Sunday, March 20, 2005

9 plastic noises of modern 'B'


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Originally uploaded by The Salaryman.
Been noticing coyly sexy flyposters and hype for an example of where 'B' is today. Hey sex, drugs, bonking, rock and roll, gigs, fuckin, indieee, banging, drinking, sticky lager residue floors and fag ash, money shots, musing in a boho way has got to be aspirational and cool, yeah? No.

Michael Winterbottom. The name of a Nordic themed porn star. I've witnessed his product: The overwrought costumery of Jude, which barely rates five of ten as an adaptation of a classic novel and is most remarkable for that offensively over-regarded Kate Winslet's career enhancing nude appearance.

The next: Welcome to Sarajevo. Its first three minutes were brilliant before slipping into 'human interest' emotional pornography one might sadly expect from a director who cut his teeth on the tube. Yet the talent is there: ability to make something mainstream yet pretentious is to be commended. The IMDB marketing blurb says it well:

"For this celebrated, outrageous, adrenaline-loving bunch of reporters, home is the latest war zone. Now, one of them is about to do the unthinkable--get emotionally involved.€"

Its all guff but the second sentence is the real assault. Because, of course the only way for mainstream livestock to understand immense human tragedies is by shrinking the incomprehensible macro down into a bit of soap worthy cheese spread.

A few bits demonstrated Winterbottom is capable of more, namely the topping with a random sniper attack on likeable, ordinary victims and tailing with David Owen's dark instruction for the poor Bosnians not to 'dream' the West had some interest in granting them the right to live. Like using two bits of fine ciabatta to mask the odor of a fecal sandwich filling.

Budgets seem to have shrunk still further in 'independent' (no, I don't mean fucking Miramax) cinema and so now Wintery seems to be in a world of DV - because of course who would work in DV unless they were forced? Unless they are making installations or something.

Of course, audiences should be bored with money shots, rather than shocked by them. My calculations suggest that at current west end prices, its 89p per tepid derivative track (and presumably protein dose). The free publicity for putting out 'the most explicit spack drenched film ever!!' at an Odeon means there is little risk of not making the cash back.

The bands involved reveal the notions of a 44 year-old-man who thinks that the irrelevant bog roll of the NME is a taste arbiter. Michael Nyman - a few good soundtracks, Primal Scream - talent in spades, I once was a fan, etc - forgiven. Franz Ferdinand - Gang of Four tribute band. I don't fucking care. Dandy Warhols and the rest just fellate dead goat and are best left to tedious students, unaware of the metal postcard in the post when the fun ends and the incense gets stale.

So that's the best B can do today in the UK: A DV shot faux porn film with an NME connection that refuses to admit its true nature. By a brilliant exploitationist who is probably too pretentious and steeped in worthy mediocrity to admit it to himself.

All power to the exploitationist - hey, I'd be filming THE CAMDEN RIPPER if I could - but only if he has self-knowledge as thus and sneaks in some art. It is with fast food that the quality of the ingredients are most vital. Others did it better with less money and no acclaim. Why can't today be different?

Sunday, March 13, 2005

'For customer use only'


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Originally uploaded by The Salaryman.
One of the many inconveniences of being an animal is the need to expel waste. Now, facilities for doing so in a heavy traffic shopping area are usually poor, biohazardous bogs lacking loo roll or any sign of cleanliness which are inevitably abused in ways sexual and gastrointestinal beyond the ken of California's most methed up porn product disseminators. Nonetheless, chain cafes and (at a push) chain pubs can sometimes be passable to a man in need.

However, too many people are too ashamed to pop into a Cafe Nero or brave the Sheryl Crow™ 'Best' of blare in Starbucks to make stink with no intention of buying beverages. The key is to go in like you belong, look around for a phantom person you are meeting and, not seeing them as they do not exist, look at your watch, before confidently striding to the white telephone.