On My Un-Futuristic Life

I know that, coming from someone who goes on and on about nostalgia, the past and his difficult relationship with technology, this post may come across hypocritical.

The building I work in is a converted Victorian warehouse. I like this very much; I like how it seems to have been designed to confuse you, with floors that are completely bypassed by some of the staircases, basements nobody tells you about and odd little storage rooms that you have to crawl into because the ceilings are so low. Yesterday, when I returned to the building after my daily lunchtime stroll along Regent's Canal, the Star Wars theme was blaring from the post room. It seemed incredibly out of place, and I began to feel nostalgic - only for the future.

Bear with me, I will wrestle some sense out of the last sentence if it's the last thing I do. You see when I was growing up, this wasn't how I expected the future to be. And a lot of my expectations about what the world would be like when I was an adult were shaped by things like Star Wars. No, I didn't think I'd be living in space, but I imagined things would be somewhat more advanced than they are.

I'm not asking for much. I don't need to float around in a galaxy far, far away. I'd settle for a lift that works. I don't even need a spaceship with hyperdrive capabilities that can fly from one end of the universe to the other in seconds. I would like a tube train that can deliver me to work without running out of breath and sitting in a tunnel for 15 minutes while it recharges its batteries*. OK, I wouldn't say no if somebody offered me an omniscient little robot that can play videos, pick locks, electrocute people and repair machinery. But I do have an iPhone and there's probably apps for all these things already.

Perhaps I should be grateful - my boss, for example, is actually quite a nice bloke and not a mask-wearing tyrant who could kill me by waving at me. It's just if you'd asked 6-year old Tom what the world would be like in 2010 the response would probably have involved hoverboots, lasars and teleportation. After a period in which technology seemed to race forward at a rate of knots, spewing out world-changing inventions like the interweb and mobile phones like there was no tomorrow, doesn't it seem a bit quiet?

Perhaps I'm ignoring important developments. I do spend most of my day in a Victorian warehouse after all, the building would probably reject any technological development - which is perhaps why the lift doesn't work. It's like The Haunting. Please feel free to prove me wrong and restore what little faith I once had in technology. In the meantime, I'm off camping for the weekend (in Dorset, not the Dagobah System).

*Admittedly is nothing compared to the poor souls stuck on the Jubilee and Victoria lines this week.

On Horror

My choice of film has recently been the subject of criticism. In brief, I've been accused of having an exceedingly narrow mind when it comes to choosing what to watch. Apparently, I will only admit to enjoying films that aren't in the English language [*cough* Bollocks! *cough*] and, according to my brother and N, I need to broaden my cinematic horizons from World Cinema and watch more mainstream films. If you ask me, that's a contradiction in terms and can only make my selection less varied, but I agreed in order to combat this assassination of my character.

The first genre of which I was deemed particularly ignorant was horror, so it was agreed that we would each choose one horror film, and watch them back-to-back. I had one condition: no torture porn. So I sat down yesterday evening with three DVDs (The Omen, Pontypool and Paranormal Activity), too much popcorn and a cushion to hide behind should the demons, zombies and the apostates of Hell get too much for me.

The fact that I haven't watched many horror films in the past is not, contrary to popular belief, because I think them unworthy. The fact is, they too often scare the shit out of me and I'm not very manly in my reactions. Despite being a complete wimp, however, I can't deny that it is fun to do. There's something about the adrenaline rush you get from horror films that isn't equalled by any other genre, and come to think of it, it's a thrill I'd never seek out in real life, either - you won't find me prowling dark alleys or graveyards in the dead of night looking for something to terrify me, thank you very much. It's all a bit odd really. I mean if fear is a natural reaction, designed to make us run as fast we can in the other direction, what are we getting out of putting ourselves through the nail-biting, blood-curdling, sleep-depriving scenes that we watch? Is that not a bit like self-flagellation? Why force yourself to be uncomfortable?

Perhaps it's meant to provide an escape from the monotony of reality - maybe we look to horror films to provide us with a surge of adrenaline that we don't get anywhere else. And, because the action unfolds behind a screen, we get the rush without the danger. I'd go with this - and add to the theory that, as the setting of horror films is usually rural US towns, I feel extra safe. I mean the chances of being allowed onto a plane with a chainsaw are slim, and I don't think demons have passports. I've also heard that horror films are often looked at challenges to overcome - endurance tests. This is, apparently, why horror is particularly popular with teenage boys - sitting through two hours of blood, guts and gore is a way proving their masculinity [perhaps this is where I went wrong - at their age I was probably still watching and re-watching Pretty Woman]. Others watch horror solely for the sense of relief at the end, the calm after the storm has passed.

While I'm not sure of the reason behind the popularity of the horror genre, I will admit to enjoying the films I watched last night. Perhaps the plan is working and soon I'll be horror movie buff, able to sit through all manner of torture scenes without flinching. But that's a long way off. In the meantime, I'm off to watch some more Almodóvar [my director of choice at the moment]. I need to watch something nice, something colourful, something relaxing. I didn't sleep last night you see; it's quite difficult with the light on.

On Villainy

The BBC recently produced a modern take on the Sherlock Holmes stories. It's fantastic; almost everyone I know has watched it, and loved it. It's only three episodes long [with more to come next year] and I don't think I'll be spoiling the story for anyone if I tell you that in the last episode Sherlock Holmes' arch-nemesis Moriarty makes his first appearence. True to form, the mad little Scotsman has now become my favourite character. He's absolutely insane. Last week, I was talking about my intense admiration for him to my colleague [informing her that I shall henceforth be known as Tomiarty] when I was struck by the realisation that I never root for the good guys. I almost always prefer the characters I'm supposed to hate. Why do I set myself up for such disappointment? Because let's be honest, the bad guys are never going to win, but despite the tall odds, I've always found myself more attached to them.

For a long time my favourite book was Les Liaisons Dangereuses, whose protagonists the Vicomte de Valmont and the Marquise de Merteuil, two bored, devious French aristocrats, amuse themselves by ruining other people's honour and reputations. They are incredibly nasty and sound like they would be too much fun on a night out. I was in awe of them and their evil games, of their heartlessness and complete lack of consideration of the consequences that befall the people they seduce.

Then I discovered Dracula, and decided I wanted him to be my new best friend. He's brutal, dark and from another time. I read this before vampires became brooding, sensitive and sexy and, while both approaches have their merits, Bram Stoker's vision is infinitely more frightening than that ginger bird in Twilight. I sympathised with him, I did. I understood his yearning for the former glory of his house, and his struggle to find a place in the modern world. The poor bloke - yes he kills people and drinks their blood, but come on, give him a break; he's got a lot on his mind.

Come to think of it, before I even knew these books existed I was devouring the Chronicles of Narnia by CS Lewis. I've lost count of how many times I've read The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. My favourite part was not when Aslan is resurrected [yawn] or when the Pevensies are crowned at Cair Paravel [snore] but when the White Witch calls all the ghosts, witches and monsters to fight for her cause. It read like a list, a list of creatures I'd never even heard of before; I looked up 'incubus' in the dictionary and couldn't sleep for a week afterwards. Her insane jealousy and megalomania makes her, in my opinion, one of the best villains ever written.

I tend to find the good guys quite boring. During the Lord of the Rings trilogy I developed such a hatred of the scences with Frodo and Sam that I think I could have given Sauron a run for his money. However, this isn't always the case. Take Batman for example - he's a crimefighter, a do-gooder but I like him. I like him because he's motivated by revenge and loss. This is good - not for him, but for me. I think perhaps this is what I look for - some sort of imbalance, or motivation other than 'I want everybody to live happily ever after. All you need is love." Yes, I think that's it. Show me a character driven by the greater good or the fate of humankind and I'll tell you to jog on. Show me somebody driven by greed, power, revenge or guilt and I'll be cheering from the sidelines, albeit with the realistic assumption that I'm not on the winning team.

PS Please note that my admiration for the bad guys does not extend to reality. I don't support real evil doers, only made up ones.

On Die Welle

I have recently fallen head over heels in love with http://www.lovefilm.co.uk/. It's bloody brilliant. At first I did wonder whether it was really worth the money - I can only have two DVDs at home at any one time and, though I watch them soon after they arrive, I'm piss-poor at remembering to post them back. Then I realised, months into my subscription, that I can actually watch hundreds of films ONLINE. This amazed me and I dived headfirst into an ocean of highbrow foreign film. I've nothing against Hollywood; sometimes it's just what I want to see. At other times, however, the snob in me demands cultural sustenance so that I can sound cultured in front of people who don't know me [people that do know me will not be fooled into believing I am cultured by any amount of obscure cinematic knowledge].

Last night I chose Die Welle (The Wave). [See, that was snobbish in itself; I patronised you by putting the translation in brackets as if to say "LOOK AT ME AND MY GERMAN LANGUAGE SKILLS" when in reality I don't speak any German. None at all. You watch, soon I'll be littering my posts with ever so impressive continental and cultural phrases like zeitgeist, milieu and...and...champignon]. So, I chose this film, and I saw that it was good.


In brief, it's about a teacher attempts to liven up a week long project on the dangers of autocratic government with some unusual teaching methods. Apparently this is something that is taught fairly often in German schools and, rather than force his students to sit through another recap of the Third Reich, he moulds the class into a miniature autocratic society. It soon spirals out of control, with tragic results.


This got me thinking. I am, of course, not going to pursue world domination [so you can calm down, Gnetch] and I'm fully aware that autocratic government is a very bad thing. However, it's summer and it's hot, and the heat shortens my temper. It's as if the sun forces all the people that annoy me onto the streets, ready to inconvenience me as I make my way through an already difficult day - suddenly a society with me at the helm seems a little more tempting. As I was between books today, I dedicated this morning's train journey to the development of my manifesto.


My first act would provide a long overdue upgrade to the London Underground network. Fact: it needs air conditioning. Second fact: it irritates me when I see livestock transported along motorways in lorries with more ventilation than I have during my daily commute.


My second act would remove all this economy malarkey which confuses me so. Currencies, exchange rates, inflation, recession...there's simply no need. We'll trade in pebbles, and all pebbles will be equal, and all will then be well.


My third would ban slow walkers from the streets during rush hour. I don't expect everyone to walk at speed at all times, but people should appreciate that when I need to be somewhere, I don't want to match their dawdling pace. The same goes for suitcases and, I'm afraid to say, pushchairs.


My fourth; a nationwide ban on whistling in the workplace and in public spaces. Whistling irritates me, especially when it is tuneless. I'd rather people sang a song as they walked (quickly) down the road - in fact I would reward them for this.


At this point I realised that my policies had begun to infringe on people's civil liberties. Oddly enough, some people actually like whistling. Plus, I suppose it could be considered unfair to keep the dawdlers, mothers with young children and travellers with suitcases cooped up indoors. Who am I to decide these things? Despite having no actual power at all, the slightest, smallest idea of it went straight to my head. Within hours of watching a film detailing the ever-present dangers of autocracy, I had become a tyrant. Stay away from politics T - it's not for you.


Put. The. Manifesto. Down.

On Gender Stereotypes

The Analyst has challenged me to reveal ten ways in which my behaviour defies the socially accepted stereotype of how a man should act. This, I think, will be easy.


1 - I know almost all of the words to Pretty Woman (the whole film, not just the song). I blame my mother for this - she'd put the video on to keep me and my brother quiet - we were both easily subdued by anything on the TV, and this way she got to drool over Richard Gere. My favourite lines include "Cinder-fucking-rella" and "Big mistake, huge." This also applied to Sister Act and Grease.


2 - I love shoes. I get sad when I can't afford them, and overjoyed when somebody buys me a pair. The pointier the better. I also appreciate brogues. I don't limit my appreciation to smart shoes; I am equally comfortable in any one of my six pairs of ripped Converses.


3 - N once had to turn off the TV during Schindler's list. My sobbing had reached worrying heights, and I'd only tuned in halfway through. It's that bit with the actors and the people they portrayed at the end, laying stones on Schindler's grave. I'm welling up as I type.


4 - I once came [very] close to tears and threw a huge strop because I couldn't find one of my socks. I was in a tent at Download Festival. Surrounded as I was by metalheads and hardcore rockers, I can safely say this was one of my least manly moments.


5 - If I see the words 'action-packed' and, to a lesser extent, 'thriller' in a film's write-up I probably won't watch it. I'll get my Pretty Woman DVD instead.


6 - I nag, almost constantly. I'm neither laidback nor easygoing. I'm neurotic, paranoid and will nag and mother people to make myself feel better. "Stop acting like a child...Don't stand so close to the edge of the platform...Don't run in the snow...Do you have to have your I-Pod on so loud?" Sometimes I wonder how I have any friends left...


7 - I had a troll collection when I was younger *hides face in shame*.


8 - I've touched on this before, but my favourite shop is Accessorize, being full of sparkly, shiny, jangly things. I can spend ages in there, despite the spelling.


9 - Once upon a time, the telly was broken. N's mum taught me how to knit. I wasn't very good, but with some help I did manage to produce a rather funky i-Phone holder that lasted for around three weeks before starting to unravel. Good times.


10 - I can't cook food on a barbeque. The realm of manly outdoor cooking is completely alien to me with its fire, fuel and slabs of meat. I mean I struggle enough with an oven, I need to learn to walk before I can run.


So there you have it. A poor excuse for a man. Masculinity is shaking its head in shame.

[As I've mentioned before, my tag goes out to any one who wants it! If you like it (this one's a good one, I think) take it, I insist.]

On Truth & Illusion

Truth or Illusion, George. You don't know the difference.

*Note to reader: Bear with me; I have a feeling that this post is going to spiral into complete nonsense very quickly.*

Earlier this evening I watched Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? I'd never seen it before and I was blown away. It's a fantastic film. Emotionally, I am knackered. My mind feels like it's been put through its paces, and I'm ready for bed. Hopefully the constant effort spent trying to figure out what was true and what wasn't won't have scrambled my brain too much.

In case you haven't seen it, one of the main themes is the struggle between truth and illusion. This is something I quite often find myself pondering, usually when I should be doing something more productive, like work. Obviously I'm not quite as attached to a life of illusion as George and Martha, but it is something I think about every now and then - I think the battle between reality and illusion is something that affects most of us fairly regularly.

For example; I didn't realise I had an accent until I went to university and made some very chavvy [and completely accurate I'll have you know] remarks about a film we were studying. My comment was greeted with giggles from the other, posher students, and so began the burial of my Essex accent. However, no matter how hard I try, it's still there. Give me a drink and I'll revert to my natural speaking pattern in no time, leaving a trail of dropped t's and h's in my wake. The older I get, the less I care. I'm more likely to speak naturally now than a couple of years ago, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't occasionally attempt to brush my commoner's accent under the carpet. It seems sensible to fool people I don't know into thinking I speak properly naturally, rather than risk being instantly written off as a chav, so I maintain the illusion that I speak the Queen's English despite the Essex peasant within screaming to be heard.

To borrow a theory from Proust [and Shrek], everybody has a selection of selves that they project to different people or groups. I, among other things, am a son, boyfriend, brother, friend, colleague and client. I behave completely differently in each situation, often without thinking. Does this mean that none of the people I speak to really know me? Can anyone ever get to know someone else completely? If so, can I only be my real self when I'm on my own?

See, I warned you that there was nonsense on the way. I owe this instense brainscramble to having spent the whole day in bed with a hangover, leaving me huge amounts of time to fill with thought. I went to a party last night dressed as a viking - I think I should stick to looting and pillaging and leave these philosophical musings to someone else.

On Sticking My Oar In

Mishieru @ Upside Down gave me a Super Comments Award! I'm not sure that she realises what she's done, encouraging my habit of being a nosey bastard and preaching my opinions all over everyone's blogs - now I can only get worse. If my comments clog up your posts - you know who to blame! [I am of course only joking - thanks Mishieru!] So, onto the meme...


1. Why do you blog?

It started as a way to document the bizarre thoughts that pass through my head that I don't share with people in 'real life'. It's also something I can look back on, to remind me what I've done, what I've achieved (if anything) and how I've felt. Oh, and I love talking about myself. It's all me, me, me. Now it's turned into something else, the content is the same but the way I feel about it is different. And of course I've discovered loads of other blogs that I look forward to reading, which spurs me on further.

2. What are your best memories?

God knows. I don't want people to think I've had a miserable life. I haven't. I just find it hard to pinpoint any one moment. I also tend to wriggle out of anything that feels even vaguely momentous. I didn't attend my graduation from university, for example. Nor did I throw a party before leaving for or returning from Italy (where I spent ten months). I tend to skulk through life. Like a spy.

3. If you had to change your real name, what would you change it to?

Erm...during a recent night-out, we were all assigned random names (long story, much of which is now hazy). Mine was Henry Fawkes, which I quite like.

4. Name 5 things you can't live without?

My I-Phone; I resisted it for so long. Now I couldn't function without it. Coffee - black with no sugar. I don't care if it's instant, freshly ground or what - as long as it's got caffeine in it. My Oyster Card - God forbid I ever have to buy a paper ticket. I think I'd go mad with worry that I might crease it, or have bought the wrong one. A Book - whichever one I happen to be reading. The commute is dull without one. My Man Bag - to hold all of the above, except the coffee, which would be messy.

5. What are the four best books you've ever read?

The Master & Margarita - Mikhail Bulgakov
Dracula - Bram Stoker
Crime & Punishment - Fyodor Dostoevsky
One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

6. Tell me something unique and interesting about yourself.

My middle name is Paul, after Pauline, my nan who died before I was born. Her mother was landlady in the East End, and my nan was named after a brewery (Paulin & Co I believe). Therefore, I believe my near constant urge to 'nip to the pub' or 'go for a swift half' is fully justified. It's in my blood, obviously.

7. What do you love about yourself?

I don't know that there's much to love. *violin music*

8. What is the best movie ever made?

Good one. I think I'll say Roma Città Aperta, directed by Rossellini for its no holds barred, raw account of the Nazi occupation of Rome. I think Hollywood could learn a lot from neorealism - you don't need big names, special effects and pyrotechnices if the stories you're depicting are worth telling.

9. If you had a 'freaky Friday' experience, who would you change places with, and why?

Tim Burton. I would love to think how he thinks.

10. What's the best part about being a woman?

Erm...well...of course I don't know, but the thing I'm most jealous about is women get to shop in Accessorize. I'm like a raven in that if it's shiny or metallic I'm drawn to it like a moth to flame. I'd quite happily spend hours in there.

I hope my answers haven't bored you too much, and thanks once again to Mishieru for the award! I'd like to pass it on to all of serial commenters who haven't already received - you know who you are!

Just Finished: The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters

Last night I awoke from a dream about being stuck in a lift convinced that there was something spooky in my room. There wasn't, I don't think, but I was stuck half way between being asleep and being awake. This happens to me quite often - earlier in the week I convinced myself that the moon was moving to a different point in the sky each time I shut my eyes. I realise now that I didn't just shut my eyes, I fell asleep for ages then woke up again and so the moon had actually moved. Yes, I had had a drink. But alcohol was not what made me think my room was haunted - that was Sarah Waters' fault.

The Little Stranger is set after World War 2, in Warwickshire (which is where I went to university, incidentally). It follows a doctor who, over the course of the book, becomes close to the upper class family who live in a big, old house. Yes - I see what you're thinking - a big, old house, a ghost...it's been done. But this is a very clever book. Firstly because it moves incredibly slowly without being boring. It's a long old read before even a whisper of paranormal activity. What's even better is the books commentary of social change in the postwar years - the rise of the middle class, the decline of the aristocracy, even woman's rights. It was evidently a tumultuous time, and Waters captures in a really vivid, detailed way.

And it is spooky. Very spooky. It's like the only sort of horror film I'll watch: one where you don't see what's scaring you or what people are running from - the monster is in your imagination and you can only see its traces. Take Signs for example - brilliant film, until you see the shit alien costume and find out it's scared of water. Describing just enough, but leaving the rest to the imagination is the best way, in my humble opinion, of really scaring the b'jesus out of someone. And that's what this book does. Anything that wriggles its way into your subconcious so that you wake up thinking there's a dead Edwardian child in your room must be pretty effective.

Next up: Mao's Last Dancer by Li Cunxin...not something I'd normally choose (it's an autobiography for a start, which I've never been into) but I've joined N's book club...my first one. Eeek.

PS Well done FFC for holding out against the mighty Hamburg...COYW!

On Avatar

After a trying afternoon navigating the bustling walkways of Lakeside Shopping Centre* I decided it was high time to go and see the film that's got everybody talking. A colleague recently saw it, but had to sit separately from her friends. While she was moved to tears, they left feeling rather underwhelmed. As such, I wasn't sure what to expect. N accompanied me, but can't be relied upon for an objective opinion; he could start a cult with his enthusiasm for Cameron's films and saw Titanic 13 times at the cinema - he was bound to love it...

And so did I. Parts of it had me up in my seat ready to fight the evil humans away from planet Pandora, and I definitely want one of those flying lizard things. I've read mixed reviews - but I think everyone more or less agrees that it looks absolutely fantastic. It blows the only other 3D film I've seen out of the water. Granted that film was Final Destination 3, so I suppose it's not much of a competition - I've watched episodes of Bargain Hunt that have gripped me more. The storyline is decent in my opinion, though others disagree - I suppose the question is whether it's a case of groundbreaking effects saving, or obscuring, a second-rate script? In my most humble of opinions, I wouldn't say so. I can see why people do think that - at times it does get a little bit psychadelic-GreenPeace-eco-crazy, but it does convey an important and topical message, so what if it transmits it via a thoroughly enjoyable, if utterly ridiculous, sci-fi yarn? And enjoyable it is - a ruddy good film if you ask me. It's not as heavy on the romantic plot as Titanic was, so the environmental message does come to the fore. That said, there's enough action and drama to keep it from feeling like a lecture. The characters could be considered a little one-dimensional - the scientist obsessed with obtaining samples, the gun-ho general fighting 'terror with terror', the corporate whore obsessed with getting the goods no matter what the cost - but then they are supposed to represent something, aren't they? Which they do well - I physically hated the baddies, with a passion.

I'm trying to be objective - I'm basically picking holes in something for the sake of it now, but it's hard because I bloody loved it. I think it's a film that has and will continue to divide opinion, but I do recommend seeing it, at least so you can make your own mind up.

Look out for the Derek Acora lookalike heading up the baddies...and ponder whether it's wrong to fancy an alien?

Yes, it's wrong.

tbr

* I have a friend who has developed a way of coping with walking through crowded streets; pretend you are a space ship flying through an asteroid belt. Although I zoned out before I had fully absorbed all the rules (it gets quite complex - the different 'moves' all have different names, and I lost track) I must admit to trying it. Something to keep commuter rage down perhaps...as long as there are no lasers involved.