The Cutprice Guignol

The Ninth Year: The Haunting of Swill House
May 20, 2013

Doctor Who: Tenacity, Alcohol, Rollicks: In Summary

So, two days ago, Doctor Who came to an end (till FUCKING NOVEMBER ), with a stonker of an episode from the Machiavellian mind of Moffat. It’s difficult to sum up the episode in a few sentences (although I will admit that the first thing I remember from the episode was the title and the writers credit coming up and exclaiming, horrified, “JESUS, I’VE BEEN SPELLING HIS NAME WRONG ALL THIS TIME!”), because it so satisfyingly brought the first Clara arc to an end, let us spend some more time in the presence of the imitable Richard E. Grant, and delight in the lesbians-and-potato men sidekicks which shouldn’t work but do.

I will spoil nothing for no man, but here are the best things about The Name of The Doctor in ascending order: the increasingly hilarious Strax (“Surrender your women and intellectuals!”), the almost total absence of the kids from last week, the classic Moffat mind-bending plot, Matt Smith writing a formal and very convincing letter to the BAFTA committee to split the awards between him and SteVen next year, Jenna Louise-Coleman proving she’s the best choice of assistant since Sarah-Jane, a beautiful, truly touching and almost redeeming apparition of River Song, Vastra and Jenny having more girl-on-girl eroticism than me and half an hour with my Special Drawer, an appearance by a very lovely British veteran that had me almost spewing with glee, and an ending so superb you’ll want to watch it twelve times in a row with your eyes pressed to the screen till every frame is seared onto your brain forever.

It’s tempting to go for a big, wanky summary looking back over the last couple of months of episode, but I’ve had a better idea. Hop on iPlayer, get all the episodes set up, get some sort of vaguely classy spirits on the go, and get prepared to get pissed with my patented Doctor Who Drinking Game (I was going to try for a pun on Tardis, but I’ve done NOTHING BUT GIVE to you people on that front for weeks and I’m tired. I have a headache, alright? Stop jabbing it into the small of my back.),

1. Take one shot for every time the Tardis is shown in flight, crash-landing, or not liking one of the Doctors lady friends because she’s a Jeremy-Kyle level possessive bitch.

2. Take a drink every time Matt Smith delivers a line with reaLLY WIErd emPHASIS.

3. Take a drink every time a British institution appears onscreen.

4. Take a drink for every episode Clara is wearing a very short skirt of some description.

5. Take a drink for every secondary character actor you’ve seen in another British television show.

6. Take a drink for every time the Doctor is really touchy with someone he probably hasn’t even shagged yet.

7. Take a drink for every time the villain/alien is revealed for the first time in an episode.

8. Take  a drink for every time Matt Smith thinks he’s David Tennant.

9. Take a drink for every time the adventure music starts playing.

10. Drink continually till November 23rd when we get the blessed show back.

 

So now you’ve turned my brain inside out, fustrated me, delighted me, and ruined my liver. I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

2.

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May 16, 2013

The New Doctor

Well, it’s time. Me. I’ve decided to bloody sort out Stephen Moffat. Not in an Robert de Niro way, you understand; no, I’m going to help the wonderful bastard. Yes, I’m going to give you my well-considered and positively not a result of drinking seminal ideas about who should take on the mantle of Doctor Who.

1. Sue Perkins

Everyone’s favourite lesbian. It’s Doctor Who, not Doctor Him, and this eccentrically coiffed and comedically bespectacled British institution would be delightful at the helm of the Tardis. She’s got the manic energy of Matt Smith, and I reckon she could pull out the dark side if we needed-just really watch her make another somehow classy innuendo on The Great British Bake Off. You can see the thesp within. In this scenario, Sandi Toksvig would be the assistant, because I want to see them in an enclosed space  together for a long time. It’s the closest thing Radio 4 will ever come to hardcore lesbian pornography.

2. Will Smith

Throw him a bone. He’s a solid actor, and something Doctor Who has been missing of late is the genuine cool factor-yes, Matt Smith gave us bumbling charm, David Tennant gave us goggle-eyed presence, Christopher Ecclestone gave us glowering angst-but genuine, all-out cool? Will Smith could pull that off. Go on. Give him some gravitas. You’d just have to keep reminding him the sonic screwdriver wasn’t his mind-wiping gadget from MIB.

3. Barry Lydon

He’s sarcastic, he’s horrifyingly intelligent, desperately funny and he’d bring something very, very new to the show. Have an old, tired, pissed-off Doctor, sick of the endless rotation of foreign planets and cheap whores (Catherine Tate excepted, because she’d probably gank me). I’d really love to see this happen, purely because it’s a pet theory and I’ve grown up with his brandy-swilling brand of warm cynicism for as long as I can remember. Do it.

4.  Alan Davies

He can do the adorable puppy thing beautifully, but in Johnathan Creek he pulled out a very nice brand of thin-lipped humour which would make a perfect Doctor, but a new one. He’d could bring the bouncing-off-the-walls thing and the bang-on comic timing with ease, then go all Black Ops on their asses just as convincingly. And he’s fascinatingly, terrifyingly, somehow unfairly ageless. Clearly in this scenario, it’s a toss-up between Caroline Quentin and Stephen Fry as the assistant.

5. Stephen Moffat

Because anyone who gets involved in Doctor Who on any level secretly wants to be the Doctor. You’re fooling no-one, Moffat.

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May 12, 2013

Doctor Who: Tin Aliens Rile Davis In Space

I was not looking forward to this weeks episode of Doctor Who. Firstly, there were children, who would undoubtedly stink up the Tardis with childish glee and the smell of yoghurt (all children smell like yoghurt. They do). And then there were cybermen. Stephen. Now, Stephen. Didn’t we discuss this? I SPECIFICALLY VETOED  recycling of villains before the series began, and yet you continue to defy me. And while I’m on the subject, why the cybermen? Big, mechanised dullards with the face of a very specific fetish doll. Boo. BOO.

But. BUT. This episode? Actually, it wasn’t too bad. At all. Neil Gaiman was at the helm of the story, patently wazzed off his spunk on something I’d like to get my hands on, and rolling about in Matt Smith’s acting talent like a pig in space-shit. The cybermen were gratifyingly played with a little, with the episode splitting itself between Clara leading the traditional Who misfit soldiers (including the adorable Will Merrick, who played Alo in Skins) against an army of the metal monsters and the Doctor playing a high-stakes game of chess. The prize? HIS OWN MIND. The kids were annoying- Christ, and how- to the point of eliciting an enthusiastic middle finger from my viewing companion every time that bratty little girl one rolled her eyes like a fucking pinball machine. But, to the credit of the episode, they were essentially muted by some sort of cyberman brain slug thing at the end of the first act. Good shout, Gaiman.

Matt Smith simply went mad with this episode; playing both the normal Doctor and the part of him that was being taken over by some sort of Cyberman ubermensch. Most of this psychological battle took place in a floating low-res galaxy, which was pointless but very fun, and seeing the good Doctor playing against the more nasty Doctor in one episode was so very wrong that it became completely excellent. Seeing Clara being a bit ballsy and Doctor-free was a nice change, but Jenna-Louise, honey? That chemistry is a massive, nationwide cock tease. Somebody fuck somebody. On another note, Warwick Davis cropped up to bring some class to the episode, even in a comedy aviator hat (his performance very nearly wiped the taste of Life is Short out of my mind’s mouth), and, like every guest star, looked delighted just to be anywhere near a Tardis.

To be honest, the reason I enjoyed this episode so much was because my standards were so low. But Nightmare in Silver went somewhere I didn’t expect it to go, and with the balls-to-the-wall silliness and Gaiman’s glorious verbosity, it went to the right place. But was that River Song’s name I spotted in the promo for next week? I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

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May 5, 2013

Doctor Who: Terror and Rather Delightful Inherent Sapphicity

So, last week, I was printing out some tosh or other (actually, it was a Betjeman poem that I wanted in hard copy to put on my wall, but that stays between us) when I idly pulled back the curtains of the print room to look at the mossy bank beyond. There, barely a foot from me, was a mother duck scrambling about with about twelve, teeny, fluffy, snuggly ducklings. I mean, glee doesn’t cover my reaction. I was standing there with a lopsided, beatific grin that looked like I’d found out I’d been cast in the Saw reboot. I was happy happy. But even tiny avian womb-hummers didn’t come close to making me as smack-facedly joyful as Doctor Who this Saturday. This weeks episode, The Crimson Horror, comes to us from The North (requiring Matt Smith to do a frankly erogenous Yorkshire accent), following the tale of the creepy Winifred Gilliflower and the strange goings-on in her institute. 

Now, I really, really dug this episode. It was the 100th episode broadcast since the revival in 2005, and it saw the centenary in with style; it was a proper rollick, allowing us another three-quarters of an hour with the lesbian lizard, her girlfriend, and the potato-head war machine from the Christmas special. The story was a prime example of how tight the writing can be on DW- oneliner after oneliner (“Oh, God, attack of the supermodels…”) and ridiculous throwaway sequences wrapped around what was, at it’s heart, a creepy and compelling story. The chemistry of the extracurricular trio with Clara and the Doctor was superb, as ever, because the writers haven’t quite cottoned on to it yet; as soon as they do they’ll be overused to hell and I want them to be a highlight instead of a third (, fourth and fifth) wheel. 

It was another good episode for a very smoochy Matt Smith, playing the fun Doctor for the first time in your ages, smashing things with chairs and getting a very nicely pitched scene with Rachael Stirling towards the end of the episode that provided emotional closure without souring the mood at all. Diana Rigg, who awoke every pubescent sexuality in the country, was great as the kind of demure psycho bitch Doctor Who specializes in, reveling in the grandeur of the setting and getting to do a funny accent on top of it. But this wasn’t an episode of performances, or monsters, or special effects; it was an episode of attitude, that attitude being “fuck it, let’s have fun”. More, please.

Not so good, though? Both the promise of the Cybermen AND child actors next week. I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

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April 30, 2013

The Glee Project: Nope.

So, as some of you know, I’m in an abusive relationship with Glee. I want to leave- dear God, after the school shooting episode followed shortly by the molestation special I want to leave more than I want to have already finished flat-hunting. And since last season, we’ve had regular croppings-up of the wheat harvested from the hours of chaff that make up The Glee Project.

The premise is piss-simple- twelve talented youngsters compete for a guest-star role on Glee, taking part in singing, dancing and music video challenges, whearapon a group of judges, including series co-creator Ryan Murphy, eliminate one human. Thing is, that there are only about two or three actual personalities for each series- and they are, without exception, bastards. Of course, we had the “personalities”-the sort of people who could be summed up by a single, medium-volume klaxon noise.”EEEEEEEEEEEHHHHH”.  Often, this translates into “OMG I’M SO QUIRKY/FLIRTY/CRAY-CRAY” (delete as appropriate) but is no less irritating, generic or shite.

But the only people who stand out in my mind are the people who were genuinely awful. I understand that editing makes villains of us all, but some are truly indefensible. Take Lindsay Pierce-unbelievably beautiful, voice like a filthy angel, the sheer charisma and draw that consistently drags my eye back to her- who certainly did herself no favours, ever, at any point. Yet what pisses me off about the whole affair is that the winners have consistently been the least offensive participant-yeah, Damian Mcthingy, Samuel Boredom and Blake Jenner-ally-nobody-cares are all supremely talented and I don’t begrudge them winning at all, but they were also the contestants who made nil impression apart from both seeming like really sound blokes. Glee is about huge personalities and dramatic personae, but this isn’t reflected in The Glee Projected Growth of Income. Personally, I felt the really fantastic performers were made out to be dicks and chucked out come round six or so. Grumble, grumble.

Can I interrupt myself to point out the only person from The Glee Project who didn’t feel like an unsubtle bolstering of the show was Ali Stroker, who had a single cameo in one episode? All the other characters have been ruined. RUINED. Dragged back and forth through the shit-heap of romantic couplings, unlikely backstories and scattergun sexuality, it’s no wonder I came to the show with a big thumbs-down over the actors that they were helpless to prevent.

You see Ryan Murphy? Don’t like him. I mean, let’s not get me wrong here- I LOVE his television. American Horror Story, Nip/Tuck, a lot of Glee-it works for me. But as a human being, he really pisses me off, and I don’t know why. I want to like him, want him to be a reflection of his brilliant, wry television, but he comes across as a humourless, actively dislikeable borderline-bastard. Nul Points. I like to think that when the show began he was a charming casanova, but Glee has driven him to this hypercritical, beaten-down souleater that we see before us. I know that’s what it’s done to me.

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April 27, 2013

Doctor Who: Tedium and Really Dark Industrial Scenes

Doctor Who this week continues a theme from early last season; the exploration, both physical, emotional and borderline sexual (I’m sorry, but there are far too many protuberant knobs and far too many lonely nights) of the Tardis. In this episode, Clara ends up trundling around lost inside the Tardis with the Doctor pretty much impotent (let’s call it a “usefulness semi”) to help her after yet another crash landing. AND this episode comes from the heaven-blessed quill of Sherlock scribe Stephen Thompson.

Without a doubt, the stellar circular plot was stronger than last weeks, but, sadly, the periphery characters-a three-brother salvage team in space-didn’t prove as likeable as Dougray and Jessica. Though the introduction of a straight-up android was pretty cool, I couldn’t get the image of Kryten of Red Dwarf out of my head. Luckily, Matt Smith and Jenna-Louise Coleman (looking very fetching in a dress I decided relatively quickly I couldn’t pull off) just get better and better as the series goes on, especially Coleman who has to carry the brunt of her scenes alone. And the slightly abrupt advancement of the Clara/Doctor plot was actually pretty decent, Matt Smith gratefully flexing his dark-Doctor muscles once again. The episode was gorgeously filmed, too-lots of balletic cameras up corridors and off-kilter shots creating that sense of the vastness and history of the Tardis that we’ve never really been physically privy to before.

This is a proper madman-with-a-box episode -the Doctor goes all kamikaze in his quest to recover Clara, ostensibly setting the Tardis to self-destruct and then hurtling around scolding the angsty Chuckle Triplets for the rest of the episode. My tone may belay my disappointment here, and I won’t apologize for it- yeah, the interior of the Tardis lived up to expectations spectacularly and the Silent-Hill-esque monsters were really cool, but there was lots of “OOOOOOH the Tardis has FEEEEEELINGS” and “OOOOOOH don’t annoy the TARDIIIIIS” which we knew already. Gives us some motivation-why? What drove her to it? And, by the way, “The Timelords were clever” won’t do. Maybe they’re setting it up for an even longer plot strand later in the series, but this was a prime bloody episode to advance it and they just kept it as-really- a perfectly serviceable adventure romp. It’s my own fault for expecting something more, but-hang on- a rift in space and time? Sounds familiar. I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

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April 26, 2013

A Dinner Party with Rob Zombie

I have a long-standing and constantly evolving list of fantasy dinner party guests. There are the obvious ones-Stephen Fry, Sandi Toksvig, Sue Perkins-and there are the pretty ones-Leigh Whannel, Shiloh Fernandez, Christopher Ecclestone (swoon)-and then there are the ones whose brains I’d take great pleasure in picking. These vary from day-to-day (the only constant is Stephen King) but one definite introduction to the table is Rob Zombie.

I know shag all about his music-don’t care, don’t want to-but his films are a different kettle of giblets. He directed the pointless but very good Halloween remake, as well as the House of 1000 Corpses/The Devil’s Rejects duo and his recent release Lords of Salem. Now, House of 1000 Corpses is a film which I can understand issue with-hardcore mega-schlock bordering on jet-black humour is a difficult one to sell, but I loved it (for anyone who has seen it-“BEHOLD! FISH-BOY!”). The balls-to-the-wall energy of Sheri-Moon Zombie, Bill Moseley, and Sid Haig sold it as the Chainsaw-Massacre-y Firefly family, and the greasy, sweaty aesthetic makes your toes curl. Then The Devil’s Rejects happened.

The Devil’s Rejects is one of my all-time top ten movies. It’s a gleeful subscription to every eighties exploitation flick you’ve ever seen and then some, carrying on the story of the brutal Firefly clan and their escape from the enroaching cops. It’s part road movie, part superviolent slasher, part police procedural, part revenge movie, with dialogue so sharp you could hunt deer with it and the sort of visuals Tarantino would piss himself for. The ending, too- no spoilers here, but suffice to say the ending flips the whole damn thing on it’s head and remains to this day one of the most kick-arse shootouts in movie history. Not for the faint-hearted but for those with sturdier cardiovascular systems it’s a riot.

I really loved Lords of Salem too, though I won’t say too much about it here-a much weightier role for the deliciously  husky Sheri-Moon Zombie (Rob’s wife, by the way) but retaining the feeling of having dirt under your fingernails for the whole running time. I have watched every bloody, horrendous, twisted horror movie under the sun (well, the moon) and I can safely say that some scenes in Lords really got under my skin, and so I’d recommend it if only for that.

But what I adore about him most is that he represents a resurgence of dedicated horror film directors. No, not like Eli Roth, who desperately grabs at whatever bandwagon may be trundling by, or James Wan, who (Saw excluded) grabs at whatever bandwagon was trundling by in 1982, but people like Darren Lynn Bousman who nudge the boundaries of horror to test what we can do with the genre. We had a spate of them in the 70s and 80s- John Carpenter, Wes Craven, Sean S. Cunningham- and that set the tone for decades of slashers to come. Zombie is, along with a few other directors, making the films he wants to see, and the audience can either get on board or fuck the hell off. Will he start a horror revolution? Probably not. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a damn good time of it keeping up with him while he tries.

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April 23, 2013

Not Being a Dick: Broadchurch

Well, sorry for anyone who came here for the jokes or the endless pessimism or the bastarding, relentless cynicism. For once, I’ve found something I can’t fault. I’m not planning to be a little bitch and nitpick; no, no, this is straight-up adulation.

Broadchurch finished last night. Me and my viewing companion were literally sitting on the ITVplayer page at five past ten, refreshing hysterically and with disturbing constancy, because we HAD TO KNOW. I watched the whole series begrudgingly on Saturday and declared it to be one of the best things I’ve ever seen. It follows the story of the murder of eleven-year-old Danny Latimer in the small coastal town of  Broadchurch, tailing both the emotional drama and the police investigation.

Just reading that back, it never sounds like something I’d enjoy this side of middle age. But, without a shadow of a whisper of a doubt, I loved it. The final episode (no spoilers, fear not) was a glorious bit of television; emotionally harrowing doesn’t do it justice. But there was no sense of cleavering a reaction out of you-the series slowly built to a heart-shattering crescendo that genuinely had me in tears. It earned every second of the drama with patience and unpatronising charectirisation.

And, mother of balls, was that some acting. Olivia Coleman less hit it out of the park than out of the stratosphere with a fucking astonishing, completely heartbreaking performance that just screamed “Bafta” as one of the police investigating the case, and partenered with a gruff but sympathetic David Tennant finally throwing any residual memories of the Doctor into the sun, the pair just killed it. But that goes for so many of the cast; mad-good Andrew Buchan (remember 24 Hour Party People? Aye, nothing like that, and better  for it), doe-eyed Arthur Darvill, Jodie Whittaker verging on going all Chenobyl for the whole series, Pauline Quirke vaulting the line of good acting and transcending into utter brilliance…

I’m really trying hard not to bitch on too long (though there’s more Broadchurch-fellatio if you want it): I can only say bloody watch it. Even if it’s not something you think you’d enjoy, you will. Then we can start speculating about series 2. Oh, and as for guessing who killed Danny Latimer? NAILED it.

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April 20, 2013

Doctor Who: Timeholes and Romantic Developments Involving Spirits

I love ghost stories. Oh, I bloody love ’em. I have never been as scared as I was reading Oh, Whistle and I’ll Come To You My Lad, the masterclass in tension by MR James. Something about ghosts freaks the bollocks off of me, and this week Doctor Who offered up its first proper ghost story in yonks in the form of Hide. And it was top.

Right off the bat, the episode set itself up as a classic, haunted-house story-the muted colour pallette, whirly-crackly ghosthunting equipment, the constantly flickering candlelight- a media student’s wet dream in terms of production. There’s a lot to be said for an ever-expanding Doctor Whoniverse, but if you are going to fall back on an old faithful, at least make it a good one. One that does not involve the Ood and instead involves a ghostbusting duo made up of a charmingly awkward Dougray Scott, a ballsily vulnerable Jessica Raine and a shoveload of crackling chemistry, for example. Chuck in a nice little reference to The Haunting of Hill House, and I’ve got a massive Who-on.

First and foremost, there’s a thumpingly good plot at the heart of this episode-the Doctor and Clara arrive at a creepy old mansion to aid a couple of supernatrual investigators in sorting out their witch problem (no, don’t worry, they haven’t brought back River Song). Of course there’s more of a sci-fi spin on it, but screw that: HAUNTED HOUSE!

But there’s a lot more going on; including a brilliant speech from Clara about the nature of the assistant in the show, the deeply enjoyable humanizing of the Tardis like a big, blue HAL, and the continuing questioning of the Doctor as the be-all, end-all hero. In the last few series, there have been various hints at the Doctor’s fallibility; it’s a brave choice for such an iconic leading man, but it’s one I like very much.

A few solid performances from guestars Scott and Raines cement and sell the story-did anyone else finally feel like they were looking at all the Doctor Who ships for the next four months every moment they shared the screen?- and a kick-arsingly creepy monster turns into teatime television at it’s best. Hide was a very, very good episode; advancing a few themes without  letting it get in the way of the plot having a rollicking good time of it. Oooh, and you see next week? I got me the tingles I did.

But don’t think I didn’t notice how obviously you’re  setting up Clara and the Doctor for a bit o’ romance later in the series, though-I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

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April 18, 2013

A Meaninglessly Mawkish Meander Through Must-See Movies

I like movies, lots. If I didn’t have things to do, I would just laze around marathoning David Fincher movies and drinking beer. And I’d love it. Here I have compiled a list of movies I think everyone’s life would be improved by seeing. Like every movie list ever made, it’s essentially pointless; a vile, opinionated snobfest of epic proportions that everyone else will violently disagree with. Long live film criticism.

1.  Saw

This film has slowly worked it’s way into my life to the extent that I get physical withdrawal symptoms unless a watch it at least twice a month. I think it’s a perfect movie; it’s put together beautifully, a considered, dark, unsettling piece which is not even close to being the torture porn it’s often sold as. Hostel it ain’t; it’s far more like Se7en in that it’s as much a meditation on what it actually means to be “living” and what separates a good person from a bad one as it is a film about the machinations of an evil genius and his ever-widening collection of hilariously horrifying “traps”. Okay, it’s not for the totally feeble, but it’s a damn good film, with superb performances from Cary Ewles and Leigh Whannel. And just a brilliant soundtrack which you should use to spice up your day-to-day events against the clock.

2. Muppet Treasure Island

I distinctly remember, as a po-faced child, my Dad taking me to see this and having to take him aside and have a serious discussion about him definitely not being allowed to sing along to any of the songs in the cinema. Now, I’m the one being taken aside and told the same thing. For pure, total, unpretentious fun, there is simply nothing better than this rollicking voyage of tunes, treachery and treasure, featuring a disconcertingly handsome Tim Curry as Long John Silver. And it features some properly pumping choons, including the insanely good When You’re A Professorial Pirate, which I like to rewrite as an anthem for male prostitutes. Listen to it now and replace “pirate” with “rentboy”. It works. Also, this.

3.  The Skin I Live In

Yes, I’m a hipster so massive I’m on the brink of turning into a self-aware black hole. But fuck it, I love me a bit of Pedro Almodovar (a very little bit-pretty much only four of his films are worth seeing, but how), and this bizarre body-horror-cum-soap-opera-drama is a mad, disturbing and brilliant little gem. Featuring a properly sinister Antonio Banderas and perhaps the grimmest rape scene of all time ever, it’s still peppered with spots of humour and Almodovar’s penchant for picking up on great female characters. It’s not a perfect film, but damn, you’ll see nothing like it this year and you’ll be haunted by the image of a man in a tiger suit having sex for weeks afterwards. Eurgh.

4. Little Miss Sunshine

Oh YES oh YES oh YES. This teeny little indie comedy follows a family as their daughter competes in the beauty pageant of the title. But it’s not about that; it’s about the failings and faults of every family member, from the hyper-sexed, heroin snorting grandfather portrayed by Alan Arkin to the gay, suicidal Proust scholar played by a superbly reserved Steve Carell. I love the clinky-clanky music, the way it elicits emotions without having to fire a nail gun of schmaltz into you, and the fact that’s it’s abso-bloody-loutly hilarious. Shout out to a baby-faced Paul Dano completely destroying the role of a voluntarily mute disengaged teenager, and also for being pretty.

5. Brick

I only saw it this year to get my Brownie badge for watching indie films, but hotdamn, I enjoyed it. Featuring an outrageously handsome Joseph Gordon-Levitt (whose name I always mispronounce as Goseph Jordon, which sounds like a prairie animal to me), this neo-noir teen crime sort-of romance thrillery thing is a strange little offering, but an interesting one. It transplants Dashiell Hammet into a high school, giving an aneamic Lucas Haas the role of the bizarely appealing villain and a collection of wonderfully suave femme fatales and mob thugs. Do it. Do it for me.

 

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