Inceptional

It’s been 10 years since writer/director Christopher Nolan burst onto the Hollywood scene with the superbly crafted Memento. Streamlining a short story written by his brother Jonathan, Nolan constructed a mentally satisfying film whilst always appearing in control of the film’s tricky plot. Whereas the Wachowski Brothers seemed to lose scope on the narrative of the Matrix trilogy and threw in a few fancy action sequences to keep the sci-fi trilogy from turning into a pile of cyber-shit, Nolan has always had the ability to weave popcorn-pleasing moments of cinema with a story that never leaves you wanting more. His second picture, Insomnia, perhaps proved the most tricky, with the interesting idea of living as an insomniac sidelined for a more straight-up detective narrative. But with Inception, Nolan has arguably made his best film, and certainly an early contender for film of the year .

Outlining the plot in a written review would not do it any justice whatsoever. In it’s most basic form, Inception is a heist movie. But replace the bank vault with a target’s dreams, the gold bullion with secrets, and a rag-tag band of crooks with an efficient team of modern day Al Capone’s led by a swaggering Leonardo DiCaprio. Like pulling off a bank heist, you can imagine that stealing secrets through a target’s subconscious is frowned upon by the relevant authorities, and in an effort to clear his name, Dom Cobb (DiCaprio) takes on one last job (yeah that ol’ cliché still applies here). But it’s no ordinary job, and rather than stealing secrets, Cobb is hired to plant an idea into the mind of an heir to a business empire (Cillian Murphy) by his rival (Ken Watanabe). Creating an organic idea within a person’s subconscious (known as an ‘inception’) proves to be slightly tricker than simply stealing an idea and Cobb and his team are forced to explore multiple layers of their target’s mind in order to complete their mission.

But there’s so much more to the story than that brief summary. There’s all the rules of entering a dream to be explained, the idea of dreams within dreams and the mental struggle Cobb has over the death of his wife Mal (Marion Cotillard) who often materialises within Cobb’s subconscious. It’s a film full of ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ moments. Be fearful of loo breaks and distractions; missing the odd scene could result in losing a key plot element that you’ll never be able to recover from.

But Nolan also acknowledges that his audience does not want to be completely bombarded with a thesis about the behaviour of someone’s dreams. As a result, the pace of the first 90 minutes is absolutely breathless, with some stunning scenes of entire cities bending over each other, a chase sequence worthy of the Bourne trilogy through the streets of Mombassa, and a few very-pretty-but-oh-so-expensive shots of city scapes, where you sense Nolan would have loved to have plonked Batman on a few of the buildings. And none of the action feels out of place. Everything feels like it has a purpose. Even a freight train hurtling down a road in the middle of a city is explained. A fight in a hotel corridor that takes place in zero-gravity doesn’t feel like it was simply placed there as a way of spending film studio’s dollars. I could explain to you quite easily why both of these things happened in Inception, but I could never fully understand why there was a bloody-great freeway chase in the middle of The Matrix Reloaded. It once again demonstrates the grip Nolan holds his (forgive the pun) mind-boggling narrative and why he is one of the brightest talents in Hollywood.

The one problem with this however is Nolan is in danger of becoming a great showman more than a great director. While he has assembled one of the greatest casts in a movie this year, none of them ever really seem to get out of second gear. Don’t get me wrong, everyone in the film puts in a solid performance and you’d be hard pressed to fault the way in which they tackle their characters. It’s just they always seem to play second fiddle to the ideas in Nolan’s head. DiCaprio never reaches the giddy heights of his performances in The Aviator nor The Departed, and whilst his mental struggle with the death of his wife affects the plot’s narrative, you never really sense he’s mentally troubled man. Cobb is a very clinical thief, lamenting on simple mistakes, and this is mirrored in DiCaprio’s performance. Very clinical, hard to criticize, but nothing that makes you sit back on go ‘wow’. The supporting cast do a good job of moving the story along. Particularly impressive were Tom Hardy (Bronson) and Joseph Gordon-Levitt (500 Days of Summer) who both stood out as functional yet interesting characters, adding a bit of much needed humour to the piece. Other than that, it’s a list of Nolan usual suspects, with Michael Caine offering a brief cameo and Ken Watanabe getting much more screen time to exude his unnaturally creepy persona than in Batman Begins.

When I say ‘play second fiddle to Nolan’s ideas’ that is by no means a bad thing. Nolan is one of the most imaginative filmmakers of his generation, and he has insured that his vision comes across absolutely perfectly on screen. It’s easy to forget in this day and age that CGI can be done badly (I’m looking at you Clash of the Titans). But the visuals in Inception are brilliant, adding a sense of awe when needed, and when a feeling of isolation is required, the visuals appear right on cue in all their pixelated glory. Following on from The Dark Knight, camerawork from Wally Pfister is nothing short of staggering. There are a great range of long steady shots to mad handheld shots to keep the film moving.

It’s just a shame Inception loses a bit of momentum towards the end. As Cobb and co. advance through dreams within dreams, we are told time is extended in proportion (10 seconds on the first level is 3 minutes on the second and 60 minutes on the third etc.). It just feels the end is prolonged just that bit too long in order to wrap up every loose end. Nevertheless, Nolan ends the film with his usual little twist, executed in with the panache other filmmakers could only dream of. Too often I’ve sat and watched a film and been totally underwhelmed. With Inception, Nolan has created a film clever enough to keep even the biggest cinema buff on their toes, whilst entertaining enough to draw in the punters; a balance he first got right with The Dark Knight. But Inception is so much better than Nolan’s second Batman. We don’t need heroic (excuse the pun once again) performances from the leads to drag us through a bog-standard plot. Here, Nolan uses all his craft and guile to lead us on an adventure that’s both original and utterly compelling. A must watch for all.

But Miss, I have an excuse this time!

Sky Sports News building. I will venture in there one day when Georgie Thompson is on air.

'No excuses'. That's the same tried'n'tested bullshit all teachers pull out if your late to lesson, not done your homework, or tried to explain why you threw a pencil in their direction. But this time Miss Blog Maintenance, Daniel has a reason as to why this blog will particularly sparse over the next few weeks.

It's because I'm taking my keyboard tapping fingers somewhere else. To Wordpress. To document my four-week work placement at Sky.

If you're thinking, 'oh my word, no more Daniel for a month', then click that link and you'll be treated to me every day!

I'm trying to be a bit more professional with this blog. It won't be quite as irreverent and pointless as this blog, and dare I say it, I will actually be writing some quite serious shit.

So yeah, check it out. I'm shacked up in some B&B in Hounslow so I don't have much to do of evening, which means I should be able to update it pretty much every evening (providing I have a nice fruitful day).

Flaggots

Warning: this post contains an unhealthy amount of metaphors.

It's difficult being English. I sat down today and watched the film Eurotrip for the first time. Like every other comedy I've been meaning to see, it was absolutely awful (when a comedy fails to make you laugh or give a monkeys what happens to the main characters you know you're in trouble). But, it did highlight a good ol' English trait: 'soccer hooligans'.

In the film, two American teens travelling from America wind up with a rag-tag bunch of East London thugs who, of course, like everyone else from England, support their local team Manchester United. The gang, led - in an Oscar worthy performance...- by Vinnie Jones, tear round Europe callously punching Frenchmen and even assaulting the Papal escorts in the Vatican City (yep, this film really is terrible).

So it explains how the rest of the world sees us. A bunch of beer-fuelled louts who are incredibly passionate about football, so much so that we're ready to assault random strangers in the name of a victory.

So what a fucking disgrace it is, to see 11 Englishman tip-toe off the pitch in Bloemfontein after being outclassed, outgunned, and out-committed by a battle-hardened set of Germans.

There's no point in analysing what went wrong. There's no point pondering why Lampard and Gerrard still refuse to work together as though they are water and electricity respectively. There's no point discussing if Fabio Capello wasn't to wear 3D glasses to every England game, maybe he'd realise they were shit and not 'geeveeng a guud pairformence'.

The fact of the matter is we were terrible from day one. 'Oooooh we played well in the qualifiers' cried most people, giving their reasons why England might win the tournament. Unfortunately, these very naïve, mentally retarded people forgot that we played Kazakhstan and Andorra, two nations who probably have more dodos in their country than proper footballers.

Then Capello decided he would pick his team based on form rather than general class. You forget the wise old proverb - like many such proverbs, probably originated from a Marvel comic somewhere - 'Form is temporary, class is permanent'. Take for example, two of the goalscorers from German team. Miroslav Klose has scored three times in the last Bundesliga season, yet has scored just one shy of that total on the big stage in South Africa. Same with Lukas Podolski, who has netted the same number of goals all season for FC Köln. So here we are, getting spanked by a team made up of 'out of form' players. Players, whom had Capello been managing, probably would have been left at home to tend to their frankfurter farms (surely one exists SOMEWHERE).

But oh no! Capello was not to pick from class, as he decided to bring Emile Heskey, who is just about as useful as a hitchhiker with no thumbs. Or a vampire who lives in a curtain-less house. Or Scooby Doo without Velma. The only reason we took Emile Heskey was to show the poor South African children who live on the outskirts of District 9 (it is real, honest) that 'hey, life could be worse'. The wise ol' prophet Alan Shearer has always maintained that 'Heskey makes players around him play better'. Correction. Emile Heskey is SO BAD, he makes the players around him LOOK better. Hell, he could happily slot into the Dog and Duck FC and make the 40-year old striker with a pacemaker and a wooden leg look like Pele.

But, lets not shoot the largest target. It's easy to blame Capello. This is the man after all, who has won everything wherever he has been. Unfortunately as England manager, he has been lumped with a team of individuals who get bigger stage fright than a 6-year old child playing Joseph at the Christmas nativity play. Bar David James and Ashley Cole, the 21 other England players have been nothing short of diabolical. These (as one woman from Essex described them) ''undred faasend paand supastarz' have been quite simply, outplayed. Whether it was by the Americans, who were confused by the concept of a ball game played with the feet; the Algerians, who now have to go back home and sell camels to make ends meet; or the Slovenians, who are still fighting some kind of race war with men with names like Milsoveic.

And to top England's big pile of shit of with a sparkler you see in a tacky cocktail, there are the idiots at home who go St. George crazy, or as I like to call them, Flaggots. These are the people that, would it not be health hazardous when eating their half-time kebab, would paint red crosses on their teeth. Houses adorned with tacky red paint, flags attached to cars like they are ambassadors on foreign soil. Don't get me wrong, there's being patriotic and that, but when it's so obvious we're terrible, the jingoistic attitude displayed by many mentally inept England fans was a little bit embarrassing. It's like turning up to a swimming gala with the tightest Speedos and the most orange goggles, and then getting beat in the breastroke by a man with one leg who got the bus to the pool. We shouted, we painted and we believed. All we did was waste our breath, paint and mental activity.

So there we are, why it's difficult to be English. Because when the chips are down, we only ever have ourselves to blame. Oh and maybe Sepp Blatter, whose refusal to adopt goaline technology is frighteningly similar to when my granddad thought adopting the internet in his home would be like letting Satan into his front door. Now the old man never leaves eBay. Call me a traitor, but I just didn't care about this World Cup as much as I did before. I tried to hope. But the thing was, I just didn't believe. And that's probably what the 11 players who walked out to face the Germans today thought. It would explain why they played like a team of Stevie Wonder's...

'How can I be lost, if I've got nowhere to go?'

The little note I hid for next years resident :)

Warning: Daniel is away, Gay Daniel will be writing this post (hence why it's so emotional and down-right philosophical)

It is, in reality, a long way from Kent to Essex. It's taken me a good 6 hours to move back the contents of my uni shoebox to mi casa in lovely sunny Essex. While it may be my little uni shoebox, I'm gonna miss that little Alcatraz-like room.

It was the 20th September 2009 that I slapped my speakers (a sign I've moved anywhere) on the desk of room 412D in Liberty Quays. There was a chair, a mattress that Indian children in the slums of Delhi would have complained about, some shelves, a nicely finished en-suite and carpet made out of either tumbleweed or pubes. But, after whacking a few of my things in there, it became my little university retreat. A slice of independence away from sheltered life back in Essex.

Miss (I hope it's still 'Miss) Fox and the Metallica guys adorned the walls, Angus Young guarded the bathroom door, and pictures of friends stared back at me every time I sat on my computer. Then there was all the little random things on my pin board that I'd assembled from uni. Stupid little drawings and letters that when I took them down, really hit me that I'd finished my first year of Uni. Hell, once my walls were bare, I just wanted to give the keys back and be done with it, because 412D was no longer my little piece of heaven.

I wouldn't say my emotions were running high after I'd packed up and put the last stray bottle cap in the bin. Even if I was, the man-sized tissues were deep in the boot of my dad's car so there would have been no hope anyway.

I couldn't quite believe the amount of stuff that had come of the room. Watching my parents remove contents of drawers, shelves and stuff hidden under my bed was like watching a child play with a Russian doll. Then my dad proved his prowess at Tetris by somehow slotting it all into two cars. And then working out where it all fit back in my room. I don't believe in magic, but wondering how all the stuff fit in the shoebox and not my room at home had me questioning whether some form of witchcraft was at hand.

So it's Southend for the summer, highlighting why the location of my university lodgings is so shit. Even from my own window, I get to admire the 'shanty town' of Gillingham. And it wouldn't let me leave without giving it's own goodbye. 3am last night, two drunk guys across the road hugging, when all of a sudden one hits the guy round the face. Cue clichéd drunken conversation such as 'I thought you loved me man' and 'mi casa es mi casa' (the cultural ignorance there is nothing short of astounding).

It's only once I think back to all these little things that I realise I am going to miss that room. The little things that have made me laugh, cry, smile. It's been an awesome first year at Uni, and after all the shenanigans that went down, I knew I had a place to rest my head (unlike Jesus).

R.I.P 412D

For Arguments Sake

I have a huge amount of respect for my colleagues at Uni. Especially the foreign ones. Not only have they had to learn the lingo, but also learn it to the point where they're pretty much better at English than me.

It was even one of the 'aliens' who inspired me to start this blog. Sara Malm's blog is a feminists dream and one that makes me laugh quite a bit.

BUT

I can't help but thoroughly disagree with the post on the Harry Potter themepark in Orlando Florida.

I get the argument. The Wizarding World of Harry Potter is a new themed area in Universal's Islands of Adventure, a theme park that opened in 1999 and has since had absolutely nothing done to it. The same rides have sat there for a decade and there has been very little in updates or new rides.

So they went a bit mental, and decided to recreate JK Rowling's imagination into an area tucked away at the back of the park. Well, as tucked away as much as you can when you've got roller coasters, Hogwarts Castle and the village of Hogsmeade to accommodate.

Anyway, the argument is that Harry Potter is British. Quintessentially. In the same way as tea and scones is British. In the same way Churchill is British. And the same way football hooliganism is very British. So, why is this theme park 3,000 miles away from where many Brits think it should be?

The Americans know how to do a themepark. Look how many Brits, every year, escape the mundane nonsense of Britain and head to Disney World, Universal, SeaWorld and Busch Gardens in Florida and Disneyland, Universal and Six Flags in California. The Yanks take care with their parks. The scenery is beautifully done, parking is organised, and there is a real sense of occasion everytime you set foot in an American themepark. Parades, characters in suits, a clean environment. A British themepark has none of these things. Parades? Only the queue to get a refund on horribly overpriced tickets. Characters in suits? I suppose you could class the teenagers who are working for the summer as characters. A clean environment? I've walked round Thorpe Park before and was convinced I was actually in a landfill site.

The second thing the Americans have is imagination. Some of the rides at Universal are pioneers in ride technology. And the reports coming from Orlando about the 'top-secret' Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey ride have only reaffirmed this notion that the Yanks but far more grey matter into coming up with ride ideas. When we make a ride, we take the American idea, and make it slightly worse, simply because we can't be bothered to invest the same amount of money or effort into making these rides (compare the stats of Thorpe Park's 'Stealth' and the original design of Cedar Point's 'Top Thrill Dragster').

Now for a little history lesson for my final point. In the mid '80's, the Walt Disney Company were drawing up plans to bring their themepark to Europe and had a number of sites which could potentially locate 'EuroDisney'. One site was East London, more specifically, Barking and Dagenham. Yes, the old derelict crumbling Ford plant was put forward (more out of wild hope than expectation) as a potential site for Disney's park. Fortunately for the good of mankind, Disney realised that Disneyland Paris had a slightly better ring to it than 'Disneyland Dagenham' and placed their park at the heart of Europe in a picturesque setting of the Parisian outskirts.

And this all means what exactly? Essentially, having a Harry Potter themepark in Britain would be like building the worlds most powerful car and then attaching one wheel to it. We'd ruin it. We'd take it for granted, build a castle, fill it with a few portraits and then accountants would step in and we'd have to leave it at that. Who would come to it anyway? Britain's tourism is dire in comparison to that of American or France. No one would come and then Hogwarts really would look like ruins (small in-joke for die-hard Pottermaniacs). When I was in Orlando last year, they'd nearly finished building Hogwarts castle and it looked fantastic. The American's have taken our baby and treated it with care. The amount of money and research that has gone into it is nothing short of staggering. Both JK Rowling and Stuart Craig (production designer on all the Potter films) have both been heavily consulted every step of the way.

Like everything good on Earth, it's a British idea that's taken forward by the Americans. Lets not forget, the Potter films are all made by American companies. Can you imagine a Potter film made by the BBC? It'd be downright shit and you'd inevitably have Graham Norton as Dumbledore.

And besides, Orlando has sunshine. Who looks out of their window on a rainy day and thinks 'fucking prime themepark weather'?.

Case closed.

Losing My Revision, by R.E.M

A scene in the film Jarhead if you will digress. Anthony Swofford played by Jake Gyllenhaal forces Fergus (played by...someone) to construct and deconstruct his rifle at gunpoint. To the point where Swofford cocks his rifle, points it at Fergus' head, resulting Fergus breaking down into tears at the fact meaningless repetition of this simple military task is going to get him killed.

I am, at this very moment in time, 'doing a Fergus'. Simple, meaningless, repetitive task.

Look at lecture notes.

Take pen.

Note down lecture notes.

Add colour to add emotional depth.

Attempt to learn.

Next set of lecture notes.

If Jake Gyllenhaal is indeed reading this and is free at the moment, please, feel free to stop by with your M16 rifle and point it at my head. That way, at least I'll be slightly motivated. Learn about the Crimean War, or a nice little bullet knocking on my cranium. Decisions...

In my ongoing and (at the moment successful) quest to categorically fail theses exams, I have embarked on a number of other ventures that are not very 'revision-based'. First off, my room has been tidied to the point of obsessive compulsive. Staring at my desk blankly made me realise how many stray biro marks had vandalised the natural wood finish (as natural and as wood as you can get from MFI). As a result, Lord Hawhaw and his Germanic propaganda was momentarily suspended in the name of cloth, water and a good scrubbin'.

Elsewhere, the entire Sky Movies schedule for the past two days has been covered. Gran Torino was a particular highlight, with Clint Eastwood's feelings towards 'gooks' and 'chinks' in the film mirroring that of my feelings towards generally working. 'Fucking gooks'.

Me and my brother have used pretty much every team in the 2010 Fifa World Cup game for the Xbox. Using the Japanese team against Brazil was a particular highlight, discovering that it is only for England that the team from the East decide to use kamikaze tactics and put the ball into their own net. Honestly, it didn't work in World War 2, and it won't work in the World Cup. Someone needs to remove Emperor Hirohito from his post as Japanese National Coach and turn him to something more useful, like attacking an American port.

As you can tell by the historic ramblings present in this nonchalant post, my brain has been fried more effectively than a death row prisoner on the electric chair. The only thing that has been absorbed by the pink mush upstairs is the lyrics of songs that have been going while trying to revise. So if I see the question 'Describe the censorship of the press in WW2' and I answer with 'Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me', I won't be at all surprised.

A depressed, Amaretto-fuelled blog post. Bought to you by Dan.

23:59:59

It was the moment I'd been dreading since the year 2001. I was 11 years old and it was about 8.58pm when a programme on BBC2 had finished. All of a sudden, the screen crackled and hissed and a single number appeared:

24

'The following takes place between 12am and 1am. Events occur in real-time'. My 11 year old brain was thinking, 'how the fuck is this going to work?'

It is (I've got to start saying 'was', I'm living in denial that it's still going) a simple set up. Each episode is an hour long. 24 episodes in a season (or day). Voíla. TV. To be honest you could fill it with anything. A bunch of whiney, moaning American brats going on a 24 hour spending spree? A hospital drama showcasing a 24 hour brain transplant? All very good ideas, but no. The incredible team of writers came up with an action/thriller/drama/shockathon hybrid that gives (dammit 'GAVE') you a similar problem to one of Derren Brown's illusions i.e. being surgically stuck in your sofa.

When the final credits rolled on episode 192, the final episode in the last series, there was (I admit) a tear in my eye. Not because it was a sad ending (it was a great ending, I wasn't sitting there thinking I'd got lost in a Nuclear Fission lecture like many Lost viewers), it was just because it was the end of an era. I grew up with Jack Bauer like he was my TV dad (oh I wish). It's like the man who got me through dull days just so I could see him in the evening has passed on (yes I am aware this does sound a little rapey). 9 years of my life are over. My life, in the same way as Christ himself, has been segmented as B.B and A.J (Before Bauer & After Jack).

It was hard enough having to wait nearly 2 years when the Writers Strike postponed series 7 by 2 years. I now have an awful conundrum of not knowing what to watch. I tried Prison Break, which as massively addictive and amazing as it's 4 seasons were, it ran out of steam a bit after they'd broken out of prison, which unfortunately was season 1. I've been recommended other programmes like Dexter and House, but the problem is I don't feel like I can move on.

Think of it as a 9 year relationship. After 192 dates, she's finally moved on, leaving me alone in a room with damp eyes (which was exactly how it was, which is slightly sad). I've been told by friends to move on to others and let it go. The thing is I know that deep down this was 'the one' and nothing again will ever be as good. I'll always be comparing anything else to 24.

The fact I've managed to quite convincingly compare a TV programme to a serious relationship shows how dangerously addicted to this show I have been. Taking it away from me is like Josef Fritzl moving to a high-rise block of flats. I'll pretty much never be the same again.

If you haven't watched it, I'm not going to even try to convince you to watch it. I'm so bias it's not even funny. I literally stumbled across this show and I think it's the best way to watch something like this, rather than be force fed it like a sufragette. All I can say is, if you do start watching it, take your diary/calendar and rip it to pieces. Because for the months after you begin to watch 24, you won't want/physically be able to do anything else.