A tough sell: Metal Gear’s ‘hero’ in action.

Ever since the infamous debut trailer offended the sensibilities of scores of peace-loving watermelons around the world, Metal Gear Solid 2 became an event that simultaneously solidified (editor’s note: hurr) the Playstation 2’s market dominance and - thanks to its lofty ambitions and grandiose scale - suggested videogames could tell a bombastic and unrealistic tale just as effectively as Hollywood. But during this elongated pre-release the series’ cheeky mastermind, Hideo Kojima played his cards very close to his chest, only showcasing events - and digital fruit - from the first part of the game. When MGS2 finally came out, it was revealed that he’d played a switch and bait with the audience: fan favourite Dave ‘Solid’ Snake was replaced by a peroxide lady-man called Raiden and the majority of the game took place on an oil rig: forever known as places where nothing interesting ever happens.

With hindsight and greater familiarity with Kojima’s work, the ‘twist’ in Metal Gear Solid 2 is far easier to see. For someone obsessed with freedom and creative interactivity, it’s always been a little perplexing to find that Kojima is equally preoccupied with taking the player out of the equation and presenting reams of storytelling through barely interactive cut-scenes and CODEC chats. But whatever contradictions are apparent in the man’s work he has a definitive idea of how his story should progress and by telling the majority of MGS2 through the eyes of Raiden, he can tell the tale, and exhibit the selfless heroism of true star Solid Snake, without inviting the player to fuck it up.

This works on paper, but within minutes of meeting Snake - or the mysterious ‘Iroquois Pliskin’, who looks just like Snake and has the same voice-actor - the formerly stoic mullet-bearing warrior is worryingly eager to bond with pretty boy, Raiden. After a few moments’ exposition discussion he then passes out. Kojima’s attempt at presenting a paternal role-model falls at the first hurdle; Snake’s more like a drunken uncle on Christmas day, clumsily attempting to bond before passing out and spending the rest of the day loudly flatulating on the sofa. Later, Snake sends us off the complete the mission while he hangs around a broken helicopter for a bit, eventually showing up to fly around while we take down a harrier with a missile launcher.

Kojima’s over-ambition may trip him up a little but the story is so complex that it barely matters. After the hundredth twist you could be controlling a Cornish pasty for the way your actions affect the story. In fact, the reveal that you’re actually a regional based pastry snack made of meat and vegetables is one of the few narrative threads not yet woven by Kojima, perhaps he’s saving that for the forthcoming ‘Project Ogre’. Anyway, I never really understood the upset Metal Gear fans had at MGS2’s switcheroo: they derided Raiden for being silly and unrealistic while pining for a man dressed in skin-tight spandex called Snake. Then again, I’m probably wasting my time looking for logic. Maybe they were controlled by nanomachines, or errant AI? Maybe this isn’t even real? We haven’t met, after all, have we?

These twisting flights of fancy are what makes Metal Gear Solid, and part 2 in particular, so great for me. The basic premise is a hostage scenario in an isolated area but the execution is like an Elseworld, where Ken Russell made Die Hard. You never know what’s going to come next: there are vampires, giant fat men on rollerblades, a villain who’s apparently possessed by the arm of the hero’s dead brother, giant robots, some stuff about AI and the unique opportunity to get pissed on by a terrorist, slip on some seagull crap and have the President of the United States awkwardly grab your penis. It’s a stew of mentalism created by one of the few remaining unique voices in videogames, one who still holds enough sway to package the unfettered ideas in his head and have them sell by the metric bumload.

That’s not to say that the fan complaints didn’t have some effect on Kojima. He later went back and appeased the Snake-heads by offering a bunch of self-contained missions that show what Dave got up to while you’re fending off the amorous advances of the Leader of the Free World. And surprisingly, this didn’t just involve hiding in a bathroom stall with a few copies of FHM and a hollowed-out watermelon. Stripped of incessant CODEC chatter and cut-scenes these little missions offer a pared down and refined display of Metal Gear’s engaging stealth mechanics. The missions may amount to little more than ‘go here and pick up this’ but they’re as compelling as ever, and I must admit, it is pretty cool to control ‘Dave’ on the world’s most exciting oil rig.

The punishing controls may be a relic from a time when games wouldn’t look you in the eye, let alone hold your hand, but the creativity and clean art style of Metal Gear Solid 2 still hold up pretty darn well. It may be crazy, overblown and long-winded but it’s perhaps the last time Hideo Kojima created a game in a bubble, completely unaffected by fan feedback and market demands. And that’s as refreshing today as it was in 2001.

I’m currently sneaking my way through the Metal Gear Solid HD collection. Next up: the provocatively titled, oft-regarded highlight of the series, ‘Snake Eater’

A cloying, cynical trailer…you know, for kids.

It’s hard not to be a little bit disturbed by this ‘child-friendly’ trailer for The Phantom Menace. George Lucas already has millions of flesh-covered piggybanks walking the earth in Star Wars Adidas trainers does he really need to assimilate the next generation too? A generation that - judging by the tone of this trailer - was born at least 5 years after the summer of 1999 caused grown men to fill their Slurpee cups with salty tears upon witnessing the cruel violation of their childhood dreams through a hideous cacophony of computer effects, shit jokes (figuratively and literally) and poor acting.

It seems the answer is a resounding ‘yes’.

Via Badass Digest.

This list began as a kind of ‘Reasons to be cheerful’ for the year ahead. But after giving it some thought, I soon realised that the smallest flicker of optimism doesn’t stand a chance against the horrifying reality of 2012. So what do we have to look forward to? Well there’s a new series of Game of Thrones, a new Ridley Scott sci-fi film and probably some other stuff but, unfortunately, none of it stands a chance against the following. But on the bright side, if one of the predictions below comes true it won’t matter anyway…

1. Gypsy Come Dancing

Producers kept Jeff Brazier on speed-dial

While the UK’s annual obsession with, cooking, dancing dogs and semi-talented but visually unappealing people will show no sign of abating, the real star of the televisual annum will be Gypsy Come Dancing, a TV talent contest about travellers teaming up with minor celebs and dancing for their supper (not to mention their own reality series and a Works-warming ghost-written autobiography). This will be accompanied by an ITV 2 after-show featuring a trollied Olly Murs brawling with members of the audience in a Yates Wine Lodge car park and Stacey Solomon fighting off the advances of a celebrity groper in the ‘Caravan of Love’.

2. Jurassic Renner

‘Wait, so I’m going to be in EVERYTHING?‘

Did you know that out of the several hundred films being released by Hollywood this year just under half will feature Jeremy Renner? This is a marked increase of 212% on last year and suggests that by 2016 films not featuring Renner will have their own genre. It seems that Jeremy Renner, like hiring a good director, or getting a decent script, is one of the foolproof ways to improve a film’s prospects. So don’t be surprised to see more ‘Renre’ films announced throughout the year - including Blade Renner, where Jeremy Renner has to hunt down clones of himself in the future, Jeressic Park, a bit like the other example but set in the present day and featuring a green and scaly Jeremy Renner with claws and movement-based vision, and Jeremy’s Ladder where an actor playing an Iraqi war vet has nightmarish visions of the future.

3. Sporting comedown

Exciting: The 2012 Olympics

By 2012 we will have seen every single possible athletic configuration of man and pole. Some will be lucky enough to have obtained tickets to see a man throwing a pole down a field, others will be sitting at home watching some men chasing some other men down a track with a pole. Some will even have to make do with listening to a man jumping over a pole with a bigger pole on the radio. Even though these colossal events are months away, the hype for 2012’s been building ever since Zeus invented Lucozade. But, inevitably, by the end of the year we’re going to be bored shitless of sports. Things are just not going to be that good again. Sure, we’ll have smaller athletic gatherings but they won’t be marked with a £27 million pound Danny Boyle choreographed intro featuring dancing nurses and Boris Johnson firing OAPS from the cannons of the Queen’s new state funded warship to satisfy the blood-lust of Poseidon.

4. The end of the government

Clegg: used to love Fridays

The coalition government as we know it will no longer exist by 2013. There are already early signs of fracture: Nick Clegg being notoriously unable to handle his booze on ‘Crème du menthe Fridays’, George Osborne secretly seething every time Vince Cable puts on his Chumbawamba CD. When the dust settles, David Cameron will probably grow a beard, buy the jacket from a vagrant and use his retirement from politics to finally try and understand the underclass. Once he receives confirmation that 100% of society’s problems come from the 99%, he will then return in costume to do what he couldn’t actually do in government: beat them up with his fists. Nick Clegg will probably look sad on Clinton cards and then become the world’s first monochrome human being and the government will be led by the least successful Aardman creation since Flushed Away (a title that may have some additional relevance).

5. The Apocalypse

‘That’s right, £150 with Super Mario 3D’

We’ve had a few false starts in recent years with bird flu, foot and mouth and monkey mumps but 2012 promises to be the biggest yet: an apocalypse predicted the Mayans, who had a great record of predicting every single major event in history - bar their own downfall. The Mayan’s history is littered with successful predictions: the swift discounting of the Nintendo 3DS, Ricky Gervais not actually being as funny and clever as people thought and Cthulu turning up to ruin the opening ceremony of the Olympics (prediction pending) so it would be remiss not to mention it here and use it as a full stop - not just on this article but perhaps on existence itself.

Red Dawn 1984: Pseudo what pack?

John Milius wasn’t born; he punched himself out of his mother’s womb - probably prematurely, and on a battlefield - and was immediately bathed in deer’s blood to forever share the wild spirit of the forest creatures. Similarly, John Milius the writer doesn’t just ‘write’; he smelts iron and forges the molten ore into words with his manly fists, which he then drags through the wilds and punches into live bears. The bloody pelts of which are then sometimes made into films…films like Red Dawn.

I missed Red Dawn when it did the playground discussion rounds as a kid. Instead I watched Patrick Swayze in Steel Dawn, which was quite enough films starring Patrick Swayze with ‘Dawn’ in the title, thankyouverymuch. It’s a shame really; while watching Red Dawn on Netflix it struck me that Red Dawn would probably have bypassed every other region of my ten-year old brain and deeply embedded itself in the part that distributes random positive adjectives. There it would probably have been labelled ‘ace’, ’skill’, ‘mint’, ‘fresh’ or ‘awesome’. And it would have probably stayed there for some time, reaching ‘best film of all time’ status before losing its place to Renegade or Robot Jox.

On a base level Red Dawn is like an incredibly violent episode of The A-Team that lasts for two hours and features children as the heroes. This is evident from the opening: a group of commie parachutists surround a high school, shoot the teacher and then proceed to blow up loads of cars. A group of pseudo-Brat Packers escape to the mountains, but not before stocking up on the essential items you’d normally find at a motorway service station: knives, arrows, bullets, rifles and cans of Sprite.

It’s not long before the John Milius hallmarks creep in. The boys hunt a deer with their rifles. The novice hunter is blooded by Patrick Swayze and Charlie Sheen (uh-oh), who tell him that drinking the deer’s blood allows you to take on its spirit and that doing so changes you forever. In typical Milius fashion - and as is no doubt the case when Charlie Sheen introduces someone to a new substance - the boy does actually change and you’re not sure if his new violent demeanour is down to the dehumanising effects of war or the deer spirit actually having its revenge by making him act like a tool.

Milius’ renowned obsession with Theodore Roosevelt also gets an airing: the statue outside the school bears a quote from the former president and the National Park from where ‘the Wolverines’ fuck shit up is also the site where Teddy planted loads of trees*. Rooselvelt was a progressive cowboy, combining intellect with a love of guns (apparently these aren’t mutually exclusive - despite what years of watching bottom shelf actioners has taught me). His mantra: ‘Speak softly and carry a big stick’ is perfectly met in John Milius: a right-winger firmly ensconced in the arts.

It’s this contrast that makes Milius the go-to guy for films that possess more masculinity than Chuck Norris’ favourite tipple (a mixture of whisky and dragon semen for the interested). It’s also this contrast that rears its head in Red Dawn. Despite the invading army possessing the motivation and personality of a Manimal villain for the most part, the naughty Cuban general takes time to open up his heart and pine for his lost love. This isn’t uncommon in Milius’ work; he’s forever contrasting the tolls of war with affairs of the heart: Kurtz’s letters home in Apocalypse Now, Conan the Barbarian pining for his deceased lass by burning her body and looking a bit confused.

Without the Milius hallmarks Red Dawn would be exactly like what my ten year old self would have taken from it: a violent A-Team film. With them it becomes sombre, dark and expansive - whilst also being an undeniably bat-shit piece of entertaining propaganda that wears its right-wing heart proudly on its sleeve. You can say what you want about John Milius - and I expect many already have - but he’s sure-footed, unique and puts his stamp all over his projects, which means Red Dawn leaves an impression and, despite its politics, isn’t the brainless forgettable fodder I was expecting.

Red Dawn 20??: Plot, villains and sets added in post

If its pre-release is anything to go by, I suspect the remake of Red Dawn will fulfil the brainless remit. Originally set for release in 2010, it replaces Russians and Cubans with invading Chinese. Unfortunately, producers thought better of alienating one of the world’s largest economies and so changed the origin of the invaders to North Korea in post-production - presumably because all Asians look the same.

Since then there was a slight chance of the western world befriending North Korea, which must have made the producers fairly nervous. And then the Russian government started acting like dicks again, which probably made them question whether audiences could tell the difference between ‘Choreans’ and ‘Chussians’. But, if his love of food, polyester and weapons is any indication, Kim Jong-un seems like a chip off the old tyranical block, so they can probably rest assured in their second choice of villain. Not that it matters as the chance of seeing the Red Dawn remake seem about as plausible as Russians actually invading the United States. Until then the default Red Dawn is a dated but compelling tale from a time when Hollywood was either braver or more naive. Either way, it’s a worthy watch.

*The Roosevelt duality is illustrated further with a Russian translation that incorrectly states that the site is where Roosevelt slayed thousands of Indians in battle. This example also serves to make the Russian’s look incredibly stupid, which is a win-win for Milius.

Not willing to repeat the mistake of my 2011’s worst posters article, where I foolishly declared that no poster would plumb the depths reached by the X-Men face-violation posters as long as we could still take breath to sigh at its unrivalled awfulness. Then the poster for New Year’s Eve appeared, and through a stylistic combination of self-satisfaction, design inconsistency and a thoroughly misguided attempt at dazzling with cumulative star-wattage (Til Scheweiger AND Bon Jovi!), it made me attempt to tie knots in my optic nerves…

Why does Ashton Kutcher look like he was photographed in the street? Perhaps he was so busy having his legs removed for his new role in 2 and a Half Men to look annoying in a studio environment. And what have they done to Natalie Portman’s nose in the bottom middle square? It’s like a Poltergiest inspired advent calendar: you’re going to want to close each door as soon as you’re exposed to the horrors on the other side, even at the expense of the helpful, mystic midget trapped on the other side.

But that’s enough of printed horrors. Since I didn’t make it out to the cinema as much as I’d like in 2011, as the films I was eagerly awaiting kind of disappointed (Kill List was excellent for the most part, and may have been my film of the year if I’d died before the final ten minutes), I’ve decided to list my 9 favourite trailers from last year. I couldn’t think of a tenth so please feel free to suggest one in the comments section below.

Now, on with the list…

9. Biutiful

Biutifil’s trailer ticks all the boxes: it offers a lot of well shot stuff happening at a fast-tempo then slows things down and offers an equally stunning array of shots at a more languid pace, conveying a moving and hard-bitten piece of work. And it does all of this without spoiling a darn thing. Trailer editors, take note!

8. I Saw the Devil

I Saw the Devil’s trailer sells the concept and tone perfectly. The concept is a revenge film; the tone is Loony Tunes with emphasis on the ‘loony’. It’s entertaining, intriguing and makes you want to watch the full thing. I once described it to a friend as ‘James Bond vs. Fred West’ and the trailer offers all that entails without appearing like the most ridiculous film of all time.

7. Tree of Life

If a new film by Terence Malick wasn’t enough to make you visit the cinema then the trailer almost certainly should have been. It’s beautiful, intriguing, unsettling, joyous and rather good.

6. X-Men First Class

When it came to the film’s marketing, First Class’ trailers were doing all the work. The film’s one-sheets were so bad that several commentators were convinced that the actual film being good was as scientifically impossible as meeting a large blue and furry scientist. Then the trailer was released and it looked very good indeed. In fact, just watching it again makes me want to revisit it, which is both testament to the trailer and the equally enjoyable film that followed.

5-3. Hobbit/Prometheus/ Dark Knight Rises

The last week of December was an almost embarrassingly rich time for fans of 2012’s most promising big-budget releases. First up was The Dark Knight Rises which offered a spine-tingling snapshot of Christopher Nolan’s trilogy capper, despite not explaining much. Still, it’s apparent that the enjoyment of the rich sports fans of Gotham will be in direct contrast to the viewers’, which is no bad thing.

The Hobbit trailer followed and offered a nostalgiac return to Middle-Earth without being overly cynical and cloying. It made me remember how earnest Peter Jackson’s films were, and how refreshing that was when they were first released. And then I remembered that it’s been 10 years since the first one opened the door to epic fantasy filmmaking that wore its heart on its sleeve, and we still haven’t seen anything like it since. Still, absence makes the heart and all that, which makes The Hobbit even more keenly anticipated.

The trailer for Prometheus also offered a return to a familiar world under the stewardship of a director who opened the door to a brave new world of genre filmmaking. Unlike The Hobbit, the world of Prometheus only makes you want to visit from the comfort of a cinema seat. It offers little in the way of plot, aside from a few familiar elements from Alien, but even without the appearance of the xenomorphs, it’s impressive to see a hard sci-fi film on this scale and unless Fox decide to digitally insert Predators at the eleventh hour, we could be seeing a welcome return to form from both Mr Scott and the genre.

2. Girl With the Dragon Tattoo

If you haven’t read the book, you’ve seen the Swedish original. If you can’t read you’ve probably had it recommended to you. In fact there’s little of Stieg Larsson’s world that hasn’t been explored or revealed in one form or another. And while that offered intriguing possibilites for David Fincher’s adaptation, it also offered up a trailer that made no attempt to explain the concept, aside from a bleak tone and knowing wink. It’s a superior match of editing, shots and music and, since it appears to have been officially released in bootleg form, you could also say it’s an interesting approach to viral marketing. Even more telling, the trailer offers far more food for thought than the actual film.

1. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

One of X-Men First Class’ other great additions was the score by Henry Jackman, in particular the memorable ‘Frankenstein’s Theme’, which is used to great effect in the Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy trailer. The theme gives the trailer a sense of urgency that may have been lacking in the final film but the John Barry styled strings perfectly complement the film’s period setting and make the viewer long for a time when they made proper films for grown-ups.

Problems with the music industry: a visual metaphor

With Spotify, the internet and the fact we can now measure the changing of the seasons by the length of the judges’ facial hair on the X-Factor (or in the case of Louis Walsh, stages of the manopause) you may think there’s never been a better time to love music. It’s everywhere. Look around, you may not be able to see music - in fact, you may not be even be able to hear it - but rest assured, it’s there, waiting to punt itself up your ear canals. But take a closer look at the modern musical landscape and you’ll see it’s not as rosy as it initially appears. While we have instant access to pretty much everything ever recorded ever, we’re also at a point in human evolution where the longest attention spans can’t be recorded because interest is lost midway through the drool reaching the floor.

Pretty much every new album I listen to I skip the first few seconds to see what it’s like. I tell myself that it’s because my time is at a premium but, as regular visitors to this blog will attest, I don’t really plan my time very constructively; I just kind of let it have its way with me. And while this bite-size approach may reduce the kind of musical bloat that once made the second Stone Roses album unlistenable for the first five minutes (or seventy, if you’re feeling particularly churlish), it may also suggest that something as good as their first album may go unnoticed. Its fragile voice smothered by ‘grimestep’, ‘nu-bass’ and chirpy Canadian foetuses called Michael Buble.

Speaking of Manchester’s finest, you can’t launch a diatribe at the state of modern music without mentioning the resurrection of bands from the past. The music fan of today is like Richard Attenborough in Jurassic Park and the glorious bands of yesteryear are our gallimimus, hotfooting it away from dignity and musical credibility, which, for the purposes of this metaphor, will be represented by a T-Rex - though perhaps not of the Marc Bolan variety. Although since Bolan’s current status makes him exempt from all but the most clumsy, insensitive and probably illegal attempts at reformation, perhaps he is best suited to playing the big lizard in this laboured example.

It’s hard to begrudge all bands that get back together. This year I’ve seen the pseudo-reformation of Kyuss, who managed to expire before they received acclaim - a bit like van Gogh, but louder, hairier and with the ability to reform and play at Manchester Academy - and Death From Above 1979, who ably proved that Canada has more to offer than singing foetuses. I was actively pursuing music the first time they were troubling eardrums but, unfortunately, the music I was pursuing was largely crap.

Because the former peaked while no one was there to witness it, and the other imploded before reaching their full potential, it’s hard not to feel that getting back together is more than just acceptable. It feels somehow right. Then again, I’m completely biased because I like both bands and seeing their modern incarnations brought a shiver to my cynical spine. But let’s pretend I’m not being completely biased. In the case of the Stone Roses it’s hard to argue that they didn’t peak on the first attempt - as their debut’s place on countless best of lists, not to mention The Seahorses, will attest.

Still, one man’s food is another man’s mechanically separated mush. There are obviously enough people who didn’t see the Stone Roses first time around (though presumably not their infamous Reading performance), or just fancy an opportunity to take the mothballs out of their Joe Bloggs. And while their reunion gigs may just be an elaborate reconstruction of the ‘Climbing for Dollars’ ad from The Running Man, I’m not sure the ruthless pursuit of money is an applicable criticism any more. Let’s face it, credibility doesn’t pay the bills and selling your songs to ads seems like one of the first rungs on the ladder to having a musical career these days. So while age, common sense and their artistic legitimacy suggests they should know better, these are tough times and art is often the first up against the wall.

The larger problem is that the music industry is clearly knackered. Like an overly excited old dog, it occasionally attempts new tricks but is much more comfortable chasing its tail and licking its own bollocks. And unless anyone can come up with a better explanation for Jedward, I’ll stick to that theory.  Some may argue that’s what happens when the single more powerful figure in music is someone who found early success with the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, Hulk Hogan and Zig and Zag and it’s hard not to agree. (I am of course talking about Simon Cowell, a human rectangle comprised entirely of wealth and body-hair).

But what’s the alternative? People say artists should be nurtured and allowed to develop but my attention span runs out midway through a trip to the toilet - much to the chagrin of my dignity, so I’ve no idea how I’m supposed to stick with someone who isn’t musically incrediballs on their first outing. It’s a Catch-22. Then again, Westlife have just announced they’re about to split, so the glass should be more than half-full. It should be overflowing with positivity. Clearly there are greater problems out there. And unless years down the line someone finds them preserved in amber, clones them and lets them escape their paddocks/stools, we should be grateful for what we’ve got. It is nearly Christmas, after all. Gawd bless.

Hey, we’re trying to complain over here…

For those who’ve managed to shamble over to the remote control and dodge one of Autumn’s biggest televisual letdowns, series 2 of The Walking Dead has thus far concerned itself with one storyline: the search for a missing girl. In some ways this is quite audacious: my worst memories caused by the magical flickering box in the corner of my room over the past few years have concerned storylines that are way past flat-lining and have done their best to tarnish what was thus far a fairly enjoyable journey. I’m thinking of Kim Bauer’s Groundhog/Mountain Lion Day in series 2 of 24, or the prolonged voyage of sexual discovery that Vito took in the last series of The Sopranos. Every-time I heard the roar of a big cat, or saw Vito divert his puzzled gaze from a plate of johnny cakes to an actual Jonny Cakes, I knew shit was about to get real, in the worst possible way.

Now, I don’t think The Walking Dead has scaled the heights of the former, so the fact that it’s basically spent seven weeks staring at its un-dead navel is less disappointing, but no less un-entertaining. The lack of storyline momentum may be fairly realistic - they are, after all, survivors from a zombo-apocalypse who’ve spent the previous few episodes doing a more than passable impression of the Littlest Hobo chasing his tail - but for some reason they seem posses completely inconsistent character traits. There’s one guy who’s gone from being an encyclopedic illustration of a ‘loose cannon’ (redneck sociopath, lost his brother due to the careless actions of the group, probably on ‘the meth’) to resembling a Care Bear with a crossbow in the space of a few weeks. In the last episode he actually went through this transformation and back again in the space of three scenes.

The only way I can explain this is that every scene in punctuated with an unseen blow to the head - perhaps from a series of carelessly discarded rakes left around Hershel’s farm - that wipes their collective memories. Or maybe they just got the script pages in the wrong order? Easily done when the scene headings only seem to consist of: ‘EXT. FARM - Complaining’ or ‘EXT. Woods - Looking for Sophia’. It’s hardly surprising that it’s come to this; there were rumours of budget cuts that suggested the new series would take place in static locations with fewer zombies. It’s a bit like the makers of The Cosby Show removing alpha-Huxtable, Cliff and replacing him with a few pre-recorded offstage soundbites and a body double in a terrible knitted sweater who leaps out of the pantry at irregular intervals to take the piss out of Theo.

Unfortunately, The Walking Dead series makers can’t fall back on their writers, since most of them have already been purged in the real-life climax of the first series, following a nadir that featured a talking computer. Unsurprisingly they decided to decapitate their writing team (figuratively, at least) but now, with a rumoured budget cut, they’ve had to attempt to re-attach the severed head and ask them to get them out of this mess. And with seemingly no money to make anything happen they’ve attempted to manufacture depth and pathos through a string of emotive scenes featuring dishevelled actors squinting at each other, or, in the case of Shane, a man attempting to knock his eyes out by stretching his eyelids and repeatedly hitting himself on the head. So far he’s failed. Sometimes these scenes will feature a single zombie appearing from stage left, sometimes they won’t.

It’s strange really; Shane wants to kill zombies and move on, which wouldn’t just good for the team, it would also be great for the viewer, but he’s portrayed as a bug-eyed loon (perhaps not unfairly). It seems everyone would rather just sit around and work out a way that will enable them to keep sitting around in the same place for the foreseeable future and not bother with the inconvenience of finding somewhere with no zombies and a warmer welcome.  It’s a bit like the end of Shaun of the Dead when they re-unite with the opposite group who’ve had a far more interesting and exciting journey than our heroes. But this has lasted for about 7 hours…and isn’t remotely funny - well except for the moment it seemed Carl had been shot by a deer, which would also offer a far more interesting twist than what was eventually revealed on Hershel’s farm*. There’s clearly a far more exciting tale out there, they just need to go and find it.

* For the record I thought they might turn out to be cannibals on the farm. SPOILERS: they weren’t.

Cole Phelps: super-cop and part-time tour guide.

Despite learning some interesting facts about life in 1940s Los Angeles, such as no men were ever murdered, and most murder suspects had tiny feet, the meat of Rockstar games’ police-em-up, LA NOIRE is in its interrogation scenes. A bit like how the first 30 minutes of the A-Team were contrived to lock them in a garage with some watermelons and a combine harvester, each section in LA NOIRE is designed to get you in a darkened room with a semi-recognisable actor.

There’s not much to be said for the rest of it; the virtual recreation of LA makes for a glossy and beautiful locale to explore, but it’s really something of an empty shell (there’s probably an interesting point to be explored here, but it requires someone on a higher rung of the intellectual ladder to make it, so unless they drop something, I’ll move on). In fact the world on display is so lifeless that it only really serves to undermine the steps LA NOIRE takes in presenting itself as serious adult entertainment.

For example, Detective Cole Phelp’s leisure time appears to involve stealing cars and taking himself on a sightseeing tour of the city - earning ‘Detective Points’ for driving past notable landmarks. Similarly, a frantic chase after a suspect can often result in quite a large fine if you happen to run over several innocent citizens. Non-player character lines are repeated to such an extent that it feels like you’re in a virtual recreation of Groundhog Day, as opposed to Chinatown.

It’s clear that the interrogations are where the developers put most of their resources, something that’s all but confirmed by the pre-release hype. And while the facial animations are undeniably impressive, the biggest disappointment is in the performances themselves - which is perhaps a backhanded compliment to the strides LA NOIRE takes to bring itself in-line with cinematic entertainment. The problem is that the competent performances take a back seat to the game mechanic, which requires pantomime levels of subtlety and nuance to enable the player to ‘read’ the characters.

Take a look…

You’re engaged in an interrogation with someone who was in the pilot of Lost but found more success in the series Heroes, before it became crap.  You’re listening to what he has to say but, like most people in LA NOIRE, he’s already run away from you, his tiny feet propelling him down narrow alleys like a plaid-clad gazelle. You check your notebook for contradictory evidence and then he pulls this shit on you…

Now, is he telling the truth? Judging from his expression you think ‘probably’, but the next question prompts this expression…

For some reason you suspect he’s lying but where’s the evidence, Detective? Time for another question…

BAM! You have the evidence that the game requires you to use. Welcome to jail, ’scheisse-vogel’.

/Mild trolling.

It’s not a complete game breaker but the facial animations are about as subtle as a hippo driving a flaming steamroller into a fireworks factory. As mentioned, it may be to the game’s credit that the biggest flaws are more to do with the direction of its performances than any kind of game mechanic (the repetitive ‘wash, rinse repeat’ detective work may be a flaw, but perhaps that’s what police work is actually like?) but it’s disappointing to find out you’re engaging in an experience that’s more like Brian DePalma’s take on The Black Dahlia than Curtis Hanson’s adaptation of LA Confidential. The earlier Heavy Rain may have been more like a top-shelf erotic thriller, but it took bolder steps and the pay-off was a game and narrative that was infinitely more engaging and surprising.

It’s possible for games to tell more mature and engaging stories without the need to slavishly follow a template established by other media. Red Dead Redemption is a pretty good example: it told an engaging tale while embracing the fact it was a videogame and did so without hampering the players’ ability to plough their own furrow. Perhaps if LA NOIRE didn’t run away from its true nature - like a TV actor sprinting down a back alley - we would have seen something truly special. It’s a surprising step backwards from Rockstar games, so let’s hope the recently announced GTA V take two-steps forward. Their track record should be more than enough to keep virtual notebooks in pockets.

I meant to do a blog post about these pics a couple of years ago but, struggling for context, I left them to dwell for a couple of years, because…well, you’ll understand when you see them. Let me explain, a couple of years I was enjoying a leisurely cup of tea with my neighbour, who had recently moved back up north from the big smoke. She spent a lot of her time down there appearing as an extra in such notable TV shows as Eastenders (where she mingled with the likes of ‘Big Ron’) and films like Four Weddings and a Funeral and Interview with the Vampire (conversations about which would normally be proceeded by ‘When I was working with Tom Cruise…’).

Anyway, she produced a book she bought at a car boot sale. I can’t remember what it was, if memory serves it was a collection of oil paintings of cats but that my just be wishful thinking. Regardless, she bought this book from a car boot sale near Pinewood Studios. According to my neighbour, everyone who’s anyone would have their stuff sold at this car boot sale. In my mind this conjured up images of Stanley Kubrick pitching up to clear his archive of ceramic dogs, or Ridley Scott getting there early doors to build on his famed collection of brass horseshoes. The ‘reality’ however, wasn’t far from the truth. Check out this letter…

and these were the images…

OK, so it may be doubtful that Spielberg circa-87 would struggle to afford the likes of Patrick McGoohan and Sid James – though there were clearly other factors prohibiting the latter’s hiring in 1987 – despite what he tells the mysterious ‘Derek’. It’s equally unlikely that he used the story of an ex-convict exposing his boss’ corruption as an inspiration for Empire of the Sun, though he did hire Sean Connery for Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade in 1989.

Perhaps the biggest mystery is what Derek and his brother David made of the check for 5 million dollars, which was notable for its absence among the collection of painted cats. Maybe they didn’t receive it? Who knows? Who cares? I don’t really know. I’ll be back next week with a more comprehensive post - though I can’t guarantee it’ll make any more sense. Until then, have a better one.

Trubs.

If you needed any more proof that the economy is well and truly fucked in this country then consider the fact that I recently bought brand new and sealed copies of Hellraiser 1,2 and 3 for £3. I’ve been mustering every ounce of my maths education: pretending the DVDs were eggs, harnessing the thoughts of a dead Greek person (probably not the best people to advise on sums TBF - what happened, Greeks?) but I still can’t get it to add up to something that might live in the same neighbourhood as ’sense’. So while we sit back and let people with more expensive educations roll up their shirts, as if they’re going to dig up money from the ground, I’ve decided to invest my time in a Hellraiserthon.

Like my Deathwishathon - or a really inappropriate charity event - the Hellraiserthon will consist of me exploring the films in a saga, analysing their differences and wasting a few hours of my life.

Hellraiser

Hellraiser is still a damn good film. Perhaps even a masterpiece if you’re into horror and/or bondage. It revolves around a small puzzle box called the Lament Configuration (according to Wikipedia, I don’t think it has a name in the film). This box is basically like a more evil Rubik’s Cube, but one that seems piss-easy to do. Certainly harder than the Rubik’s Magic my sister bought me for Christmas one year. And if it weren’t for the fact that fishhooks come out of the Lament Configuration and rip you to pieces, it would certainly make a more age-appropriate gift for a 10 year old.

It’s safe to say that if they did make the Lament Configuration as hard as a Rubik’s Magic we’d have a very boring film - unless the lead was a pubescent nerd. Anyway, the ‘reward’ for accomplishing the puzzle isn’t a smiling Norris Mcwhirter and a certificate, it’s the aforementioned fishhooks and a welcome to hell from a bunch of bondage clad torturers called the Cenobites. The design of the Cenobites is pretty striking, and a testament to the enduring power of practical effects. There’s the iconic Pinhead, who has pins nails in his head, a women who appears to have tried to swallow an egg-whisk, one who has chattering teeth and another who looks a bit like the drummer from ASH.

The Cenobites are essentially hell’s police, but their job appears quite easy: basically just arresting people who complete the puzzle. If a policeman’s job were to arrest people who handcuff themselves then you have some idea of the ease in which Cenobites go about their occupation. What’s more astounding is it takes four of the buggers to bring someone in. Clearly, hell, like Cash 4 Gold and Poundland, is recession proof.

What’s interesting about Hellraiser is that the Cenobites aren’t the villains in the traditional sense; they were used for the marketing and their presence is felt throughout the film but the real villain is ‘Uncle Frank’. Frank’s a bit of a wrong ‘un. With his stubble and a pirate’s earring he’s a bit like a perpetual Gap-year student, which kinds of explains why they kept him off the poster. People would probably be expecting Hangover 2 style hi-jinks in Thailand instead of a nasty kitchen sink drama about families, love, lust and gateways to hell. Anyway, Frank ends up getting his shit ruined by completing the box and then we cut to several months later when his brother shows up with his wife (a former flame of Frank’s) and daughter.

Frank’s brother is played by Andrew Robinson, who’s better known for playing the memorably bat-shit ‘Scorpio’ in Dirty Harry. It’s a neat piece of casting, because when you see Andrew Robinson as a paternal sweetheart, you know the villain must be a complete mentaloid. We don’t really get that from Frank in his human form, but it’s ably conveyed when he reappears as a skinless murderer sucking the life out of people’s necks so he can escape from hell. It’s amazing how that can transform a performance.

Hellraiser is set almost entirely within the confines of a semi in a nameless location that is either a London suburb, or a London suburb pretending to be America. It’s never quite clear. I think it’s America but then when an English person meets another English person they don’t comment on it. Probably because one person is about to bash the other over the head with a hammer before they get their skin ripped off, so a conversation about postcodes would seem a little redundant. I suppose suspension of disbelief is paramount in a film about a skinless man returning from hell while evading a bailiff dressed in bondage clothes with nails sticking out of his head.

It’s a testament to Clive Barker’s skills that despite a few student film flourishes (sequences of a not very convincing actress walking along a lonely harbour) and a strange sense of location, the film maintains a heavy atmosphere of dread. Despite being lumped in with a bunch of Garth Marenghi’s in the 80s, Barker is a genuinely original voice in horror - and Hellraiser is stronger for his unique approach. I’ve always liked horror films that are anchored in normality. And Hellraiser, with its kitchen sink style drama, is exactly that. It’s a bit like a messed up Ken Loach film in some regards.

Less strong are the rules of the box and the Cenobites. Since the Lament Configuration is apparently hundreds of years old, it makes sense that the instructions have vanished. Frank buys it from an old man in the orient at the beginning and it’s clear that it’s lacking the original packaging. Basically, it appears that by opening the box you’re inviting the Cenobites to drag you to hell, where they will spend a lifetime torturing you. This appears to the case, unless you make them a deal, which the heroine, Kirsty, does. It seems strange that, after banging on about how great it is to be tortured, they’d understand someone’s reluctance to enjoy what appears to be the best experience ever. But still, they accept Kirsty’s offer of bringing them her Uncle Frank if they let her live.

They then decide to change the rules anyway - because, they like, can. But it doesn’t matter because by that time, Kirsty has managed to change the box into a weapon that makes the Cenobites vanish - though not before they’ve had their way with Frank. Let’s fact it, he had it coming.

Hellbound: Hellraiser 2

Pinhead’s return is kind of a textbook sequel: it expands the mythology, offers a few reveals about the characters’ origins and offers a bit more gore. It’s set in the most logical location for any horror sequel: a hospital for the insane. One of the problems with horror sequels of this ilk is you’ve already seen the villains, you know the hero/heroine isn’t making it up but you still have to wait for them to convince the new characters that they’re telling the truth. Unfortunately they normally learn the hard way, and Hellraiser 2 is no exception.

The skinless returnee from hell this time is magnificently evil Clare Higgins as Julia’s Kirsty’s evil stepmother. I say she’s magnificently evil, she’s probably very nice in real life. Though she is a little overly convincing as a hell-bound harridan, so she may be a total cow. She teams up with cuntish doctor, Kenneth Cranham (again, in the film) to repeat the steps of Hellraiser one. I mean, that’s probably a good idea, right? Incorrect. It turns out that it’s actually a terrible idea. The Cenobites return once again - though, still unclear about the rules, they decide to ignore the girl who opened the box and instead let everyone come to hell to check it out.

The hell in Hellbound: Hellraiser 2 looks a little bit like a Laser Quest, with lots of dark corridors and spooky sound effects. It’s here that the film falters a little bit. Clearly deciding that people won’t be scared by the same Cenobites as the first film they turn Kenneth Cranham into one. After deciding what to do to him, they decide to wrap his face in cheese-wire, have snakes come out of his hands, kit him out in the now de-rigeur bondage wear and, for extra effect, attach a giant slug to his head. To confound matters further they reveal that the Cenobites are more like hell’s Community Support officers - as they just kind of stand around, teasing Kirsty. Then they run into the Kenneth Cranham-abite and get their shits ruined.

Despite being slightly predictable - well, as predictable as anything featuring Kenneth Cranham wrapped in cheese-wire with snakes coming out of his hands can be - Hellraiser 2 is pretty good. It clearly helps to have some classically trained actors add a little bit of gravitas to proceedings and, despite some fairly ropey plotting, it’s perfectly serviceable and doesn’t ruin part one by association. It’s worth noting, however, that the ending is equally baffling but also quite cool.

Hellraiser 3: Hell on Earth

Unfortunately, part three goes off the rails somewhat by catering to what someone’s perception of a horror film fan is: basically, a giant douche-hole with piercings and leather. This manifests itself on-screen through alpha-prick and owner of the world’s least appealing nightclub, J.P. Monroe. Monroe buys a giant pillar featuring Pinhead’s head because it would look mega-awesome in his club. And there’s absolutely no way this could go wrong…Unfortunately, it does go wrong and before you know it he’s sacrificing floozies to Pinhead, who’s even more unreasonable this time. I suppose unemployment will do that to you.

Hellraiser 3 is also clearly set in the US and looks a lot glossier. It also features a different protagonist: a fairly unflappable TV reporter. The other actors don’t appear to be actors at all, so shoddy are their performances. There’s a cameraman with a giant moustache and long hair who I thought may have been a famous musician using his status to secure a role - a bit like Mick Jagger in Freejack - but I think he’s just a legitimately bad actor with a big moustache and long hair. He probably also hates Sam Elliot.

Like most threequels (not sure if that’s a word) Hellraiser 3 then decides to turn everyone, including non-acting cameraman with moustache, into a Cenobite. It’s a bit like X-Men 3 where everyone is a mutant but this is only manifested through an ability to jump really high, it basically reduces the potency of the Cenobites and makes things a bit daft. It’s a testament to the first film that despite the unlikely chain of events, you don’t dwell on the fact that it’s a bit silly. Also, Hellraiser 3 features a heavy rock crossover with Motorhead and several other hard rockers providing aural accompaniment, which is never good for a horror film’s credibility. This is often known as ‘Dokken’s Axiom’.

I didn’t manage to secure the others but was a little surprised to see the adventures of Pinhead continued across another six installments. I seem to recall part four took place in space and can only assume the others involved a trip to college and/or a stag do in Vegas.