Is there a thing in existence as fickle as the furore surrounding the England football team?
England's national team's fortunes and decisions are apparently based on what a guy with the intelligence of a pork-pie may or may not have have said. Racism is very serious, but even the wildest imagination would struggle to understand how an incident at Loftus Road, which is apparently being dealt with, could, according to some, have a potential effect on the chances of the national team in the next competition. We're supposedly dumbfounded as to why the team 'under-perform' at major competitions, but the sense of self-importance and desperation from all quarters will mean that it is unlikely that any sort of achievement is ever possible.
What is this English obsession with the captaincy anyway? As it stands, the majority of confirmed England regulars have such massively inflated egos, they could play without a captain and probably be more effective than they otherwise would have been. The position is a fallacy, designed to appeal to the notion of nationalistic pride. The antiquated idea of the strong and noble England captain leading the team to do battle against opposing nations. The reality is much more like an Under-14s game, where players whinge under their breaths how; 'That's not fair, how come John got to be captain when he's suspended from school?'
What the players say and think is reported on the news as though we should be scrutinising their comments with the tenacity we would have of tackling great thinkers and philosophers. Bizzare when you consider the nature of the comments in question seem to follow along the lines of Wazza7Rooney - 'Capello great manager. Want manager to be Englandish next time. Redknapp please,' like some Neanderthal. Yet TV anchormen furrow their brows and host a ten minute analysis as to whether 'Wazza' should be making such comments.
The whole sorry affair would simply not happen anywhere else. If an investigation of this nature was pending on the captain of most national teams, they would consider it rather obvious that individual would perhaps not in the best position or frame of mind to be the captain, particularly in a team with such ethnic diversity. The matter would hardly be considered as an after-thought in the actual story, which is one of alleged racism. The player would be dropped.
Whatever did happen should be far removed from football anyway. If people really want the campaign to 'kick it out' to be successful, perhaps the best way to go about this would be to treat anyone found guilty with utter disdain and public ridicule. A Newcastle United fan recently apologised for making racist remarks on Twitter. A Liverpool fan was seen apparently making 'monkey gestures' at Patrice Evra. No event of this nature has been reported on for years in the game. Proof that if you give these stories of racism on the pitch an elevated sense of importance and scandal, sections of a fickle public will react in a damaging way.
Perhaps the next England manager should adopt a policy of dropping any player from the team who is in the media for any other reason other than their ability to play football. When will people realise that the celebrity culture is damaging any chance of success for the team? There are good young players who have not yet had enough of a career to become celebrities. Let them play. Goodbye to Terry, Ferdinand, Cole, Rooney even. Perhaps that will actually give them a fighting chance.
Thursday, 9 February 2012
Friday, 13 January 2012
'The Riots' by Gillian Slovo review
The riots of last summer divided opinion so sharply as to light a beacon to the wildly contrasting opinion people harbour for the society in which they live. Depending on who you spoke to the riots pointed to all sorts of things; mindless opportunism, sheer criminality from bored unemployed children, a demonstration of our glorification of material possessions, or a deep rooted social-economic problem that made events inevitable, as the gap between the rich and poor becomes wider and youth unemployment soars.
An inconceivably difficult job then, to incorporate the extent of this opinion and debate into a two hour long piece of theatre, but Gillian Slovo's 'The Riots' somehow manages to accomplish it. Compiled over 50 hours of interviews, eye witness accounts and extensive research, the painstaking effort for this sort of intense analysis can only be admired.
The impact of social networking has long been talked about as a large factor in the development of the riots, and as the audience take their seats, a scrolling screen of twitter feed acts as a backdrop to the stage, a provocative way of demonstrating the influence it undeniably had.
The first half of the performance gives us eye witness accounts from people in the local community, from Chief Inspectors demonstrating their disorganisation as they struggled to contain the scenes, to friends of the Mark Duggan family, the man who was shot by police, an incident largely responsible for the first signs of disorder that were set to escalate. The people who labelled the riots as 'mindless opportunism' are perhaps given a smoment's vindication, as we see accounts from people who were indeed clearly out to take advantage of being able to attain the things that they would never normally be able to posses, but as is pointed out 'there are people who are genuinely angry, and there are people who jump on that anger.' It is hard to get away from the troubled social issues that led to the riots, as the play accurately highlights.
Though perhaps the performance could be accused of showing a political bias to the left, it never lends itself to preaching or telling the audience what to think, leaving them to deduce what they will from it.
Politicians are painted in a negative light. Dianne Abbott, played to a righteous tee by Donna Coll, sees events as a recurrence of the Brixton race riots, despite it widely being considered that they came about as a result of an antipathy towards the police. Something which can absolutely be drawn as a parallel to last summer's events. The Guardian/LSE inquiry showed that 'stop and search' tactics adopted by police have done much to increase harboured feelings of animosity from young people that, it is suggested, would inevitably implode into the frenzy that was the events of last summer.
Michael Gove is appropriately pompous in his attempts to understand why the riots occurred, while John McDonnell is the voice of reason for the concerned, analytical lefties, and his views certainly seem to resonate with the audience appreciation of the complexity of the issues that surrounded the event.
One interesting take is that of a representation of a Hackney resident, who, despite being dismayed by the riots, is far more put out by the 'army of cleaner-upers' who descended onto the streets in the aftermath of the riots. She sees it as patronising, as the 'do-gooders' come marching up their streets with their brand new brushes, to clean up the scrubby dwelling areas of the working class. A viewpoint that was largely ignored by the media, as the overall interpretation of this contrived event seemed to be revelling in the suggestion that 'look, we're not all bad.'
'The riots' is a highly relevant, engrossing and thought-provoking watch, that goes a long way to successfully summarise the contrasting feelings of the nation. As unemployment continues to grow, and the gap between the working class in council estates and the politicians in their cosy Westminster bubble continues to grow, you are left with the feeling that 'The riots' is a very important piece of theatre that should be brought to a wider audience.
An inconceivably difficult job then, to incorporate the extent of this opinion and debate into a two hour long piece of theatre, but Gillian Slovo's 'The Riots' somehow manages to accomplish it. Compiled over 50 hours of interviews, eye witness accounts and extensive research, the painstaking effort for this sort of intense analysis can only be admired.
The impact of social networking has long been talked about as a large factor in the development of the riots, and as the audience take their seats, a scrolling screen of twitter feed acts as a backdrop to the stage, a provocative way of demonstrating the influence it undeniably had.
The first half of the performance gives us eye witness accounts from people in the local community, from Chief Inspectors demonstrating their disorganisation as they struggled to contain the scenes, to friends of the Mark Duggan family, the man who was shot by police, an incident largely responsible for the first signs of disorder that were set to escalate. The people who labelled the riots as 'mindless opportunism' are perhaps given a smoment's vindication, as we see accounts from people who were indeed clearly out to take advantage of being able to attain the things that they would never normally be able to posses, but as is pointed out 'there are people who are genuinely angry, and there are people who jump on that anger.' It is hard to get away from the troubled social issues that led to the riots, as the play accurately highlights.
Though perhaps the performance could be accused of showing a political bias to the left, it never lends itself to preaching or telling the audience what to think, leaving them to deduce what they will from it.
Politicians are painted in a negative light. Dianne Abbott, played to a righteous tee by Donna Coll, sees events as a recurrence of the Brixton race riots, despite it widely being considered that they came about as a result of an antipathy towards the police. Something which can absolutely be drawn as a parallel to last summer's events. The Guardian/LSE inquiry showed that 'stop and search' tactics adopted by police have done much to increase harboured feelings of animosity from young people that, it is suggested, would inevitably implode into the frenzy that was the events of last summer.
Michael Gove is appropriately pompous in his attempts to understand why the riots occurred, while John McDonnell is the voice of reason for the concerned, analytical lefties, and his views certainly seem to resonate with the audience appreciation of the complexity of the issues that surrounded the event.
One interesting take is that of a representation of a Hackney resident, who, despite being dismayed by the riots, is far more put out by the 'army of cleaner-upers' who descended onto the streets in the aftermath of the riots. She sees it as patronising, as the 'do-gooders' come marching up their streets with their brand new brushes, to clean up the scrubby dwelling areas of the working class. A viewpoint that was largely ignored by the media, as the overall interpretation of this contrived event seemed to be revelling in the suggestion that 'look, we're not all bad.'
'The riots' is a highly relevant, engrossing and thought-provoking watch, that goes a long way to successfully summarise the contrasting feelings of the nation. As unemployment continues to grow, and the gap between the working class in council estates and the politicians in their cosy Westminster bubble continues to grow, you are left with the feeling that 'The riots' is a very important piece of theatre that should be brought to a wider audience.
Wednesday, 9 November 2011
Curious Joe
A heavy beat blared from the beaten up van. Hardly an original act of provocation, though he had always taken pleasure in the disapproving looks from passers-by . Truth was, the weekend’s drinking was taking its toll. The familiar feeling, as though the body was bruised on the inside. Monday wasn’t supposed to be a working day.
The combination of these factors darkened his mood. He recklessly swung the van into the parking space, narrowly missing the parked car behind him.
‘You have reached your destination.’ toned the disembodied woman from the SatNav.
“Hello. Joe isn’t it?’ said the young guy who answered the door.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re Mark, I assume. Hi. Hi. Yeah. Take care.”
The handshake had already gone on longer than necessary by the time it had taken him to say all that, and Joe was now aware that some mild form of polite tourettes had slipped from his lips. The handshake continued.
“Take care?” asked Mark, reasonably enough.
“Oh…Yeah. That’s what you say at the end. Not when you meet someone, right? Right. My bad.” Joe shrugged. Mark raised his eyebrows, as they finally finished shaking hands.
Mark chuckled nervously, noticing the badly parked, graffiti strewn van.
“That’s your van?”
“Certainly is,” Joe proclaimed proudly, as someone might respond to being asked "Is that your Porsche?"
“Oh. Ok.” Mark seemed apprehensive now, not that Joe noticed, or particularly cared.
“I’ll be in the van.”
“Ok. Give me a minute.”
Joe turned the music on, but at a reasonable level now, as his hangover was getting steadily worse.
“Come on, mate..” he mumbled to himself, impatiently shaking his left leg up and down.
Mark had barely time to sit down and put his seatbelt on before Joe had swung the van out in front of an approaching car. A horn sounded, angrily.
“Jesus!” said Mark.
“Woah, sorry man. What am I doing? That’s right. Oops. Right, where are we. Um, yeah, first gear. That would help.” Joe was gibbering.
“Careful mate.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I mean, woah, right? Jeez.”
“Mm.”
Mark chewed on a fingernail that was already bitten away. It was another minute or two before either spoke again.
The first word was an excited proclomation.
“Tune!”
Another dangerous, over excited lurch of the van. Another horn.
It at least broke the silence, and Joe had appeared to decide at this point that any more silence would be a terrible thing. His chatter was incessant for the rest of the journey, topics changing seemingly from the approaching autumn, to how hard it was to find somewhere that serves good coffee. Joe would randomly discuss the plots of various films, then seemed annoyed when Mark offered a short contribution. Keeping a constant rhetoric seemed to be Joe's only concern, so his passenger fell quiet.
Mark’s insecurities lay away from the social awkwardness clearly being experienced by his companion. It was in the fact that Joe would look at him for extended periods of time when talking, appearing to forget he was driving. Making pleading nods towards the road didn't seem to help much, but Mark didn’t consider picking up a sofa for the new flat worth a fatal motorway accident.
He gripped the seat apprehensively as Joe leant across him, and fumbled in the glove box.
They were stood in a empty room on the fifth floor of a block of flats. Empty except for the spotless white sofa and armchair. The girl selling the sofa, Kate, and Mark made small talk, as Joe stared out of the window, vacant.
“Well, yes, it’s served us well.”
“Yeah, it looks great to..”
“That horseshoe will bring that house bad luck,” offered Joe suddenly, raising a finger to demonstrate that what he was saying was important. He was referring to the house opposite, which had a lopsided horseshoe attached to the wall.
“Umm,” said Kate, unsure what to say.
“It’s bad luck to have it on its side like that.”
“Well, thanks Kate," Mark said, interrupting the silence. "My wallet’s in the car. I’ll pay you as soon as we get it in the van.”
Joe suddenly came around.
“Right!” he exclaimed. “I’ll get the rope?”
Mark laughed. At least he’s got a sense of humour, I suppose.
Joe, however, was shrugging, as if to say ‘What’s funny?’
“No. I’ve got a rope in the back of the van. We’ll tie it round the thing and I’ll lower it down to you out of the window.”
Mark laughed again. Another little shrug in response.
“You’re…You’re not joking?”
“It will be quicker.”
Kate covered her hand with her mouth, mixed feelings of amusement and embarrassment. She went into the kitchen and pretended to busy herself.
“It’s..It’s a £100 sofa”
“It’ll be fine!”
“I’d really rather not do it that way.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re paying quite a lot of money for it.”
Joe was genuinely incredulous. It was as if Mark’s objection was completely unreasonable.
“Well, alright. Fine. We’ll at least get the rope round the armchair. No bother there.”
“I think we’ll carry them down the stairs. You seriously want to tie a rope around..?”
“Oh, for christ sake..Right! Come on then!”
Joe was visibly annoyed.
“Clearly you know best. Come on, we’ll get the armchair first.” He flung one of the cushions across the room, and kicked the other one out of the way. Mark was too stunned to respond.
Joe turned around, holding the armchair up behind his back. Kate had returned into the room and she and Mark exchanged brief, perplexed looks.
“Hold it straight!” Joe barked, and continue to grumble under his breath for the four or five trips up and down the stairs it took to load up the rest of the sofa.
They were back in the van. Silence had returned between them. Joe kept shaking his head, still visibly irritated that his rope idea had been rejected. Mark preferred it this way, the chances of a motorway pile-up having been slightly reduced.
“How much is this guy charging?” Mark asked in a text to his girlfriend.
The reply was rapid.
“Says fifteen an hour on the website.”
Joe pulled into a garage.
“I need thirty quid in the tank. Have you got it on you?”
“Well, is it not 15 an hour?” They had been an hour or so, so far, and were twenty minutes from the flat.
“Thirty for the job.”
“Oh..”
Joe got out to fill the engine, paid for it and got back in the van.
“Are you going to argue with me?”
“Sorry?”
“It’s thirty. Are you going to argue?”
“It says fifteen on your website.”
“It’s thirty.”
Mark, weighing up the situation, considered it to be reasonable enough, considering it was fairly difficult to load up and would be just about two hours by the time they got home.
“That’s fine.”
Joe started the engine, drove back and didn’t say another word for the remainder of the journey, shaking his head incredulously throughout. Mark sat there, trying not to laugh by this point.
As Mark handed the money over, Joe had one final thing to say.
“Wet-wipes.”
“Sorry?”
“Good for getting out marks on sofas.”
“Right.”
And with that, Joe the furniture deliverer drove away with a screech, with a bemused Mark staring after the van in the plumes of exhaust smoke left behind.
The combination of these factors darkened his mood. He recklessly swung the van into the parking space, narrowly missing the parked car behind him.
‘You have reached your destination.’ toned the disembodied woman from the SatNav.
“Hello. Joe isn’t it?’ said the young guy who answered the door.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re Mark, I assume. Hi. Hi. Yeah. Take care.”
The handshake had already gone on longer than necessary by the time it had taken him to say all that, and Joe was now aware that some mild form of polite tourettes had slipped from his lips. The handshake continued.
“Take care?” asked Mark, reasonably enough.
“Oh…Yeah. That’s what you say at the end. Not when you meet someone, right? Right. My bad.” Joe shrugged. Mark raised his eyebrows, as they finally finished shaking hands.
Mark chuckled nervously, noticing the badly parked, graffiti strewn van.
“That’s your van?”
“Certainly is,” Joe proclaimed proudly, as someone might respond to being asked "Is that your Porsche?"
“Oh. Ok.” Mark seemed apprehensive now, not that Joe noticed, or particularly cared.
“I’ll be in the van.”
“Ok. Give me a minute.”
Joe turned the music on, but at a reasonable level now, as his hangover was getting steadily worse.
“Come on, mate..” he mumbled to himself, impatiently shaking his left leg up and down.
Mark had barely time to sit down and put his seatbelt on before Joe had swung the van out in front of an approaching car. A horn sounded, angrily.
“Jesus!” said Mark.
“Woah, sorry man. What am I doing? That’s right. Oops. Right, where are we. Um, yeah, first gear. That would help.” Joe was gibbering.
“Careful mate.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I mean, woah, right? Jeez.”
“Mm.”
Mark chewed on a fingernail that was already bitten away. It was another minute or two before either spoke again.
The first word was an excited proclomation.
“Tune!”
Another dangerous, over excited lurch of the van. Another horn.
It at least broke the silence, and Joe had appeared to decide at this point that any more silence would be a terrible thing. His chatter was incessant for the rest of the journey, topics changing seemingly from the approaching autumn, to how hard it was to find somewhere that serves good coffee. Joe would randomly discuss the plots of various films, then seemed annoyed when Mark offered a short contribution. Keeping a constant rhetoric seemed to be Joe's only concern, so his passenger fell quiet.
Mark’s insecurities lay away from the social awkwardness clearly being experienced by his companion. It was in the fact that Joe would look at him for extended periods of time when talking, appearing to forget he was driving. Making pleading nods towards the road didn't seem to help much, but Mark didn’t consider picking up a sofa for the new flat worth a fatal motorway accident.
He gripped the seat apprehensively as Joe leant across him, and fumbled in the glove box.
They were stood in a empty room on the fifth floor of a block of flats. Empty except for the spotless white sofa and armchair. The girl selling the sofa, Kate, and Mark made small talk, as Joe stared out of the window, vacant.
“Well, yes, it’s served us well.”
“Yeah, it looks great to..”
“That horseshoe will bring that house bad luck,” offered Joe suddenly, raising a finger to demonstrate that what he was saying was important. He was referring to the house opposite, which had a lopsided horseshoe attached to the wall.
“Umm,” said Kate, unsure what to say.
“It’s bad luck to have it on its side like that.”
“Well, thanks Kate," Mark said, interrupting the silence. "My wallet’s in the car. I’ll pay you as soon as we get it in the van.”
Joe suddenly came around.
“Right!” he exclaimed. “I’ll get the rope?”
Mark laughed. At least he’s got a sense of humour, I suppose.
Joe, however, was shrugging, as if to say ‘What’s funny?’
“No. I’ve got a rope in the back of the van. We’ll tie it round the thing and I’ll lower it down to you out of the window.”
Mark laughed again. Another little shrug in response.
“You’re…You’re not joking?”
“It will be quicker.”
Kate covered her hand with her mouth, mixed feelings of amusement and embarrassment. She went into the kitchen and pretended to busy herself.
“It’s..It’s a £100 sofa”
“It’ll be fine!”
“I’d really rather not do it that way.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re paying quite a lot of money for it.”
Joe was genuinely incredulous. It was as if Mark’s objection was completely unreasonable.
“Well, alright. Fine. We’ll at least get the rope round the armchair. No bother there.”
“I think we’ll carry them down the stairs. You seriously want to tie a rope around..?”
“Oh, for christ sake..Right! Come on then!”
Joe was visibly annoyed.
“Clearly you know best. Come on, we’ll get the armchair first.” He flung one of the cushions across the room, and kicked the other one out of the way. Mark was too stunned to respond.
Joe turned around, holding the armchair up behind his back. Kate had returned into the room and she and Mark exchanged brief, perplexed looks.
“Hold it straight!” Joe barked, and continue to grumble under his breath for the four or five trips up and down the stairs it took to load up the rest of the sofa.
They were back in the van. Silence had returned between them. Joe kept shaking his head, still visibly irritated that his rope idea had been rejected. Mark preferred it this way, the chances of a motorway pile-up having been slightly reduced.
“How much is this guy charging?” Mark asked in a text to his girlfriend.
The reply was rapid.
“Says fifteen an hour on the website.”
Joe pulled into a garage.
“I need thirty quid in the tank. Have you got it on you?”
“Well, is it not 15 an hour?” They had been an hour or so, so far, and were twenty minutes from the flat.
“Thirty for the job.”
“Oh..”
Joe got out to fill the engine, paid for it and got back in the van.
“Are you going to argue with me?”
“Sorry?”
“It’s thirty. Are you going to argue?”
“It says fifteen on your website.”
“It’s thirty.”
Mark, weighing up the situation, considered it to be reasonable enough, considering it was fairly difficult to load up and would be just about two hours by the time they got home.
“That’s fine.”
Joe started the engine, drove back and didn’t say another word for the remainder of the journey, shaking his head incredulously throughout. Mark sat there, trying not to laugh by this point.
As Mark handed the money over, Joe had one final thing to say.
“Wet-wipes.”
“Sorry?”
“Good for getting out marks on sofas.”
“Right.”
And with that, Joe the furniture deliverer drove away with a screech, with a bemused Mark staring after the van in the plumes of exhaust smoke left behind.
Thursday, 27 October 2011
We need to talk about Kevin
The unsettling opening shot of a white net curtain dancing silently in the breeze sets the scene of Lynne Ramsay's superb adaptation of Lionel Shirver's novel, 'We need to talk about Kevin.'
Shirver himself has praised the film, something used prominently in advertising the release, the author's seal of approval stamped across promotional posters and trailers. Adaptations of best selling novels usually lend themselves to negative press. For every half a dozen people that enjoy the film in its own right, there will always be a 'not-as-good-as-the-book' naysayer standing with arms folded from the sidelines.
This doesn't seem to be the case here, and justifiably so. It was announced last night that 'We need to talk about Kevin' had triumphed at the London Film Festival, winning the award for 'Best film'. John Madden, chair of the jury, praised it for being "a sublime, uncompromising tale of the torment that can stand in the place of love." The amount of hyperbole being directed towards the film certainly seems in no danger of running dry.
The film explores a mother's inability to cope in the aftermath of her son committing a high-school atrocity, and the tell-tale signs that lead up to the event. Set around the sort of tense score that Radiohead's Johnny Greenwood is becoming so accomplished at, (There will be blood, Norwegian Wood) the director's use of symbolism in imagery and colour is consistent throughout, from the barefaced metaphor of Eva's inability to scrub the red paint of her graffiti ridden house from under her fingertips, to Kevin's deranged enjoyment of preparing a snack, deliberately spilling a jar of jam across a slice of bread whilst his mother attempts in vain to engage him in niceties. Harrowing montages of Eva driving or lying awake in bed, with flashes of disturbing dialogue and snapshot images of the event itself leave the viewer breathless. Her dilapidated house is attacked by trick-or-treaters on Halloween, whist she cowers in a corner. Director Lynne Ramsay makes you feel Eva's sense of isolation so painfully, it is impossible not to be drawn to her plight. Tilda Swinton turns in an incredible performance as Eva. She seems to thrive on playing this sort of feminist, tragic role, and is perfectly cast here.
The film raises the question of whether someone can be born a sociopath, or if this occurs through the way a child is nurtured, or as a consequence of troubling events that happen throughout their lives. We see Kevin as a baby, unable to stop crying, as Eva battles with the daemon of an unwanted child forced upon her. In early childhood, Kevin is reluctant to speak and refuses to toilet train. Eva's attempts at developing and caring for her child are met with an unflinching resilience towards her. We know that Eva never wanted this child. Is it Kevin's awareness of this from an early age, and the development from being slightly resentful of her, to bitterfully so that perpetuates the crime? It is on a particularly frustrating morning, with Kevin still refusing to speak, that she tells him as a toddler 'Mummy was happy before you came along. Without you, Mummy would sill be in France," and we get the sense that Kevin takes this on board, aiding to his feeling of animosity. Certainly there are signs that suggest that Kevin is already detached and monstrous from a young age. When Eva breaks his arm in a sudden rage due to Kevin's misbehaviour and disregard for her, as opposed to being upset, Kevin calculates that he can use this to his advantage, and as leverage against his mother in their ongoing battle.
Eva's isolation is apparent throughout the narrative, and her husband's naivety in the assumption that he has a normal teenage boy highlights the point. Eva's ongoing battle with herself is whether she should feel responsible for his terrible crime. Certainly there are enough signs that her son is drastically unhappy and in some cases disturbed. He considers his mother taking him out to dinner to spend "quality time together" to be futile. A typically teenage attitude perhaps, but it is the way he takes delight in belittling Eva and paints an opinion of the world which lends itself more to nihilism than to teen rebellion. She suspects him of being responsible for blinding his sister. Something unconfirmed, but again there is an unspoken malevolence in the way that Kevin revels in making his mother know that he is responsible.
The film adaptation makes less of Kevin's loneliness than the book, instead focusing on his family relationships, detachment and unwillingness to follow normal social constraints. Kevin is portrayed excellently by the three actors cast for him. Particularly impressive is six-year-old Rock Duer, who, during a reluctance to participate in a simple game with Eva of passing the ball back and forward, shows the audience signs where the character is moving towards.
'We need to talk about Kevin' makes for uncomfortable viewing. At times, toe-curling and at at others desperately sad, it is nevertheless a superb and engaging film that explores uncomfortable issues that are very rarely dealt with. To say this is a film about a student high-school massacre would do it an injustice. It functions on a much deeper level, dealing with the fractious nature of a relationship between a mother and son, and showing the development of a disturbed mind, and how something so violent and tragic can occur as a result of this.
Shirver himself has praised the film, something used prominently in advertising the release, the author's seal of approval stamped across promotional posters and trailers. Adaptations of best selling novels usually lend themselves to negative press. For every half a dozen people that enjoy the film in its own right, there will always be a 'not-as-good-as-the-book' naysayer standing with arms folded from the sidelines.
This doesn't seem to be the case here, and justifiably so. It was announced last night that 'We need to talk about Kevin' had triumphed at the London Film Festival, winning the award for 'Best film'. John Madden, chair of the jury, praised it for being "a sublime, uncompromising tale of the torment that can stand in the place of love." The amount of hyperbole being directed towards the film certainly seems in no danger of running dry.
The film explores a mother's inability to cope in the aftermath of her son committing a high-school atrocity, and the tell-tale signs that lead up to the event. Set around the sort of tense score that Radiohead's Johnny Greenwood is becoming so accomplished at, (There will be blood, Norwegian Wood) the director's use of symbolism in imagery and colour is consistent throughout, from the barefaced metaphor of Eva's inability to scrub the red paint of her graffiti ridden house from under her fingertips, to Kevin's deranged enjoyment of preparing a snack, deliberately spilling a jar of jam across a slice of bread whilst his mother attempts in vain to engage him in niceties. Harrowing montages of Eva driving or lying awake in bed, with flashes of disturbing dialogue and snapshot images of the event itself leave the viewer breathless. Her dilapidated house is attacked by trick-or-treaters on Halloween, whist she cowers in a corner. Director Lynne Ramsay makes you feel Eva's sense of isolation so painfully, it is impossible not to be drawn to her plight. Tilda Swinton turns in an incredible performance as Eva. She seems to thrive on playing this sort of feminist, tragic role, and is perfectly cast here.
The film raises the question of whether someone can be born a sociopath, or if this occurs through the way a child is nurtured, or as a consequence of troubling events that happen throughout their lives. We see Kevin as a baby, unable to stop crying, as Eva battles with the daemon of an unwanted child forced upon her. In early childhood, Kevin is reluctant to speak and refuses to toilet train. Eva's attempts at developing and caring for her child are met with an unflinching resilience towards her. We know that Eva never wanted this child. Is it Kevin's awareness of this from an early age, and the development from being slightly resentful of her, to bitterfully so that perpetuates the crime? It is on a particularly frustrating morning, with Kevin still refusing to speak, that she tells him as a toddler 'Mummy was happy before you came along. Without you, Mummy would sill be in France," and we get the sense that Kevin takes this on board, aiding to his feeling of animosity. Certainly there are signs that suggest that Kevin is already detached and monstrous from a young age. When Eva breaks his arm in a sudden rage due to Kevin's misbehaviour and disregard for her, as opposed to being upset, Kevin calculates that he can use this to his advantage, and as leverage against his mother in their ongoing battle.
Eva's isolation is apparent throughout the narrative, and her husband's naivety in the assumption that he has a normal teenage boy highlights the point. Eva's ongoing battle with herself is whether she should feel responsible for his terrible crime. Certainly there are enough signs that her son is drastically unhappy and in some cases disturbed. He considers his mother taking him out to dinner to spend "quality time together" to be futile. A typically teenage attitude perhaps, but it is the way he takes delight in belittling Eva and paints an opinion of the world which lends itself more to nihilism than to teen rebellion. She suspects him of being responsible for blinding his sister. Something unconfirmed, but again there is an unspoken malevolence in the way that Kevin revels in making his mother know that he is responsible.
The film adaptation makes less of Kevin's loneliness than the book, instead focusing on his family relationships, detachment and unwillingness to follow normal social constraints. Kevin is portrayed excellently by the three actors cast for him. Particularly impressive is six-year-old Rock Duer, who, during a reluctance to participate in a simple game with Eva of passing the ball back and forward, shows the audience signs where the character is moving towards.
'We need to talk about Kevin' makes for uncomfortable viewing. At times, toe-curling and at at others desperately sad, it is nevertheless a superb and engaging film that explores uncomfortable issues that are very rarely dealt with. To say this is a film about a student high-school massacre would do it an injustice. It functions on a much deeper level, dealing with the fractious nature of a relationship between a mother and son, and showing the development of a disturbed mind, and how something so violent and tragic can occur as a result of this.
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
Heligoland
Every once in a while an album will slip you by on its release, only for you to realise a year or two later that what you dismissed as an average record first time around is actually brimming with quality.
The album in question is Massive Attack's 'Heligoland.' The self-ordained sin of believing an album to be sub-standard, before giving the necessary investment is particularly true here, considering I hold the band in the highest regard. I am of the opinion that they are responsible for some of the most soulful and captivating music of the last twenty years.
Perhaps it was the album's predecessor, '100th window', that was the problem. At least that's how I'll try to pass it off. Devoid of any of the creativity and determination to provide the kind of tangible atmosphere rarely heard on record that could be attributed to previous work, '100th window' felt more than flat. It was as if this once great power, at the forefront of a much revered scene throughout the previous decade had faded away. As if someone had dimmed the lights to near darkness. The ashy remains of what was once a fire burning brightly.
Such was my disappointment, and such was the long seven year wait before Heligoland that my faith was lost. My approach to the announcement of a new album was one of ambivalence. A few proven vocalists drawn in to help with proceedings, and the return of Del Naja and Andy Horace didn't necessarily mean the band could ever get close to repeating the accomplishment of crafting some of the best records of the 1990s.
It was one track in particular that inspired me to revisit the album. Paradise Circus, with its off-kilter beats and the super-seductive vocals of Hope Sandoval was a track that I had already initially considered to be a highlight of an otherwise mediocre collection. On reflection, it could be one of the finest songs the band has released. The balance between the playfulness of the vocals, and the ethereal death of the soundscape is certainly as affecting as the driving bass of Safe from harm, say, or the terrifying hollowness of 'Inertia Creeps.'
Such was my unjust attitude to the album that this track has remained the only one I'd given repeated listens to.
Imagine my surprise then, on deciding to give the whole album another spin. The Horace Andy tracks are as sublime as previous tracks he has appeared on. Daddy G's angry growl about the banks being bailed out on Splitting the Atom resonates as a genuinely felt proclamation about the state of the country, demonstrating the sort of social awareness that you would be given to expect of the band. The dubby groove finds Massive Attack doing what they do best. 'Girl, I love you' is 'Angel''s weaker sister-song, but still wouldn't be found out of place on 'Mezzanine'.
The guests appearance from indie vocalists, despite my initial scepticism upon the album's release, actually prove to be yet more worthwhile contributions to the album. Damon Albarn's melancholic, soulful addition to 'Saturday Come Slow' feels like another highlight, as do the haunting vocals Guy Garvey lends to 'Flat of the blade,' a piece of displaced electronica that is fully realised, and relevant to the current sort of innovators operating in this particular field.
Martina Thorley-Bird's vocals fail to measure up to the heights reached by Tracey Thorn and Liz Fraser before her, though the tracks she appears on are still worthy of mention; 'Pysche' in particular makes you sit up and take notice, sounding like nothing else around at the moment, something that the band has always achieved so well.
So, apologies to Massive Attack, and for doing one of my favourite bands a dis-service. Let's hope they continue to make music this good some day soon.
The album in question is Massive Attack's 'Heligoland.' The self-ordained sin of believing an album to be sub-standard, before giving the necessary investment is particularly true here, considering I hold the band in the highest regard. I am of the opinion that they are responsible for some of the most soulful and captivating music of the last twenty years.
Perhaps it was the album's predecessor, '100th window', that was the problem. At least that's how I'll try to pass it off. Devoid of any of the creativity and determination to provide the kind of tangible atmosphere rarely heard on record that could be attributed to previous work, '100th window' felt more than flat. It was as if this once great power, at the forefront of a much revered scene throughout the previous decade had faded away. As if someone had dimmed the lights to near darkness. The ashy remains of what was once a fire burning brightly.
Such was my disappointment, and such was the long seven year wait before Heligoland that my faith was lost. My approach to the announcement of a new album was one of ambivalence. A few proven vocalists drawn in to help with proceedings, and the return of Del Naja and Andy Horace didn't necessarily mean the band could ever get close to repeating the accomplishment of crafting some of the best records of the 1990s.
It was one track in particular that inspired me to revisit the album. Paradise Circus, with its off-kilter beats and the super-seductive vocals of Hope Sandoval was a track that I had already initially considered to be a highlight of an otherwise mediocre collection. On reflection, it could be one of the finest songs the band has released. The balance between the playfulness of the vocals, and the ethereal death of the soundscape is certainly as affecting as the driving bass of Safe from harm, say, or the terrifying hollowness of 'Inertia Creeps.'
Such was my unjust attitude to the album that this track has remained the only one I'd given repeated listens to.
Imagine my surprise then, on deciding to give the whole album another spin. The Horace Andy tracks are as sublime as previous tracks he has appeared on. Daddy G's angry growl about the banks being bailed out on Splitting the Atom resonates as a genuinely felt proclamation about the state of the country, demonstrating the sort of social awareness that you would be given to expect of the band. The dubby groove finds Massive Attack doing what they do best. 'Girl, I love you' is 'Angel''s weaker sister-song, but still wouldn't be found out of place on 'Mezzanine'.
The guests appearance from indie vocalists, despite my initial scepticism upon the album's release, actually prove to be yet more worthwhile contributions to the album. Damon Albarn's melancholic, soulful addition to 'Saturday Come Slow' feels like another highlight, as do the haunting vocals Guy Garvey lends to 'Flat of the blade,' a piece of displaced electronica that is fully realised, and relevant to the current sort of innovators operating in this particular field.
Martina Thorley-Bird's vocals fail to measure up to the heights reached by Tracey Thorn and Liz Fraser before her, though the tracks she appears on are still worthy of mention; 'Pysche' in particular makes you sit up and take notice, sounding like nothing else around at the moment, something that the band has always achieved so well.
So, apologies to Massive Attack, and for doing one of my favourite bands a dis-service. Let's hope they continue to make music this good some day soon.
Monday, 10 October 2011
Must try harder
There seems to be some sort of internal dilemma facing you in your mid twenties. A feeling of personal guilt, coming from sitting about for too long, indulging more than is advisable, eating fairly irregularly and not exercising properly. Your limbs are starting to ache more than they should. Your stomach is becoming noticeable, and your muscles less so. There's a nagging voice in your head that perhaps you should do something about it.
You go through the options.
A bike ride. For some reason cycling always evokes romantic connotations of riding leisurely through the countryside with a picnic, to a spot with a nice view. Then taking a nap under a leafy oak tree, before rolling back down the hillside to arrive home before the light begins to fade.
The reality is less captivating. You're more likely to be immediately confronted with the undesirable challenge of a monstrous hill to conquer. You begin to ascend and your legs start to deceive you. Spiteful legs. You haven't used certain muscles in them for some time and it's time for their revenge. Stubbornness to conquer the hill and submission for the pain in your legs, blurred vision and lack of oxygen battle each other in the fight to make you get off the blasted thing and push it. Finding the right gear is another constant losing battle you have to fight. The high gears punish you. A condescending feeling, as your legs go around as if you were an anquished lobster lying on its back. Anything lower causes more effort than you feel able to afford.
Feeling slightly light-headed, you sway around, no longer in full control of the bike. Cars speed past you, blasting their horns. It's just started to rain.
Before considering all this it probably should have dawned on you that you don't own a bike.
A run then. People like running. Seems quite nice. Listening to your ipod, with nothing but your own thoughts in your head. The first time you don't quite get it. For some reason, you think it's all about pace. A good work-out should push you, after all! You run quickly up the street for about 500metres before coming to a prompt end, crouching down, gasping for breath and holding your sides.
The second time is a little easier. The more experienced runner having told you that your method is perhaps not the best. You enjoy it for a while. Maybe this is it. A born runner! Then the creeping realisation that you've been going for half an hour and feel like like you can't run another yard. You're two and a half miles from home. It's just started to rain.
Swimming? It has its merits. Certainly a good way to get some exercise. You look on the internet for a local pool. The nearest public pool is two miles away!? To go and bathe in a river of child's urine and oppressive chlorine that will make your eyes burn for the rest of the day? I'll pass thanks.
You're running low on options to do some exercise that doesn't involve another participant. And everyone's busy. A game of football is rarely on the cards. Not enough people to play. No one owns a tennis racket. You realise the only option left is the gym.
The gym, it then dawns on you, is perhaps the most undesirable place on earth. The gym, you reailse, is the place where you'd most likely find sanctuary when a new ice age is ushered in, but not before.
Why anyone would part with money to run up and down on the spot on a conveyor belt is baffling to you. You could always go and lie down and attempt to lift some weights above your scrawny frame, while a man built like a tree leers down at you contemptuously.
You resort to five push-ups, before collapsing and realising that the carpet is actually a lot more comfortable than you first thought.
You go through the options.
A bike ride. For some reason cycling always evokes romantic connotations of riding leisurely through the countryside with a picnic, to a spot with a nice view. Then taking a nap under a leafy oak tree, before rolling back down the hillside to arrive home before the light begins to fade.
The reality is less captivating. You're more likely to be immediately confronted with the undesirable challenge of a monstrous hill to conquer. You begin to ascend and your legs start to deceive you. Spiteful legs. You haven't used certain muscles in them for some time and it's time for their revenge. Stubbornness to conquer the hill and submission for the pain in your legs, blurred vision and lack of oxygen battle each other in the fight to make you get off the blasted thing and push it. Finding the right gear is another constant losing battle you have to fight. The high gears punish you. A condescending feeling, as your legs go around as if you were an anquished lobster lying on its back. Anything lower causes more effort than you feel able to afford.
Feeling slightly light-headed, you sway around, no longer in full control of the bike. Cars speed past you, blasting their horns. It's just started to rain.
Before considering all this it probably should have dawned on you that you don't own a bike.
A run then. People like running. Seems quite nice. Listening to your ipod, with nothing but your own thoughts in your head. The first time you don't quite get it. For some reason, you think it's all about pace. A good work-out should push you, after all! You run quickly up the street for about 500metres before coming to a prompt end, crouching down, gasping for breath and holding your sides.
The second time is a little easier. The more experienced runner having told you that your method is perhaps not the best. You enjoy it for a while. Maybe this is it. A born runner! Then the creeping realisation that you've been going for half an hour and feel like like you can't run another yard. You're two and a half miles from home. It's just started to rain.
Swimming? It has its merits. Certainly a good way to get some exercise. You look on the internet for a local pool. The nearest public pool is two miles away!? To go and bathe in a river of child's urine and oppressive chlorine that will make your eyes burn for the rest of the day? I'll pass thanks.
You're running low on options to do some exercise that doesn't involve another participant. And everyone's busy. A game of football is rarely on the cards. Not enough people to play. No one owns a tennis racket. You realise the only option left is the gym.
The gym, it then dawns on you, is perhaps the most undesirable place on earth. The gym, you reailse, is the place where you'd most likely find sanctuary when a new ice age is ushered in, but not before.
Why anyone would part with money to run up and down on the spot on a conveyor belt is baffling to you. You could always go and lie down and attempt to lift some weights above your scrawny frame, while a man built like a tree leers down at you contemptuously.
You resort to five push-ups, before collapsing and realising that the carpet is actually a lot more comfortable than you first thought.
Monday, 3 October 2011
Running from the Forest?
A man with more ups and downs in his career than a hotel elevator, the latest blow to Steve McClaren's managerial career saw a poor 3-1 defeat at home to Birmingham leave boos ringing in the manager's ears, chasing him all the way out of The City Ground and away to the sanctuary of Sherwood Forest.
The stage had been set for a successful return to English football. Having failed to achieve qualification into Euro 2008 as England manager, McClaren had sensibly moved to Holland, escaping the ever vitriolic English press.
Seemingly having undergone sessions of intensive hypnotic therapy to make him forget the last period of his career, and affecting a Dutch accent in the process, success quickly followed. McClaren led Eredivisie side, FC Twente, to an unprecedented league triumph for the first time in the club's history.
After a much less happy time at German club Wolfsburg, McClaren had been handed a nine month break from football. Nottingham Forest had seemed like the perfect English club to return to. A new season. A club on the verge of achieving their long overdue return to the top-flight. Few Forest fans would have argued against the evidence that McClaren was an appropriate choice by the board to be the man to achieve this feat.
Having gathered just eight points, and sitting just above the relegation zone, it is unfortunate that McClaren has decided that ten league games in charge is enough. It was a tenure that capitulated before it had a chance to take off, taking chairman Nigel Doughty with it.
Difficult though, for the fans to be patient. A feeling that resonates strongly through the Forest fan base is that this is a club that belongs in the top division. They've been getting closer. It's understandable that some might see McClaren's short-lived reign as a frustrating step back. Realising this, perhaps McClaren wisely decided to jump ship before he was pushed.
The stage had been set for a successful return to English football. Having failed to achieve qualification into Euro 2008 as England manager, McClaren had sensibly moved to Holland, escaping the ever vitriolic English press.
Seemingly having undergone sessions of intensive hypnotic therapy to make him forget the last period of his career, and affecting a Dutch accent in the process, success quickly followed. McClaren led Eredivisie side, FC Twente, to an unprecedented league triumph for the first time in the club's history.
After a much less happy time at German club Wolfsburg, McClaren had been handed a nine month break from football. Nottingham Forest had seemed like the perfect English club to return to. A new season. A club on the verge of achieving their long overdue return to the top-flight. Few Forest fans would have argued against the evidence that McClaren was an appropriate choice by the board to be the man to achieve this feat.
Having gathered just eight points, and sitting just above the relegation zone, it is unfortunate that McClaren has decided that ten league games in charge is enough. It was a tenure that capitulated before it had a chance to take off, taking chairman Nigel Doughty with it.
Difficult though, for the fans to be patient. A feeling that resonates strongly through the Forest fan base is that this is a club that belongs in the top division. They've been getting closer. It's understandable that some might see McClaren's short-lived reign as a frustrating step back. Realising this, perhaps McClaren wisely decided to jump ship before he was pushed.
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