Brit Awards Chat

Having watched the Brits tonight I now have:

a) a new appreciation for the Tings Tings (and more strangely, American Boy, sorry, Estelle)
b) visual confirmation that Duffy has abnormally small feet (UK size 3)
c) white teeth ennui
d) autocue fascination
e) renewed LOVE of where “dogs run roaming suburban boys”
f) reinforced aversion to megamixes/remixes
g) silver leotard camel toe envy
h) a fear of Tom Jones

Woody Allen’s ‘Annie Hall’ – worse than the worst lesbian film!

Having one of the worst colds known to mankind makes one act in a totally unreasonable and out-of-character manner, I have found. Take last night as an example, when I was reduced to a sniffling ball of snot on the secondary sofa in the lounge (my Homie is also sick and had secured his spot on the primary sofa, before I returned home from work, early. Naturally I need to maintain distance between myself and his Norovirus, so was forced to retreat to the inferior seating unit).

After sitting still for long enough to eat a bowl of soup and a couple of warm wholemeal pitta breads, I decided that we needed an activity to ensure that my mind didn’t start hallucinating from inactivity. TV was a non-starter – I refuse to acknowledge the Dingles, physical exertion was out and my Homie was threatening to do some more of his mathematics homework (he’s just started an Open University course – cute).

This is why I suggested we watch a DVD – and knowing Homie’s distaste for watching repeats (unless they are of the West Wing, Battlestar Galactica or supreme fag-fest that is Shortbus format, none of which were to my taste last night) it had to be un nouveau film. So, after scouting the outer recesses of the DVD shelf, I chanced upon a shrink wrapped copy of Woody Allen’s Annie Hall. I wondered, briefly, why this film had not been opened eagerly, by whichever Homie had put it there…

“Winner of four academy awards, including Best Picture,” no less. In 1977, this film was the badger, apparently. So, not having a vast knowledge of Mr Allen’s films – asides from that crap one he did a couple of years ago with Scarlett Johanssen and Jonathan Rhys-Meyers about a tennis coach who shoots someone – I decided to give it a go.

‘Even if it’s not brilliant, how bad could it be?’ I thought to myself as I sat back ready to passively absorb this little cinematic novelty. Remember, the case said it was good – even if that was more than 30 years ago…

Nothing could have prepared me for how bad this film was. After just ten minutes of viewing it had surpassed both Bound and Better Than Chocolate – the two worst lezzer movies I have ever seen. Stand aside Violet and Corky – I have found a character more annoying than the two of you combined! Actually, irritating is probably a better way to describe it. Homie and I lasted approximately 22 minutes until we both snapped and forced the DVD player to spit the damn thing out. The only reason we put up with it for that long was because we were both under the influence of our respective ailments, meaning that actioning movement was harder than usual.

That’s why we came to endure two and twenty minutes of Allen’s nasally New Yorwark drawl, which is largely self-psychoanalysis and third person references to his (lead) character. He talks a lot, about himself. Unsurprisingly, said character is not unlike the real Woody Allen, if not a near-perfect reflection. How else could he be so enthusiastic about the boringly insignificant details of this blokes life?

This film was so bad that it was actually starting to make me a bit ‘ragey’. Usually if a film is crap it’s possible to ignore it and continue watching in a non-attentive sort of way. This was something quite different. That whiney nasal drone could be used to torture uncooperative hostages, which makes the ’15’ certificate on this film seem somewhat irresponsible. I’d rather eat my own head than be locked in a room with this film showing.

That aside, what I really don’t get is how this self-indulgent hour and twenty nine minutes managed to win such ‘critical’ acclaim. Maybe the judging panel on that year’s Oscars was full of people doing floppy-handed shoulder-shrugging movements while down-turning the corners of their mouths, like Allen does every time he finishes one of his irritating little self-absorbed sentences in Annie Hall…ugh! 

My Daily Meat

I’m starting to think that maybe I’m only able to write blogs when I’ve been to see films. I say that because I’m about to tell you about the film I went to see last night – Our Daily Bread. This German made pause-for-thought details the 21st century foodweb in all it’s bloody gutty glory. Think sharp knives, empty-bellied pigs hanging on hooks and a lot of blood and you should get a fairly accurate image of the finer moments from this film.

There is no soundtrack or narrative, just animals being moved around in various states of mortality. This included cow sex with human help, salmon gutting and the story of milk. Basically it was a sneaky peek into what happens out the back of those big Tesco stores and has no doubt been spawning vegetarians at an alarming rate since 2005 when it was released in Germany.

Here comes the lipstick

Here comes the lipstick…

Despite being a firm believer in the ‘vegetarians aren’t quite right’ school of thought, I thought a particularly gruesome scene when pig bellies were sliced open, allowing entrails to spill forth, would be enough to put even the most committed carnivore off its meat. If not that then surely the bit where a cow was cesareaned while fully conscious and upright (subtly yet tightly tied to a metal barrier). And then that bit where the dead and freshly ‘opened’ hanging cow carcass spurts blood and bodily fluid like a projectile vomiting Norovirus victim. For at least five minutes. Alas no. I was ravenous by the end of it, dreaming about the Hamburger Union cheese and bacon burger I’d had the day before. I was clearly born to eat the meat.

Bacon

Asides from the meaty bloody bits, oh, and the cute little fluffy yellow chicks that get conveyer-belted around at break-feather pace before being tagged, fattened and electrocuted (before being plucked, de-limbed and packaged), the film was actually rather arty. The long, fixed focused shots were simple yet incredibly well-planned, allowing just the right amount of context. A pleasure to watch.

The audience clearly thought so too, as no one walked out. Indeed, one bloke sitting just in front of me, made a few involuntary noises and shoulder movements that I strongly suspected to be laughter-related. Heartless bastard clearly didn’t have a soft spot for those poor little fluffy-wuffy chicks.