Film Review: The Box

Oh. Dear. God.

The Button Unit. Yes, that's really what it's called.

I tried to see the Men Who Stared at Goats yesterday. I really did. Even going so far as to briskly walk into the dark depth of shady Cardiff to the lovely, but badly located, Chapter cinema; alas it was only to find for some inexplicable reason (read as my incompetence) that it was on earlier on Wednesdays. As my friend and I hastily awayed to more civilised climes we settled on Paranormal Activity, a decision that was at least half popular (with me). Inexplicably and somewhat suspiciously we arrived too late, so by default The Box became our poison of choice, and by it we were doomed.

I'd rather eat my own curried optic nerve than watch this long winded, directionless drivel again. Indeed as one of the few people not to be crazy over Donny bloody Darko, I didn't exactly have high hopes for Richard Kelly's latest outing - The Box. I should of known better and pitched any sense of expectation in a subterranean cave; one so dark that the flickerings of life inside have never seen light. The only thing to like about this film was that it wasn't Sunshine ("for seven years I've talked with God": can you hear my teeth grinding out there?) which like The Box is a massive waste of life. Other geninue plus points? Frank Langella's make-up, maybe, certainly his tailoring; for the duration of the film I was a Woman Who Stared at Coats.... and sighed.

As to the nitty-gritty of the picture; I'll charitably say that the first twenty minutes are interesting enough; the trailed premise of a million dollars for sanctioning the death of someone you don't know is mildly thought provoking. More so when you hear the entire cinema to a man all whooping and shouting "yes!" - that made me worry, and I thought it was the civilised bit of Cardiff!

As for the rest; oh god no. No. No. No. Oh, it's awful; mystery is throw upon mystery until the whole thing creaks with the weight of its own tediousness, and instead of being engaged, you find yourself consigned to boredom. Just when you think it can't get any worse, trust me it does; the plot takes a turn for the utterly farcical. None of this film fits together - it feels as if it's been heavily edited to deliberately remove any coherence, and yet the bits that are left in labour heavily, like a ragtag child with a particularly splodgy potato print, just to make sure you understand what someone thought was obviously a fiendishly clever plot.

The Box is really, really, truly god-awful. I can't stress this enough. If I do one good thing this year I hope it's saving someone some time and money by dissuading them from going to see this pile of steaming offal.

Put it in a box, tie it with a ribbon, and fling the whole crescendo of dull down the nearest open sewer.

Film Review: Where the Wild Things Are

Directed by Spike Jonze, written - Spike Jonze & David Eggers, starring Max Records, James Gandolfini, Catherine Keener, Paul Dano, Lauren Ambrose and Forest Whitaker.

Looks good, doesn't it?

Yesterday I sniffled back a snuffle and tried not to get all maudlin to 'Where the Wild Things Are'. The plot, in case you don't know, involves the adventure of an angry young boy called Max; one evening he runs away from home, finds an island, and convinces the mosterous inhabitants that he's their king - 'Let the wild rumpus commence!'

It's melancholy rather than wild though; sad-sweet, like a terrible Jim Croche ballad that you shouldn't like, but that somehow makes you wistful, though this film is far classier than Jim and far more engaging to look at than his furry face. The verdit is: it's good. Jonze and Eggers capture the crushing inarticulacies of childhood: I know all the angst, rage, inability to continually do the right thing, not to mention the delightful inventiveness, flooded out from my deep dark past as soon as the silver screen started to flicker.

When watching you remember what it's like to be that little, and not just the bad parts of stomping, crying and slamming doors at the injustice of the world, though this gloomier aspect is firmly in the driving seat. I don't remember the book too well (wow, what pictures) but I'd have thought the process of being King of the Wild Things would have been more joyful. Then again, perspectives change. I don't like the idea of a tiger coming to tea anymore either! Regardless, the introspection isn't a bad thing. Chaos, forts, wrinkled brows and wobbling lips. That really seemed like the old days to me.

The island of the Wild Things is a surprisingly physical place; the cliffs are hard work for a small boy, there are long walks to take and the monsters throw themselves about with gusto, providing piquant moments of comedy. I loved the puppets actually, especially the way they were able to interact with weight since they're not just CGI. I did wish they'd cheer up a bit at times though; speak with some animation rather than their half-committed drawl. That said, the Wild Things are interesting fusions of children who need mothers and strangely unknowable adults, bundled into feathers and fur. Max Records also aquits himself very well indeed.

Would little ones enjoy this? I'm not sure; partly because it's quite slow, but mostly I think they'd find the monsters incomprehesibly sad indeed. Then again maybe not, as all my evidence points to the contrary; I sat in a cinema with 60 (very well behaved - well done) small children who watched enraptured - their only noise was laughter. It is, however, quite rightly a PG.

Where the Wild Things Are made me feel very grownup, despite giving me back a bit of my childhood; I constantly wanted to explain to Max and his chums what they needed, or to tell them off. It remind me how far away I've gotten from being able to visit that island, but I still remember the reasons why I'd have wanted to go - that powerful sense of rebellion came as a marvelous shock.

Incidentally the Karen O's soundtrack is pretty marvelous too and compliments the picture nicely.

You Can Do It With A Sailor from Peru to Venezuela

What's not to like about Alma Cogan's 1954 hit - 'You Must Never Do a Tango With An Eskimo'? It's festive, but not overplayed; there's cheesy horn section blowing whilst party girl Alma trips around witty lyrics, sounding as merry as gran tippling a Snowball, and what's more you can swing about to it under the mistletoe.

As for taking a turn with the Eskimo, who could resist?

• Alma Cogan - You Must Never Do a Tango With an Eskimo

Charismatically Challenged

I live in tent made of Beaver skin. Is good. Tsarina stiched it herself.

It's day two of the 'Hundred Days' project, and though I'm not intending to blog about all the rinky-dinky little pictures I'm planning to draw, I am taking advantage of striking whilst the inspiration iron is dazzlingly white hot. Well, luke-warmish. In all fairness I'm put to shame by some really great blogs, and some interesting self improving ideas, including; a classy art blog, limericks, learning about stuff and 140 character plays. So, I'm drowning not waving whilst trying to do my bit

Above is first sketch of a Rasputin caricature, object of my current fixation- I'm now on biography number two (in a week). This post was going to be about the nature of obsession itself, but it became a bit of a solipsistic drawl, blathering on about my amazing abilities at tetris and the price my compulsive, but crippled, thumbs have paid.

Then it was going to be about charisma, given that Rasputin was a one suave charmer, and charismatic people would seem, on the face of it, to be an interesting subject. I should confess though that this is the third draft, the quasi-educational number two has also been consigned to the great recycle bin in the sky; you'll never get to know charismatic facts concerning greek etymology, Rasputin's hypnotic eyes, the defunct charisma record label, or Jan Matthys the cannibalistic (and compelling) anabaptist of Munster - though he's an interesting character and well worth looking up.

My conclusion is that charisma is really boring to write about; you try to describe the kind of burning magnetism that brings people to their knees, and end up with verbose drivel, such as; "thank goodness it's a rare thing in a person; as a group we all lived to be moved, to be inspired beyond our humble lives, and history teaches us again and again that the transformation comes with the risk of losing one's way". Bloody hell, I can be pompous. So, just go away and watch Sunset Blvd. instead, Norma's got bags of 'it', whatever 'it' is, or listen to some Pulp.

Here's one of my favourites to get you started;

• This is Hardcore - Pulp

The Christmas Tree

Wherever I am in the world, and whatever I may be doing, there is one thing that stops me dead in my tracks and drags me to the family home.... the Christmas Tree.

Bertie and the Demon Tree.*

Last year my Mother decorated the tree. Melodrama on par with "so it was you behind the curtain all along!" My Mother decorated the tree, and no matter what you may think about me being lucky to have a mother and so forth, the melodrama is justified because -she just hung stuff anywhere. Yes, that's right, you heard me correctly, hung it anywhere, with no regard to size, shape or colour! That may not sound like the kind of disaster that opens a vortex to some evil dimension peopled with ducks, but- it was not not far off.

Tree decorating is an art. Shiny Christmas whatnot's simply cannot be flung willy-nilly onto branches; to do so is an abuse of the entire idea of Christmas. Hyperbole, I hear you cry, but no - the whole idea of dressing it is surely to produce nothing short of an ascetic delight akin to the Parthenon or the Mona Lisa. Maybe not the Mona Lisa, I've never liked that.

You think I'm taking this too seriously, right? That spending a couple of hours, possibly with a break in between to go out to get more of the right sort of baubles (Christmas 2005), is just shy of madness. Well, you're wrong. Like I said above, tree decorating is an art! I defy disagreement! Last year I spent three days scowling at the wrongly dressed tree before I secretly had to tweak it so it didn't offend my delicate (insane) sensibilities during Christmas dinner.

Where am I going with this? Last night my mother threatened to decorate the tree again, gleefully assigning herself the onerous task due to my convalesance (sounds so much grander than 'due to me lying on the settee, becoming one with a box of tissues'), and though I may be lying on my sickbed, all feverish and exhausted, that sort of fighting talk simply won't do. I may find myself sympathising more and more with a pre-Marley Scrooge each passing year, but I'll be damned if I let the tree go to hell in a handbasket. I know she bought new baubles and lights, and maybe she'd like a chance to decorate her tree by herself, with her trinkets, but no. She can't do a proper job. No one can. Just me. She knows this, I've told her so during many a pre-Christmas row.... and you can guess where this ends.

I've stayed up late and done it (ensuring that it was at least December before I began). Blame the insanity on me being an only child, but take into account that I'm forced to endure Christmas from an egregiously early date by my noel obsessed Mum.

On the plus side, I wasn't able to sleep anyway, and I did feel a bit more sprightly (i.e less snotty) when I began. It looks pretty good too, though the clashing themes of Victoriana (Christmasses 1990-2007) and funky modern woolly cats and such (2008-present) are causing some pain. Alas for the new lights however. My Mother, for reasons unknown, has bought red glowing orbs, which were no doubt designed by some delirious mind to resemble berries. Unfortunately the practical reality is that our tree looks like the devil's tree: full of red glowing eyes, reaching out to snare souls and unwanted Christmas pudding. The dog is both attracted and scared of it. He can't keep away, but whimpers when nearby, which I'm taking as a compliment of the highest order.

Seasons Greetings from an overgrown only child. Pinch, punch, first of the month and all that.

* Picking up a pen and drawing something is my hundred days pledge; in case you're wondering the Hundred Days thing is the brainchild of comedienne Josie Long, who urges us to do something for a hundred days to make ourselves better people. Find out more and pledge for yourself via Hundred Days.Net

Russia's Greatest Love Machine

Busy, busy times have been afoot, the highlights of which include -

• Winning champagne... okay, I lie - sparkly Jacob's Creek- at a murder mystery evening (it was advertised as champagne though), then like some sort of wine Midas, I managed to accumulate more booze during a successful foray to a pub quiz. Alas the pub wine was an utterly undrinkable Liebfraumilch, labouring under the name of 'Blue Max', which I think is also the title of a WWII centred film starring George Peppard.

• VIP seats to Muse in the NIA (private bar, private barman, Muse... I accidentally stumbled onto a little bit of heaven there and I still haven't stopped smiling).

• Trips all over the place; London, Birmingham, Leeds, York - no wonder I now have swine flu and I'm totally shot.

I've also been catching up with:

• The new Cerys Matthews album 'Don't Look Down', which is really rather good.

• Likewise Julian Casablancas' solo effort.

• I've been absolutely appalled by Bob Dylan's 'Christmas in the Heart', which is just so terrible that words cannot begin to describe it. Imagine a creaky door; imagine that creaky door trying to lecture you on the spirit of Christmas - it's wearing some sort of holly wreath say, but all the while it's chuckling to itself about how much money it earns with every squeak and grooooooaaan. Not my strongest metaphor there, I know, but imagine all that, add on top the smell of rotting fish, and maybe, just maybe you are half way to understanding just how terrible a monstrosity it is that Bob Dylan has produced.

• Telstar, starring Con O'Neill, who is acting his socks off, with a sprinkling of Kevin Spacey, and James Corden (don't let that put you off). It's adapted and directed by Nick Moran of all people, who provides a tender look at the flaws and foibles of Joe Meek, presenting him not as another demented producer, but lauding his talents as a groundbreaking individual albeit one who is beset by demons, fame, and his sexuality.

On top of all that I've been indulging my Rusophillic side, culminating in the reading of what I suspect will be the first of many Ra-Ra-Rasputin biographies. Rasputin, The Final Word is by one Edvard Radzinsky, a historian who sounds like a character from an Ann Rice novel. It's an interesting and detailed history portraying the Mad Monk as a relapsed drunken peasant, easily cowed, eager to please, whirling around in a charitable haze, whilst flagellating himself nightly, smiling at the sky, and of course benignly caring for 'Mama' and 'Papa' Rus and their children.

So what if he occasionally had a bath with the odd lady?

Radzinsky's style leads to some quite superstitious conclusions and doesn't quite gel with the balanced view he purports to give, but for all its faults there is drama a-plenty. There are controversial, and never before aired, pro-Rasputin statements drawn from the findings of the wonderfully titled Extraordinary Commission of Inquiry for the Investigation of Illegal Acts by Ministers and Other Responsible Persons of the Tsarist Regime, and the unveiling of a cunning femme fetal and éminence grise in the form of the the Tsariana's former maid.

So, how does it compare to the Bony-M tune? Was Ra-Ra-Rasputin the lover of the Russian Queen? It's all Edvard can do to shake his head, look stern and sigh about ridiculous questions. I quite like the song though... it's a bit of a guilty pleasure. I hang my head in shame.

Happy Halloween

The puppy ate my witch hat, and I got a crick in my neck carving my pumpkin. Super-duper.

Be impressed. It took hours. Hours.

On the plus side there was also a wee trip up North. This meant that I spent about as much time on the woeful rolling hell of a Megabus as I did in the company of friends old and new, but I'm not complaining. I could. I could go on for hours about second hand music, gruff bus drivers (I know it's a low cost mode of transport but manners don't cost anything), traffic, the new shape my spine has been forced to take... but I won't. I'm trying to be a better person.

The delays, the rain in Newcastle (bitter, bone-chilling and relentless), a closed transporter bridge and a mixed performance from Eddie Izzard, was nicely juxtaposed with sightseeing around North Yorkshire (Rievaulx, Helmsley and Bywater), a rather fun Hallowe'en party in Durham, and most important of all, the onslaught of mixed emotions that only a chicken parmo can provoke.

Yes, that's right a chicken parmo. This strange addition to late-night culinary lexicon can only be found in Teeside. According to BBC Tees a parmo is...

A chicken or pork fillet that is beaten until it is flat and roughly the size of half a pizza box, covered in breadcrumbs, then fried. Then béchamel sauce and a layer of cheese (strangely not parmesan) is added and it’s grilled.It's usually served with chips and salad (that’s the healthy part) and some people swear that a layer of garlic sauce (another Teesside delicacy) needs to be poured on top.

Yes, a beaten, folded, cheese covered, water-filled piece of poor quality meat, served with limp salad in a little plastic baggie. I bet you're salivating.

It's pretty strange that something I've never eaten (and never would) is a little time capsule; their very existence became a reassuring presence during my time squatting in my boyfriend's dorm St 'Ockton (home of the friction match). It's the fast food equivalent of a Munchin in Oz; you may not be in Kansas, but it's strangely comforting to have them about. Unlike that boyfriend, I can uncharitably add.

I'd bottle that kind of wistfulness and sell it if I could.

As for the main event of the weekend, well, no, the main event was going back up North and seeing friends who have long been neglected (some of whom read this, and yes you're all more important than a chickeny comestible, honest). Ostensibly we were all going to watch Eddie Izzard. During our early days in Durham- we'd bonded over a mutual appreciation of poking badgers with spoons.

Alas the glory days have come and gone for all of us, but especially Eddie's stand-up. 'Stripped' was notable for glimmers of form, however the overall performance was a little flabby, weighed down perhaps by a focus on atheism that is neither radical, original or witty enough. Whilst there were inovative uses of twitter, lots of reference to wikipedia and a bizzare advert for Apple, the whole perfomance seemed diminished and lacking in zest - heavily reliant on affection for old material.

It didn't live up the legacy of Glorious or Definite Article, nor could Eddie match the works of some the fresher names on the circuit, many of whom have taken his best qualities and run with them. I'd like to single out Tim Minchin, who not only put on a sparkling performance in Brizzle the other week, but has also ruined my life with the bloody catchy 'Canvas Bags'; a song that just won't leave my poor mind alone. Given the option of spending £17.50 to see Tim, or £30 plus for Eddie... well, the choice is clear. And you've change for a parmo.

Listen and be damned.