ATTACK THE BLOCK – BUT NOT WITH GNASHER
Rating: 7/10
Rating: 7/10
Let’s just assume, for one minute, that there is extra-terrestrial life out there; and someday, somehow, it’s going to come to earth.
But when it does, I’d wager that it’s unlikely that each visiting alien will be catapulted onto the earth’s surface with sufficient impact to destroy the A Frame of a Volvo estate – that is, after all, what they’re built to withstand.
Attack the Block, written and directed by Joe Cornish is a cleverly scripted cross-genre urban feature from Big Talk Productions, the company that made Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz. Cornish’s script is pacey and often hilarious. Ron (Nick Frost) describes the stench of the dead alien as “...a shit that’s had a shit,” which is as good as a line as I’ve heard for some time. However, the movie slumps in the middle when it becomes unclear what it is all about, and the humour fails to drive the narrative by stalling the suspense.
Set near the Oval in South east London, Sam, a newly qualified nurse (Jodie Whittaker) is mugged by an unsavoury assortment of youths led by Moses (John Boyega) on bonfire night. The scene gets ugly as Moses, the lead character and by far the most convincing of the dysfunctional gang, pulls a flick knife and Sam is forced to her knees. The attack is interrupted by something sizeable landing on the roof of an adjacent BMW. Moses investigates to find a menacing, but ultimately stupid, extra-terrestrial adaptation of a Tasmanian devil in the glove compartment.
Following a toothy assault on Moses, the gang chase and kill the alien, then nonchalantly drag it around the estate before the unfortunate being is stored in Ron’s “weed room”. Before they can decide whether Simon Cowell (Aliens got Talent) or the tabloids would pay more for the carcass, a second generation of aliens begin to impact close to their low-rent tower block. These are different: if you’re old enough to have read The Beano, then Dennis the Menace’s dog, Gnasher, pretty well sums them up. But large, black furry toothsome creatures whose fangs glow in the dark just resemble large shaggy dogs - not aliens - especially to arch baddie Hi-Hatz (Jumayn Hunter) who “runs” the block. One is left to wonder how these singularly unintelligent and cumbersome beings made it all the way through space to reach earth.
The dramatic need is unclear. But the occasional - if predictable - blood-plumed “it’s behind you” alien interventions, alongside Cornish’s cracking one-liners, manage to keep it ticking along. Sam joins the gang as they unite to survive and thankfully Cornish didn’t persist slavishly with the idea - however stupid the beasts might be - that her guitar may be used as an effective weapon.
All becomes clear when dope-smoking drop-out zoology student Brewis (Luke Treadaway) notices that the ultra-violet in the weed room has revealed scent from the dead alien on Moses’ clothing. Brewis hypothesises that the first alien was female and the “black Tasmanian –stroke –Gnashers” are males in pursuit of a partner. Like spores on the wind, they had floated through space looking for a planet to colonise. Not a good start then, in SE1.
Moses - probably like all hoodies – transpires to be a 15 year-old softie, loves his spider-man duvet, and is frequently abandoned by his unreliable uncle. He manfully shoulders t he blame and evolves a plan to kill them. Like the rest of the movie, don’t expect too much subtlety or intrigue from the resolution, but it wraps things up with a sort of feel good factor that had a sizable audience leave with a smile on their faces.
This is Boyega’s first lead role and he should progress to greater things. While Cornish’s script is witty and clever, this is no Hot Fuzz - no Shaun of The Dead. Excellent cameos from Frost and Treadaway, amusing as they were, did not do enough to dispel the fear that certain scenes were included for no better reason than to justify their pay cheques.
Attack The Block is a brave and often charming attempt by Cornish to marry aliens with humour, a sort of British Precinct 9 with gags, but it will be no cult classic. Cornish almost pulls it off, but ultimately he fails to convince: for even the common Dalek - who was uncomfortable with stairs - was a more believable extra-terrestrial threat.
THE EAGLE – REVIEW
RATING: 4/10
VERDICT: DON’T BOTHER UNLESS YOU’VE GOT ABSOLUTELY NOTHING BETTER TO DO
The Eagle, adapted from the 1954 novel by Rosemary Sutcliff and directed by Kevin Macdonald, is just about sufferable as two hours of pure escapism; don’t worry too much about the wooden acting (Channing Tatum and Jamie Bell) a plot as porous as an osteoporotic octogenarian’s back, and a script which even William Shatner would send back.
Marcus Flavius Aquila (Tatum) is the son of the commander of the Ninth Legion, who brought disgrace to his family - and the whole of Rome - by not only managing to lose five thousand men, but more importantly - the eagle - the gold standard of the Ninth and the symbol of Roman supremacy.
Since passing out as a centurion, Aquila has but one ambition: to locate the Eagle, put the Scottish savages who stole it to the sword, and restore the good name of his family. However, Aquila’s act of supreme bravery which saves his northern fortification from being overrun by marauding ginger half-wits, results in an honourable discharge on the grounds of his extensive injuries.
Sufficiently recovered, he attends a local gladiatorial blood-fest and spares the life of a slave, Esca (Bell) who selfishly refuses to fight the masked bully. Esca transpires to be descended from the leader of the most revered of the British tribes; he becomes Aquila’s slave and vows to repay the debt by never leaving his master’s side
Cue the nauseating bonding which Hollywood will have us believe was the norm between loyal slave and prematurely-politically-correct master: galloping in the woods, a bit of boar hunting followed by a cosy hog-roast by the river on a glorious English summer’s evening; some manly grappling when Marcus’s leg is operated on without anaesthetic. Soon the couple are like two peas in a pod. Loving? Well, it’s not Brokeback Mountain – more Morecambe and Wise crossed with The Village People - but there are more than a few homo-erotic clues, as the plot - predictable as a Saturday night in The Gorbals - grinds wearily northwards towards the inevitable punch-up.
All this film really does is to reinforce the stereotype of the Scots: it comes as no surprise to learn that they were as enthusiastic for drinking and fighting in 140AD as they are now; a good night out begins with an initiation ceremony of some sort, which of course leads to a major punch-up, and ends with everyone passing out in a pool of alcohol induced vomit.
The only surprise is that these Celtic warriors have the athleticism to out-run a galloping horse over five days and an uncanny knack of knowing exactly where their prey will be going.
So irritating are Tatum and Bell that I actually found myself siding with the Scots, which is odd as I certainly wouldn’t in any other context; I even rather hoped that they would keep the wretched Eagle – until I remembered that if they did, there would almost certainly be a sequel.
ATTACK THE BLOCK – BUT NOT WITH GNASHER
Let’s just assume, for one minute, that there is extra-terrestrial life out there; and someday, somehow, it’s going to come to earth.
I’m a Z list Attention Seeker – Get me out of Here!
Last Sunday night I was laid low with a strain of man-flu so virulent that it rendered me incapable of reaching the remote. Having spent years avoiding ITV’s I’m a Celebrity – Get Me Out of Here! I was faced with no alternative but to watch it.
It took about five seconds for my partner to fill me in on the rules – basically survival and trials in the Australian jungle; it took a lot longer to explain who was who.
I considered my grounds for disliking the show: The concept “celebrity” would appear to have very little to do with most of the protagonists. Take Shaun “Bleep” Ryder, from the “Happy Mondays”, for instance; he’s described as a “Music Legend”. Really? Never heard of him. Sorry, Eric Clapton is a music legend. And there’s Aggro Santos; according to his biog he’s a rapper – ditto, I’m afraid. And then there were my prejudices surrounding the show’s presenters: those orange-faced cheeky chappie Geordie midgets, Ant and Dec.
Strange thing was, after fifteen minutes, I was hooked. What we have here is legitimised bullying and ritual humiliation on a grand scale, as dictated by the general public.
This episode focused on three main characters – the good, the irritating and the pathetic. Let’s take the pathetic first: Nigel “I don’t do electric shocks” Havers. He went from English Institution to English Wimp in the time it took me to fill a Kleenex. The top lip began to wobble at the prospect of an electric shock, and he was out of there faster than Linford “Lunchbox” Christie could eat a kangaroo’s penis.
Then there was Gillian McKeith, nutritionist and “poo delver”. Sorry, I just don’t buy that. That woman is more irritating and pathetic than a middle-aged man with a cold. Full marks for the “faint”, though, when confronted with yet another Bush-tucker Trial.
And that brings me to Linford-the-Good, who virtually leapt from his pew shouting “yes!” when he was invited to take McKeith’s place, and collected twelve stars for the team.
There were plenty of sub-plots too: I would bet that smarmy politician Lembit Opik was only that slow at bashing the gavel so that he could be locked up with Sheryl Gascoigne and bash her gavel.
But it really is damned good entertainment; by the end I even had a grudging admiration for the professionalism of the ill-fitting cardigan-wearing presenters.
And it’s a pretty good reflection of life too: somewhere, every day, a Nigel kicks off, a Gillian bottles out and a Linford jumps up and saves the day; and, amazingly, sometimes people even work together. Let’s just hope that Gillian gets the vote again tonight.
I am a slow reader, and so I particularly like short books. The best thing about a short book is that no matter how bad it is, you know that your investment will not be too much time wasted. For the first 169 pages of Colm Toibin’s short book, Brooklyn, I was waiting for something to happen to set it above a readable but banal portrayal of the procession from Ireland to America in the ‘50s. And sadly, when that something did happen it was as predictable as, well, the Irish emigrating to America .
Faced with unemployment in her native Enniscorthy, Eilis Lacey’s sister Rose arranges, with the help of a visiting Brooklyn priest, for her to emigrate to New York . Leaving her home and family for the first time, she arrives in a crowded Brooklyn Irish boarding house. As her confidence and social awareness grows, Eilis meets a young man and their relationship blossoms. When an unexpected event at home causes her to return to Ireland for an extended stay, she makes a commitment which she is later to regret.
Back on Irish soil, Eilis finds life more stimulating than before. Her new persona is capriciously enhanced by her American wardrobe and mid-Atlantic tan which sets her apart; soon she is integrated into the Wexford social scene and faces a dilemma of her own making.
Eilis is a lucky girl; she is hard-working, diligent, loyal to those who love and mentor her, but above all else she is lucky. For never once in the narrative does it seem possible that she will end up in a worse situation than the one from which she came. Sadly, she is also not entirely credible, either. Throughout the book Toibin attempts to mask his lack of understanding of how the female mind works – and one can’t really blame him for that - by bumbling around the threshold of what he imagines a young woman of that period would perceive, feel, want and need. I can’t help wondering if he contextualised the book thus for the reason that it was easier to write.
Some of Toibin’s descriptive passages – such as Eilis’s first Atlantic crossing - are pure brilliance; one can almost smell the vomit. Others are over-written to the extent that the reader has nowhere to go other than on a very short leash held by the author.
In short, Brooklyn is a short book which would benefit from being even shorter.
TRIAL BY SUNDAY NIGHT
Sunday night television drama has always been the final refuge of the terminally hung-over or the very bored; the soft cushion separating Saturday night from Monday morning. The only thing worse than Sunday morning is Sunday evening; a view transparently shared by both the BBC and the ITV. But hold on: I finally found something decent to watch when I discovered Garrow’s Law.
Shows like Ballykissangel, The Duchess of Duke Street, or Howard’s Way were so awful that they were deemed unfit for consumption by a fully functioning audience at any other time.
I’ll accept that ITV’s Downton Abbey managed to raise the bar with costume, production and some splendid acting from Dame Maggie Smith. Trouble was: nothing happened. I recently read an article in a weemen’s magazine entitled: Downton Abbey or Sex? Well, you could easily do both without the one interfering with your enjoyment of the other.
But with Garrow’s Law, now in its second series, the BBC has come up with an historical drama which is crisp, informative and entertaining. William Garrow (Andrew Buchan) is an 18th century philanthropic barrister who likes nothing better than to fight for the under-dog, giving his rapacious adversaries a sound tongue-whipping in the process. Real cases inspire each episode, but like any good drama, slavish adherence to the facts isn’t allowed to spoil the story.
The aim of the drama, written by Tony Merchant and directed by Ashley Pearce, is to give viewers a window on life in late 18th century legal London. It achieves this admirably; the Old Bailey courtroom scenes portray a drama of their own, with cut and thrust, wonderful oratory and wit enough to entertain the packed galleries.
As an idealistic young barrister, Garrow (1760-1840) turned the legal world on its head by daring to suggest that the accused should remain innocent until proved guilty. Although he attained the office of Attorney General, he was best remembered for his work as a criminal defence lawyer.
In last week’s episode, Garrow defended Captain Baillie who was accused of a criminal libel. Baillie had published a pamphlet which criticized conditions at the Greenwich Hospital, and had also made allegations of corruption. An interesting aside to this case is that, in criminal libel cases of the time, the truth was not considered to be a defence.
The script is beautifully written: precise and layered in both context and humour. Take, for example, Lady Sarah’s view of Calais: “Hardly a place to go willingly”. Indeed.
My only slight reservation is that it falls into the “Perry Mason Trap”: you just know that, no matter how impossible the case, he’s never actually going to lose.
That apart, Sunday nights are no longer a trial.
'TEN MINUTES' –
FOUR OF WHICH COULD
BE BETTER SPENT.
Ahmed Imamovic’s Ten Minutes, winner of the European Short Film award in 2002, is a masterpiece in brevity and accuracy of focus. There is not a second wasted, not a shot which could be cut from the piece. I loved the boy, Memo, struggling with his boots, kicking the water cans along the corridor and dodging through the shell-holed side of the building. There is a ‘cheeky-chappy’ bonhomie as he follows the disappearing bowser and hurls the bread into the bunker which suggests that there will, if he lives, be great things ahead for him. I liked the way the shells and the camera follow him home to where the clock has stopped at two minutes to twelve.
This is nearly a brilliant short film for precisely six minutes and six seconds of real time. Everything about it makes you want to know more about Memo: the adolescent ‘Del-boy’ sent from his Sarajevo slum home to fetch water and procure a few electrical commodities along the way; his family background, his life when the shells weren’t falling; it was a appetising starter for what could make a tantalising main course.
It comes close to capturing what existence must have been like adjacent to ‘Sniper’s Alley’, the passage which connected the industrial area of Sarajevo to the old town. It almost convinces you that the mithering blokes in the sand-bagged entrenchment could form an effective counter-insurgence to the pin-point accuracy of the Serbian shelling. And, it nearly makes you believe that people walked their dogs down the most dangerous corridor in the world in 1994, and that pretty girls in the bread queue smiled as the shells fell around them.
What I didn’t like were the unappetising lumps of bread that encased the meat in the sandwich. The Japanese tourist, unconvincingly played by a member of the Sarajevo Japanese embassy staff was, at best, irritating. I simply cannot believe, even if this film had a budget of £5.82 - from which Imanovic had to save 50 pence to tip the bus-driver - that he couldn’t find someone better to play the stereotypical Japanese tourist.
And that brings me to the crux: the reason that this film doesn’t work for me – the six minutes and six seconds in Sarajevo aside – is that if you are going to juxtapose the extremes of human experience: suffering and, well, boredom - why portray the latter so badly?
The ten minutes in Sarajevo could have been set against anything mundane: how about an Englishman retreating to the toilet with The Times and emerging with the crossword nearly finished? For me that would have been four minutes better spent.
