The Cutprice Guignol

The Ninth Year: The Haunting of Swill House
September 10, 2013

Movie Marathon #4: Withnail & I

How many of you, after watching Withnail & I for the first time, decided to model your life on Withnail? Started swaggering around in a big coat, drinking questionable substances and quoting Shakespeare in the park? Hands up. Right, fuck you all. You’re the reason I can never love this film as much as I should. Because it created scores of establishment-bending wankers trying to emulate Richard E. Grant playing one of the most interminably terrible cunts in silver-screen history.

And it is a brilliant film; dawdling around with pseudo-philosophical bullshit, reveling in the beauty of the English countryside, and constantly spouting eminently quotable lines. Very little happens to shake the earth, and that’s the beauty of the piece; Paul Mcgann’s guileless but neurotically endearing actor brings a wide-eyed innocence to the otherwise very black-hearted little movie. Richard Griffiths (may he rest in peace) is simply fantastic as Uncle Monty, one of the most watching-through-your-fingers lecherous poshos I’ve ever clapped eyes on. And the film is utterly British, in general-with coffee shops, pubs, Shakespeare and the muddy countryside, it smacks of a knowing but ultimately affectionate pat on the head to all the awesome and awful corners of British culture.

But yet. The constant imitation of Withnail is a testament to the sheer comedic force Grant brings to the role; he’s briliant. Shamelessly cowardly, pathetic, dependent, arrogant and pretentious, he represents the one of most toe-curlingly unbearable characters even created, and he delivers every line with a tongue-rolling aplomb that’s simply irrepeatable.

IRREPEATABLE. Get it? Withnail is a vile, vile man; deeply entertaining for a two-hour on-screen dalliance, but no-one you’d really want to have around for any lengthy period of time. He’s a child with delusions of adulthood; a grimly awful man who you’d simply tire of in the real world. So, to everyone who’s toying with that extra-long coat and furniture polish: chin-chin, motherfuckers. Chin-chin.

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September 9, 2013

Movie Marathon #3: A Nightmare on Elm Street

I like classic horror movies. I like movies starring Johnny Depp before he only played one character. I like Robert Englund running around with a spiky glove of death terrorizing sexy youths while they sleep.

No, I’m not suddenly going to turn around and admit to hating another seminal film-I love Nightmare on Elm Street. It’s absolutely, utterly, wonderfully absurd; one of the first movies to employ properly hilarious and creative methods of violent death, in the form of the supernatural kiddie fiddler Freddie Krueger.

The first of the Big Three of Horror I’ll be reviewing over the next thirty days (Halloween, Friday the 13th and Elm Street), Wes Craven’s creepy little horror comes up it around a bit, threw in a pointlessly alcoholic mother, some soft-core sex scenes, and tried to work out what they couagainst one major barrier; the film itself is pretty awful. Now, shut up and let me explain; Wes Craven is a cracking director, and his skill at shooting a gorgeous, claustrophobic chiller is evident even in this, which was one of his earliest movies. But Christ.

It’s clear from the complete lack of skilled actors that the budget went on making this a gory, scary slasher; the idea behind it is fantastic, and the film pretty much relies on the strength of the concept and Englund’s cackle (“DON’T RUN IN THE HELL-WAYS!”). The rest of the acting is pretty shockingly terrible; I know time makes fools of us all, but Elm Street looks beyond dated; it looks like someone took dated, then bashed it wround a bit, threw in an alcoholic mother, some soft-core sex scenes and then worked out what would stick to the wall with a litre of pigs blood. The writing revels in the limitations of the youthful, glassy-eyed leads, and Wes never forgets what he’s trying to do: create a new, violent, scary but ultimately entertaining movie. He’s working from his weird, pretty unmarketable idea in a genre that wasn’t really respected at the time-the peripheries, such as acting, script, characterization, etc, weren’t as important or fun as drowning Johnny Depp in a backwards waterfall of blood. All hail Wes.

A Nightmare on Elm Street

Spectacle: 7
Acting: 5
Script: 6
Entertainment Value: 9
Influence: 9

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September 8, 2013

Movie Marathon #2: Pan’s Labyrinth

Now, I have an opinion about Pan’s Labyrinth. This won’t surprise you, as I have a fucking opinion about everything; only a few nights ago I had a balls-to-the-wall rant about urinary tract infections. But Pan’s Labyrinth, the Guillermo Del Toro fantasy romp set against the background of the Spanish revolution, is something I have a very strong opinion about.

I don’t really like it. And I want to; I really like Del Toro in general, especially the wonderfully creepy The Devil’s Backbone. I like films that use major historical events to tell smaller stories, and I love the kind of vaguely Grecian mythology that’s woven throughout the film. But I just-don’t-get it.

The film isn’t bad. It looks absoloutely stunning; visually, it’s a luscious film, whether it’s following an annoying little brat running around a maze (for some reason, I just can’t stand the little girl who is the focus of the film. It’s beyond the child-actor affect; she’s a fucking idiot) or watching a man sew his cheek up in brutally unflinching detail. But it feels unfocused; it wants to be a biting historical commentary, but it never really bothers to flesh out the relevant characters, with anyone involved with any kind of political intrigue essentially acting as a big cardboard cut-out with a smiley face and a funny mustache scrawled on them. The actors do their best, and manage to scratch out some genuinely affecting scenes from the messy script, but overall the film becomes lost in what it wants to be rather than what it can actually achieve. It is neither a brilliant historical drama or a magical fantasy movie; it is a reasonably average representation of both, mashed together with a big stick of fascism.

Del Toro himself said that Pan’s Labyrinth was the first film he’s ever had complete artistic control over; great for him, but for me it proved that the Peter-Jackson-alike is best when his genius is reigned in by someone to point the story and the characters in the right direction. Or just when he makes stuff like Pacific Rim. Which was incredible.

And yet Labyrinth is almost universally considered a genius piece of cinema. I’m not saying I’m right and the entire critical world is wrong. But then again, I’m not not saying that either. Ho hum.

Pan’s Labyrinth

Spectacle: 9
Script: 6
Acting: 7
Entertainment Value: 6
Influence: 8

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September 7, 2013

Movie Marathon #1: Muppet Treasure Island

It was only this week that I watched Muppet Treasure Island for the eighth time this year. There’s something deeply comforting about that movie; I don’t know if it’s Tim Curry, a bear with a man living in his thumb, or Billy Connolly exclaiming “RUM TILL I FLOAT!”, but there’s something distinctly adult about this kid’s movie.

It’s peppered with meta nods to a more mature audience; clever little asides that stop the whole thing turning into a kiddie-centric retelling of a classic novel. More importantly, though, it’s fucking entertaining; I watched the show with my good buddie , and we could both unashamedly chant along with at least three quarters of the dialogue and every single one of the songs. I have no idea how anything that I know that comprehensively and with that level of constancy could still entertain me, but it does. Maybe it’s because I have a relationship with Muppet Treasure Island that outweighs most of my major romantic couplings, but there’s something warm and fuzzy about crawling back into that womb of childish glee at seeing Kermit in a funny coat. It’s also heartwarming to see how these big-name stars always just avoid the trap of being out-acted by a puppet, while maintaining a ridiculous amount of chemistry and camaraderie with these mechanical teddies voiced by Frank Oz

I will stand by my belief that anyone who doesn’t know the words to at least one song from Muppet Treasure Island is inherently not worth knowing; anyone who can’t understand the appeal of a movie which is guileless and cheekily self-aware in equal measure, a movie which truly immortalized some lesser-known pirate book from, like, forever ago, and a movie with some of the coolest action scenes in history. Do it. Do it now. Preferably while drunk.

Muppet Treasure Island

Spectacle: 8
Script: 10
Entertainment Value: 10
Acting: 9
Influence: 7

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September 2, 2013

Anniversarial

(skip to the final paragraph for the interactive fun-time talky-talk blogosphere bonanza)

So, I realised this week that my humble blog, The Cutprice Guignol, will be reaching it’s anniversary very soon. When I started this blog, I had just begun university, was living away from home for the first time, and couldn’t legally drink. Now, I’m days away from entering a second-year journalism course, in my first flat, with a bottle of half-drunk rum in the cupboard above my oven. It’s been a year of whining, moaning, and bitching about Glee, and I’d like to take this opportunity to raise a glass of Merlot to everyone who has ever accidentally stumbled onto this blog. My commiserations to the one guy who searched for Karen Gillan Snuff Movie and ended up here; I can’t imagine your disappointment. You absolute freak.

And so I’ve decided to do something a little bit different for the next month. To celebrate the year of writing, I’m going to create a month-long movie marathon for all you movie buffs and idle cinema goers. For thirty days straight, I’m going to watch and review a variety of movies and post the results onto this blog. I’m going to try to mix up the genres (I would just do thirty days of horror, but I fear the dribbling, trembling mess that would result), but because I’m distressingly lazy and also because I like finding out about new movies, I’m opening the door to my head.

If you-yes, you- have any particular films you’d like to see reviewed-favorites, classics, something you can’t be bothered watching but want to say something pithy about at parties-just leave a comment on this post of any or the Movie Marathon debacle and I WILL review it, starting on the 7th September. So settle in, get some wine, amass your loved ones, and join me on a silver screen adventure while I go slowly mental with the strain of dealing with manafactured realities every day for a month. We’ll have a cracking time. Maybe.

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August 25, 2013

A Wanker’s Literary Reaction: The Bachelor

Well, it’s been far too damn long since I wrote something cynical. What can I say; it’s summertime, and I’ve spent the sun-washed months sleeping till noon, holding hands with kittens and wearing kooky skirts. But I’m back, bitche- kind readers and subscribers to my humble blog. And I watched The Bachelor.

Recently, I was pretty ill; miserably bedridden for a week or so. Bundled up in bed with nothing but my sociopathic roommate and my laptop for company, I naturally decided now was the time to start a new TV series. Nothing too taxing, you understand; I wanted trash. So I decided to watch The Bachelor. I’d heard plenty about it-a harmless, moderately amusing reality dating show where a bunch of false-nailed vixens cat-fought it out over a dim Ken doll. But, my God, it was so much worse than I could have ever imagined.

The show did more than simply encourage a bit of competitive dating; it actively encouraged a passive-agressively horrible storyline where scores of insecure women simultaneously dated what the show believed was the epitome of a “nice guy”. But this man was displaying high levels of affection to almost every woman he was thrust together with-the goal of the show is to find “The One”, at any rate. And, clearly, this televised polygamy ended in the horrendous spirit-crushing of pretty much every contestant, as the Bachelor convinces them all he wants to marry them and have twenty children in a field in Ohio. I found the whole thing genuinely disturbing.

And that brings me onto my main point-recently, dating, romance and love has been co-opted by reality TV. And that’s dangerous. People, by nature, are boring, rambling beings who generally need to be coaxed and prodded into making a good story. That’s slightly more acceptable when it’s, say, a high-stakes cookery show or home makeover programme, because the whole thing is already presented as a little ridiculous, a little unbelievable. But, in order to reel in the viewers, the creators of these shows need to convince their audience that this is all genuine, a true romance leading to endless happiness for all involved. Hint for even a moment that these emotions are manufactured for the sake of good television, and you’ve lost your main demographic-romantics.

This awful, fishbowl-style take on romance presents highly concentrated emotion and saccharine sweetness-the dates are ridiculous, the endless lingering shots of contestants canoodling in full view of the camera are awkward, the preposterously quick declarations of love are borderline hilarious. They present a skewed view of love in fast-forward, and, for the sort of people who already believe that this is genuinely reality TV, everything in real life is going to seem disappointing.
So, more or less, The Bachelor ruined my (love) life.

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August 16, 2013

A Yellow Marriage: The Simpsons

Now, I don’t have many rules in life. Don’t trust a student to do anything in the time frame you’ve given them; don’t try and fix the towel rack in your bathroom while your mechanically-minded roommate is out of the country; never, ever arrive early for a bus in Scotland. But one rule-one defining, thrusting, pulsingly huge rule-I live my life by is this: NEVER trust someone who doesn’t like The Simpsons.

I’ve been watching The Simpsons for literally my entire life (in fact, the episode Homer: Badman was broadcast on my birthday. Almost as impressive as the fact I share an anniversary with Bill Nye the Science Guy). And it is, unequivocally, my favourite show- I watch when I’m down, when I’m sick, when I’m happy, when I’m working, when I’m sleepy, when I’m horny-the point I’m trying to make is that there is no conceivable mood I could have where watching The Simpsons would be off the emotional menu.

It’s a beautifully constructed show; in equal parts touching, romantic, and sweet, while never losing sight of the fact that it should entertain first and foremost. It’s fucking hilarious; even the undoubtedly weaker new series (twenty-four series! That’s older than my parent’s marriage!) are consistently amusing fare, even if they’ve lost the touch to make me weep like a clinically depressed toddler whose just been told Rosie & Jim isn’t being renewed for the rumored final season.

What’s truly wonderful about The Simpsons is that everyone has a character they relate to. For me, it’s Lisa-I mean, come on. The irritatingly precocious, know-it-all, reliant-on-overachieving little sister? Nah, no idea what you’re talking about. But, as you grow up, you see more of yourself in older characters, as horrendously grounding as that is; when you start looking at Homer and Marge and realise you’d quite like a marriage like that, for some reason. I, myself, aspire to be Mr Burns. It’s incredible that the programme has created such sympathetic, relatable characters out of some four-fingered yellow sketches voiced by Hank Azaria and co. And, yeah, it’s gone downhill-but it still shows flashes of true, unadulterated brilliance, underscored by that pop-culture dobbing and genius writing. Whatever happens, The Simpsons is part of me-it’s influenced what I want, how I write, and who I am. Here’s to another twenty-four years.

Since that’s far too soppy a sentiment to leave the blog on: Cocks.

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August 13, 2013

Friends: An All-American Love Affair

I was sitting with my consort and one of his numerous family members (frankly, I only need three or four on a good day), watching Friends, when said family member merrily pointed out that it was essentially a hollow facade, as we could very probably recite the dialogue by heart, and perhaps act out each episode in avant-garde reproductions with hilarious wigs. Or something.

Her point, however, stands; I have been aware of Friends as long as I can remember (it started the year I was born) and watching it for most of my adolescence. I could probably give you a reasonably accurate rundown of the plot for every episode ever made, even though I wouldn’t class it as one of my favourite shows (for future reference, my favourite TV show ever is The Simpsons. A blog post is currently gestating but will likely be nine months in my mind-womb). And that’s wierd for me; I rarely attach myself so fully to a show I don’t completely adore, but watching Friends is like slipping into a warm bath with Stephen Fry-comforting, lulling and not something I would object to on any level. Because of the sheer vastness of the series, I’ve decided to simply take apart each of the main six characters for my own amusement (hey, maybe even yours!).

1. Rachel

An almost garishly girly girl, the writers didn’t really bother with a character for Rachel until the later series; instead, she was defined by her relationship with Ross and her general incompetence in the face of real life in any facet. It wasn’t until the later series that I really began to like the character that had begun as a hairstyle-she’s smart, ambitious, a little cynical, but ultimately a good person. Not as hot as Courtney Cox, though.

2. Joey

There’s still a huge part of me that wants to be the big spoon to Matt LeBlanc. He’s a horrendously smarmy, promiscuous, proto-Stinson who once shagged the hot one from Sex and the City-but he also practically originated the man-slut-with-a-heart-of-gold. He’s also one of the most consistently funny characters-intellectually a blancmange, but socially pretty canny and the king of physical comedy on Friends. Not as hot as Courtney Cox, though.

3. Phoebe

Urururururgh. Phoebe, for me, is the only character that makes me flinch a little-it’s less because she’s poorly written, and more because she represents the kind of person I dislike in real life. Her flightly, airy, hippy-dippy nature is well-pitched but irritates the hell out of me-her only real redeeming factors being her wonderfully handled relationship with Joey, and her acting as a catalyst to get both Giovanni Ribsi AND Paul Rudd onto the show. Not as hot as Courtney Cox, though.

4. Ross

Simultaneously pathetic and sweet, arrogant and adorable, David Schwimmer puts in a deliciously Eeyore-ish performance as the hapless paleontologist. Everything’s said with a drooping head and that cuddly drone, he’s the understated comedy lynchpin of the series-and, as the only person with a kid from the start, brings a pleasant sense of emotional balance to the show. Not as hot as Courtney Cox, though.

5. Chandler

Chandler is my spirit animal. As much a source of mockery as a source for it, he’s fully rounded from the beginning-the try-hard joker in the pack, cynical, bitter, sad, but crushingly quippy and brutally funny. When you get too drunk and start trying to make socially incisive witticisms about your social group, this is who you imagine you are. Not as hot as Courtney Cox, though.

6. Monica

By far the best of the women, Cox shares mountains of chemistry with her on-screen cohorts, usually acting as the stepping stone for all the best jokes and emotional moments. Her partnership with Chandler is superb, the ultimate in unlikely-likely sitcom romance. Not as hot as..um, actually, yeah.

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August 3, 2013

On Hangovers

So, I had a few drinks on Sunday. I’m neither teetotal nor a raging alcoholic; I have been both in the past but that’s neither here nor there. I usually most enjoy a drink, over Radio Four, at the end of a long, hard day spent getting up at three and writing till midnight. But on Sunday, I had what might be defined as One Too Many. I remember sipping red wine at ten, dancing to Paramore, swigging blue Wicked at twelve, moving onto vodka and coke by one. The very last thing I have any recollection of is a young lady handing me a bottle-cap full of vodka. “Vodka shots?” I probably declared in my loud, drunk voice, “I can’t see why n-”

Then it all goes black.

I know I arrived back in bed around half seven on Monday morning. I know I slept in my shoes. I know I woke up to my consort elbowing me in the head. And all I remember from the rest of Monday is agony. I sat up in bed and left my eyeballs lying on the pillow, stretching the tendons from my eyes to the point where I became convinced could actually hear them playing Duelling Banjos whenever I moved too quickly. I stared at a pizza crust for three hours as my stomach tried to crawl up my throat and punch me in the face. My liver hurt. MY LIVER HURT. Life was unbearably, crushingly, suicidally awful for a few hours. And, my God, did I milk it.

And that’s the thing about hangovers-you deserve no sympathy for having one. You know what drinking does to you; no-one makes out drinking leads you to a spritely leap out of bed at half eight to choirs of angels strumming harps of magic pearls. You know damn well you’re risking a self-inflicted kicking every time you get pissed. And it’s for that reason that you most want sympathy; not only did you make a silly, easily avoidable mistake last night, but also your head hurts and you want to eat aspirin like they’re magic beans that’ll sprout beanstalks in your insides to absorb the pain of it all. And crisps. Lots of crisps. Always crisps.

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July 19, 2013

Weasels, Mulder, and the Summertime

So it’s been hot around here recently. So hot that going outside causes me to burst into spontaneous flames. So hot that last night I had a dream about ice-skating around a museum of giant mutant weasels. So hot I have an amusing anecdote about me, groggy with sleep and in the nude, the curtains on my ground-floor flat, and a very noisy painter I knew nothing about till we were face-to-tits at ten in the morning. In short: it’s fucking hot. I don’t like it.

As an excuse not to go outside (as if I ever need one), I’ve been re-watching The X-Files. The X-Files is one of those series I watched back-to-back a few years ago in a naked frenzy of “I SHOULD HAVE FUCKING SEEN THIS BY NOW”. Thusly, I didn’t really appreciate it the first time round; it took until my consort tempted me into watching “Just the Stephen King episode!” with some wine and doughnuts (a classic combination) last weekend till I found myself gently spooning the screen in sheer delight at how utterly wonderawful it is.

Allow me to explain: I LOVE The X-Files. In many ways, it’s a superb show; few programmes have managed to capture the superb chemistry between a devastatingly handsome David Duchovny and a I’d-nail-her-so-hard-you-could-hang-potraits-from-her Gillian Anderson, or the flashes of extraordinarily good scriptwriting, or those occasionally brilliant guest performers. But it’s patchy. I always felt the show was at it’s best when it was doing the freak-of-the-week stuff; throwing Mulder and Scully’s banter at whatever creepy, outrageous or downright silly creature is prancing around America this week. My main issue with the show is that it got too wrapped up in it’s own mythos; by the last few seasons, all the aliens and Smoking Men and mysterious pregnancies got in the way of the fun parts of the show. I do appreciate building a universe around a show, adding depth and shadow to the programme, but I LIKE IT BETTER WHEN THEY’RE MONSTER-BUSTING DAMMIT.

On a side note, I’ve started a new project. After originally planning to do some vague articles about, officially, “Ghosts n’ shit”, I ended up with no less than fifteen interviews, two confirmed invites to go on some official paranormal investigations, and more ideas than I knew what to do with, I’ve decided to turn the whole thing into a bit of a book. Should be fun, and I’ll keep you updated; I’ll be posting the chapter about my ghosthunting trips up here on due course, so keep an eye out for some potentially paranormal antics. If the heat doesn’t kill me first. Urgh.

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