The Avengers 4: Fuck off Marvel

Patient Zero

If there's any word cluster in films at the moment that I hate more than  "Seth Rogen Vehicle" or "Shaky Cam Possession Film" it's got to be "Marvel Cinematic Universe." This utterly loathsome phrase takes absolutely everything that's terrible about comics and packages them into flashy 2 hour, easily digested parcels that can be regurgitated at will by avid superhero film fans. I hate them because they are enablers, bequeathing fans with the ability to splutter ceaselessly on about how it's so awesome that so-and-so is going to be in Avengers 5 because of these incredibly clever hints in this litany of dross that you have to be a true fan to "appreciate".

"This place is like someone's memory of a town, and the memory is fading"

I'm increasingly wary of new TV recommendations, especially after the all that post-meth cook smoke was blown up so many collective asses that it got tiresome to even be involved in the show's culture (disclaimer: I like Breaking Bad but it isn't the be all and end all of TV drama) and because to even participate in conversations around the show without either being buffeted by so much screeching enthusiasm or labelled a disgruntled naysayer for having one bad word to say about any of the many elements of the show was an absolute impossibility, I tend to try and distance myself from the new stuff.

However, HBO have gone and put out something that piqued my intrigue so much that I just couldn't stay away. So instead I am going to spend the next couple of hundred words blowing smoke up the collective asses of those of you who read this. I love the series format on TV, though I often regret the time investment, especially considering the way it's frequently so reliant on commissioning and meeting episode quotas. It often feels like creators are wrestling with network and fan expectations and thus things pan out in uneven and bizarre ways. Sometimes this is good; it was great to see Jesse's character evolved into a fuller role in Breaking Bad than showrunner Vince Gilligan had intended, and sometimes this is bad: cancellation of shows like Deadwood, shows being dragged on past their sell by date like The X-Files and et cetera, et cetera et cetera. It’s an obstacle that few shows can guarantee that they can surmount.

Snippet

So there she goes, tracking one intact heel across cold damp pavement like a stylus across a record at the wrong speed, a chirpy pop song about nights of music and boys and fun turned into a lurching lullaby figuring it can afford to lament on too many doubles and mixers, too many ill-thought dance steps, floors too inconsistent in their texture leading to that fateful snap, broken heel, vodka and diet coke soaking through yesterday's dress bought in preparation for tonight's Big Night.

Blonde hair, stylish, with curls down past the jawline but matted in places by uneven hair spray application and eye makeup run panda-like around blood red eye whites and green irises from too much sweat, too many tears of laughter and maybe at one point rejection? Limbs hummed four four basslines from hours of music that all danced to a uniform beat. Friends left behind and still drinking the last minutes of Saturday night away, blissfully unaware of the drudgery of having to work shifts, scratch that, just unaware of work on every other Sunday before any kind of stupor induced privilege reared its incoherent head.Therefore, it was a common night, as common as any other and so just as damp, just as grey. 

Snippets of conversations perforated her eardrum like buckshot fired indiscriminately, catching the attention of the wrong person each time and so bottles are thrown like Model 24s from pavement to pavement, the road in between being already full of potholes taking on the appearance of a no-man's land in the corner of Kate's eye and now she's deciding whether to go prone and crawl until the volley from the German trenches is over.

Tenuously this line of thought leads her to believe that, maybe, amongst the British casualties she'll find her very own Owen or Sassoon, a soldier with the heart of a lover, a poet she can rescue from the trenches and retire to the countryside with as God Save the Queen peals out from village church bells over the hill to the east of their beautiful cottage as various cats and dogs languidly salute the cresting summer sun with a succession of stretches and yawns.

But as soon as that appealing vision of mid century bliss has bubbled to the surface like so many dreams coalescing together in the centre of a head of foam on a pint of beer she neglected during an ill-fated date last week, or the month before, or maybe even years ago, it's burst and as she's stooped in imaginary trenches she's hit by a burst of cold taut air as a double-decker hurtles past temporarily calling a ceasefire via the sheer brute force of steel and plexiglass, an all too corporeal forcefield being played upon by bursting bottles resulting in showers of beer, cider, budget brand alcopops and what she's sure is an uncommonly expensive bottle of a house red being thrown by who exactly in the crowd that can afford such wasteful aggression?A sprightly old man in vaudeville top hat and tails disappearing behind hollering students and men with sweaty red faces, hair gelled in spikes as sparse as trees in winter, salmon shirts and boot-cut jeans? It's all a blur and Kate tries to level out, internal spirit level currently hung with a “out to lunch” sign as she slurs “what time izzit?” as previous ballistics are replaced with an impromptu five a side match in the middle of no-man's land, bus bottling hijinks finally dissolving tensions between axis and allies at least long enough for interest in violence to wane as shares in kicking a leaky bottle of discount cider around are reaching unforecasted altitudes.

Gunslinger: A Tall, Improbable Tale

"Oh, Death... won't you spare me over 'til another year?"

Call of Juarez: Gunslinger has no right to be any good at all. It just hasn't earned it. There was no pre-release hype, no barrage of stylish trailers, no DLC promotion or any of the trappings of a hit, big or small. It doesn't even have a lineage that it can be proud of. Its forebearers are games that have all been given middling to poor reviews, with 2011's The Cartel being critically slammed. It goes without saying that Techland's fourth outing into the Juarez world was fated to be terrible.

And yet...

Stoker

Mia Wasikowska, Matthew Goode (Stoker, 2013)

Cakes are a staple of Park Chan-Wook's films. The tantalising Baker's Shop in Lady Vengeance reflects the delicious intricacies of the titular Lady's plan, and the dazzling white cake symbolises a purity she is desperate to regain. In Thirst, a fat patient regales us with a tale of generosity, of how he gave up his cake to a starving mother and daughter, foreshadowing his charity of blood later in the film. At the beginning of Stoker, the cake is a birthday cake, and it's candles are choked out as the life of Mr. Stoker ends, and the innocent of another is snuffed.

Language Games: Clones

"I'm a clone, I know it and I'm fine."

After dabbling for a few years in writing my thoughts on games down in words and forms that other people could understand instead of keeping my feelings restrained exasperated abandoning of pads and grunts of joy/despair from in front of a screen in the safety of my own home, I've progressed onto tackling the idea of consistently trying to review games, and I'm starting to think about how hard it is to actually write about games well. Part of the issue resides in the idea that a game is inexplicably tied to its mechanics and presentation in a way that other mediums aren't (bear with me) and this poses a unique challenge to a reviewer, with three of the choice issues being: how do I explain these mechanics which at there most basic are “Push A to do B” without boring people, how do I separate the my inability to control a game well from the actual quality of the control scheme, and how do I talk about something that is mechanically similar to dozens of other titles without falling back on those titles?

I think these are all fairly interesting ideas so I decided to postulate a bit on them and write about them, and tackle them in three separate bits. Obviously I don't write for any big sites or anything, but these issues have cropped in my very basic communications about games with others, and are issues with the vocabulary around gaming that exists so far. So maybe there are examples of reviewers out there doing it right, or maybe I've missed communities where these issues are resolved through deft prose and delicate syntax, but as far as I'm aware that isn't the case. Anyway, onwards.

Atoms for Peace - Amok

 

Before I get into this, where do we stand on Radiohead, and inimitable, pipe-cleaner-construct-attached-to-a-subwoofer front man Thom Yorke? As a band, they’ve managed to attract as much ire from people as they have praise, with decade old letters page bickering spilling out on to YouTube comments:

“Thank Radiohead for real music!” vs “If I wanted to bore myself to death I’d listen to paint drying.” “Thom’s dancing is transcendent…”vs “He looks like a washed up hippy on a vibro-plate…”

Music Journalism also seems to be undecided on how to treat them. Everything they release is scrutinised as a grand gesture, a bold epochal statement, a dinosaur of a band managing to function on the good will of a slavish following of fans much like the grinning bears that jostle for space in so much of their associated artwork. Is it possible to just ignore this reverence that has been thrust upon them, and digest their music in a totally neutral zone?