The Cutprice Guignol

The Ninth Year: The Haunting of Swill House
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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June 28, 2013

Charlie and the Chopped-Up Factory

In short, it’s been a rough week. I’ve been writing (yes, writing is my actual job, living the dream, sell-out, whatever you want to shout at me) enough to castrate my sleep pattern, my body has been going so mental I half-expect to wake up tomorrow with my thumbs on fire or something, and I had to get up at seven this morning. SEVEN! I’m a student AND freelance writer! I shouldn’t even know the morning exists!

So the week’s been a blur. But one thing that stands out loud and clear is watching Bates Motel back-to-back. I may have casually dropped into this blog perhaps once or twice that I don’t really mind a bit of horror here and there, so I decided to get down on the prequel of Psycho, starring Freddie Highmore (welcome to a world of painful Charlie and the Chopped-Up Factory jokes, darling) as a teenage Norman Bates, Vera Farmiga as the eponymous Mother, and Max Thieriot (whose name I swear I read as Max The Riot for seven episodes) as half-brother his name escapes me. I’ll go out on a limb and guess the surname’s Bates.

Now, I wasn’t sure about this series from the start. I put off watching it so long because the basic premise-a Psycho prequel set in the present day-seemed so thunderingly pointless. Origin stories are almost inevitably disappointing, as we almost need no more than an implication of background for a character as iconic as Norman Bates. I just need to know what they are now (or, confusingly, 1960 in this case). But hey: I’ll give everything a go once. That’s why my nose is squint.

The show, I soon discovered, has several wonderful points. Max Thieriot, for example, took the kind of shitty role he was given and ran with it, becoming a vain, snippy voice of reason against the increasing tidal wave of absurdity. I couldn’t tell you specifically why he was my favourite-maybe because I came to the series with no preconceptions about his character-but I loved Thieriot and he’ll be delighted to hear I shall be following his career with interest after Bates Motel. And there were some really fantastic touches-the recreation of the motel and house on the hill was grand-as well as a couple of seriously unsettling Oedipal moments between Norman and Norma (there’s a scene when she’s sitting on his bed, just chatting, and touches his leg as she leaves, and the barely-perceptible leg shuffle Highmore does afterwards made me cringe). I like the few nods to Hitchcock’s Psycho, too-there’s a spot-on recreation of a shot of Norman from above that made the pretentious part of me put down it’s Merlot and raise an eyebrow.

But there are many, many things wrong with the show. It makes Norma into a constant victim, then villain, then victim, then villain, then…and so on. I like moral ambiguity in a show-Bryan Cranston in Breaking Bad, anyone?- but there’s no grey area here. There’s just black and white very, very quickly; it’s like driving past a field of zebras on a segway. Then there’s the problem of Freddie Highmore. No, that’s wrong- I don’t know if he’s good or not. Norman Bates is a jackpot of a role for someone trying to break into the real acting industry after being a pretty well-known movie baby- you’ve got one of the most iconic performances ever to work off of and some sterling source material in the form of the film and the book. But I’m torn. Sometimes I think he’s giving an astoundingly perceptive performance of an emotionless psychopath and sometimes I think he just can’t act. Either way-he’s not Norman.

And therein lies the rub. The show, while occasionally showing flashes of being interesting and quite dark, isn’t and shouldn’t have tried to align itself with Psycho. Tap into small-town politics, have a creepy mother-son relationship, make it wierd and unsettling-but let’s face it, lads, the minute you gave Norman an iPhone I disassociated Bates Motel from Psycho in my head. The show is pointless. Interesting, but pointless. We don’t need Psycho: College Years. The show itself seems to realize this early on and gives up making Norman into NORMAN BATES; aside from a few cursory “LOL HE’Z A NUTTER” moments, Bates Motel is going to be looked back on as another hanger-on, a vaguely interesting premise that threw out it’s source material by episode four. That said, it’s been renewed for a second season, and I will be watching, to see if anyone can taxidermy up this joint. Somebody hand me a segway.

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June 23, 2013

Death: XXX

I’ve expressed countless times, both on this blog and in endless pub arguments, that violence in entertainment is not just justifiable but traditional; for years, we’ve been entertained by every genre of generalized human suffering. Something I don’t think I’ve expressed as fully is my aversion to sexualised violence. I’m not sure why, but the addition of a sexual element to torture or murder or what have you makes me a little…uncomfortable. It could be my horribly old-fashioned view of sex as being best when shared with someone you love and care about, and when you start adding in, I don’t know, a naked woman frolicking in the blood of a beautiful, scythed young nymphet (yes, I fucking hate Hostel), it gets a bit rough. Nothing against the BDSM community, mind- Safe, Sane and Consensual is the general rule there. Three words, ironically that do not apply to 1000 Ways To Die.

1000 ways to die is your usual dumping ground for terrible actors, spurious experts and boundless “true stories”. Basically, it features dramatized versions of various horrible and unlikely ways people have met their maker. It’s hilarious viewing for the first episode or two-a sort of less-funny, poorly animated version of The Darwin Awards, accompanied by a hi-larious voice over which would be infinitely if it were just me with a swanny whistle and a whoopee cushion. By episode three, you’re feeling a bit grubby. By episode six or so, you’re weeping in a corner in a mixture of fear, disgust and heartbreaking self-loathing. I counted up, and, of the thirty-seven episodes of the first three seasons, there are forty-one stories involving sex in some way or another. And this isn’t all jolly larks, like a woman masturbating with a carrot (HAS SHE NOT HEARD OF YEAST INFECTIONS?!) and sending a deadly air bubble to her heart. This is someone mistaking a grizzly bear for a member of a furry group and having his intestines torn out. This is someone trying to seduce a builder and being bisected by a buzz saw. This is someone choking to death on a ball gag after his dominatrix mistakes his protests at his hitherto-unknown deadly latex allergy for moans of pleasure. This is Death: XXX.

And this is all rated TV-14. Right, I’m not getting into the ratings debate (again) but seems to me like this is cheating a little bit. Just because the show doesn’t people getting their guts ripped out or their genitals electrocuted or a frankly questionable amount of stuff to do with violent death and farts doesn’t mean it doesn’t put that idea in someone’s head. Now, I was a particularly neurotic and easily frightened child (I used to get terrified by the descriptions of CSI in the Radio Times), but even by age fourteen I don’t think putting the concept of pretty intense BDSM death or violent brain hemorrhage in MY violent brain hemorrhage would have been something I could cope with. Something like Saw incorporates hideous death into a story (or at least a semblance of one), but this show simply presents money shot after money shot as entertainment with no sense of moral or character or depth. It’s exhaustingly pointless-less compassion fatigue than sheer acceptance of your own limits as a human. Why is this harmless entertainment? Why is this acceptable because of a slightly sarcastic voiceover? If I make pithy comments over House of 1000 Corpses will it be required viewing in primary schools? Why isn’t anyone making me dinner? Where’s my wine? What was I… oh, forget it. I’ll keep fighting the good fight.

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June 15, 2013

Hannibal: Aye, Alright.

Well, hello, you elusive readers, you. I’d apologise for my lack of posting but I’d feel far too much like a lecturer breezing in late for a class everyone was hoping they’d forget to turn up to so I won’t do that. Essentially: I’m back.

Recently, I was forcibly coerced (ish) by my-well, now we’ve hit the boyfriend/partner barrier. I dislike the term “boyfriend” but “partner” feels wrong for an eighteen-year-old ah-tiste and a twentysomething version of Frasier Crane sitting around drinking wine and talking shite about litrechoor. Partner is someone you’re in the crucial stage of living with but not quite started to find physically repulsive. From now on, I shall simply refer to him as….my consort. Right, so, I was coerced by my consort (ah, so much better) into watching the TV redo of Hannibal, starring Mads Mikklesen as the eponymous Lecter and Hugh Dancy as Will Graham, yer usual brilliant-but-damaged investigator.

There were several factors riding against my enjoyment of the series; firstly, and most importantly, I hate the character of Hannibal Lecter. Silence of the Lames is, simply and purely, one of the most overrated films I’ve ever seen-I admire Anthony Hopkins as an actor, and Jodie Foster put in a very good performance, but I find Lecter himself to be an intrinsically silly character precisely because they don’t embrace the silliness of the role. All horror and horror-related roles have to accept that, at their heart, it’s all a bit daft. Hannibal was presented with such po-faced sincerity I instantly hated him. He can stick his head up his qiante.

In addition to this, Laurry Fishburne was in it. By which I mean, LAURENCE FISHBURNE: ACTOR. He was Larry Fishburne and wonderful in Apocalypse Now, then he was LAURENCE FISHBURNE: ACTOR and terrible in The Matrix (which is one of the most Godawfully humourless films I’ve ever seen, but I digress). And here he was doing some PROPER ACTING. Fuck.

However, I was actually pleasantly surprised by the debut episode as a whole. Hugh Dancy was excellent as the real crux of the show, helped along with a liberal sprinkling of clever visuals and sharp plotting. I liked that the show shifted focus from LOOK HE’S A CANNIBAL! BUT HE’S ALL CHARMING! OOH HE’S EATING LUNGS! LOOK AT HIM THERE, EATING THOSE LUNGS! to Lecter as a very intelligent bloke who happened to have a taste for human flesh. Mads does a grand job of somehow bringing a wry self-awareness to the role, and much credit has to be given to the beautiful cinematography; the first time we see Lecter, lit to look like a skull, the camera casually deepening the focus of the shot till we finally set eyes on his taut stare, is simply perfect. You should have heard the noises I was making, close as I was to televisual ecstasy. And because the show isn’t all about him, Larry (I said it) reverts back to being a very strong supporting actor, a vein shot through with rationality against the slightly supernatural Dancy. It wasn’t perfect- my consort pointed out rightly that two characters were just stapled to the plot in order to chug out some useful exposition, and it didn’t do much in the way of tension building.

But hey: this is the first episode of a television reboot of an iconic franchise that’s been mostly film-based up till now. There are going to be kinks to be ironed out, and I trust Dancy, Mads and-dare I say it- Larry to do what they can. I’m interested to see the rest of it, and that’s really not too bad an opener.

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