Paul: A Review

After floundering around in Hollywood for the past few years, Simon Pegg (Graeme Willy) has finally re-united with Nick Frost (Clive Gollings) for the first time since Hot Fuzz [2006] in Paul, a film about two English sci-fi nerds who happen upon Paul, an alien, while driving through the Nevada desert. Despite the pair's faultless track-record together (Spaced, Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz), Paul, sadly, is something of a misfire. It's not terrible, in fact it's not even bad, but faced with living up to their earlier films, it falls short. (Comparisons with Shaun and Hot Fuzz are unavoidable, and besides, the films have a common target audience, so I won't even try).

The missing ingredient may well be Edgar Wright, director and co-writer of Pegg and Frost's previous three collaborations. Shaun and Hot Fuzz have strong narrative cores with countless references added on; the opposite feels true for Paul. As is Pegg and Frost's style, Paul is extremely esoteric, with more allusions than you could shake an anal probe at, but they proliferate to such a degree that trademark witty dialogue and robust plotting suffer detrimentally. It is often incredibly juvenile; there is a far-too-often repeated triple-boob joke, and a Darwinised devout Christian who takes her new-found spiritual freedom to swear constantly in an immature fashion. As with the triple-boob thing it tires quickly.

Continuing from the Darwin theme, Paul is surprisingly atheistic in nature. Since it is fair to assume that Paul is another attempt by Pegg to crack the American market, it is interesting that he should star in a film with such obvious athiestic undertones considering how resistant to all things Darwin America continues to be. Topics such as intelligent design and the old "if there are loads of aliens, where are they all?" (which results in one of the better moments in the film) are tackled in unexpectedly Dawkinsian fashion.

Paul also suffers from a predictable plot. Foreshadowing is painstakingly obvious at times: Paul resurrects a dead bird, causing Clive to ask - and I'm not ruining anything here - "Have you ever done that to a human?"; there are many other such instances that are just so clearly signposting the converging-elements-style finale. Perhaps this could be seen as an homage to the genre, but I say bollocks, there's no excuse for a poorly constructed narrative. Another particularly annoying element is the moronic FBI duo, who are walking clichés.  Pegg and Frost are good, however, and make the most of a limited script (which they admittedly wrote). Seth Rogan is also well-cast as Paul.

In the face of all this criticism I should make it clear that Paul does have redeeming elements. The references are abundant and will surely require several viewings for even the most ardent sci-fi fan to spot. There are many strong visual gags, and that many of the jokes are obvious doesn't necessarily stop them being funny.

Paul breaks no new ground. It comes very close to being a parody of, rather than an homage to, the genre that it riffs on with affection, but is still an entertaining film. However, while Shaun of the Dead has a wide enough appeal to encourage the casual viewer to take a dip into the horror genre, Paul is unlikely to persuade viewers of the merits of B-movie sci-fi, appealing instead to those already with a strong interest in the genre.

5/10

'I' Before 'E' Except After 'C'?

Tragedy: it has recently been announced, then more significantly announced in an episode of QI, that the schoolroom staple 'I' before 'E' except after 'C' has been retired. It is no longer taught in schools; it is incorrect, apparently, and no longer relevant.

Fry wheeled out some statistics. 'There are more exceptions to the rule than the rule itself, by quite a long way'. 923 English words have a c-i-e in them. For the vast majority of words with an 'I' follow by an 'E', or vice versa, the rule does not work. There are loads, and you've probably never realised they break the rule before:

Glacier
Species
Concierge
Caffeine
Weird
Being
etc.

Fair enough. However, I would argue the rule still applies. It is really obvious how to spell the above words. They are phoenetic, or end in a common suffix. The 'i' sound clearly comes before the 'e' sound; there is no difficulty (the possible exception is 'caffeine').What 'I' before 'E' except after 'C' does is let you know when it is not deducible through phoenetics. Take the following:

Ceiling
Receipt
Deceit
Brief
Pieces

In these four, and many others, the 'e' and 'i' sounds are merged; it is not clear phoenetically which should come first, but 'I' before 'E' except after 'C' will come to your aid should you have difficulty. Supposedly a literate English student, I still use the rule all the time, and it never fails, because it is only the tricky ones to which the rule applies. Like Obi Wan Kenobi, it will whisper advice only when most needed.

Want to race Dwain Chambers? You can if you want to.

Update: Got this article into my uni's paper, the fabulous Wessex Scene, so check it out here. There's another of mine on there too, but it's much less interesting. 


This past few weeks I've been to a couple of indoor open meets, to run the 60m. In the wider scheme of things, realistically I'm not that good; while I can be confident of being the fastest person in most non-athletic-related scenarios, it's unlikely I'll ever win anything of note - my point is, certainly a long, long way from being world class.

However, while running in London and Birmingham I have not just seen nine out of the ten fastest British sprinters - Mark Lewis-Francis being the notable absentee - this year thus far, but had the opportunity to warm-up with, and even, potentially, race against them. It’s an impressive role call: Harry Aikines-Aryeetey, second fastest over 60m in the UK last year; Leon Baptiste, Commonwealth 200m Gold medallist; Craig Pickering, 2007 4x100m World Championship Bronze medallist; Jodie Williams, 17-years-old and already the fastest woman in Britain; and most impressively, Dwain Chambers, the 2010 European and World 60m Champion.

At the risk of sounding like David Attenborough, it was fascinating to see the world’s best in their natural habitat. The thing that struck me most about Chambers was his utter focus. Chatty, self-aware and easy going in interview, but utterly ‘in the zone’ on race-day: I never once saw him talk or interact with any of the other athletes and coaches milling around. Bear in mind this was just for the heat, which he cruised in a relatively slow 6.83s, and yet he never let his concentration slip even during routine qualification for an early-season warm-up. Taking into account the drugs ban that could easily have destabilised Chambers’ career, his obvious dedication left the strongest impression. In contrast was Harry Aikines-Aryeetey, built like a tank and Britain's number two 60m runner at just 22, who while focused, was far more easy-going.

I digress. All this celebrity spotting made me realise that I could not think of any other sport - let alone major sport - that has such easy access to its best competitors. You, yes you, dear reader, could have entered both Birmingham and London races whatever your time may be, and seen Dwain & Co. doing their stuff. I may be overstating things, everyone had too much respect to pester them (although I suspect for a good number of the other entrants it was nothing new), and there was no interaction, but at the same time imagine being allowed easy access to Barcelona's Camp Nou dressing-room, practicing nets next to Graeme Swan and Kevin Pietersen, teeing-off behind Tiger Woods – the list is endless, and all utterly un-feasible. I've racked my brains and cannot think of any other sport where unexceptional athletes such as myself can compete against the very best. I may be wrong, but it’s almost impossible to research. As far as I can work out it doesn’t even apply to distance running.

What does this say about sprinting? On the one hand, it is brilliant that the event is so open. I actually qualified for the Birmingham semi-finals by fluke after an admin error meant I was in by far the slowest heat, but was politely asked to defer because I was so inferior to all the other semi-finalists. Had I put my foot down I could have actually raced against Dwain himself, which I find to be a completely insane notion.

However, on the other hand, I feel it says something worrying about the strength and prestige of sprinting in Britain today. Elite sporting events – sprinting or otherwise – should have sufficient strength in depth for the top athletes to compete in invitational-only meets. Other individual sports, such as swimming, have this system, even though Britain is roughly at an equal standard across both events. That said, the majority of the events in the sprinting calendar are invitation only, and the few that are open to the public don’t adversely affect the quality of the top levels of competition.

There is another concerning factor, however, and that is is the audience, or lack thereof. In Birmingham, where Chambers ran, were approximately 200 spectators, most of whom were parents of the younger age-groups. I can’t recall the cost per spectator off-hand, but it was a matter of a few quid, in stark comparison to the recent £100 ticket to see Arsenal play at the Emirates Stadium. And while none of the athletes mentioned earlier - bar Jodie Williams, who really is quite brilliant - have a realistic chance at a medal in 2012, they are still among the best the country has to offer, in a sport considered the blue-riband event at the costliest sporting event in Britain’s history.

From my perspective at least, the unique complexion of sprinting and the close proximity to its stars is a great thing. You may have worked this out already, but it was pretty great to have the chance to watch the guys do their thing. Less great is that not that many people care. Britain will rouse itself in 2012 into paying attention to athletics, and that could be the boost it needs to restore attendance figures, or equally it could be just a bubble amidst general apathy. Either way I had an awesome day. 

Why Didn't Murray Win in Australia? He's officially British.

There is one, clear, obvious reason why Great Britain's Andy Murray was vanquished by Serb Novak Djokovic last Sunday in the final of the Australian open, and it has nothing to do with skill level. As it stands the world's four best players are: Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer, Novak Djokovic and Robin Soderling. The four share much common ground with Murray - they are all talented tennis players, they are all European, they are all white etc etc - but there are two key areas where these four diverge from Murray: they all come from countries that begin with the letter S, and Murray does not.

Spain, Switzerland, Serbia and Sweden - can it be a coincidence? Those four are basically all the decent countries that begin with 'S'. I don't think Somalia, Saudi Arabia or Samoa are ever going to produce players that will have the privilege of sweating, swearing and smashing their racquets in front of the Queen on the pristine lawns at Wimbledon, somehow. As for Slovakia, well, I'm not even going to go there. Since 2004 the only two nations to break the 'S' quadropoly are Russia and Argentina, with three between them. That's three out of twenty-seven, by the way, truly crushing dominance.

The tragedy for Andy Murray is, of course, that he's Scottish - yes, another country that begins with S. Why then, hasn't he won a Slam? Because he is forced to compete under the cursed flag of Great Britain. You have to go back to 1996 with Boris Becker of Germany to find a Grand Slam winner under the letter 'G'. There can be no other reason, though it most certainly is another reason for Murray to be angry with the English.

Detektivbyrån: A Hidden Gem

I've known about them for a while, but found out only recently that the wonderful Swedish electro-folk band Detektivbyrån had disbanded last year. Their anonymity means I don't expect anyone reading this to have heard of them, and their unique whimsy means I don't expect too many to be converted; a cool band Detektivbyrån are not: as this guy says, they are not a band you would show your friends (I appreciate the irony in this post). Judging by their touring schedules, they had little following outside their native Scandinavia. Detektivbyrån make music to be listened to in private, after a days hard toil. Xylophones, metalophones and accordions wash together with grace and clarity; I can't help but picture lush mountainsides in early spring, streams swollen by melt-water. Above all, the music they make is peaceful. There are no politics, no anguish or lost loves, just pure, beautifully orchestrated, quirky (but not gimmicky), music.

Both their albums, E18 Album and Wermland can be found here.

Black Swan: A Review

While searching for a word that best encapsulates Darren Aronofsky's psychological ballet horror Black Swan, I kept returning to the word bold. The concept, the art direction, the actors’ performances and camera-work are all realised with incredible confidence. The film could easily have descended into self-indulgence, and the difficult themes could have been muddied, but that is not the case. It’s a stark, striking departure from Aronofsky’s 2008 film The Wrestler, which was anchored firmly in the real; Randy Robinson suffered from recognisable, ordinary internal conflicts. Told through the lens of the original Swan Lake, Black Swan, in contrast, is a study in heightened sensory perception.

Black Swan is, co-incidentally, like last week’s 127 Hours in that it hinges on the psychological deterioration of the respective films’ protagonists. The comparisons are worth making: while 127 Hours makes it clear that Ralston’s hallucinations are in fact hallucinations, in Black Swan the boundary is not so much blurred, but invisible altogether. It is rarely clear what is real or whether characters are who they appear to be. It will likely spark the most divisive discussion, but as a means of demonstrating Nina’s (Natalie Portman) clash with her ‘black swan’ alter-ego it is effective. Nina struggles with the confidence and sexuality of her peers, especially troupe director Thomas and rival Lily, and to engage her passionate side. In one instance Thomas rhetorically asks of the frigid Nina’s dance partner (in what may be the in-joke of the year: Benjamin Millepied dumped his fiancé for Natalie Portman herself, who is now pregnant ) ‘Do you want to fuck her?’ Nina’s fragmenting psychology is also expressed through deeply thought-out set design, particularly though the use of mirrors. The mirrors are absolutely everywhere, to the extent that we see Nina from multiple angles with extreme frequency. As a technique it’s none too subtle; their ubiquity permeates the entire film and it’s one of the few flaws to be found. Mirrors are often used to show a character’s divided personality, but it becomes too obvious, and once Nina’s reflections move separately from herself it becomes a metaphor too far.

The dance sequences are extraordinarily involving. Whether you have an interest in ballet or not – I certainly don’t (didn’t? It’s a persuasive case) – is irrelevant, such is the elegance and synchronicity of the movement of actors and cameraman. Make no mistake: the camera-work in these sequences is as highly choreographed and essential as the dancers themselves. Perhaps it is something of an illusion, but the agility and accuracy of the camera is astounding, but it is no mere gimmick.

Another of Black Swan’s strong points is the emotional response it successfully elicits from the audience. It’s touching, disturbing, tragic and most surprisingly, scary. Perhaps the most interesting character of all is Nina’s mother (Barbara Hershey). Our perception of her is the most malleable; while she initially appears relentlessly controlling gradually we can see that our view of her has been distorted by Nina’s mental breakdown, and our sympathies are deliberately left unclear.

It is unsatisfactory to write a review that – bar one instance – wholly praises the film: the feeling that something must have been overlooked is hard to shake, but films can be as near immaculate as can be expected, and the much-vaunted 10/10 should not be unattainable, and this reviewer feels that Black Swan is a rare film that is worthy of the honour. It’s a real heart-stopper, and considering the advancing years of the audience present at the showing, I’m surprised the emergency services were not called into action. Those pacemakers must have been given a torrid time.

Dead Set: Worth a Re-Watch

Originally broadcast in the Autumn of 2008, Charlie Brooker's brilliant zom-com has been made available of 4oD, and it's as brilliant now as it was upon first showing. As a television drama, it works: initially broadcast over five consecutive week days it is neither too long nor too short; it is a fantastic concept and there are enough brutal set-pieces and comedic moments to ensure slick progression. From a horror perspective it also works: the Big Brother setting, perhaps not coincidentally, is the perfect for a zombie apocalypse drama: it allows for a acute critique of the Big Brother culture, and the real-world locale and astutely observed housemates puts it on the right side of believable. Credit must go to Channel 4 for commissioning a series that skewers their (at the time) biggest show.

The first episode alone contains many memorable moments. The ex-housemates' reactions of glee at seeing the oncoming rush of the undead hordes, and their subsequent cannibalisation, is a wonderful touch. Indeed the entire initial onslaught is cheekily shot to the sarcastically joyous strains of Mika's "Love Today". Special mention must also go to Davina McCall, who makes a great zombie. It may well be the television highlight of 2008, and I'm probably not alone in preferring her as a member of the living dead. Again, credit where credit's due, it takes some level of self-depreciation to cast yourself as a rabid blood-sucker.

Dead Set must surely also be the goriest television series of all time; certainly only The Walking Dead (which I'm unfortunately yet to see) and Spartacus: Blood and Sand, come close in recent years. There are a few spectacularly grisly death, with one of the last sticking in my mind: it's horrific. In fact, Dead Set deserves praise for aiming to balance gore and laughs with scares. Its closest cousin, Shaun of the Dead is gory fun, but it's not exactly nerve jangling. In contrast, Dead Set broods ominously, the washed out palate, lack of human life and the essentially futile position of the cast creates a real sense of menace. The nationwide-catastrophe and doom is heightened by the complete self-absorption of the characters.  

Other than Screenwipe and similar shows, Charlie Brooker doesn't have a huge number of writing credits for television series, but you wouldn't have known it, such is the assuredness of characterisation and plot. Satirising Big Brother is what Brooker was born to do; it fits his abrasive, simile-heavy humour perfectly. All the lead characters are great, but he clearly had most fun writing the bastards, with program-director Patrick and philosophical arse-wipe Joplin given the best lines.

To go much further would be to ruin the plot, so I'll keep it short. Dead Set is just utterly unique in its conception and execution. The setting is what makes the show; the natural defence, the freedom to write ridiculous characters, and the basis as a national touchstone and all the cultural comment that extends forthwith. It's great: watch it.