You Don't Need An E-Reader To Read.

Ever seen that Kindle advert, where the two Bohos sit on a beach and read their e-book readers, no doubt feeling smug that they've spent a small fortune on a fashionable toy?

Well, that's part of the problem with e-readers; that they sell you a problem as well as a solution - namely, that you somehow need an electronic device to store your books whereas before you could just pick a few paperbacks and shove them in your suitcase.

But the point is that you don't need an e-reader. Books still work perfectly well, and you are in fact being taken for a ride. It's simply that - through the power of advertising - Kindles and their ilk are 'cool' (because the TV told you so!) and books are 'old-fashioned' (because in today's culture, reading is something you're forced to do at school or university). You're being sold something you've effectively already got. Ever been to a library or spent time in a second hand bookshop? Usually the answer is no, because they can't afford to advertise like Amazon or Apple or Samsung... You’ve been had.

We certainly don't need Kindles in the way that we need washing machines, medical advances, computers, flushing toilets and so on. Far from being a technophobic rant, this article is more than willing to declare that technology is great and has made things considerably better. The challenge is now not to create superfluous electronic toys but to make our consumer products ever more energy efficient, more long lasting and more affordable. That's not so sexy as, say, an e-reader, though, so we buy the products with the most allure, the most street cred - the most media exposure.

Nor are e-readers an advance that improves an existing technology like mobile phones or digital cameras/recorders. Instead, it's just conspicuous consumption, just like its equally superfluous (and smug) cousin, the iPhone. They're not really about making your life better and more about waving them about (preferably far away from any passing muggers) to impress the rest of the cool kids and make the naff kids feel guilty about having skint parents (or being skint parents). It's so petty and far, far away from the joy of reading those naff things on shelves that are made from paper.

And so what if e-readers gets people reading? If they need gimmicks and a multi-million ad campaign to do this then maybe they're not the people who should be reading books. Their time might be better spent on finding some substance to their lives. And if the book trade really wants to save its hide, then maybe it needs to focus on why people are reading less and less, or why they are not buying books as much as they used to.

And something else is being lost here - the very physicality of the book, the fact that you can hold it, feel it and know what page to turn to and when. The value of owning something (rather than a stream of data) is being lost, and this threatens our connection with the world around us as we lose the joy of that contact. It’s already happened to music – too many people live for the quick thrill of a download and ignore the joy of owning a CD or discovering an old vinyl album, the joy of actually being able to hold something. In the end, what e-readers represent is another step in our relentless march away from our surroundings and into a shallow, empty inner world of instant gratification. No wonder they’re popular.

The Road to Coronation Street: Now 100% Florizel Free!

PLANET NORTH

"The Road to Coronation Street”
16/09/2010
BBC Four

Often it’s not the end product that’s interesting so much as the process that gives rise to it. Anyone who’s watched ‘making of’ documentaries or heard a decent DVD commentary may have noticed this. Once you’ve seen all the effort and hard work those goes into the end product, it seems much less exciting and interesting in comparison.

Such is the case with ‘The Road to Coronation Street’, a drama from ITV broadcast – confusingly – on BBC4 last night. (But more on that later.) This tells of how Street creator and writer Tony Warren fought, often tooth and nail, to get the UK’s longest running soap onto our screens. As drama goes, it is concise, focussed, well structured and flowing, with some great dialogue and characterisation. Which is to say, this story about how UK soaps came into being is much more fun than the soaps themselves these days.

The cast certainly helps. David Dawson plays Tony Warren as a sort of souped-up, gayed-out, speed riddled Ken Barlow on a mission. (The ‘real’ Ken Barlow, or William Roache, is meanwhile played with a sort of delusional ‘I’m too good for this’ pathos by his son, James.)

Elsewhere, Jessie Wallace (yes, ‘er from Eastenders) camps it up with brassy glee as Pat Phoenix, the audition scene between her and Dawson crackling with electricity. Meanwhile, surfacing as a sort of everyman amongst the carnival of elephantine egos is director Derek Bennet, played with both humanity and normality by Shaun Dooley.

And then, in the final act of the drama, comes along Lynda Baron, rumbling into view with a Godzilla-like presence as Violet Carson, invoking the spirit of Ena Sharples with harridan vigour and resigned fatalism in equal measure.

The story itself is a good balance of drama and fact, taking obvious liberties with the events and participants whilst not obscuring them with too much schmaltz. (Though some of the Pat Phoenix scenes do slap it on with a trowel.) The simmering professional, class and personal tensions are well depicted too, being reined in enough to not obscure the drama, but shocking enough when they do surface.

For it's telling that back in 1960, the thought of northern plebs played by northern thesps was seen as too radical and not commercial enough. This thinking remains, but has merely moved onto other pariahs who are seen as the kiss of death, unless they’re splayed out for all to see on sleazy reality TV.

And it’s telling too where this excellent drama was shown. Made by ITV Studios for the BBC, it was shown on BBC 4, light years away from the mass market ITV1 and BBC 1& 2 schedules. Almost in spite of itself, ‘The Road to Coronation Street’ leaves us wondering whether a modern Tony Warren would even get a twitch of an eyebrow from the fickle powers that be, convinced as they are that they, and they alone, know what the public wants.

BARLOWNESS: 8/10

Edgar Wright vs. The Law of Diminishing Returns (A Scott Pilgrim Movie Review).

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World
Universal, 2010
Dir. By Edgar Wright
Starring Michael Cera, Mary Elizabeth Winstead et al

Much ink has been spilt, and equal amounts of bandwidth wasted, on why comic book adaptation Scott Pilgrim vs. the World flopped at the Box Office. (Indeed, you could even say it Bob-ombed! Arf!)

Hypotheses range from the fact that it was badly marketed or that it came out at the wrong time or that it was aimed at geeks, who are unfortunately all two-faced, treacherous thieving c*nts with a bloated sense of entitlement.

Perhaps these are all correct, but let me propose another reason. Maybe the film wasn't that good in the first place?

True, at first this heavily stylised tale does sort of work. The first third of the film crackles with wit, sharp dialogue and the wonderful visual effects make a great impression. The problem, though, is that all the sight gags, SFX flourishes and one-liners get repetitive very quickly, and soon all the other flaws start to surface too.

Like the two leads. Michael Cera is awful, a flaccid lettuce with a ghastly Winnie-The-Pooh voice who brings neither passion nor life to yet another outing as a sort of everyhipster. Meanwhile, Scott's paramour cum McGuffin, Ramona Flowers, is played by Mary Elizabeth Winstead with a studied insouciance, but that's all she bothers to do for the entire film.

The rest of the cast does what it can with roles as 2D as cardboard, which is to say, not very well at all. Only Kieran Culkin, playing Scott's man-eating gay flatmate and moral compass Wallace, really delivers the goods as he tears through every scene he's in with a strong presence and a depth and soul the film otherwise lacks.

The film also suffers because its source material, a six volume comic epic set in Toronto, is basically unfilmable, at least all in one go. The Scott Pilgrim graphic novels are too epic and nuanced to translate well onto the screen in such a truncated manner (and people had the nerve to complain about Watchmen!), with the film trying desperately to include as much of the story as possible and so barely doing any of it any justice. 960+ pages just do not fit into 112 minutes, especially when most of the audience haven't even heard of the comic book in question.

What stands out is what's missed out. One major theme of the graphic novels that Scott is actually a bit of a swine, and how he overcomes his own turd behaviour. This doesn't even make it into the film, in part because the script hasn't got the room, and also because Cera's so insipid, he could rape a dog and shoot nuns, and you'd still barely even register it. Fans of the comics may well spend their viewing spotting all the bits either cut out or just ignored. Even the in-film art care of creator Bryan Lee O'Malley just serves to remind you what you're missing in the original comics. This is a film that simply isn't compatible with its source material,

It just proves that Indy comics and mass media simply don't mix. Daniel Clowes' script for the Ghost World movie was by necessity a departure from his original comic strip. Peter Bagge's forlorn quest to whore out and get a TV series will never come true. Robert Crumb won't even try, and Evan Dorkin will never be the cultural colossus he deserves to be. Why? Because by definition, any art form which rejects the mainstream will always have problems when it tries to rejoin it. And that goes for cult comics from Canada too.

Curiously, the film has strong parallels with Spiderman 2 (apart from the box office takings), in that it starts strong but overdoes it and runs out of steam, and so ends up trying desperately to recapture its original spark. The main difference was that Spiderman 2 had a bigger audience to play with and could afford to lose the plot a bit. SPVW couldn't but does so anyway.

Much too has been made of British director Edgar Wright being in charge. Tellingly, though, his most successful films - Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz - were disciplined, low budget, made for the screen in mind, had good characterisation and never alienated their audiences despite their geek heritage. SPVW is none of these things, and so is a far inferior product. At heart, the film is less a Scott Pilgrim spin-off, and more an overlong Spaced episode at its most tiresome and self-indulgent.

Put simply, it didn't work and didn't deserve to succeed. And it hasn't.

EPICNESS 4/10

Ultimate Big Brother: Josie's Twilight of the Sods

ULTIMATE BIG BROTHER

Channel 4

August-September 2010

When they look back and chronicle the many ups and downs of British civilisation, one moment that will stand out is when Josie 'Farmyward Boogie' Gibson looked away from the 2010 Big Brother diary room camera with wet, puffy eyes and wept 'I'm not a celebrity. I'M NORMAL!!!'

Once, everyone wanted to be a celebrity. No one strictly knew what a celebrity was, other than a kind of pliant attention whore with no or little talent, or a glorified freak show performer with added douchebaggery thrown in for good measure.

The long and the short was - they were Faces and Heels, pointless, but successful. And they appealed to a culture where actually having enough individuality or talent to be properly successful was sneered at because it was too much hard work, and we were all too afraid to admit that maybe we didn't have what it took, and we were condemned to be non-entitites. It's a bitter truth to accept in today's narcissistic, shallow hellhole culture. 'Slebdom' was the ultimate expression of that, where you could aspire to succeed without actually having to earn that success or face up to your shortcomings.

The net result of this was a whole culture driven towards the flicker of dozens of cameras or hateful, mind-numbingly bad celebrity magazines that obsessed with women's bodies in that hideous way that only other women could stoop to. You too could be a success as long as you looked malnourished and had no noticeable human flaws that reminded others of your or their own humanity.

And then came along Josie, a somewhat well fed, non-airbrushed and mundane, yet charismatic and likeable individual in a Big Brother house of mainly nice people (for once). Tellingly, most of them weren't celebrity material because they seemed too real, not shallow enough to really be celebrity fodder, and too human to really want to be one of those shrieking cardboard cutouts. The show's last series ended not as a casting couch but more like the contest between everymen that it was originally meant to be.

Sam Pepper came close to the sort of utter prat cum performing monkey that used to prosper under the old system, but he was evicted and didn't even make it into the final. Instead, the dwindling 'sleb' faithful subscribed to that most niche of outlets - his Twitter feed - leaving the rest of the country to vote for someone they actually could empathise with.

And what then did this year's winner, Josie, do when she then found herself in a house full of 'classic' Big Brother contestants, those shrieking and empty yet loud and ostentatious shallow Gods of a preposterous age? She wigged out, and left. She wasn't one of them, and - most importantly - she didn't want to be. She chose anonymity and mundanity over a fake and glittering life under never-ending scrutiny. Reality TV yielded to reality. It was a turning point; the real had triumphed over reality. Celebrity lost to humanity.

Reviewing the Ads: Nesquik Bunny Death Spiral

This then is the new Nesquik advert:

LINK

Yes, it's yet another use of emotional blackmail, junk sentiment and bowlderised reality to make mothers give in whenever their mewling little shits demand sugar-coated, processed crap. O a promo for a yummy milkshake - you may delete according to taste.

But what stands out is the almost rasping, laboured voice of the Nesquik bunny. He sounds like Joe Pasquale with severe constipation. Or like he's terminally ill, the corporate mascot recording his final poignant work even as they read the Last Rites and the hospice nurse inserts a rubber tube up his bottom.

"They only grow up once!" he gasps as his lungs collapse and his pupils dilate. It's the sort of thing an old nanna in Eastenders says to her estranged daughter just before she dies during the harrowing Xmas special, where Little Mo is later ripped apart by Yuletide weasels.

Maybe this is deliberate? You can imagine the conversation. "Mummy, why does the rabbit sound so unwell?" "Just drink your Nesquik, darling, and maybe he'll get better..." Mission accomplished, at least for the milkshake peddlers.

Doctor Who, Series 5, Episode 13: The Big Whimper.

DOCTOR WHO
"The Big Bang”
26/06/2010
BBC One

So thirteen weeks of mostly disappointment later, and what do we have? Well, the Doc’s stuck in the Pandorica, Amy is ‘mostly dead’, Rory is rather upset (and plastic), almost the entire universe has ceased to exist, and the younger Amy is getting mailshots from a weird bloke in a Fez. Riversong, meanwhile, is caught up in a time loop and the TARDIS is about to blow up. So far so good.

But really, this is less a story and more an array of narrative tricks used to distract the viewer from a truly shabby script. The time paradoxes (where characters leap in and out of narrative order via Riversong’s magic wand – err, I mean, time bracelet) were done to death in “Blink” and for that matter Back to the Future II. (it’s sad to realise how much Nu Who is dependent on ‘homages’ to Hollywood movies.)

Old Who never quite got into this too much and that's for a good reason - it's too convoluted and it also sucks in terms of good narrative and structure. The show learned quickly to focus on characters and events rather than naff gimmicks.

The rest of the episode is that most loathsome of writerly cop-outs: The reset button, which, no matter how show leader Stephen Moffat wants to dress it up, is what this episode’s central conceit is, and which exposes most starkly the decline of the show after only five years of its second wind. Indeed, when it’s not trying to be Buffy The Vampire Slayer or Babylon 5, the show is now also trying to be Dragonball Z with its sheer repetitive, lazy reliance on deaths that mean nothing and worn-out formats.

Once past the cheesy happy-ending (truly sick-bucket territory and far too tidy and convenient), you then realise that what you’ve seen is not a resolution to the previous story arc but simply a preluding to yet another story arc that's just like the others and will be every bit as disappointing. There is something profoundly cynical about this, like what you are watching is pretty irrelevant, but WHAT MATTERS is that oft-promised and never-delivered extravaganza just around the corner. We cannot enjoy the show as it is but what it might possibly, perhaps, probably give us in the future. This is no longer a show in its own right but an advertisement for another show that, as we now all know, will never get made. It says a lot when all the speculation on the Web is much more satisfying than the real thing when it was finally delivered.

So how about this, Moff? Why not just tell a story instead of always setting up the next one? Or guerilla marketing where bullshit is leaked to the web so everyone is disappointed with the final article? Don't promise. Just do. And no, it's never been a fucking fairy story either. Good sci-fi needs to take itself a bit seriously after all. Maybe then we'll get stories that don't keep relying on poxy Deus ex Machina, even ones that get vaguely hinted at over 13 episodes in a sort of titanic arse-covering exercise. Or relying on novelty, leaving aside there being a new Doctor. But then that would mean facing up to the show’s many shortcomings: Its obsession with celebrity, its shallowness, its weak scripts and its cardboard characters and settings.

As for the cast, well – let’s just say I haven’t changed my mind on Karen Gillan. Yes, I have spent 13 weeks raining shit on a hapless 22-year-old actress but it's just the character is so fucking horrible, and Gillan's performance just revs it up to the max. It doesn’t say much that Amelia Pond (the eight-year-old one, as played by Gillan’s cousin, Caitlin Blackwood) is much more likeable than the grown up one, but then it’s a strange fact that little girls are often far more dynamic and interesting than young women, if not as interesting as old men.

Speaking of old men, Who XI finally starts making sense in this one, Matt Smith somehow fitting into the role at last, even if he’s still Tennanting from time to time. He may well be remembered as the Doctor with the most teething troubles, but he finally brings a unique character and bearing to the role. And as an aside, what with Old Who costume designer Barbara Kidd rejoining the fold, it may be time to do the unthinkable – AND GIVE MATT A HAT. Namely a fez, which suits him.

Also strong, as to be expected, is the interplay between the Doctor and Amy’s poor-sod fiancée (and later husband) Rory, care of the series’ big find, Arthur Darville. There are some excellent scenes between the two, with a chemistry that’s impressive to see. It’s also a father-son relationship; an old, conflicted and haunted Doctor trying to guide and protect an angry, resentful and hurt Rory, still finding his own identity and sense of manhood. And it is here, rather than all the over-amped Amy sub-plotting, that the real heart of the show can be found.

Also, suffice to say, Alex Kingston continues to deliver the goods as Riversong. (Yes, I know it’s actually ‘River Song’, but it looks better if you write it as one word.) Her lines are silly, her role too much like a lame pastiche of a superhero or space opera Mary Sue, and the ongoing ‘who the bloody hell is she?’ foreplay is getting rather tedious now. But Kingston makes the role come alive and even be worthwhile, if only when she’s not being used as yet another way of foreshadowing another vast future disappointment. She is also Moff’s answer to RTD’s Captain Jack, the character he’d love to write a series about, if it weren’t for that pesky Doctor they have to write for instead.

And so they produce cobblers like ‘The Big Bang’, almost out of spite. Cast notwithstanding, it was lazy and shallow. This is no longer storytelling; it's just setting up a 'spectacular' that everyone's already seen five times before. Strangely enough, it all seems rather repetitive now. Even RTD could write better than this load of old shit.

So, thirteen weeks later, what do we have to show for it? One genuinely good episode, one genuinely entertaining one and one passable one (Smartie/M&M-coloured Daleks notwithstanding). The rest, an awful disappointment. The kool-aid sippin’, easily impressed and poorly discriminating public have already eaten it up, perhaps in desperation as deep down they must know the Emperor is stark bollock naked. But what we’ve really had here is a series as bad if not worse as Who in its mid-to-late 80s nadir, and once the hive mind lets go of its delusion, it’s hard to see how this series has any future at all.

WHOPOINTS 5

Doctor Who, Series 5, Episode 12: The World Ends (Sort Of).

DOCTOR WHO
"The Pandorica Opens”
19/06/2010
BBC One

The main problem with the new Dr. Who format is that it keeps sticking to the same formula. Namely, a season finale that’s set up throughout the series, loads of big hints, fanboys frothing at the mouth on that hotbed of Autism called the Web, and then a loud, bombastic, gormless power creep marathon at the end that never quite delivers.

True, ‘The End of Time’ sort of dodged that one, but only because it featured DAVID FUCKING TENNANT regenerating – which isn’t a common event as a rule. Otherwise, it’s been exactly the same narrative each and every time, and five years later, it’s looking rather worn out.

But like a porn freak, Nu Who keeps chasing that original thrill (which was rather lame and depressing the first time), always missing the target because there never was one to hit in the first place.

Series 5’s damp squib, “The Pandorica Opens” (followed, as with all the other damp squibs with an even damper, squibier episode which bodges everything the week after) is a case in point. We find out what’s really behind those cracks, all those questions are (mostly) answered and the subsititution of Special FX in place of story proceeds ever onwards.

Here, all the Doctor’s old enemies unite to shove him in the Pandorica, which turns out to be a giant prison cell, because they think he’s going to bugger up the universe. What this means in practice is that the cash-strapped show has plundered its storerooms for all its old (but not too old) costumes and mixed in a few expensive new Daleks and Chris Ryan (a welcome return, as it happens) pretending to be a Sontaran again. Even the Autons resurface, one of which performs the dual public service of returning Rory to the show (sort of) and killing the Pond-beast (yay!) all in one fell swoop.

It’s unconvincing, just a big set up for an ‘event’ (and some pointless horse riding) that lacks any real human depth or character. The story is shoddy. It’s incredibly lazy, and full of a sort of sterile conservatism that rivals the show’s nadir in the 80s. But never mind! Here’s some big bangs! Whooshing space ships! Loud orchestral music! This is what happens when British TV tries to ape Hollywood – an unconvincing pastiche that veers dangerously close to the nightmare scenario:Turkish Cinema.

There are good bits. Arthur Darvill, it’s good to see you back – and well done on bringing some real humanity to this mess. (And Chris Ryan, oh how we missed you and your roaring fascist ET Napoleon schtick! Keep getting cloned – you are a Sontaran after all!) Matt Smith is sounding desperately like he’s almost cracked it, give or take some lapses into uncharacteristic set-piece posturing, and the Troughton is strong in him too, with a Tomb of the Cybermen-esque pep talk to Amy. Yes, River Song returns, but the other edge to that sword is that at least we get Alex Kingston back, and she’s too good for this load of old arse, frankly.

Amy Pond? You finally rejoice when the Rory-Auton zaps her dead, as she is so annoying, obnoxious and slappable at this point, you rather hope it’s her who’s going into the magic box. The ongoing campaign to repurpose the show as ‘Doctor Douchebag’ continues too, the episode continuing to make the Doc look less like a protagonist but more of a twat, and even a villain, or at least a fool, when Matt Smith isn’t allowed to portray him as – y’know – the main character.

Perhaps a good summary of what’s wrong with this episode is encapsulated in the clash between Amy and a Cyberman. Firstly, it makes no sense – if the machine parts of a Cyberman can operate autonomously, then why do they need a human component? Also, how is Amy able to ward it off with a flaming torch and how is the Rory-Auton able to kill it with a Gladius, seeing that Cybermen are bulletproof (as a rule)? Secondly, there is the power creep again – apparently Cyberman heads can sprout tentacles and fire poison darts and their arms can fire independently. It’s not as bad as the invincincible flying munchkin Daleks of death, but it’s getting close. And finally, it is unbelievable – why would they not spot a dismembered Cyberman lying all over Stonehenge (and underneath it) in the first place?

This, plus a ‘reveal’ that suggests that the main conceit of the series is going to be rather infantile and quite literally a ‘fairy tale’, suggests a show that doesn’t respect itself or its audience that much. This is a rather depressing thought – that not only is such a show treated like children’s TV but that ‘children’s TV’ is shorthand for crap.

WHOPOINTS 3