Inglourious Basterds review

"You have'nt seen war until you've seen it through the eyes of Quentin Tarantino" says the trailer. The film does not disappoint in this respect. Like the Coen Brothers he does have a highly unusual and individual style of directing that gives his films a unique visual and dramatic taste. With Inglourious Basterds don't expect a film like Platoon or Saving Private Ryan with a fixed moral about the horrors of war, its terrible destruction and tragedy and all the moral dilemmas it creates. I'm not saying that Tarantino is exploiting a terrible, and often fascinating, period of history to gain critical and commercial success - he is just expressing himself in his own unique way within the context of a war film. He does fully portray the brutality of war, often in graphic detail. Tarantino loves his violence and this film certainly earns its 18 certificate. The Inglourious Basterds are a group of Jews who are dropped into France with the simple goal of killing Nazi's and generally reigning destruction. The plot does not allow most of the group to really feature prominently in the film. This is okay, as just killing Nazi's (however appealing that sounds) for the whole film would get a bit boring after a while. Once the nature and intent of the Basterds has been established the plot goes in an interesting direction. Some of them become involved in a plot to kill Hitler and all of his high command. I don't think Tarantino is trying to rewrite history but he does offer us an alternative ending to the war, what could have happened if there really had been a group like The Basterds and if certain events had fallen into place. The cast are all excellent, except Mike Myers who is horribly miscast as an English general. Brad Pitt does well with his southern drawl and swagger, but it is Christopher Waltz (possible oscar contender?) who steals the show as the infamous 'Jew Hunter'. He sparkles as the Nazi officer who is in charge of rounding up all the hidden Jews in Nazi occupied France. On the surface he is charming and suave, almost playfully toying with his victims, and is completley at ease with what he is doing. Although this is not my favorite Tarantino film I certainly enjoyed it. I was going to rate this film 7/10 but on the strength of Christoph Waltz and Brad Pitt's performances, and the presence of the gorgeous Diane Kruger (marry me Diane!), I will add an extra point. Hopefully Inglourious Basterds marks a return to form for Tarantino. 8/10

Edinburgh Festival - Part 1

Last Saturday I went through to the Edinburgh Festival with two friends to see comedians Mark Thomas and Phil Kay. I had been to The Fringe once before but this was my first proper taste of the Festival and I was looking forward to the experience. The bus journey was not long but it gave me enough time to catch up with Alan and hear about his Swine Flu scare. It was probably only a bad cold but I kept a safe distance from him just in case. Mark Thomas was performing at The Stand comedy club and when we arrived a queue had already formed. I had never heard of Mark Thomas before but Alan told me that his comedy is very political. I don't know much about politics so I was a bit worried that it would go above my head. While waiting in line everybody was handed a slip of paper which invited the audience to suggest policies that they would like to see passed in Parliament. He would read out some of the suggestions during the show and the favorites would be voted in and presented to a cross party group of MSP's at the end of his two week stint at the Festival. Interesting idea and it worked very well. It got the audience involved and allowed him to react with a sharp wit and some thought provoking insights. He was equally enlightening as he was funny. My own policy was something along the lines of people in Britain being encouraged to rent their property instead of being under pressure to buy. Most Europeans rent and they are able to live within their means and not be burdened with a huge mortgage. I should have written 'Scrap tuition fees and replace student loans with student grants, the bastards!' but anyway he didn't read my policy out. The winning policy was 'To have a national bring and buy or swap every Tuesday. When it starts working we start swapping with other countries until everyone is involved and we don't need money.' Very good. It could be way of defeating rampant capitalism. He showed us other policies from previous shows on a powerpoint screen, which included 'To introduce a national maximum wage' and 'Instead of being able to vote you should be able to 'unvote', so insteads of voting for a party you can opt to vote against your least favourite. Every 'unvote' against a party cancels out a vote for them'. I agree with my friend Tony that the best part was when Mark suggested that the National Anthem should be changed from 'God Save The Queen' to the imperial march tune from Star Wars. Like Mark pointed out, the national anthem should be about the people of Britain and not all about the Queen, and also the imperial march tune would scare the shit out of other competitors at the Olympics. Overall the show was very good. Plenty of laughs and food for thought. I would definitely see him again. We had plenty of time to kill before Phil Kay so we had a bite to eat and a few pints at a variety of nice traditional pubs, admiring some of the beautiful girls that Edinburgh seems to have in abundance. Phil Kay was a late start and he buzzed onto stage just before midnight. I had heard of him before but never seen him perform. Alan told me that he is very hit and miss so I wasn't sure what to expect. Unfortunately this was not one of Phil's better performances. He did not have much material to draw on except talking about the pregnancy of his wife and most of the show was ad-libed. There were some funny moments and it was obvious that he has plenty of raw talent but it just did not work on the night. He is a likeable character and there was something manic about his performance that was quite funny in itself (possible case of bi-polar?) but he should spend more time on having material to fall back on if his ad-libing is not going well. The show only lasted about 45 minutes and we all came away disappointed. We caught the 1.30 am bus back to Glasgow and I did not get home until about 3am. I was tired but it had been a good day and I look forward to seeing Paul Merton and Alistar McGowan next weekend.

The Wrecking Crew

I played golf with my dad today. All was going well until the 4th hole. I had just made a par 3 and was feeling pretty good. Then we watched a threesome of middle aged ladies ahead of us slice and hack the course to pieces. It was painful to behold. This agonising slow play continued for the next five holes. Generally I'm not a violent person but I wanted to wrap my 4 iron around their heads or say 'Dad, hand me the rifle, I've got some culling to do.' P.G. Wodehouse, in one of his wonderful golf stories, called them 'the wrecking crew' because they wrecked other people's game. Woman golfers are the worst. I've nothing against the minority who can actually play well and I'm in awe of the professional woman golfers who are wonderful. But there are two types of woman golfers who are the scourge of society. There are those who hit a shot, then stop for five minutes and have a chat, play another feeble effort and then have a good laugh and chat about it. Behind them there are strong men on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Then there are those woman golfers who are just rubbish but are not aware that they are holding up players behind them. The threesome ahead of us belonged to the later. They lacked the awareness that they should let us play through and overtake them. At the end of the game my dad went ahead and spoke to them, bringing to their attention their slow play and the custom of letting those behind play through. Their response was a bare faced lie, claiming that they had been held up by players ahead of them. This was absolute rubbish. At one point my dad and I had sat on a bench for twenty minutes and watched them zigzag their way up a hill to the green. When I heard this I really wanted to personally headbutt each one of them. My solution to all this is separate golf courses for men and woman, or alternatively woman should be given golf lessons until they are good enough to avoid slow play. If I ever become Prime Minister then this will be my first law to pass!

Glencoe and Ninja Mike

When I returned from football a week last Thursday I discovered that I had a missed call on my mobile. I didn’t recognise the number but, high on endorphins, I impetuously returned the call. My cousin Michael Pat answered the phone. ’Want to come camping and hiking this weekend?’ Still buzzing from exercise and without giving it much thought I said ’Sure, okay.’ Maybe if I had known what was ahead of me I would have changed my mind but I did‘nt have the benefit of hindsight. We met up in town early Friday evening, the idea being to camp Friday and Saturday night up at Glencoe and climb two Munros (an Munro in Scotland is a mountain over 3000 feet high) on the Saturday afternoon. No problem for Ninja Mike, the fitness freak, but for me it was always going to be a big challenge. Like myself Ninja Mike has a slight eccentric streak in him. One time he dressed up in full black ninja gear, complete with hood and mask, and, with a real razor sharp sword slung over his back, he attempted to slink ninja style through people’s gardens, hanging off trees and trying not to get noticed. As my cousin Ciaran pointed out, if caught by the police how would he explain himself, especially carrying a lethal weapon. ‘Eh, I'm a ninja officer.’ Quite a character. Anyway the drive north was very pleasant. The weather was promising and the forecast was good for the weekend. Mike hooked up his Satnav. Much to my amusement the voice giving directions was Christopher Walken, a feature he must have downloaded from the internet. Personally I would have chosen the calm gravitas of Morgan Freeman or the deep dulcet bass of Barry White. ‘In one hundred yards baby turn left, oh yeah.’ The drive to Glencoe took about two hours, which included a short stop at Taynuilt to buy booze and other essentials. Whenever Mike passed a camper van or caravan he would stick up two fingers in their direction. I’ve got no problem with them but Mike is a purist and he detests their modern convenience and luxury and does not regard the owners as true campers. They are also slow and cumbersome, and there is nothing worse than getting stuck behind one and unable to overtake. The breathtaking scenery however was ample consolation, especially with the evening light catching on the rugged hills. We passed through the long handsome valley of Glen Coe, mountains rising majestically on either side. With daylight beginning to fade we stopped at Clachiag Inn, parked the car, assembled our gear and tramped off into the woods to find a location suitable for camping. This did not take long, as we came across a clearing in the trees which had the remains of a fire. Mike had trained with the Royal Marines so he knew how to set up the bivy (short for bivouac) and get a fire started. A bivy is like a tarpulin which you tie between two trees, so essentially you are sleeping outdoors but the bivy provides overhead shelter and insulation. The advantage of a bivy over a tent is that it is easier to pack and quicker to set up. We spent the evening mostly tending to the fire, having a few beers and dipping in and out of conversation. A campfire has a powerful, almost hypnotic hold over you, it’s hard to take your eyes off it. It must connect to some deep primeval instinct in man. In Royal Marine slang it’s called watching ’bootneck tv’. We settled down for the night but unfortunately for some reason I could not sleep and I lay awake until about 6am. Maybe it was just the unfamiliar surroundings and situation. I ended up only getting 2 or 3 hours sleep, not ideal preparation for a day of arduous hill walking. We packed up the bivy and set out to find a place to eat. The weather was horrible: grey skies, mist descending on the mountains and as we entered the village of Glencoe rain began to come down heavily. We eventually found a café and fuelled up with a traditional Scottish breakfast of sausages, potato scone, egg and bacon. While I finished my coffee Mike plotted our course on a finely detailed map using his compass. He had experience orienteering with the Royal Marines so I was happy to leave all that in his hands. We parked the car at a lay-by about a quarter of a mile from the start of the ascent and packed some rations, water, mobile phone, map, compass, and waterproofs. I put on waterproof trousers - not very fashionable but they did the job. We set off amid the drizzle of rain just before midday. The ascent was gradual but after about twenty minutes the sweat was pouring off me and I was really struggling physically. Bidean nam Bian is 3373 ft and remember thinking that there was no way I was going to able to climb such a high mountain. I pushed on and the terrain became a bit more rocky but surprisingly my body began to adapt to the physical exertion, as though it had recovered from the initial shock and was getting into exercise mode. As we continued to climb our path consisted more and more of broken rock fragments called scree. This was a bit tricky at times but we stopped every now and again for a water break or to consult the map. After about an hour the terrain changed and we started to scramble. According to Wikipedia ’scrambling is a method of ascending rocky faces and ridges‘. You have to use your hands and it takes a certain amount of skill, upper body strength and balance. At first I quite enjoyed the challenge of scrambling but as the ridges and rocky faces became more vertical and demanding I began to get a bit concerned for my safety, especially as the rain continued to come down and make the rocks slippy. The ascent gradually became more steep and the scrambling more difficult and treacherous. It was as much a test of nerve and mental concentration as it was of stamina and physical strength. Mike led the way and I followed him cautiously. About a third of the way up the rain started to really batter down and we decided to put on our waterproof jackets. We continued to negotiate our way up and over ridges and rocky faces. I was getting tired and at times fell behind Mike. ’Enjoying yourself?’ asked Mike. ’Yes and no,’ I replied. I thought for a moment. ‘More no than yes,’ I added. After about three hours of this gruelling exertion we began to reach the final ascent to the summit. Mike had to check his map several times and gradually I began to have doubts that we were not taking the correct route to the top. Then the mist descended and our situation instantly became more perilous. We really had to get our bearings correct or we could get lost and end up in serious trouble. Finally we curved round a craggy and steep ridge that you would have to be bonkers to tackle head on and through the mist we saw the route to the summit. Although I was exhausted the sense that the summit was within reach spurred us on. After about twenty minutes of moderate scrambling we reached what we thought was the summit but through the mist and rain more mountain beckoned before us. Slightly dismayed we pushed on but my legs were beginning to buckle. We reached the top of one ascent but again we faced another one. Over the next hour this happened again and again. Now I began to realise why the gaelic translation of Bidean nam Bian is ’Pinnacle of the hides’ or ’Peak of the mountains’. It was simply never ending, one ascent after another, over rocky and difficult terrain. My legs were like jelly now and frequently I had to stop and rest. Mike spurred me on. It is a beast of mountain but some stubborn part of me was determined (or mad enough) to tame it. Finally, after fours of climbing in mist and rain, we reached the summit. We were wet, cold and exhausted but we had done it. We took a couple of photos, Mike posing theatrically for the camera, myself sitting on some rocks looking tired but relieved. I wanted to rest but we had to keep moving. We were exposed to the elements and I could feel the coldness starting to set in. As we started our descent Mike checked his map anxiously, unsure of his bearings. Finally we found something that resembled a path and zigzagged our way slowly down through scree and mud. While we were still unsure of our direction there was some divine intervention. For a few moments the mist cleared and we saw what lay before us. A valley surrounded by imposing peaks with a gorge running through the middle. Our descent was slow and tricky but I did not feel that it posed any serious danger as the ascent had done. About two hours later we finally reached the valley floor and found a path next to the gorge. This is where Mike’s navigation came into question. He should have followed along a ridge taking us to the correct descent point but instead our descent down Bidean nam Bian had taken us away from our starting point. To be honest I have a terrible sense of direction so I’m not in much of a position to criticise Mike. To reach that starting point we needed to climb over another munro and we both knew that I didn’t have the legs for that. Instead we turned left at the bottom of the valley, judging the distance to the road to be about two miles. This was a major misjudgement. It turned out to be about four or five miles away. After about a mile the landscape of the valley changed dramatically - it was a strange mixture of large boulders and rocks, trees and a stream, all intertwined like a exotic assault-course. It felt almost pre-historic and I half expected to climb over a boulder and come face to face with a dinosaur. As we worked our way through this strange and demanding environment my boots began to come apart. I had bought them a couple of years ago in a charity shop for about £10. I should have invested in a proper pair of walking boots that could withstand this kind of treatment and now I was paying the price for it. We eventually found a path that led us to the road but the last two miles were agony on my feet and Mike forged ahead as I was slowed down with the pain. As I tenderly trod the last mile the sun came out and the mountains were bathed in glorious sunshine but I was too tired and in too much pain to appreciate the beauty of the surroundings. After seven or eight hours of climbing and walking I reached the road. Mike was waiting for me at a lay-by. We were about four or five miles away from where we had parked the car so the plan was to thumb a lift from a passing car. After about twenty minutes a Spaniard approached us and kindly offered us the one remaining seat in his car. The plan was that they would drop Mike off at his car and he would come back to get me. That was the plan but there was another twist in the tale. As I waited, shivering in my cold clothes, cars and the occasional bus load of tourists pulled in to the lay-by to better appreciate the scenery and take photos of the hills. After about twenty minutes Mike still was no where to be seen. Ten more minutes passed and I began to wonder where the hell he was. Car trouble? Had the Spaniard got lost? Had Mike went for a quick pint? After about 40 minutes I was getting really cold and more worried. A mini van pulled up and a bunch of Russian tourists climbed out. They stretched their legs, smiled in my direction, wrapped up against the cold, took some photos. One guy noticed me pacing up and down to keep warm and kindly offered me a cup of tea. I gratefully accepted. As I was sipping this hot beverage the Spaniard’s car suddenly reappeared and Mike jumped out. ‘My keys are in your bag!’ I didn’t know whether to punch him in anger or hug him in relief. I handed the keys over and he jumped back into the Spaniard’s car and they sped away into the dying light of the evening. God bless that Spaniard. About ten minutes later Mike’s car appeared. We were both wet and cold and did not have a spare change of clothes so we decided just to head back to Glasgow. Just after 10pm Mike dropped me off in Glasgow and we shook hands as we went our separate ways. It had been quite an adventure. Not everything had gone to plan but hey, shit happens. I had survived. More than that I had achieved something that a year ago would have been physically impossible. When I got home I had a hot bath, changed into dry clothes and had a couple of bottles of cider. I think I deserved it.

food for thought

Films have a classification, like PG or 15, according to its content such as swearing, violence, sex, drug use, etc. This makes perfect sense. But what about having a similiar rating for books? The book I'm reading just now, 'Miss Smilla's Feeling For Snow', was made into a film and was rated 15, but there is nothing stopping someone under 15 from buying the book. Is there anything stopping a 12 or 13 year old from going into Waterstones or Borders and buying something from the erotic section? Even a book like Trainspotting would be unsuitable for someone of that age although maybe some would argue that Trainspotting would be educational in teaching young adults about the dangers of drugs. Maybe this is something that should be looked into.

time of repose

I came across something I had written a couple of years ago. It needed an edit but I thought it was worth posting.

Sunday. The pub was noisy and crowded. My football team was losing. I decided to bail out and find repose in the local Catholic church just around the corner. As I approached St. Bridget's I heard the unmistakable wail of the bagpipes and was confronted by a posse of well dressed people descending on the entrance to the church. A wedding had foiled my quiet time with God. I intended in going walkabout but the handsome sandstone building about one hundred yards along the road caught my eye. On further investigation it turned out to be St. John's Episcopalian Church. I had passed it several times, by car and foot. The church was closed but there was nothing stopping me from strolling around the well kept grounds. It was filled with gravestones. They were simple and modest in both scale and style, a far cry from the enormous gothic tombs of Glasgow's Necropolis. Flowers adorned a few of the gravestones - some fresh and colourful, others faded and withering, others as dead as those who lay beneath. I passed a gravestone which had several names on it. The last person had dies only two years ago. Someone close to her had recently laid a profusion of pretty flowers in her memory. As I continued my walk the white gravel crunched pleasantly under my feet. I reached the back of the church - somewhere beneath the grass and soil that edged down to the stone wall were the remains of paupers, people too poor to be given a decent burial. I was not sure if their grave extended out under the stone wall that surrounded the church grounds but I wanted to know. I wanted them to be given a decent burial. It might not make much of a difference to where their souls ended up but it just seemed like the right thing to do. A simple act of humanity and respect. But it would cost a lot of money and time and effort. Life goes one and money is spent on the living, although we erect monuments of great leaders, paint pictures of icons, wear T-shirts of Che Guvara. As I rounded the church's main front I let my eyes wander over the neat columns of gravestones, standing erect like a military parade on display. One gravestone stopped me in my tracks. The names and dates did not interest me. It was the four letters underneath. 'A kind and gentle man'. That would be a good way to be remembered. That would be a good way to be. In the end most of us will be forgotten. Achilles was a fool to think that his name would be made immortal by winning great battles. There are indeed names that will echo down through the ages but so what? In their eyes it gave their life meaning but it was a shallow victory. I left the church grounds with a sense of calm and perspective. I had got my quiet time with God after all.

Blood Simple review

After receiving positive feedback about my film review of Public Enemies I thought I would give it another go. I am a fan of the Coen brothers. They have a unique way of telling a story and this is evident in their debut film Blood Simple (1984). It is written by both but Joel directs and Ethan produces - does anyone know what a producer actually does? Anyway, the story is set in Texas and it is about the intricate chain of events started by a bar tender having an affair with his boss's wife. Deceit and double crosses ensue. It's not a fast paced thriller, it's a slow burner and takes its time to build tension and atmosphere. The cinematography is quite unusual at times, typical of the Coen brothers, and gives the film a very dark atmosphere, its subject matter and style is almost Film Noir. Thanks to skillful direction the film grows in tension, the storyline has enough twists to keep the viewer engaged and by the end it becomes quite gripping. The cast are excellent, especially M. Emmet Walsh as the sinister, slimy private detective. It's not their best film, it's like a rawer, less polished version of No Country For Old Men, but I enjoyed it and it is well worth watching, especially if you are a fan of the Coen brothers. 7 out of 10.