgement... Only the suspension didn't last long. The filum went like this. So there's this woman, right? Otaku or something, and she's sacrificing herself in the name of some... quaint aul' code of honour that has already made a right bollix of her godforsaken existence -her main squeeze having been offed in the very first five minutes like- but she's determined to get all martyrical and saintly, something brutal. "Suffering in the name of".
And there is me. Fidget fidget fidget, scratch nose, suck sweet, and I'm thinking (in-between checking for messages): I can't be having that! Can't be going along with this maso charade! This is what I'd say to her:
"Woh-oh, calm your jets here missy, you cannot be serious! Why so po-faced? Why take that aggro, ya bleedin cabbage? Why you give in to that sad bunch of windup merchants when you can see they're as mean as a fiddler's bitch the whole lot o'them! You've got it all arse about face love! Don't let that sorry lot grind you down sister, get yourself a bottle of cop on and tell 'em to stick it up their (untranslatable)!"
That'd be her told. Right and proper.
Joking aside, I'm watching this, I'm watching this poor woman being taken to the cleaners, and I'm thinking: Why on earth does she give up on happiness, why is she taking it lying down -literally, ha ha!- and asking for more? ...Is this what Japan's about? Sacrifice?? Auld Uhuru's got it all wrong! When all she has to do is turn around and go:
"Well feck this for a game of soldiers! Yous can all take your edicts and stuff'em up your pipe! I've had just about enough of this nonsense -am off to Tokyo or New York, either will do! Tool and die, fear and trembling, the have and the have-nots -Yer must be havin’ a larf if you think I'm gonna put up with any more of that crap! Class division is for eighth grades doing maths! I ain't buying no more! So yous think yourselves clever eh, killing me one and only true fella? -Well yous can go hang yourselves for all I care now! Go take a jump! I'm gonna get me good kimono and that's the last yous'll see of me, up up and away! Game over! Let 'em eat lotus leaves, this lady here ain't for turning! It's sayonara from me and Philadelphia here we come! Yee-haw!! "
...But maybe I wasn't in the right mood. Maybe I didn't "get it".
Anyway, neither did Sean. More fidgety than a bag of kittens attacked by fleas, your man was clearly struggling to repress his yawns at ten paces. By the look of him, totally gagging for an espresso he was -and as he was, so was I. (No wonder there: studies have shown that as light goes down, darkness sends a signal to the back of your brain, and activates the production of some sleep molecule thingy... (zerotonin, I believe it's called). The brain is fooled, and interprets the situation as an order to go to sleep. You add black-and-white and subtitles to the equation -you're good as gone.) Yawn on one side of the theatre, yawn on the other, it's funny how yawning spreads faster than chocolate milk on a carpet. (Other scientific aside: Scientists have also recently discovered that yawning spreads to dogs. They conducted this experiment where researchers were told to yawn while looking at their pets and... surprise surprise! The dogs soon followed suit as they took to imitating their masters. Research money well spent, says I.) Anyway our eyes met as we both started squinting towards the door. Ten seconds later we didn't need to squint no more.
So this is how we met, sharing in our probably shameful sense of incomprehension and sympathising over a cupofcoffee. I actually remember telling Sean
"We should probably be ashamed of displaying such cultural ignorance"
-"Should we feck!" was his reply.
(tobecontinued)
Carving Dublin Up.
Uma o'Gil copyright 2008-0012 xcrp't
Let's cut the BS and, since we're on, here's a category The Herald certainly didn't fail to feature at every opportunity, the new top drawer elite that's stamped its mark on Ireland's imagination: drum roll for the new heroes of our times tada! ...The construction magnates. The crane maniacs. Them lovable movers and shakers... always engaged in sneaky acquisitions and cheeky counter acquisitions:
"Now then. Say you buy me The Shelbourne and I buy you St-Stephen's Green, how's that working for you?
-Call that a deal? Who you think you're talking to, pal! Who's the one bottling the Liffey and selling it back to Yank tourists here? You, or me?
-OK OK, so what about... what about I throw in the entry code to the Dail and the thirtieth of April? Fore!
-Riiiight that might just about clinch it but... But then -hear me out here- I'll throw in Balyfermot Central's golf course, Rosanna Davidson, Dun Laoghaire's yacht club and in exchange... in exchange I get the Jackie Yeats's "Water lilies", the Abrakadabra kebab chain, and the new airport terminal!
-Not without the Jackie Skelly gyms you don't!
-I see. You wanna play hard ball wid me, 'sthat it? Well well well... Chew this over pal: scrap my last offer. Forget it, too late! How about I give you instead... my champion greyhound Kiki, a trip down memory lane for two, still Rosanna Davidson, a hearty hello and a couple of cranes in mint condition to boot -How's that sound now? More acceptable?
-What about Jackie Skelly's?
-You really fancy them do you? Right, but then I want my name on the Declaration of Independence!
-With or without your photo?
-Don't be daft -they didn't have cameras in 1916! Now on a postage stamp though... we may have a deal here.
-Hmm now let me think... Let me think, I smell a rat... You sure know how to drive a hard bargain! What about the three little pigs, by the way? You still own them?
-Only half half with McDermo.
-Say you throw in one of the pigs -you sort it out with McDermo- and in return I get your son to play for Ireland at the next Euros. They need a midfielder, leave it to me.
-Deal!
-Spit on it!
-Now wait a second though... I suppose ten sunny days are out of the question?
-.... That could be arranged.
-The right of way anywhere in town?
-Agreed also, but then I take back the thirtieth of April and I get the final edit on your autobiography in return. Spit on it! (Change of clubs, new set of balls.)
-Not so fast, not so fast, that's a big ask that... My legacy eh! Can't be messin' with that! Now what about... What about I agree on principle but then let's say I want the grey squirrels in town and you get the keep the red ones?
-That may work for me, but only pending a tax credit on nuts that your TDs won't oppose in the Dail.
-What about my arse your face?
-Rain on your wedding day?
-Ten thousand knives when all you need is a spoon?
-Are you for real? Want me to go and spill the beans about Shergar?
-OK OK or -Tell you what. Here's a mutually satisfactory one... Say we split the GAA fifty-fifty: half the teams play on my days, and half play when you say.
-Consider it done!
-Plus an audience with Joanne Cantwell.
-Holy feck! Don't push it now, I'd have to consult with me lawyers on that one!"
(tobecontinued)
Let's cut the BS and, since we're on, here's a category The Herald certainly didn't fail to feature at every opportunity, the new top drawer elite that's stamped its mark on Ireland's imagination: drum roll for the new heroes of our times tada! ...The construction magnates. The crane maniacs. Them lovable movers and shakers... always engaged in sneaky acquisitions and cheeky counter acquisitions:
"Now then. Say you buy me The Shelbourne and I buy you St-Stephen's Green, how's that working for you?
-Call that a deal? Who you think you're talking to, pal! Who's the one bottling the Liffey and selling it back to Yank tourists here? You, or me?
-OK OK, so what about... what about I throw in the entry code to the Dail and the thirtieth of April? Fore!
-Riiiight that might just about clinch it but... But then -hear me out here- I'll throw in Balyfermot Central's golf course, Rosanna Davidson, Dun Laoghaire's yacht club and in exchange... in exchange I get the Jackie Yeats's "Water lilies", the Abrakadabra kebab chain, and the new airport terminal!
-Not without the Jackie Skelly gyms you don't!
-I see. You wanna play hard ball wid me, 'sthat it? Well well well... Chew this over pal: scrap my last offer. Forget it, too late! How about I give you instead... my champion greyhound Kiki, a trip down memory lane for two, still Rosanna Davidson, a hearty hello and a couple of cranes in mint condition to boot -How's that sound now? More acceptable?
-What about Jackie Skelly's?
-You really fancy them do you? Right, but then I want my name on the Declaration of Independence!
-With or without your photo?
-Don't be daft -they didn't have cameras in 1916! Now on a postage stamp though... we may have a deal here.
-Hmm now let me think... Let me think, I smell a rat... You sure know how to drive a hard bargain! What about the three little pigs, by the way? You still own them?
-Only half half with McDermo.
-Say you throw in one of the pigs -you sort it out with McDermo- and in return I get your son to play for Ireland at the next Euros. They need a midfielder, leave it to me.
-Deal!
-Spit on it!
-Now wait a second though... I suppose ten sunny days are out of the question?
-.... That could be arranged.
-The right of way anywhere in town?
-Agreed also, but then I take back the thirtieth of April and I get the final edit on your autobiography in return. Spit on it! (Change of clubs, new set of balls.)
-Not so fast, not so fast, that's a big ask that... My legacy eh! Can't be messin' with that! Now what about... What about I agree on principle but then let's say I want the grey squirrels in town and you get the keep the red ones?
-That may work for me, but only pending a tax credit on nuts that your TDs won't oppose in the Dail.
-What about my arse your face?
-Rain on your wedding day?
-Ten thousand knives when all you need is a spoon?
-Are you for real? Want me to go and spill the beans about Shergar?
-OK OK or -Tell you what. Here's a mutually satisfactory one... Say we split the GAA fifty-fifty: half the teams play on my days, and half play when you say.
-Consider it done!
-Plus an audience with Joanne Cantwell.
-Holy feck! Don't push it now, I'd have to consult with me lawyers on that one!"
(tobecontinued)
Friday, 17 August 2012
"Free Pussy Riot"
A quick word on Pussy Riot.
Those of us who live in what is commonly known as "the West" -i.e. this nebulous, comparatively rich and reasonably democratic select entity that mainly includes the EU, the US of A, Australia and Japan- are always in danger of forgetting what a privileged position we find ourselves in, through hardly any effort of our own.
Not everyone is born that lucky.
As a matter of fact, the huge majority of States in this world have still not recognised the notions of human and civil rights, with religion being the major poison hindering the evolution of humanity. Religion -admirable as it can undoubtedly be for good souls in search of validation in a brutal, dog-eat-dog world- always provides the perfect excuse for all sorts of authoritarian regimes the world over.
This time, it's Russia who resorts to that cop-out.
Yes, Russia.
Hardly more than twenty years ago, the country was officially godless and "Scientific Atheism" (I am not making this up) was taught at University. Fast forward back to the present and Russia, under KGB apparatchik Putin, is now trying agit-prop artists for "religious hatred". Nobody is fooled except, arguably, a few old and distressed babushkas. "Authoritarian" (admire the euphemism) Putin does not suffer critics gladly. A handful of young women in cheap nylon was never going to stand much chance against him -They have been duly convicted.
Putin was always rightfully despised all around the world by every right-thinking person (need I remind anyone of his support for Assad, to name but one current example?), so his latest action is of no surprise whatsoever.
What he's also done though...
he has managed to turn into universal martyrs three girls who were largely unknown until 6 months ago -Now that's one mighty shot in the foot, Vladso!
Pussy Riot, we salute you and wish you "good luck".
In a way (see right above), you've already won the battle.
...When you have the likes of Sir Paul MacCartney, Uma o'Gil, Alicia Silverstone, Madonna, Amnesty International, Katie Nash and Peaches on your side, you know you must be doing something right! ;-)
Quick PS to John Lydon: now that is what "punk" is about -not selling butter and begging advertisers to hire you.
Those of us who live in what is commonly known as "the West" -i.e. this nebulous, comparatively rich and reasonably democratic select entity that mainly includes the EU, the US of A, Australia and Japan- are always in danger of forgetting what a privileged position we find ourselves in, through hardly any effort of our own.
Not everyone is born that lucky.
As a matter of fact, the huge majority of States in this world have still not recognised the notions of human and civil rights, with religion being the major poison hindering the evolution of humanity. Religion -admirable as it can undoubtedly be for good souls in search of validation in a brutal, dog-eat-dog world- always provides the perfect excuse for all sorts of authoritarian regimes the world over.
This time, it's Russia who resorts to that cop-out.
Yes, Russia.
Hardly more than twenty years ago, the country was officially godless and "Scientific Atheism" (I am not making this up) was taught at University. Fast forward back to the present and Russia, under KGB apparatchik Putin, is now trying agit-prop artists for "religious hatred". Nobody is fooled except, arguably, a few old and distressed babushkas. "Authoritarian" (admire the euphemism) Putin does not suffer critics gladly. A handful of young women in cheap nylon was never going to stand much chance against him -They have been duly convicted.
Putin was always rightfully despised all around the world by every right-thinking person (need I remind anyone of his support for Assad, to name but one current example?), so his latest action is of no surprise whatsoever.
What he's also done though...
he has managed to turn into universal martyrs three girls who were largely unknown until 6 months ago -Now that's one mighty shot in the foot, Vladso!
Pussy Riot, we salute you and wish you "good luck".
In a way (see right above), you've already won the battle.
...When you have the likes of Sir Paul MacCartney, Uma o'Gil, Alicia Silverstone, Madonna, Amnesty International, Katie Nash and Peaches on your side, you know you must be doing something right! ;-)
Quick PS to John Lydon: now that is what "punk" is about -not selling butter and begging advertisers to hire you.
Wednesday, 15 August 2012
Eastenders parody YKY2.0Xcrpt
"YouKnowYourself2.0" Uma o'Gil 0012 xcerpt
Baldie with tattoos all over the place: "Oi! Geezer! Whass gain' on? Cahm' ere!"
Other baldie: "You wot? Whazzthat you want? Want some? Huh? Huh? Whatcha sayin'?"
First baldie: "Oi! Ain't meant nuffink, bruv'"
Second: "Dunnit."
First baldie: "Aincha!"
Second: "Watchit!"
First one: "Innit."
Second: "Tell you wot tho…, I’ll ‘av a butcher’s, see if I can find it –Nah less go dahrn the pub!"
Second: "Too fackin' right we will! Watch me!"
Builder: "Blahdy 'ell mate... Can't even have a bo''le of min'ral in peace these days! You ‘ave a blahdy cheek, queshioning me on me tea break! ‘hoo do you think you are? So what if I luv' me old Mum -godda problem with that??"
Lady coming out of launderette, smoking: "Oi! You, yes you! That's no praper way 'talk to your bruvver! Show some fackin' res-peck will ya! Fat cahnt. (I'll tell you wot, some people 'ere -they ain't half taking liberties dunn' they!)"
Red faced publican on a fag break: "Ah leave it aht now! Knock it on thee 'ead son! He ain't worf it!"
Passing Jamaican: "Gotcha! They juss' aving a larf, ain't they?"
Lady eating chips and jellied eels in the caf', smoking: "Kids messin' about, innit?"
Old lady selling DVDs out of a suitcase: "Wouldn’t ‘ave been allowed in them days, when Reggie 'n Ronnie woz around..."
Up pops young man in tracksuit and trainers: "Never 'urt but their ahrn!"
Car dealer round the corner: "Luved their muvver"
Old lady, lighting up: "and you could leave yer door open -Take the Queen Muvver, ya cahnt: deserves every penny she gets! Gawd bless 'er!"
Unemployed single mother: "And luvs 'er G’nT, dunnshe? Praper class, aintsha!"
Alcoholic bum: "Always 'as a smile for everyone, a little wave..."
Ray Winstone, passing by: "Sweet... Who's the Daddy then?"
Unemployed single mother: "Nan of yer fackin' business!"
Fat man slaps hand on Scotsman's shoulder: "You're nicked, sunshine!"
Wife beater: "Cripes! The rozzers! It's a fair cop."
Fat man takes hand off cautiously, surveys it and wipes it on his trousers.
Unidentified character: "Top of the morning, to be sure"
Paper boy in flatcap: "'Ammers for the Cup! Who are ya? Who are ya?"
Asian street trader: "Cor, blimey"
Jamaican: "Strike a light, guv"
Asian street trader: "...if that bird ain't a right piece of skirt"
Young woman -for it is she- pushing a pram, smoking: "Oi! You watch yer mahrth! Show some manners wantcha -we 'got some fackin' kids liss'nin', avn' I!"
Jamaican, laughing: "Ha ha, you’s just been told my son!"
Credible gay character, on his way -sorry: on 'is way- to The Bucket Of Blood: "Praper naughty! Too fackin' right, me old china!"
Man in tinted shades, sheepskin: "Me old mo'or for sale, picture of 'ealth: twin engine, chrome plated plates, drives like a beauty -yars for a donkey! Cahm' on! I'm slashing me own throat 'ere!"
Unemployed barber: "Is all you 'got? Ain't got nuffin' else?"
Man in tinted shades: "Whazzat you ‘after? This is Lahrndahrn Tahrn son: I 'got it all! Luverly jubberly! Genuine Champers -bottled in Barking! Gold rings, gold medallions, gold knackledasters -three for a fiiiver!"
Fat man in suit: "Need to see a man abaht a dawg"
Kid with earrings: "Sorted!"
Grandmother, smoking: "Ssssafe."
Indian grocerer: "Stone the crows aincha dunnit innit Sid James me old mugger watchit Babs Windsor you slaaag blimey knahck me dahrn geezer bird you cahnt chim chimeney who are ya who are ya too fackin right hell's bells wonncha!"
Gentle narrator employed to give the moral of the story at the end of every episode: "And so I say... why don't we all less go dahrn the pub ‘hen?"
Ah yes, they inhabit a strange world in "EastEnders"... a strange world with totally arcane topics of conversation, dead incomprehensible to someone’s admittedly refined ears. It's true though: these Albert Square residents, they never –like- discuss Bertie’s latest financial oddities -he must be loving it, being given a break from these pesky financial auditors! The Old Vic has to be the only pub whose regulars never sounded much bothered by the new Civil War debate -namely: did Roy Keane walk out on his country or did he not? It is the one place where the very existence of Glenda Gilson has gone unnoticed. ...Truly we are baffled.
(to be continued)
Baldie with tattoos all over the place: "Oi! Geezer! Whass gain' on? Cahm' ere!"
Other baldie: "You wot? Whazzthat you want? Want some? Huh? Huh? Whatcha sayin'?"
First baldie: "Oi! Ain't meant nuffink, bruv'"
Second: "Dunnit."
First baldie: "Aincha!"
Second: "Watchit!"
First one: "Innit."
Second: "Tell you wot tho…, I’ll ‘av a butcher’s, see if I can find it –Nah less go dahrn the pub!"
Second: "Too fackin' right we will! Watch me!"
Builder: "Blahdy 'ell mate... Can't even have a bo''le of min'ral in peace these days! You ‘ave a blahdy cheek, queshioning me on me tea break! ‘hoo do you think you are? So what if I luv' me old Mum -godda problem with that??"
Lady coming out of launderette, smoking: "Oi! You, yes you! That's no praper way 'talk to your bruvver! Show some fackin' res-peck will ya! Fat cahnt. (I'll tell you wot, some people 'ere -they ain't half taking liberties dunn' they!)"
Red faced publican on a fag break: "Ah leave it aht now! Knock it on thee 'ead son! He ain't worf it!"
Passing Jamaican: "Gotcha! They juss' aving a larf, ain't they?"
Lady eating chips and jellied eels in the caf', smoking: "Kids messin' about, innit?"
Old lady selling DVDs out of a suitcase: "Wouldn’t ‘ave been allowed in them days, when Reggie 'n Ronnie woz around..."
Up pops young man in tracksuit and trainers: "Never 'urt but their ahrn!"
Car dealer round the corner: "Luved their muvver"
Old lady, lighting up: "and you could leave yer door open -Take the Queen Muvver, ya cahnt: deserves every penny she gets! Gawd bless 'er!"
Unemployed single mother: "And luvs 'er G’nT, dunnshe? Praper class, aintsha!"
Alcoholic bum: "Always 'as a smile for everyone, a little wave..."
Ray Winstone, passing by: "Sweet... Who's the Daddy then?"
Unemployed single mother: "Nan of yer fackin' business!"
Fat man slaps hand on Scotsman's shoulder: "You're nicked, sunshine!"
Wife beater: "Cripes! The rozzers! It's a fair cop."
Fat man takes hand off cautiously, surveys it and wipes it on his trousers.
Unidentified character: "Top of the morning, to be sure"
Paper boy in flatcap: "'Ammers for the Cup! Who are ya? Who are ya?"
Asian street trader: "Cor, blimey"
Jamaican: "Strike a light, guv"
Asian street trader: "...if that bird ain't a right piece of skirt"
Young woman -for it is she- pushing a pram, smoking: "Oi! You watch yer mahrth! Show some manners wantcha -we 'got some fackin' kids liss'nin', avn' I!"
Jamaican, laughing: "Ha ha, you’s just been told my son!"
Credible gay character, on his way -sorry: on 'is way- to The Bucket Of Blood: "Praper naughty! Too fackin' right, me old china!"
Man in tinted shades, sheepskin: "Me old mo'or for sale, picture of 'ealth: twin engine, chrome plated plates, drives like a beauty -yars for a donkey! Cahm' on! I'm slashing me own throat 'ere!"
Unemployed barber: "Is all you 'got? Ain't got nuffin' else?"
Man in tinted shades: "Whazzat you ‘after? This is Lahrndahrn Tahrn son: I 'got it all! Luverly jubberly! Genuine Champers -bottled in Barking! Gold rings, gold medallions, gold knackledasters -three for a fiiiver!"
Fat man in suit: "Need to see a man abaht a dawg"
Kid with earrings: "Sorted!"
Grandmother, smoking: "Ssssafe."
Indian grocerer: "Stone the crows aincha dunnit innit Sid James me old mugger watchit Babs Windsor you slaaag blimey knahck me dahrn geezer bird you cahnt chim chimeney who are ya who are ya too fackin right hell's bells wonncha!"
Gentle narrator employed to give the moral of the story at the end of every episode: "And so I say... why don't we all less go dahrn the pub ‘hen?"
Ah yes, they inhabit a strange world in "EastEnders"... a strange world with totally arcane topics of conversation, dead incomprehensible to someone’s admittedly refined ears. It's true though: these Albert Square residents, they never –like- discuss Bertie’s latest financial oddities -he must be loving it, being given a break from these pesky financial auditors! The Old Vic has to be the only pub whose regulars never sounded much bothered by the new Civil War debate -namely: did Roy Keane walk out on his country or did he not? It is the one place where the very existence of Glenda Gilson has gone unnoticed. ...Truly we are baffled.
(to be continued)
Friday, 3 August 2012
"The Dark Knight Rises" review
"The Dark Knight Rises (and so should I, it's nearly 9)", let's state it right-away, was
much better than I expected.
Hard as I tried to keep away from all reviews, I was aware of the fact that the filum didn't exactly meet with general approval ("Libération", for one, appear to have hated it).
Following on its, er, predecessor, "The Dark Knight" serves up a scenario that piles on the complexities and ambiguities of what constitutes "right" and "wrong", "good" and "bad" -no wonder the Fatamericans hated it! It doesn't do "clear-cut" and doesn't offer a finger-pointing morale wrapped in ribbons at the end -in other words, it is pure Nolans. (The Nolan brothers, that is.)
In political terms, it is equally difficult to label the filum "right-wing" or "left-wing" as both sides discovered to their embarrassment when they tried to reclaim and/or denounce it, only to look very foolish indeed. The revolting radio demagogue R*sh L*mb**sh tried, apparently. (And failed, as ever.)
Is "The Dark Knight" an apology of ********** ******? Kindof..., but then what about its stress on ************** ************ ****** at ****** right up the ****?
The ********* ****** ******* subplot is as clear an indictiment of ******** ********* as one can discern in this smogarsbord of twists and double-twists. Now watch the Nolans go and add *** ******** ************ ****** to the equation: this certainly throws the cats among the pigeons, does it not? Eh??
Scratches his chin Loig, it's a good thing that the series is coming to an end though (or is it?????)
as the voice gimmick was getting a bit grating, methought: it is frankly hard at
times to understand what your man -or your man, for that matter- is
saying.
Hans Zimmer provides his usual crashing-atmospheric soundtrack to the proceedings; Michael Caine still blows the blahdy doors off after all these years (as well as various motorcars, buildings, neighbourhoods, whatever); our friends ******** ******** and ******* ********* turn up for a fun cameo -always welcome!; Marion Cotillard still holds an inexplicable attraction for Christopher Nolan.
Now then for some major tut-tutting: having Clark Kent wake up at the end in a "it was all a dream", bizarre cross-superhero, ending was a bit cheeky I felt (even though consistent with "Inception" or "Memento"). Talk of final twists, who could have ever seen this one coming eh!!
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Hard as I tried to keep away from all reviews, I was aware of the fact that the filum didn't exactly meet with general approval ("Libération", for one, appear to have hated it).
Following on its, er, predecessor, "The Dark Knight" serves up a scenario that piles on the complexities and ambiguities of what constitutes "right" and "wrong", "good" and "bad" -no wonder the Fatamericans hated it! It doesn't do "clear-cut" and doesn't offer a finger-pointing morale wrapped in ribbons at the end -in other words, it is pure Nolans. (The Nolan brothers, that is.)
In political terms, it is equally difficult to label the filum "right-wing" or "left-wing" as both sides discovered to their embarrassment when they tried to reclaim and/or denounce it, only to look very foolish indeed. The revolting radio demagogue R*sh L*mb**sh tried, apparently. (And failed, as ever.)
Is "The Dark Knight" an apology of ********** ******? Kindof..., but then what about its stress on ************** ************ ****** at ****** right up the ****?
The ********* ****** ******* subplot is as clear an indictiment of ******** ********* as one can discern in this smogarsbord of twists and double-twists. Now watch the Nolans go and add *** ******** ************ ****** to the equation: this certainly throws the cats among the pigeons, does it not? Eh??
I rest me case.
ChristianBale does
ChristianBale (and is getting pretty good at it by now); Tom Hardy is back on the steroids; Hathaway is ...OK.
Certainly not bad, but nothing outstanding either (Miou Miou and Meryl
Streep can rest easy). One may start to wonder whether her career will mimic Our Scarlett's, better known as the Alice "Clueless" Silverstone or David "Laughing Gnome" Bowie syndrome... Will she ever be able to best her "Princess Diaries" performance (gasps, swoons, faints, gasps again, squeals, blushes, goes and takes a cold shower)? Only time will tell.
Oh, and deffo felt she looked considerably better without the hideous blood red lipstick.
Talking of human brickhouse Hardy, it is worth noting there's quite a
few beefy men about, and the filum is at times in danger of veering into Michael Mann
territory. (Michael Mann is this guy who loooooves featuring
massive men -usually in impeccable suits- wielding gigantic phallic
firearms for some reason.)
Thankfully, the inspiration and tome remains mostly resolutely Gothic, cf. the variations on underground settings, weird masks, torches, inventive punishments, black as the new black, etc. I am pretty sure "Arkham Asylum" is one of the main inspirations behind the movie (but I read the comic 20 years ago, so yous'll have to forgive me if my memories are a bit vague by now).
Hans Zimmer provides his usual crashing-atmospheric soundtrack to the proceedings; Michael Caine still blows the blahdy doors off after all these years (as well as various motorcars, buildings, neighbourhoods, whatever); our friends ******** ******** and ******* ********* turn up for a fun cameo -always welcome!; Marion Cotillard still holds an inexplicable attraction for Christopher Nolan.
Now then for some major tut-tutting: having Clark Kent wake up at the end in a "it was all a dream", bizarre cross-superhero, ending was a bit cheeky I felt (even though consistent with "Inception" or "Memento"). Talk of final twists, who could have ever seen this one coming eh!!
Still eh, all in all pretty good.
Typically accomplished
script by the Nolan lad that revisits topics from previous instalments and offers variations on the themes, ties up various loose
ends, and even manages to integrate ingenious references to recent
political/social events such as the ********12******xu**** *******, the
******* ay caramba ******* ****** ** ** -or even the **** ****** of
*********** ********* **** **** *** ******** ****! Nice touch there, I think yous will agree.
Very topical.
A batty (batty: geddit??????????!!!!) 7 out of 10 mark.
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