Alive and Kicking: Dead Writers @ The Water Rats – 18/08/17

‘Hi Laura! I had to run back for a piece of equipment, sorry! I’ll ask the guys in the band to find you, I should be with you soon‘

How very polite. I sneak back out of main venue space into the pub, away from the guitarists, drummers, singers trying not to step on each other as they get ready for tonight’s gig with their respective bands. There’s a definite vibe of excitement; but despite the amount of people, and instruments, it’s not chaotic. It’s more of a pleasant buzz of anticipation that’s slowly but steadily filling the room.

I’m here to see Dead Writers, a band who despite being on the bill tonight at the famous The Water Rats, has only existed for about 5 months in this, its current, final constellation. ‘Paul has a lot of contacts’, Sebastian, the band’s rhythm guitarist explains to me later on. ‘He was a solo artist for many years.’

But right now Paul is running late; the piece of equipment turns out to be his mic stand, which considering his position as the band’s lead singer and frontman does seem rather important. I’ve replied back to him that there’s no rush but I haven’t sat down outside for more than five minutes before, as promised, Sebastian sticks his hand out at me. As it turns out, 3/5 of the band are sitting directly behind me.

‘You’re here with the entire rhythm section! But we’re much more interesting’, he jokes. ‘Have you met Chris?’, Agustín, the band’s drummer asks me. He, Sebastian and Renato, the band’s bassist, let out a collective sigh of pity when it turns out that I haven’t. ‘He’s an incredible guitarist’, they all agree. Indeed, this is a sentiment that prevails throughout our conversation – a remarkable respect for each other’s musical abilities. It seems that as each member joined, beginning with Paul convincing Sebastian to play with him – ‘I resisted a bit in the beginning’, he laughs – the more the music fell into place all by itself. It’s clear that the three of them know that they’ve got something. It’s not an arrogant boast, or a naive proclamation, it’s more of a judicious statement, largely unspoken. The feeling of being in the company of a band that runs on realistic hopefulness, feet planted deeply in mature yet enthusiastic ground, is palpable. ‘The music speaks for it self’, they shrug.

Photo: David Chin

They’ve only got a handful of finished songs. And listening to the one song they’ve so far recorded, ‘Stranger To Me’, having also seen the band perform live once before, it seems it doesn’t quite represent them, and lies somewhat far from how they come across on stage. Though melodic and beautiful, it seems contained, restrained even. ‘The studio guy was drunk’, Agustín explains. Not much else is said, or needs to be said about that experience. ‘We did our best, so…’ is left hanging in the air. They’re well aware that they need more songs recorded. That’s the future. Along with more song writing, more gigs, more exposure.

But for now, Paul has joined us, mic stand safely procured, and he’s all smiles and energy. ‘Have you met Chris?’, he, too, asks me, but again I must disappoint. ‘Oh well, he’s a great guitarist’. The atmosphere is more vibrant now, as more and more people arrive. Wives, friends, even parents of friends have either sat down for a chat or stopped by our table to distribute hugs or handshakes and a ‘good luck tonight!’. The relaxed and casual atmosphere is slowly moving into pre-show electricity. I ask Paul if they have any kind of ritual before they go on stage. ‘Hm not really, I think we’re still a bit too new for that, each person just sort of does their own thing’, he says, referring to Sebastian who only moments earlier has left us to go for a walk and get some alone time before the show. Paul doesn’t need alone time, it seems – he’s excited, animated. Asking him if he’s looking forward to the show would just be silly.

And so, the band drifts inside, daylight is exchanged for nighttime, and I’m wondering if the music really does speak for itself.

It does. Because as I’m standing there in the darkness of the crowd, a couple of songs into the gig, and as the first few notes of their song, ‘Medusa’, slowly emits from the stage, it’s most definitely clear that this is not a drill. This is a band that completely takes you in. The rhythm section is tight, the lead singer is charismatic, his voice powerfully cutting through the music, and Chris is, indeed, incredible on a guitar. ‘Where the energy of rock & roll meets sensitive melodic songwriting’, it says on their Facebook profile, but when the music swallows you up, the sound is almost progressive in nature. It’s quite hard to believe that the last piece of this musical puzzle only joined in April of this year, and here we are, on a Friday night in August, and they sound like they’ve played together for years. They transcend the stage, waves of music washing over the crowd, and it’s alive – it’s exciting.

They’re playing the Fiddler’s Elbow in Camden on September 21st. I suggest you go. You won’t be disappointed.

That gum you like…

…has come back in style.

I must… UNRETIRE! I must rejoin the endless stream of idiots thinking they can not only write but also have something interesting to say. I must post again, dear reader, whether you like it or not. Believe me when I say that I did not retire willingly or purposefully. But life is… life. And it’s all rotten, filthy, infested water under the wobbly, splintery bridge. I’ve made it to the other side. Safe grounds. For now.

Oh yes. In case you have been living under a rock with no decent Internet connection for the best part of 3 years , you may not have noticed that the 90s cult TV series Twin Peaks has been raised from the dead by creators Mark Frost and David Lynch. If you have never seen the original Twin Peaks, get da fuck outta here. If you have not seen the 2017 returned version, be warned that this post may contain soft spoilers and a fuckload of opinions. Regardless of your position, here is the tweet that sent fans everywhere into overdrive. I myself swear to fucking god I felt my Twin Peaks tattoo tingle.

…

And so on and so forth*. First came the shock, the excitement, the DISBELIEF! Then, the horror. Oh! The horror! WHAT IF IT WASN’T ANY GOOD? OMG PLEASE BE GOOD!

*deep breaths*

And then came the waiting. And the speculating. The celebrating as so many of the original actors were confirmed to be returning. The lamenting when it was confirmed that Michael Ontkean, our beloved Sheriff Truman, would, indeed, not be. The still photos, the late night TV show appearances, the novel. And we ate it all up like greedy little abstract art eating pigs. Nom nom fucking nom, piggies.

And suddenly, one May Monday night (depending on your timezone, of course – at 4.A.M Decisions we’re talking GMT), it was here. The video thumbnail staring at me, highlighted by my remote.

…

I froze.

…

And then I watched something else.

My excuse is that the weather was beautiful and that it somehow seemed wrong to watch the return of Special Agent Dale Cooper while the sun was blazing through my window. Although that is partially true (it’s been absolute shite weather today and I just mainlined every single new episode. Coincidence?! I think not!), I know there’s no point in denying that yes, dear reader, I completely and utterly chickened out. I was overcome by fear. But then it started raining and I got over myself and I am just so happy to be able to unretire out of pure fucking happiness. 2017 Twin Peaks is great. Or, rather, it is every bit as fucking weird, dissatisfying, terrifying, and sexy as the original. It answers half the amount the amount of questions it asks and by doing so it demands your absolute attention in a way that I honestly do not think I have experienced from any other TV show. Blink just once and you will not necessarily miss any of the plot (or lack thereof) but most definitely some of the atmosphere. Frost & Lynch continue to bounce us unashamedly between the ridiculous, the mysterious and the terrifying. Lucy does not understand the concept of mobile phones? But what the hell is up with bringing all these fucking lattes to Sam at his place of work, Tracey? And oh my fuCKING GOD WAS IT THAT HAMMERING? Dear god, make it stop, it is like rusty nails on my soul.

As a YouTube commentator wrote underneath this clip, ‘thanks for the nightmares, David’. I’ll second that, you beautiful bastard.

As per usual, I haven’t read anything about the show post release, but I have a feeling that the reviews have been mixed. And I can partially understand why. There are, indeed, some elements of this revived variety that, if you were a 90s Twin Peaks purist, you’d find hard to swallow.

The swearing, for instance. There are a lot of fucks flying around, often mixed with violence and sometimes vulgarity (hello, Jennifer Jason Leigh-scene). As you will most likely have noticed by now I love a good swear word at any opportunity but of course one of the really fascinating things about the original show was its eloquent screenplay which mixed with its at times extremely innocent, borderline clichéd characterisation of a small town and its quirky characters produced something truly unique.

Then there is the soundscape. And now we are moving into blasphemous territory. The pivotal soundtrack to the original show by Angelo Bandalamenti is no longer exclusively scoring every scene. Julee Cruise’s dreamy voice is no longer the only sound of desire and melancholy. Chromatics, who some will remember for their track Tick of The Clock, from the in many ways atmospherically similar film Drive, close the ball of parts 1 and 2 with their track Shadow. And yes, the Julee Cruise resemblance is unmissable, but it’s not Julee Cruise and neither are any of the other acts that have so far played the famous Bang Bang Bar.

I could go on, naturally. New locations, new recurring characters, the space-age mysticism complementing the symbolism of the original show, and then, of course, the absolute plethora of major and minor celebrity cameos. You can almost picture the queue outside of the Frost & Lynch office. My personal favourite is the appearance of Ron Eldard, the man who stole my heart when he shot Kevin Bacon in the family jewels in Sleepers. Sweet revenge is sweet. But there’s still plenty of the old stuff left. The bad boys are still aplenty, both of the Bobby variety and of the Leo variety; the girls are still pretty and carrying dark secrets. The overall impression is still Americana, interspersed with a new steely coldness, a wet darkness, reminiscent of Lost Highway, Mulholland Drive, Inland Empire.

But most importantly, the show is still so wildly intriguing, it grabs and holds your attention mercilessly. It is uncanny beyond what it is possible to comprehend. And truly great, uncanny art is letting the hammering from the outside in the clip above not be rhythmical, but ever changing, unpredictable and thus deeply, deeply unsettling. Because Twin Peaks is perhaps not so much a small town as it is a state of mind. It is the state of mind called ‘what the FUCK is going on?’ and it is absurd and abstract and yes, fucking terrifying. It’s like looking at a Jackson Pollock painting for too long. Or reading a Samuel Beckett novel**. David Lynch once said in an interview, ‘I don’t know why people expect art to make sense when they accept the fact that life doesn’t make sense.’ The thing about that, Mr Lynch, is that the majority  of the earth’s population very much don’t accept that life doesn’t make sense. According to this research, 84% percent of the world’s population has a faith, and bar a few anomalies, most of them deal specifically with that burning question of, ‘and just exactly what is the point of this?’. But if you enjoy exploring this sweet pain of existentialism, out of curiosity or simply because it is what you are naturally attracted to in life (hello), new Twin Peaks will fascinate you. Because that’s what this is – NEW Twin Peaks. It’s its own thing. It is so much its own thing that when a tender moment in the new series is, indeed, scored by part of the original soundtrack, it feels almost alien.

A last note, before I must wrap this up. What has pleased me the most so far has been Dr. Jacoby. Dr. Lawrence Jacoby, who wears his distinctive red and blue-lensed glasses underneath a gas mask; who preachers conspiratorial hate-mongering (for a profit, of course) on his own radio show; who has a little following of other, very much appropriate Twin Peaksians, nodding in agreement as he speaks. Because although appreciating the fluidity, absurdity and uncanniness of things is a prerequisite for extracting any kind of pleasure from watching Twin Peaks, there’s something delightfully reassuring about feeding one’s basic human desire to make sense of what one is presented with. It’s like being given a photograph of Godot tied to a chair, the coordinates of his whereabouts scribbled on the back of it. It is, after all, human to want answers and the answer to ‘what happened to Dr. Jacoby?’ is not only completely believable, and a kudos to Frost and Lynch for that, but also surprising! Entertaining! Sure, Norma still works at the diner but who gives a shit?** That’s not news nor development. Dr. Jacoby paints shovels gold and I completely accept this something this character would be doing 25 years after we last saw him.

It’s a 10/10 for me, 6 A-Okays, all the stars in the world, I love it. It makes no fucking sense whilst scaring the shit out of me. And I love it.

Please enjoy the most unsettling scene in any TV show ever. Until next time.

*Incidentally, if you haven’t watched the two TV shows that these gifs and clips are snatched from, Six Feet Under and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, you totally should. Come to think of it, I don’t think they could be any more different. In Will Ferrell terms, one is Stranger than Fiction, the other one is Step Brothers. You’re welcome, now go stream them somewhere.

**For head-fuckery beyond the pale, I recommend the final novel of his Trilogy of Fuckery, a personal favourite of mine, The Unnamable. The opening sentence reads, ‘I seem to speak, it is not I, about me, it is not about me’. Go figure.

***I, me, I give a shit, I said I didn’t for dramatic effect, forgive me, Norma.

And the winner is…

I’m going to subdue my anger about you winning for this particular role instead of oh so many other roles in which you’ve been oh so  much better, and simply say: good on ya, boy.

Stole that from Buzzfeed, btw.

Don’t you love the smell of a gold statuette in the morning?

I sure do.

Happy Academy Award season everybody! Ahh, look at all the wonderful films that have hit our cinemas recently: Room, The Revenant, Spotlight, The Big Short, Youth. And, of course, A Bigger Splash, Creed, Deadpool – some of these nominated, some not, some, perhaps, not enough. The pool of talent here is definitely of the infinity variety and it will be interesting to see who takes home what trophy. In our silent minds, and if that’s your kind of thing, let us all say a silent pray for poor, poor Leonardo DiCaprio, passed over on so many occasions.

You can do it, Leo, we believe in you. I mean, you ate raw bison liver for this one, right? What more can that fucking academy possibly want?!

So! Seeing that I completely failed to go see The Danish Girl a couple of weeks back, I bet you’re all simply dying to know which of the above I chose to go see this week.

Oh, how I live to disappoint. In the name of spicing shit up, I turned my back on the Academy chosen and saw Daddy’s Home, an absolutely TERRIBLE comedy staring Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg. I’ll be the first to admit that I made a mistake here. You see, I stupidly believed that the Ferrell/Wahlberg combo would hold up in court, no matter the director. They sure a shit made me (AND my mother, thank you very much) laugh in The Other Guys, a fairly fucked up comedy about a couple of cops who can’t catch a break in the apparently extremely competitive world of cops. The tuna vs lion scene is hilarious, there’s just no two ways about it, but then, I think Ferrell is funny in pretty much everything he does, and Wahlberg was a nice addition as the rouge cop, stuck with a boring side-kick whilst desperately attempting to become part of the next big Cop Duo.

Alas, ’twas not to be so. Daddy’s Home is a terrible film about a man (Farrell) who is both a husband and a step-father to his wife’s two children and he’s bloody loving the latter. Unable to become a father himself, he’s desperate for the kids’ affection in every each way and… well, that’s not funny. Then, in walks the FUN element, in the shape of motorcycle riding, absent biological father, Dusty (get it? ‘Cos he leaves a trail of dust when he rides away from his kids on his bike? IS THAT CLEAR ENOUGH OF A METAPHOR FOR YOU?!), wanting to reconnect with kids, and he’s all kinds of cool. Also, he’s played by Wahlberg.

Don’t get me wrong, this could have been funny. Deadbeat daddy vs picture perfect step daddy, who’s gonna win? Spoiler: everybody wins and the road to getting there is so painfully unfunny, I momentarily considered walking out of the cinema, something which I’ve actually never done.

I can recall one scene where I chuckled, and I’m still not sure if it was, indeed, comedy induced, or just my cinema loving self desperately trying to find SOMETHING about this film worth laughing at. At one point, in an attempt to ‘be cool’, Brad (that’s Ferrell) offers to move Dusty’s motorcycle out of the driveway for him, ‘cos he accidentally told Dusty earlier that yeah sure, he rides bikes. For reasons unknown, Ferrell ends up driving into the house, up the stairs and through a wall. It’s…yeah, it’s just not enough to carry a film, is it? There’s a Christmas-in-the-middle-of-spring-to-impress-the-kids-scene, there’s a Dusty-so-cool-he-do-my-job-better-than-me-scene, there’s a a dance-off-scene, there are all the scenes. And none of them are funny. They could have been, but a) the script is shit and b) the film is PG 13. A couple of ‘fuck you, motherfucker’-s would have helped A LOT here.

Thomas Haden Church (the guy who’s not Paul Giamatti in Sideways) plays Brad’s boss and his over-sharing tendencies are not funny, just embarrassing and unnecessary. Bobby Cannavale (currently staring in Scorsese/Jagger collaboration Vinyl, which I’m desperate to get cracking with) plays a fertility doctor and he’s both vile and vulgar and, you guessed it, not fucking funny.

None of it is funny. There is showing-off-on-a-half-pipe-in-front-of-a-bunch-of-kids scene for fuck’s sake and not even THAT is funny. The only marginally funny thing in this film is Hannibal Buress, who’s shoehorned in on a racist joke and then just continues to hang around, eating cereal, spewing dry humour at and about any situation. HE is funny. But he’s a comedian and he’s on point with delivering his lines. The script is holding the rest of the cast back from truly letting loose and it’s dull to watch.

So, in conclusion:

Yes to this

No to this

1 A-Okay, the one. I took one for the team here, alright, go watch something Oscar nominated.

The Danish Girl…

Does anyone remember the Academy Awards 2009? Hugh Jackman hosted that year’s event and the opening number, the grand song n’ dance routine presenting the nominees, was a stripped down, bare boned, shitty school play kind of number, in the name of the world wide economic crisis that had just hit. You know, as if the rules of the world applied to Hollywood.

Anyway.

Remember the bit he did about The Reader?
Yeah, I’m gonna have to ask you to pretend he’s singing The Danish Girl, OK?
OK, great, thanks, bye, I’ll be back, bye.

I’m sorry

When I started this blog, I promised myself that no matter what, I would never write a  short and/or shallow review and if must be, I’d rather just not write the review at all.

I am now going to go back on that promise to myself for the first and hopefully the last time. Why? Stop asking questions, that’s why.

Bridge of Spies

Yes, the rumours are true, Mark Rylance is wildly intriguing as the mysterious Russian maybe-spy. Tom Hanks is Tom Hanks and that’s fine and I found it kind of interesting to see Amy Ryan in this film, she’s got something quite lovable about her.
The story is interesting (the various negotiations are tense and nerve wrecking) but the whole thing has just been given this big coat of shine, and it’s so… Spielbergy? I don’t know, it didn’t satisfy my Cold War history needs, and why was that thing that we all chuckled at the first time that was then forgivably repeated a second time THEN repeated a third fucking time instead of just leaving it to be implied, it would have been so much smoother and neater and come on, guys, we don’t need to be spoon fed to get the relationship between them, alright? 3 1/2 A-Okays

Carol

Didn’t get nominated for a Best Film Academy Award, did it? Oh dear, poor director Todd Haynes, I’m sorry, man. Both Blanchett (leading) and Mara (supporting) got nominated though so I guess that’s something. It’s a wonderful love story, I like that’s it’s such a confined story, nothing much happens except love, thereby then giving said love actual, proper screen time to develop in front of our eyes. It’s nice to see Mara’s character develop with the experience of falling in love and becoming her own person and Blanchett is always great as the upper class lady who’s not quite as together as she seems (remember Blue Jasmin?) Beautifully shot, real struggles, 5 A-Okays.

Star Wars: The Force Awakens

OMG would you stop arguing with me and just go see it? It’s fucking awesome, more of the same but when was that bad? Look, no Jar Jar Binks, okay? Surely that’s enough. If you need more convincing, Oscar Isaac’s in it and he’s both a) charming (a great successor to the Han Solo character) b) a handsome devil. And the baddie is an annoying little idiot and you’ll want to punch him in his stupid little face multiple times, it’s awesome.

Just go watch it, okay? Don’t be *that* guy.

Okay, I’m done. Next week: The Danish Girl

Until then, enjoy a Bowie cameo

The Thin White Duke is dead

Yesterday was the strangest of days. Death in itself isn’t strange. It is the condition of life, after all, and even when it is unexpected, you learn to live with it. Cancer kills everyone. I’m losing part of my family because of it.

Yet it is strange that someone who seems to have always been is now no longer. Not ‘always’ in time but in presence. The persistent, pervasive glue that held the Arts together. It seems wrong, like something has come undone; not unfair, but broken, and very, very incomprehensible.

In 2004 David Bowie cancelled Roskilde Festival and I remember thinking ‘Oh’. I was ever so slightly more vocal about the festival hiring Slipnot as the ‘replacement’ act, but never mind that. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to see Bowie. It wasn’t because I was indifferent to seeing Bowie either. Looking back on it, I’ve realised that it’s because I never ever in a million years imagined that there would be such a day where I would not be able to see Bowie. Not really. Not if I’m honest. Heaven and hell and the afterlife, all those things truly do mean nothing to me, but Bowie always seemed eternal. The glue, the glue. I don’t own his entire back catalogue, I can’t sing along to all his songs. Yet he’s delightfully recognisable. Even if he was always another he was always himself. A rock. A rock n roll rock. How fucking awesome is that.

But the rock is gone and it’s made a lot of people feel incredibly lost. I feel lost. Like I’ve been left to my own devices, left with the responsibility of life, as if I am in any way capable of dealing with that shit on my own. I’m not, though, David, I’m really not. I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t think anybody does. But I guess it’s time to suck it up. I guess it’s time to stop playing pretend.

Turn and face the strange.
Changes.

Rest in peace, my friend.

 

Ah don’t lean on me man cos you can’t afford the ticket

I’m back from Suffragette City!

Come on, it had to be done.

Suffragette tells the immensely important story of the early 20th century British suffragette movement, whose members took drastic measures to secure women’s rights, the right to vote included. You may have heard the stories of Emmeline Pankhurst, the founder of the Women’s Social and Political Union which, in many ways, were the suffragettes’ jumping-off place, and her rather aggressive ways of getting the Parliament’s attention (bombings and prison hunger strikes, for starters). What grabbed my attention with this film in particular is the awakening we see in lower class Maud Watts, the story’s main character (played by Carey Mulligan), because that awakening is universal, and absolute. Maud is just a young laundry worker living with her husband and son, and that is her life. Yes, her conditions are poor, yes, her husband earns more than her and yes, she’s been sexually assaulted by her boss but such is life for a lady, right? Despite it all, she is happy, and even after she becomes involved with the movement through another female laundry worker, Violet (Anne-Marie Duff), she’s having massive troubles identifying with the word ‘suffragette’. But then slowly, steadily, her eyes are opened wider and wider until she can see the injustice around her and once those eyes are opened, there is no turning back. It costs her dearly, and the scene in which she pays that price is completely heartbreaking. Her husband, a quiet, confused and quite desperate man unable to comprehend what is happening around him but, and to his woman, is marvellously played by Ben Whishaw. Mulligan is wonderfully underplayed, subdued by her situation, which is elegantly reflected in her performance. Helena Bonham-Carter and her fabulous hair is in there as well, playing a pharmacist lucky enough to have a husband who supports her in her extra-curricular bomb making activities and then, of course, we have Meryl ‘Batman’ Streep, as Emmeline Pankhurst herself. I think Streep is in the film for about 4 minutes in total and no, there’s absolutely no need for her to be in it expect to draw audiences. Whether she did or not remains a mystery, but when I went to see the film, we were five people present.

I enjoyed Suffragette immensely, but then I’m a feminist and I support women’s rights, so I would say that, wouldn’t I. Regarding historical accuracy, I think it did pretty well. The Emily Davidson incident, which ends the film, is a hard one to ‘get right’, because no one seems to be able to agree why she stepped in front of that horse or if getting herself killed was indeed the purpose, but overall, not bad in terms of factual accuracy. It’s getting 4 1/2 A-Okays from me.

Stop the fucking press!

The Zoolander 2 (2oolander! I love it!) trailer is here!

DID YOU SEE HIM!? DID YOU!?

ARRGGHHH(£(*”)(*_)!**^”%£^&”(!¬!_)¬¬!!!!one1One

Bond is back… again

If there was ever a song written about the James Bond character, it would be the one

You’re welcome.

Over the years there’s been a substantial amount of noise about Daniel Craig’s portrayal of the infamous spy with a thing for the ladies and a license to blow every bad guy to smithereens, as and when required (or just because). Too series, too stone faced, too action film blockbuster-y. And to them, I say

And just so the non-Brits don’t feel left out

Daniel Craig has been a great Bond. I’ve always disliked the charming-ladies-man-come-killer style that Roger Moore perfected, preferring the less-jokey-more-kill-y style of Sean Connery. Pierce Brosnan was a Moore-man more than anything, and although he wasn’t terrible, the films in which he got to portray Bond were not the strongest of the bunch. Enter Daniel Craig with his portrayal of Bond as a human being struggling to fulfil the obligation to kill that comes with the 00 spy status. Casino Royale, Craig’s first stint as James Bond, was a brilliant first of this the newest reboot of the franchise. The heart attack scene in the car? The chair-without-a-seat torture scene? Holy fuck! Brilliant! All of it! (and how awesome was Mads Mikkelsen as Le Chiffre? Most proud of my fellow countryman, well done, Mads). Skip to Skyfall (Quantum of Solace with its lack of a distinct evil guy and a storyline which just wasn’t that interesting didn’t quite do it for me so it gets no airtime here) and we’re back in Britain with an M (Judi Dench, we missed you, but I know you had to go) in danger and psychopathic Javier Badeem on the loose, in what I thought was a very interesting deeper exploration of the man, James Bond – his relationship with M, his family history etc. And I don’t care what anyone says, I thought the Adele theme song was great, and fitted the nature of the film perfectly, so..

Cut to 2015, Dia de los Muertos, Mexico City. Bond in a skeleton costume escorts an attractive lady through the costume and parade filled streets, in to a hotel, up the lift, down the hallways, always looking, keeping an eye out. As they hit the hotel room, just before the sweet release of falling into the bed sheet for a good old fashioned roll around the hay, Bond leaves her hanging, and jumps out of the window; it’s bad guy killing time. Thus begins the 4th Daniel Craig as James Bond film, Spectre, and boy, was my hopes up high. Andrew Scott AND Christoph Waltz? Moriarty and Hans Landa in the same film? Yes, please and thank you. Sadly, and I am truly sad, the story is just a little bit ridiculous. Without revealing too much information, in case you were planning to go see it (you should, it’s still worth seeing despite the holes I’m about to poke), the rumours are true: Christoph Waltz plays Blofeld. If that doesn’t ring a bell, perhaps a little visual aid will

Yeah, that guy. Head of the evil organisation SPECTRE (hence the film name, very clever indeed), Waltz puts on his usual funny-but-fucking-evil suit and tries his best to give Craig a damn hard time – sans white cat and with massive, disfiguring scare for only a bit of the film. Fine. But a) his back story, his reason for going after Bond, is BOLLOCKS. It shits all over the previous films, in a sad attempt to put everything into perspective and make Blofeld relevant again and b) although Waltz indeed does a decent job here (I was starting to think he was a bit of a one-trick pony but he was actually pretty good at being terrifying here – not too jokey), I don’t want my super villains to be human. I want them crazy and power hungry and and remorseless. I want them laughing in the face of adversity, laughing as they head for their graves. Blofeld’s hunt for Bond is personal, but personal only through the eyes of a fucking lunatic serial killer, so why, in that helicopter scene, does Blofeld look so terrified? Why is he suddenly human and scared of death, only to then turn back into super-villain crazy man, all cheeky eyed and sarcastic smiles as he realises he’s been defeated? I DON’T GET I! It’s either or, man, not both, you can’t have both!

But Blofeld is only one of the two storylines running through Spectre. Simultaneously, and of course intertwined with, the Blofeld malarkey, Andrew Scott plays C, head of a joint intelligence service recently merged with MI5 and MI6, intent on launching a world wide surveillance initiative in lieu of the 00-programme. Scott is fabulous but I struggle to find examples of when he’s not. Balancing perfectly on that fine line between ‘I’m just doing my job, you know I’m right’ manipulator and pure fucking evil arsehole twat (to use the official title), he’s the perfect (modern) henchman. For a less modern, much more traditional but in no way bad henchman, see David Bautista as Mr. Hinx. He’s out to get you and when does, he’ll smile as he liberates you of your knee caps.

I found the Andrew Scott part of the film much more interesting, but it is of course not enough for an entire Bond film. There just isn’t enough explosions involved in the world of CCTV and 24 hour data monitoring. Hence Blofeld. Hence DISAPPOINTING BACK STORY.

You know who was great, though? Lea Seydoux as Madeleine Swann, daughter of Mr. White (Jesper Christensen, another… alright, I’ll make the pun, another great Dane, ha ha fucking ha), who makes a brief appearance as a plot device to point Bond in the right direction. As it turns out, the right direction involves his daughter, and Seydoux does a damn good job portraying a young woman with a strained and complicated relationship with her father and, subsequently, men in general – she’s mysterious, she’s intelligent, she’s sexy, she’s hard hitting bad bitch who takes shit from no one. Thumbs up. But I must object to the suggestion that Swann is a Great Love of Bond. Vesper Lynd was the great love. Bond was going to, or rather he DID, give up his life as a spy in order to be with her. And as she drowns in front of his eyes, in a really haunting scene that I’ve unfortunately failed to find a proper clip of, it shapes his fate, it hardens his heart, and every woman that comes after will be but a husk of Vesper. Right? That’s the romantic and tragic fantasy world in which Bond exists, so surely, there’s no second chances at love, no god damn second marriage of the widower. I OBJECT! And it’s not because I can’t allow Bond as second chance at life, of course not. Poor guy, he’s had a hard life, he could probably do with a bit of love and affection. But James Bond is character that as the years go by becomes more and more obsolete. The casual sex with Monica Belluci? Oh come on. No there’s nothing wrong with a little nookie post the funeral of one’s ‘beloved’ husband but why? This particular scene just makes Bond come across as a gigolo. ‘Hello, I am here to shoot two men and have sex with you. That’ll be $399’. And then she fucks off literally never to be seen again. As much as it pains my feminist heart to say it, it actually made more sense just to have those… ugh, ‘Bond Girls’ portrayed as what they were: conquests. Here, we’re supposed to believe that Bond truly cares about Belluci. You’ve known her for 5 minutes, of course you don’t care about her, even if you did kill her husband. It’s dumb. Stop doing that.

In a word, the film is messy. It’s not shit, but it’s not great either. There’s too much brooding, too much ‘man in sparsely decorated flat drinking whiskey alone’ bullshit. Yes, it’s nice that Bond’s shell has been broken a bit (again, Skyfall did a brilliant job at cracking the façade without ruining the illusion) but don’t make him soft. Don’t make him fall in love (again), as great as she is. Don’t make him fall for Blofeld’s bullshit excuse to kill him, it doesn’t work, damn it. Pros: the combination of Bond, M (Ralph Fiennes), Q (Ben Whishaw, he’s perfect as a geeky computer whiz with a soft spot for Bond’s quite frankly completely outrageous and unforgivable antics) and MI 6’s chief of Staff Tanner (Rory Kinnear) joining forces, old school style with safe houses, hand weapons and fucking spy skills, to take out Andrew Scott. Cons: See above.

3 1/2 A-Okays. James Bond is, by now, a trademark. There’s a certain feeling that only a quality Bond film can produce, which makes you buy all the cars, babes and baddies bullshit because hey, it’s Bond, that’s the character. But Spectre doesn’t produce that feeling. It’s ALMOST there. I just don’t quite buy it.