Tom Huddlestone: A Tribute

The five greatest loves of my life are as follows:

1) In Bruges 
2) Sprinting
3) the Tour de France
4) The Amber Spyglass 
5) Tom Huddlestone

I've gushed about the first four previously on this blog; now for number five.

Tom Huddlestone is a Spurs midfielder, usually played in a holding role, but sometimes is roped into playing centre half in desperate situations. He doesn't even start these days, with Andre Villas Boas preferring Sandro, Dembele, Parker and possibly Livermore and new-boy Tom Carroll, too, and has earned just four England caps, all of which came in insignificant matches. He deserves better, no doubt, but I have to concede it isn't too far off, either; as much as I love watching him play football, it's hard to deny that his ability is limited by his complete lack of pace. The man has the turning circle of a battleship.

He plays like a battleship, too. Huddlestone has the most outrageous, ridiculous passing range of any player I've ever seen play, ahead even of Xabi Alonso. He sits deeps and whacks bombs all over the place with almost unerring accuracy. Stats-wise, his passing accuracy is truly only average, however tiki taka is most definitely not Huddlestone's game. He plays dangerous balls at every opportunity, and his teammates, knowing how rarely he misses passes, are keen to make runs behind the defence. They don't always succeed, but they are very often dangerous. I loathe the phrase, but essentially he plays the 'quarterback role', which is a pretty good summation of his playing style.

Huddlestone is an absolute unit, and his unthreatening face belies his immense strength. Is there anyone in the Premier League that I'd want to fight less? Maybe Lee Cattermole, but I doubt it. Not ripped, just...big. Not fat, just...big. Huddlestone carries the essence of big-ness. He treats the ball like his plaything, toying with it, knocking it around like its the easiest thing in the world. Right foot? Left foot? Instep? Outside of the foot? Doesn't matter; all are effortless. He barely has to try and the ball zips across the turf or through the air, bending or dipping at his discretion.

Whenever a player executes a difficult skill, like a volley or some outstanding close-control, a football commentator on the telly is liable to say, 'Kids, watch and learn: that is textbook stuff'. Kids, watch a video of how Huddlestone strikes a football, because that is textbook stuff. In fact, this video, which is the best video on the internet, opens with almost that exact line. Did you watch that video yet? The goals, right? Amazing. Here's something more (or possibly less) amazing. Huddlestone has only scored fifteen goals, eight of them in the league. Frickin' all of 'em are from outside the box: four (City, Bolton, Sunderland, Arsenal (yussss)) are in that video; here are two against Fulham from the same match, both from outside the box; another one against Fulham here; here's another stonker against Dinamo Zagreb. All of them are like that! Ridiculous, no? Gerard has a reputation for scoring from outside the box; that man Gareth Bale is making a habit of it. But outside the box net-busters are the only sort of goal Huddlestone scores. A Huddlestone blooter is a rare gemstone on the footballing landscape.

Essentially, I love Tom Huddlestone as a footballer because he is a flawed genius. He has a tendency to slow the game down, which has its uses, but doesn't fit Spurs' thrusting pacey style of play. He is immensely, truly slow at running, and lumbers like an ent. I don't even care; I just love how he deals only in the spectacular, and even if I have to wait two years for his absolute best moments (he hasn't scored for two years; his hair reflects this), I will wait.

So, Tom, for the sake of the footballing world at large, and for the sake of crimes against hair-styles, hurry up and score a sodding goal.

Cloud Atlas: A Sort-Of Review

It's one of my favourite books, Cloud Atlas. Not as good as Ghostwritten, David Mitchell's other genre- and era-spanning novel, but still pretty special. And it's been made into a film, unbelievably. I say unbelievably because of the sheer enormity of the task of cramming six different storylines into one film, while maintaining coherency, pace, drama, and thematic connections. There's enough content in each individual storyline to make into a standalone film. It's a miracle that the Wachowskis and Tykwer pulled it off, frankly, and Cloud Atlas must go down as one of the most dizzyingly ambitious films ever made.

There are two big decisions that shape Cloud Atlas. The first is the repeated use of actors across the six plotlines: Tom Hanks, Halle Berry, Jim Broadbent, Doona Bae, James D'Arcy, Ben Whishaw, Hugh Grant, Hugo Weaving and so on all crop up time and time again. One of the effects of this is that it's very silly. Part of the fun is trying to spot when each actor re-appears in a new role. It takes you out of the action for a moment - a cardinal sin in the world of Hollywood narrative form, which depends on invisibility - but only for a moment. Tom Hanks' Irish greaser-cum-Miami-druglord-author is utterly ridiculous, Doona Bae plays a white American at one point and all of them (except Bae, obviously) undergo the prosthetic transition to Asianness, which is very weird, too. There have been calls of 'racism!' but that's a load of nonsense. Odd as it may be, as an approach to casting, I found it to be genius. The Wachowski's rationale behind reusing actors is to help tie themes of a united and continuous humanity together; one suspects it was also a budgetary concern. That's not why I like it so much. I like it precisely for its ridiculousness, I like that the Wachowskis and Tykwer took this enormous gamble knowing that many people would find it bizarre and off-putting, despite the $100m that they ploughed into it. A quick browse through this Wikipedia page indicates that while actors playing multiple roles is not uncommon, it is usually done for comedic effect, as in Kind Hearts and Coronets, or characters that are related and share a physical resemblance. In having most of its cast appear time and time again, even if it sometimes looks a bit shoehorned in, Cloud Atlas surely stands alone. It is this throwing caution to the wind and going all-out that I find admirable. Which brings me to the second big decision.

Instead of copying Mitchell's Russian doll plotline (it goes: Ewing (part 1), Frobisher (1), Rey (1), Cavendish (1), Sonmi (1), Zachry (1 and 2), Sonmi (2), Cavendish (2), Rey (2), Frobisher (2), Ewing (2)) they opted to cut between all six at regular intervals until they all collide in one flippin' stupendous climax. Thus, it becomes this spinning-plates balancing act, maintaining focus on one storyline while keeping the other five spinning. For three hours. It is completely barmy, and stunningly ambitious, and they nail it. Perhaps not the cleanest hammer-stroke; maybe the first one didn't catch it fully, but they got it in. And because they had to cram everything in, as with the actor situation, they just go for broke, making use of everything at their disposal to tie the segments together: match-cuts, cliffhangers, sound-bridges, thematic links, cliffhangers, plot parallels, the magnificent score, cliffhangers...It's like the end of Chicken Run (bear with me...) where the chickens' barmy flying machine somehow manages to fly despite nearly falling apart at the seams at every opportunity. It has just enough glue and good-will to succeed. That's what Cloud Atlas is like: a barmy contraption that should by all rights fail, but the power of the movies gives is just enough gung-ho spirit to get it over the barbed-wire fence. Andy and Lana Wachowski and Tom Tykwer's bravery is commendable.