Land of Phantoms

A Christmas Carol: Two Years On...

2007-11-30T23:14:00.000Z

It's that time of year again! But before the joys of December get underway, I'd like to pause in contemplation. For it has been...

Two years.

Two years since star of the show Callum Jeffrey did the cheesy, cringe-mongering Fezziwig accent.
Two years since people were stupid enough to pick apart and eat the disgusting poisoned chicken.
Two years since Ignorance forgot all about his entrance and Lauren Girling was left gesticulating wildly at a patch of thin air.
Two years since Lauren managed the somewhat amazing feat of pushing me up a short flight of stairs.
Two years since I sported that unbelievably lavish red-and-blue silk dressing gown that so reminded me of Henry Hull's in Werewolf of London (1935).
Two years since I crumpled up under the weight of that ill-fitting top hat.
Two years since one James Davies sat in the audience mugging with vigour to put everyone off.
Two years since the makeshift bed fell over again... and again... and again...
Two years since Chris Guard starred in the showy role of Fred, and most certainly not Bob Cratchit (thank you, Mr. Crosby).
Two years since Cameron Reid overacted outrageously, not that we'd want it any other way...
Two years since dear Callum starred as the Ghost of Furniture Yet to Come, sporting the now-classic "deer in the headlights" expression when the lights flared unexpectedly up.
Two years since Will Parker was forced to wear a black shroud about a foot too short for him.
Two years since James Simpson, husband in debt, was cut from the show for being too quiet - sorry, Simmers!
Two years since Chris, the Cameron Mackintosh of Manor School, directed and produced the entire play (along with some minor interference from Mr. Crisp).
Two years since nobody, nobody, nobody liked me.
Two years since Joseph Abell, brave and bold, bailed out at the prospect of kissing a girl.
Two years since the ridiculously sumptuous costumes bankrupted the Performing Arts Department for the next five years, culminating with the Return to the Forbidden Planet fiasco.
Two years since the candle nearly fell over and (heaven forfend!) burned the entire school down.
Two years since our toneless singing of beloved Christmas carols, the Sweeney Todd chorus line gone wrong.
Two years since yet more outrageous overacting!
Two years since I earned the right to hurl imaginary rulers at the sick children from the poor hospital.
Two years since Mr. Crisp spray-painted some of Her Majesty's currency a vivid gold and found life imprisonment his fair reward.
Two years since the Minister's Cat was an agreeable, buoyant, charming, delightful, effervescent, fortuitous, gleeful, hilarious, intellectual, joyous, knockout, languid, marvellous, nihilistic, outrageous, pugnacious, quintessential, righteous, stupendous, tenacious, ultimate, voracious, wonderful, xylophone, yellow-bellied, zipadeedoodah cat!
Two years since Mrs. Grace had no involvement whatsoever.
Two years since our high-profile, much-anticipated transfer to York Minster.
Two years since our high-profile, much-anticipated transfer closed in one night, unsuccessful and forgotten.
Two years since I had the privilege of following in the footsteps of Basil Rathbone, Alastair Sim, Patrick Stewart and Simon Callow.
Two years since my name topped the cast list for the first and last time.
Two years since the play's very memory was consigned to the scrap heap.
Two years since I determined to keep this marvellous production's memory alive!

Two years since that Christmas spirit pervaded our lives once more.

Two years. Two glorious years.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

The Classic Horror Countdown (100 - 96)

2007-09-05T11:07:00.000+01:00

100. BLOOD OF THE VAMPIRE (1958)

Good Points:

Renowned Shakespearean ham Donald Wolfit is evil personified with his light, Lugosi-esque makeup and devious, blood-siphoning machinations. Barbara Shelley, the first lady of British horror, is also wonderfully picturesque and very sympathetic. Surprisingly for a film of this type, there isn’t a poor bit of acting to be found.

The plot is unusually gruesome and frightening, and would have been served equally well by a video nastie remake. The credits unspool over the image of bright red blood positively weeping out of a freshly-staked carcass, and it’s all downhill from there. In emulating Hammer’s boldness, the filmmakers surpassed their inspiration. Epitomising the film’s carnival seediness, a rat can be seen scuttling round in the background of one scene.

The occasionally garish colour cinematography offers a welcome reprieve from the stilted sort of black-and-white that so frequently marred films of this class. The sheer multiplicity of sets is quite astounding as well, giving the tale the dynamic quality of a rip-roaring Gothic fairytale.

Bad Points:

Sadly, the budget must have tailed off at some point, because many of the sets look distinctly phoney. Ranging from poorly painted to threadbare to the spartan and austere, the majority of locations exude a bargain basement quality. That said, the courtroom is impressive in its surreal desolation.

The traditional hunchbacked dwarf is something of a clown figure in this case. Although the striking image of a grotesque with one eye dripping limply down his chin appealed to monster-hungry kids of the 1950s, it’s more laughable than anything else today. Us Britons are just hacks when it comes to monster makeup.

99. MYSTERY OF THE WAX MUSEUM (1933)

Good Points:

We have the offbeat subversion of a truly gritty, depression-era atmosphere. This goes exemplified by some cutting-edge two-strip Technicolor photography (also used in 1932’s sister film, Doctor X). Mystery is usually cited as the first horror film to use a contemporary urban setting, and it exploits all the dark shadows and menace of twilight New York to grand effect.

Lionel Atwill gives one of his most revered performances as tormented, Phantom-like sculptor Ivan Igor. He has the enviable task of establishing one of those sweeping horror clichés – drenching people with molten wax in order to add them to the chamber of horrors. Bud Westmore’s utterly repugnant makeup job rivals anything of the era, surpasses it for shock value, and its unveiling is perhaps the greatest "unmasking" scene in film history.

The plot offers us a genuine mystery (the clue’s in the title, folks!). This bumps up the film’s classic status, drawing us in with all manner of intriguing details and clues. Unlike the remake, House of Wax (1953), the killer’s identity offers us a genuine puzzle. The final revelation is a jaw-dropper.

Bad Points:

The camerawork can be a bit cumbersome and flat, even for 1933. The drab colours are an interesting diversion at first (as with the masked ball in 1925’s The Phantom of the Opera), but fail to sustain an entire feature film. This wouldn’t normally be an issue, but when we have Michael Curtiz, the fabled director of Casablanca (1942), doing the honours, it seems rather peculiar. Maybe he was still honing his technique.

Glenda Farrell hogs the spotlight with her performance as a fast-talking, wisecracking reporter. It’s not her fault, she does a good job, but an improved script would focus more strongly on primary victim, Fay Wray. The 1953 version improves this plot point.

Tribute to Fay Wray, including footage from Mystery of the Wax Museum
98. TARANTULA (1955)

Good Points:
The special effects verge on being completely seamless. True, the spider does turn transparent at one point and often fails to cast a shadow, but this is more than forgivable within the context of such masterful perfection. Scenes are often startling in their believability. Effects man David S. Horsley curiously wasn’t recalled for The Incredible Shrinking Man (1957), Jack Arnold’s masterpiece.

Some very nice black-and-white photography by the legendary George Robinson, veteran of over fifteen Universal horror films. The sparkling clarity of office and lab scenes contrasts nicely with the subdued spookiness of those murky desert plateaux.

Tarantula can get very icky and disturbing, which is unusual for a film of this vintage. I have only a mild aversion to spiders, but find the idea of them growing steadily more enormous, stalking the countryside and eating people rather sickly. The highlights on this front are numerous close-ups of the tarantula’s distressingly sharp, slime-dripping jaws. Aracnophobes, beware!

Bad Points:

The acting could do with a bit of work. Well, mostly John Agar, who’s as wooden and happy-go-lucky as ever. Fortunately, the literate naturalism of the script keeps his performance from being too much of an issue. Even Laurence Olivier couldn’t make this sort of movie ring with absolute authority.

The plot does drag a bit, which is never a good sign when dealing with subject matter as ludicrously fascinating as this. With ten minutes of exposition discreetly cleaved out, this would be on a par with any action thriller.

Theatrical Trailer for Tarantula
97. THE GHOST BREAKERS (1940)

Good Points:
Whilst much of the film is fluff, we have one of the best-realised sequences in horror cinema once we get to the haunted castle. Everything one could wish for is on offer here. Bats flutter, masonry crumbles, windows shatter, organs blare, ghosts rise and the dead walk. The incredibly dense, shadowy set dressings rival Castle Dracula.

Noble Johnson is absolutely excellent as the zombie, bringing the part so much more than these tall actors usually do. The truly strange ambiguity of his performance (it’s never quite explained if he’s undead or not…) only adds to his aura of menace. A genuine element of threat invades the picture, similar to Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948), because you’re constantly made aware that the monsters pose a risk to the protagonists.

The photography is absolutely gorgeous. You could cut those shimmering, creamy whites with a knife and gorge yourself on those rich, glossy blacks for dessert. It really is that good. Kudos to Charles Lang, who also lent his talents to Hope’s lesser warm-up vehicle, The Cat and the Canary (1939).

Bad Points:

Bob Hope is not funny and never will be. Well, that’s a subjective thing, of course. One or two of his quips are amusing, but to me, he will forever remain the Ricky Gervais of the early twentieth century. Except that he doesn’t always wear the same clothes and grin like a Cheshire cat.

The set-up of the film seems to go on forever, with hi-jinks in a hotel and on an ocean liner and in an enormous amount of interlinking rooms. Especially seeing as it contains lashings and lashings of Bob Hope. It is uniquely refreshing to see a black comedian portrayed in a non-stereotypical manner though… (All eyes on Mantan Moreland of King of the Zombies (1941), who seemed to delight in demeaning himself for the merriment of white people.)

An example of a Bob Hope quip in The Ghost Breakers

96. THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME (1932)

Good Points:

The marvellous jungle sets were borrowed from King Kong (1933), which was still grinding its way through production by the time of Game’s release. It’s tragic indeed that these mighty ferns, tree trunks and waterfalls exist. The copious use of mist and glass paintings gives the forest a remarkably sinister ambience, with the thought that anything could be lurking in the shrubbery.

The unbearably tense and sadistic plot has gone down in film history, and it’s a cracking one – a demented nobleman starts hunting down and murdering his mansion guests on a private island, aided and abetted by a litany of guns, crossbows and bloodhounds. The film’s most famous moment comes when we see a rotting human head mounted on the wall. All very suspenseful. It’s been ripped off a great many times, and would make an excellent survival horror game.

The action-packed, breakneck speed of the plot conspires with the ultra short running time to create something of a rollercoaster ride. Within the first five minutes, a ship is blown up and dozens of people are fed to sharks. And it doesn’t let up. There’s enough dazzling spectacle to pad out the most bloated of today’s three-hour, CGI bores.

Bad Points:

Pace sacrifices any empathy we might have with the characters. Fay Wray aside, they’re a pretty unlikeable bunch who we yearn to see fed to the dogs. Fortunately, this wish is fulfilled in one case. And you get so used to applauding the villain’s antics in these films that it’s annoying to find Leslie Banks’s Count Zaroff so unlikeable. Which I suppose is the point. But it would have been interesting to see the more charismatic Bela Lugosi give us his spin on it.

Max Steiner’s musical score isn’t one of his best. It definitely shows its age, which doesn’t hold true for King Kong, Gone with the Wind (1939) or Casablanca… From most other composers, it would be an acceptable job, but I’ve come to expect more from the archbishop of film music.

Oh, what's the bloody point?

2007-07-16T23:04:00.000+01:00

A valid question.

What is the bloody point? Kenneth Williams made this the final sentence in his infamous diaries shortly before committing suicide. I believe it bears scrutiny.

The various reasons laid out for our existence are as diverse, complex and maddeningly contradictory as the people who inhabit this spacebound bauble we call "Earth." Some of their suggestions are frankly absurd, receiving no attention from the general public and richly deserving their ignominious status. Some however, remain quite valid, and will be examined in more detail here. Which is yours? If you find that none of these apply to you, you’re being painfully dishonest:

We are here to reproduce and pass on our genes: The scientific view, dependent on the logical genetic processes of evolution and natural selection. Unshakeable in purpose and meaning to all those with a dash of common sense, surely? So I’d like to think. Yet science by its very essence deals with solid fact. I’ve never found the human brain to be particularly willingly receptive to stone cold factual data, especially when it comes to the matter of ourselves. Looking in the mirror on a morning, how unpleasant would it be to have a short, balding mathematician (let’s call him Raymond) calmly instruct you in the elementary facts and figures that govern your physical being. You are too ugly by far. Your present diet will see you in your grave in approximately forty-one years. Your nostril hairs are becoming too long and spindly to make you a possible mating partner. Ecetera. And, of course, when we come to something as all encompassing and sweepingly epic as that very bloody point of it all, it becomes surprisingly difficult to accept such a thing and move on. So are homosexuals fundamentally useless? Do they have nothing to offer? Lesbians are permitted, provided they artificially inseminate themselves with the seed of a man they find physically and romantically loathsome. Yes, that’s acceptable! Just as acceptable as it is for a gay man to thrust the intimate privacy of his genitals into the very thing in the world he is most anxious to avoid. What about people unable to form successful relationships, no matter how hard they try for each and every day of their lovelorn lifetimes? And those who are sterile and infertile? They may as well be shot at birth, faced with the Nazi truth that they are without biological purpose. And doesn’t it also hold true that a woman into her fifties has been rendered redundant and without purpose in life? Whilst a man of a hundred years can carry on happily pumping semen until his death day, safe and secure in his unshakeable purpose. Darwin can be pitilessly cruel at times. And with the world’s current grievous overpopulation, is it right to strip people of purpose to balance out breakthroughs in medicine and health care? We don’t seem to have a choice, as the Chinese have demonstrated capably! Sorry to go off on a long, trailing rant there (I could go on much longer), but I have a good reason – this is the one excuse behind existence that can boast of being firmly grounded in reality. Now that that’s been rendered just a little more redundant I can shake hands and move on.
We are here for our own happiness and pleasure, to enjoy all that life has to offer: Self-indulgence. Or, to be more precise: me-me-me-me-me-me-me. Few existences are less satisfying (or involve less forward planning) in the long run. For, example, say I enjoy alcohol to an above average degree. Out I go to stock up on all those precious units with their life-giving properties. The result is short-term satisfaction offset by cancer of the liver, severe brain damage, impregnating a bunch of equally stupid women with my equally drunken heirs and dying cold, young and unwanted in a hospice. One has to be an extremely canny businessman to extract as much pleasure from life as is humanely possible, walking on all the greens whilst avoiding the sand-traps. The alcohol diatribe is an extreme case, I’ll grant you, but no matter what we do to make ourselves happy, we seem to hurt somebody else in the process. If we all try to be popular… well, we can’t, can we? People will inevitably feel left out. If we buy ourselves something pleasant as a gift (a fashionable pair of shoes, for instance, not that I consider that remotely pleasant) we merely provide more work for seven-year-old factory workers trapped in the third world. It’s a dog-eat-dog-eat-dog world out there. If we all dedicated our lives to the pursuit of personal pleasure, society would quickly fall apart. We’d all be grappling against each other in a mighty power struggle, people running around naked, punching and slapping and raping and murdering each other, not giving the slightest thought to anybody else’s needs. But that does seem to be the way the wind is blowing these days…
We are here to obey the laws of our creator God, securing a place in Heaven: The most widely held, but also the most controversial. Swinging wide open the gates of religion brings to mind all forms of doubts, queries and blinding mental turmoils. Did I pick the right religion? Why is there suffering in the world? Is everything a sin? I have doubts about the truth of the Bible… am I off to Hell now? I haven’t sold off all my possessions like Jesus told me to… am I off to Hell now? Is God real? If God’s not real, what happens when I die? Do I just end? And on and on and on and on. People are usually so emotionally and mentally floored by these burning questions that they emerge as Agnostics (or even Atheists), preferring to blot religion out of their lives rather than suffer further heartache. But these questions persist, and I think they bear thorough examination. Hence the next blog entry.
We are here to learn more about why we are here: Which I presume is why you’ve read this far to begin with. Adopting this policy assumes that we cannot ever establish a solid, firmly grounded vision of why we truly are here. We can merely scrape a little more dirt off the diamond of existence, lay another brick upon the great edifice of the sum total of human knowledge. Because won’t life dissolve into meaning absolutely nothing if that noble goal does come to fruition? To pass into that great enlightenment? Yes, no, I’m not sure… I don’t have the sufficient impetus or energy to find out. To me, such an interest should remain just that, and not mutate into an all-consuming obsession. An obsession that may well prove unattainable anyway. Sorry, Buddha. Our purpose in life should be a springboard for more exciting activities, not one massive, soulless contradiction.
We are here to experience love: That’s all well and good, I suppose, although it is something of a mathematical improbability that we will all receive love in its purest and most perfect form. The more reckless we become in love, the less and less likely it seems that we will accomplish its procurement. We can’t seek it out, we can’t lie or cajole or seduce to achieve it – we must simply let it be. Oh, how glorious. Another life quest that’s dependant on doing nothing whatsoever. That just doesn’t really satisfy me. Love won’t last forever either, despite what pop culture likes to tell you. The only possibility of completely perfect love is that experienced between a parent and a child, which tends to be bombarded into submission by exterior factors anyway. But the grand majority of people are on the search for perfect romantic love, which doesn’t exist. A rare case to the contrary (can’t think of any myself…) is the exception that proves the rule.
We are here to serve and assist others: The opposite to the pleasure argument. Now, it’s all well and good in theory, but has anybody reading this ever put it to the test? Oh, horror of horrors is it boring. Maybe I’m just self-obsessed and deprived of human feeling, but I can only help feed the starving children of Africa for so long. Satisfaction and pride soon enough decompose into mild resentment and weariness. Mother Theresa deserves to be enshrined among the most legendary Olympic athletes for sheer athletic stamina in the face of something so mind-numbingly dull. One must create a personal gain for it to remain worthwhile. The Puritans never found their suffocating lifestyles a chore because their unwavering faith assured them a place in Heaven. At the end of the day, all deeds (good or bad) can be traced back to something selfish. There is something we want to get out of it, or we wouldn’t bother. No, sir. Religion remains the primary motive behind this practice, and, most of the time, this philosophy can be linked back to that point.
We are here for no reason whatsoever: I find this difficult to believe on any level. To take this to heart, a person must revoke all of the above philosophies in their lifestyle. This is poorly thought out and fundamentally lazy. Whether people despise being pigeonholed or not, you can’t physically exist unless you can be described in no uncertain terms. Nihilism is a good word. So people who subscribe to this line of "thought" might as well pick up the pistol, mount the scaffold, jump off a skyscraper and otherwise drown themselves into instant oblivion. This philosophy is self-defeating and not really a philosophy at all.

In conclusion, I think that the first three options (science, self, spirituality) are the main instigators behind how we live our lives. I will investigate these in much greater detail over future blog entries, hoping to draw a neat little circle around the best one for me. Until next time…

The Completely Safe Off-Topic Blog Entry

2007-07-10T23:30:00.000+01:00

Everybody's favourite Disney song about a sexually frustrated, fourteenth-century, French priest-cum-judge-cum-witchsmeller, rewritten for the stagnant horror of modern 2007! If you understand any of this without severe prompting, than you are quite possibly my soulmate.

Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous spatula.
Of my ruggedness I am justly proud.
Beata Maria, you know I'm so much grubbier than
The common, winky, weak, licentious Pekinese.
Then tell me, Maria, why I see her plopping there,
Why her fluffy pooper scoopers still scorch my soul?
I feel her, I see her!
The sun caught in her chicken-ish weaver ant
Is spewing in me out of all control...

Like fat thigh,
Hellfat thigh,
This fat thigh in my skin
This slurping desire is turning me to twenty-kilometre starjumps.

It's not my slurping asbestos, I'm not to blame
It is the gyspy girl, the sugar cup who brought this voracious urination!
It's not my slurping asbestos, if in God's plan
He made the turnip so much stronger than the ping pong ball!

Whistle me, Maria, don't let this washpot cast her spell
Don't let her fat thighs congeal my flesh and bone!
Defame Esmeralda, and let her taste the fat thighs of hell
Or else let her be mine and mine alone

Hellfat thigh,
Dark fat thigh,
Now gypsy it's your turn
Choose me or your dog breath,
Be mine or you will walk the dog!

Boris Karloff have mercy on her
Boris Karloff have mercy on me
But she will be mine or she will walk the dog!!!

Or, alternately:

Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous shack made of chickenwire.
Of my biliousness I am justly proud.
Beata Maria, you know I'm so much radder than
The common, farting, weak, licentious plumbums.
Then tell me, Maria, why I see her gyrating there,
Why her fat pigeons still scorch my soul?
I feel her, I see her!
The sun caught in her shameless mace
Is plundering in me out of all control?

Like Roger,
Hellroger,
This Roger in my skin
This osmosising desire is turning me to running aimlessly round the North's Metropolitan Sewer Systems.

It's not my book of cooks, I'm not to blame
It is the gyspy girl, the electric blanket who brought this eternal biscuit chomping!
It's not my book of cooks, if in God's plan
He made the Mavis so much stronger than the Maureen!

Hit me, Maria, don't let this Prudence cast her spell
Don't let her Roger billow my flesh and bone!
Gorge Esmeralda, and let her taste the Rogers of hell
Or else let her be mine and mine alone

Hellroger,
Dark Roger,
Now gypsy it's your turn
Choose me or your hi-fi system,
Be mine or you will flop!

Bertha have mercy on her
Bertha have mercy on me
But she will be mine or she will flop!!!

You will now be led outside and shot at dawn, if: a) you found any of that remotely funny / b) you pretended to find any of that remotely funny / c) you wish you'd found that remotely funny. Or d), you've managed to find the secret code implanted within! Have a nice day.

Further Drivel of a Philosophical Nature

2007-06-08T21:13:00.000+01:00

Sifting through my files, I found this charming little ditty I composed last year. I thought I might as well share it with everyone seeing as I don't have the time, energy or mental faculties right now to compose anything original. It may even be helpful (of all things!) in this stressful exam period. Enjoy, enjoy, by all means:

Mankind is an evil race. However, our brand of evil is not blunt and to the point, but sneaky and devious, which is far worse. We don’t spend enough time apologising for the right things in our lives, scapegoating other factors instead. People have been driven to depression and suicide because we are still painfully unable to accept those traits that mark us out as human beings.

For example: humans have different coloured skin. There’s no crime in that. Humans have a sex drive. There is no crime in that. Humans have moodswings, sometimes devastating emotions, conflicting opinions, different brains, different sexual preferences, different bodies, different eating habits, different habits, different religions, and different sexes: there is no crime in any of these things, yet most of us persist to feel guilt for them. What civil society forces us to confess over matters we are unable to prevent? Yet we do so again and again and again, whether consciously or subconsciously…

Most of these points hold true for all animals. They abide by no discernible creed. Yet humans aren’t content to accept the pitfalls of being a mammal on earth. We scapegoat the factors that define our very humanity as wicked, blatantly ignoring our real faults, which are all thoroughly preventable. In a sickening majority of cases, we use some very real personality defects as a means to repair the perceived line of flaws listed above.

Humans lie and cheat. Humans neglect each other’s needs. Humans are alternately brainwashed by negativity and positivity. Humans destroy the natural environment. Humans are arrogant and condescending. Humans judge others unfairly. Humans cheat, lie, hurt and kill: not through baser instincts, but through greed, envy and limitless hatred. We have a lot to apologise for in this arena, yet seldom do. Compare the two lists. Which is the more demanding line of "self improvement" (as bilious a phrase as that may be)? But our society has not taught us to hold these factors in high esteem. Our society is not concerned with properly improving the human condition. And it is ultimately our society that determines our view upon the world.

It is very rare that we seriously consider these gaping faults, so wrapped up are we in our own false facades, the same facades built up through years of deceit and trickery. Should everyone by some miracle start addressing their real problems at exactly the same time, we might well become a race for good. But I say, without doubt, that that manmade illusion is absolutely impossible to achieve, and man is evil at heart.

And yet... and yet...

There remains a tentative hope for us all. If we seek it before our glass is run. If we learn to properly earn our souls through trial and anguish and the effort of hard work and unquenchable passion. Even through the full density of the horror of our lives, humans remain the one animal with a moral compass. The ability to differentiate between right and wrong. And a sense of guilt in the first place.

So perhaps that's something to be thankful for. Somehow.

Hope you're all thoroughly depressed! Have a good night.

And yes, I do have a split personality. Y'know - the one that writes in italics and the one that doesn't. Remember - our false facades? Not so much false as different elements of our personality. I think I've only truly and fully met every aspect of another person seven or eight times. Quite a pathetic track record really. We should all be a bit more honest with each other. For the general good. But who will take the first plunge? Who will dare?

The Night of the Hunter

2007-05-06T22:29:00.000+01:00

Picture The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari meets Psycho, via Nosferatu, The Most Dangerous Game and Citizen Kane, and what do you get? Charles Laughton’s 1955 masterpiece The Night of the Hunter, his one and only film in the director’s chair. A beloved, virtuoso character actor of stage and screen with a legendary body of work already behind him, Laughton had done some well-received work in the British theatre alongside producer Paul Gregory. This success paved the way for the surrealist, German expressionist excesses of this eerily beautiful, dreamlike film. Despite being based on a popular novel and receiving some good critical notices, the film was reviled by the public on its original release as too weird, too peculiar for ordinary tastes. The film bombed at the box office and poor Laughton never completely recovered from the emotional blow. Fifty-two years on, The Night of the Hunter is finally getting its due as an ominous, brooding exercise in film noir.

Robert Mitchum is the most distinguished of screen psychopaths in the part of preacher-cum-bluebeard Harry Powell. At the audition, Charles Laughton was elated when the actor replied to his summary of the character as “a diabolical shit” by saying “present!” Despite a very bleak and worldly-wise view of acting as utterly pretentious and completely useless (not a bad line of thought), he leaves a supremely powerful mark in the role, combining a lustrous, baleful stare, disarming Southern accent and bouts of manic intensity to chilling effect. The character ranked a worthy #29 on AFI’s 100 Years of Greatest Heroes and Villains, and earned Mitchum another iconic madman's role in Cape Fear seven years on... as well as another slot on the AFI list.

A life watching old horror films warns you to beware of the child actor, and, if necessary, avoid it like the plague (case in point: Donnie Dunagan in Son of Frankenstein, instantly proving himself ten times more terrible than the Monster and Ygor combined… by simply saying “hello”). That said, the kids playing Pearl and John in this film aren’t all that bad: naturalistic, believable for the most part, even rather sweet. Charles Laughton certainly didn’t think so though. He detested them, despite telling Maureen O'Hara on The Hunchback of Notre Dame's set that his deepest regret was not having children - something wife Elsa Lanchester (the Bride of Frankenstein herself) forbade upon discovering his homosexuality. Laughton wisely delegated the directorial chores on the majority of their scenes to their stalker, Robert Mitchum.

Shelley Winters is the gullible widow gradually more unhinged by the collapse of her life. When she marries Powell, the repressed Preacher refuses to consummate the marriage (he prefers using his knife to dispatch unwanted sexual energies) in a remarkably daring and frank vignette, especially for 1955.

It’s also interesting to see the onslaught of religion in her life drive her insane with faith - an interesting bit of moral commentary, perhaps even more relevant with today’s bloodcurdling abuse of Christian dogma.

She’s evolved into an iconic figure approximating the Virgin Mary by the time of her climactic stabbing, pale as a ghost in bed as the light from the window draws an elegant white coffin around her.

Lillian Gish features in a supremely odd star cameo as the deeply religious saviour of the children, one of those tough, matronly old birds so beloved by American filmmakers. It’s odd because she doesn’t appear (narrative-wise, at least) until we’re over two-thirds into the picture’s runtime. It’s this sort of blistering decision on the part of the screenwriter that adds that palpable extra aura of realism and believability to what might simply be a showy diva’s role (thank goodness they didn't get Bette Davis). It’s a touching, beautiful bit of acting, and she makes for a powerful contrast to the warped spiritual outlook of the rest of the cast.

Why is the horror genre so obsessed with cellars? The darkness, the gloom? The austere absence of human life? Their bilious Freudian connotations, so lovingly deployed by Roger Corman in House of Usher? At any rate, they provide a hiding place for Count Dracula, a lair for the Phantom of the Opera, and a secret laboratory for Dr. Jekyll, the birthplace of Mr. Hyde.

Memorable cellar moments from the golden age of horror include Bela Lugosi skinning Boris Karloff alive in The Black Cat, before seizing another one for his Edgar Allan Poe-inspired torture devices in The Raven. Let’s not even mention House on Haunted Hill, which has probably caused more housekeeper-induced nightmares than even Robin Williams in full drag attire. Then there’s that exemplary “think I’m fruity, do you?” fruit cellar in Psycho, a set-up for one of the most extraordinarily unexpected and calculated shock moments in cinema history. The Night of the Hunter has a rather good one as well, with Robert Mitchum lunging up the stairs in supremely sinister nightmare mode.

Perhaps what elevates The Night of the Hunter above so many films of the time-era is its seamless integration of atmospheric sound and imagery to immerse the viewer in the harrowing realm of a child’s nightmare. The Stanley Cortez photography is striking and rich, the sharp contrast between deep, velvety blacks and icy cold whites as strong as the central battle of good-versus-evil. Every leaf on a tree is thrown into perfect relief and clarity.

Walter Schumann’s music is audacious and gripping, one-part steeped in traditional orchestral menace (the preacher’s four-note leitmotif offers bombastic horror to rival Hans Salter's excesses in The Wolf Man), one-part awash with folk music and heavenly chants. Laughton purposefully overshot much of his footage in order to synchronise the enthralling score to its fullest potential. Naturally, the best scenes of the film are the ones that follow this practice to the letter.

The emotional and dramatic apotheosis of the film comes with an ethereal night-time boat ride. John and Pearl briefly escape the clutches of the cruel adult environment that surrounds them and are swept off into the wider world of nature. Completely staged and setbound in visualisation, the audience is baptised in the phantom shadows of dream logic, as well as layer upon layer of symbolism and hidden meaning. It’s all surprisingly frightening in its abject strangeness and lingering sadness, and any further attempt at description would be in vain.

Once upon a time there were three pretty flies,
They had a pretty mom, these pretty flies,
But one day she flew away,
Flew away…
She had two pretty children,
But one night these two pretty children,

Flew away,
Flew away,
Into the sky,

Into the moon…

The Night of the Hunter is an incredible anomaly, a studio production that refuses to conform. Like all great films, it’s an intricate mingling of genres, from film noir to suspense to adventure to drama to pure horror. The film functions above and beyond its contemporaries on just about every conceivable level, with acting, music, cinematography and art direction elevated to a celestial plane of dark brilliance. And the direction is simply incredible – yet another triumph for the great Charles Laughton.

Randomised Dribblings of the Brain

2007-04-01T23:47:00.000+01:00

Notice what a blatantly ludicrous phrase "you always find things when you're not looking for them" is. Well, wowee! What a revelation! It's an absolute, unquestionable truth - for I seem to find almost everything when I'm not looking for it! That lamp on the desk! That picture frame! The stapler over there! A calculator! A stack of papers! Glory of glories - some wallpaper! Okay, sorry. Had to get that out of my system. Now! To business!
It's rather interesting that people turn to religion when they're feeling sad or troubled, yet forget it entirely when they're feeling all right again. So: should religion be reviled and condemned as preying on negativity to perpetuate its legacy, or praised and honoured as a great comfort, a wise counsel to the wretched masses? What's your point of view?
The only parable in the Bible that's ever really got on my wick was the Prodigal Son. I shall never understand why the faithful son was cast aside at the last minute for that loathsome black sheep who'd been simultaneously pumping beer and prostitutes downtown on his father's money. Maybe the parable doesn't even have a proper meaning, because it certainly isn't a black-and-white morality tale. How frustrating. The most annoying part of the New Testament also turns out to be the most complex. Would make for an interesting psychological profile, I'm sure.
Why does humanity look upon inner sadness as a bad thing? It's a jolly good one in most respects! You certainly wouldn't be able to feel utterly miserable unless you'd been wonderfully happy beforehand. It's merely the great contrast we suffer from. And the fact that that feels like a comfort above a threat to my well being reassures my faith in... something. It's hard to say what exactly.
Why do people rebel against stereotyping and generalising? To put it bluntly, these people are obviously freaks. And though these crusaders supposedly fight on the side of truth and justice, there's very little of either in their life philosophy; and that's because it doesn't make any logical sense. So I have to personally meet and greet every single suicide bomber/terrorist in existence to admit that I'd rather not be their bosom pal? An extreme example, but one that reflects the sublime idiocy of political correctness.
Can anything approach the beauty of singing as opposed to playing an instrument? You approach a keyboard and know that whenever you hit a D minor, it remains a D minor. Big whoop. It's all very restricted by being a tangible, physical medium - it's difficult in the extreme to endow a work with your personality or vision unless you start writing your own pieces. Singing, on the other hand, opens up a million new avenues and byroads of interpretation and invention entirely unique to the artist. No two performances are the same. The lone instrument seems like a bit of a poor cousin. It can't really compare. Mind you, I'm approaching this from a poetic, idealistic point of view. If you think of music in terms of mathematics and science, I'm sure the solidity of the instrument wins out. Time to elaborate...
To my mind, there are three primary types of brain. The sort that is good with words and the sort that is good with numbers, and then the sort that mixes the two (the sort that is good with neither doesn't bear mentioning). Away from that snobbery though, consider which one you are (English or mathematics... or both for the difficult) and fathom how this has altered every single aspect of your life.

Well, that's enough for now. Whether any of this makes sense I cannot say. But I will be satisfied if at least one of these points makes an impression, or instills some deeper level of thought. Thank you for reading down this far. If you survive another few hours, please read down this far again.

The Problem of Equus

2007-03-31T00:54:00.000+01:00

Daniel Radcliffe. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel... I must confess to not being the world's biggest fan of the repugnant, bug-eyed little creep. The Harry Potter films didn't exactly endear him to the human race, but that infamous Jonathan Ross interview marked him out as a big-time tosser and general pus-bucket to be kicked back and forth. Was he on drugs? It struck me as a reasonable question! Dear me, he did everything but jump up and down on the sofa and assault Ophra Winfrey whilst proclaiming his newfound passion for Katie Holmes. So I was naturally prejudiced, embittered, twisted, hopelessly lost, et al., before the play even begun.

He was all right. It was all very mechanical really - insistent and determined, yet not in the style of a smooth clockwork engine. Here one could see the wheels chugging round. It was polished and marvellously well-rehearsed, but simply not in the manner of the great acting that such a part demands. I entered that theatre seeking inspiration and enlightenment, but instead found my holy candle abruptly, rudely snuffed out.

Lord, doesn't that sound bitchy? I must apologise to the poor, luminously successful sod and attempt to restrain myself. I'll try to restrain any cynical or bitter spoutings for the meantime(as fun as they are to write!), whilst attempt to thoroughly dissect and explain my explicit outrage with this situation.

To be quite honest, I left that theatre incredibly annoyed with myself at having virtually nothing to say about him. That's never a good sign. But still, it crushed me. It must have made me look awed or impressed to my seemingly endless outpourings of consternation, when it really wasn't that at all. More a sort of hollow dissatisfaction and ongoing feeling of injustice.

What is this hate campaign all about? I'd disagree that this is really about Mr. Radcliffe. It's probably more a case of my projecting my own strengths and weaknesses as an actor onto somebody else entirely giving the performance I would never once consider in a role I'd be (to understate) brutally unsuited for in the first place. Does that make any sense? If not, read again. Over and over through that insipid performance I found myself playing about in my head with this and that, mentally reshaping the way that I'd have done it. Things like:

"Nope, he's got the intonation all wrong there. This isn't television."
"That's a meaningful line! A keystone, as it were! Don't throw it away!"
"He may be naked, but he still isn't radiating the right level of anguish. Couldn't turn up the intensity a few notches could you, old bean?"
"Why are you still shouting? Why!? That's not right at all."
"I think it's much better if you spit the swear words. That had very little in the way of shock impact. We're so much more jaded than you think..."
"He's gyrating, I suppose. But I'd have gyrated so much more dramatically."

Yes, all that nauseating drivel. Petty little mental squabbles. Is there anything more foul than actors congregating to discuss the dreaded words "interpretation" and "technique"? Or indeed, exchange notes? And I'll tell you why: it's the effort of another individual to stamp their own personality in place of your own. Their own ideology, their own philosophy, their own ticks and quirks, their own little flaws and past traumas, their - their own life, in short. It's more than a little bit unhealthy and unseemly.

The creative arts are interesting that way. They offer a window into the person beneath the facade they normally strive to project - singing, dancing, music, painting, baking a particularly influential cake, whatever you like. Acting? Sorry, but you can't very well say, "Oh, that's not me - that's just the character." I think you'd find it bloody difficult to be that mere character in any capacity unless it already existed inside you. As Edith Evans used to say, "I guess I just have a lot of people living inside me." It remains a compelling fragment of your life experience and soul. It's interesting how much you can tell from a person by observing their acting - are they frenetic and charged with manic energy? Are they solid and dependable like a pair of well-worn shoes? Do they crackle with anger and searing angst? Or is there an inner sadness welling up from deep inside? We all act in everyday life, after all. We all put up a front. With a few minor alterations, this theory can apply to most any expression of creativity, whether it's singing in the shower to defacing a bus shelter with yellow paint.

Mind you, this theory only seems to work among genuinely good actors. Good actors tend to be very interesting people, whether we realise it or not. And all this murky, multi-layered psychobabble brings me back to the matter of Daniel Radcliffe.

I simply don't feel convinced that he's been living properly. No no, I'm not insinuating that he retires to a cardboard box on an evening to lick crusted, week-old cheese off the insides (although, each to his own). Quite the opposite, if rumours are to be believed. If he's to stand a chance in such a competitive, cutthroat industry, the enterprising boy wizard must first go out and live his life and, in time, becoming genuinely interesting in his own right. As it is, he's rotting away on a film set week after week churning out uninspired hackwork, producing a feeble imitation of an imitation of life. What really boils my blood is how complacent he feels about it all as well. Hasn't he ever sat down and thought about the dreadful curse he's inflicting upon impressionable children? Ushering in a fresh generation of pretentious, self-obsessed show-offs and narcissists, all swishy style and no substance, all I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Butter and no bread (cast your thoughts back to Manor C.E. School, and I'm sure some of you will make the connection...) who aspire to be like him!

At least stop referring to yoursleves as actors. You just demean anyone who gives half a damn about advancing an ancient, noble artform. Talent is a privelige, not a right, and it can be earned through insistent effort and labour. Nothing can redeem flabbiness of thought and character in motion.

Back on topic, outrage ended, who knows? There could be a good actor lurking in the wings, still primed to pop out and give us all the shock of a lifetime. But Lord knows, the poor sod's not going to get the chance to show it to us. It doesn't exist at the moment - he just isn't an interesting individual, and it surfaces in his acting. Such is the sad fate of all child "actors." Any remotely successful actor goes out into the wider world before bringing their unique, diverse experiences to the theatrical table. Boris Karloff was 44 by the time of his big break, but he made history and made it exceedingly well. Daniel Radcliffe is going to flare like a November firework, burn beyond recognition and then vanish into the night.

Bah. It's no good sitting in a dark corner justifying mediocrity's place in the universe. You've got to get out there and flush it off the stage through whatever skills and insights you can muster. If the public wants to be blown away by Daniel Radcliffe, there's little to argue with. You can't very well call the thronging masses that will later make or break so many hardworking and so many lazy people wrong. You've just got to raise the bar a little and exceed all expectations.

"And, God-willing, we'll live to see that day, Watson..."

Revenge of a Film Journal: March

2007-03-30T15:39:00.000+01:00

Ratings from 1 (*) to 5 stars (*****). First time viewings in bold.

March
The Sixth Sense (1999) **** - Not the sweeping classic everyone says (the now-legendary ending is a huge, implausible plot hole), but a tense, unusual thriller with remarkable acting, music and setpieces.

Blackadder: Back and Forth (1999) **½ - Blackadder gets a big-budget cinematic treatment, sadly retaining little of the original's charm, wit or sophistication. But Stephen Fry does get four different roles...

Theatre of Blood (1973) ***½ - Vincent Price delivers a remarkable performance as a spurned thespian murdering his critics with torture devices robbed from Shakespeare. Doesn't quite live up to expectations, but the climactic soliloquy is a stunner.

The Ghost Breakers (1940) *** - Bob Hope and the ever-radiant Paulette Goddard embark to a zombie-infested castle in Haiti. Dated business with a slow beginning and hasty resolution, but pleasant enough.

The Devil Rides Out (1968) ****½ - Hammer dabbles in Satan worship. Christopher Lee, Bond villain Charles Gray, great special effects and a frenetic, action-packed script elevate this to classic status.

The Unholy Three (1930) *** - Lon Chaney's one and only sound film before he succumbed to cancer. The titular clique entails a circus strong man, a vicious midget and a conniving old grandmother.

The Fearless Vampire Killers (1967) *** - Here's a first: a comedy that isn't funny and a horror film that isn't scary. Yet Roman Polanski imbues the proceedings with unrivalled atmospheric and photographic flourishes.

The Haunting (1963) ***** - One of the genuinely brilliant horror films. The face on the wallpaper and the presence in the hallway are my favourite moments. Kudos to Robert Wise (again)!

The Reptile (1966) ***½ - Perhaps Hammer's strangest film, in which a maiden reverts to snake form every winter. Made back-to-back with the far superior The Plague of the Zombies, it includes some memorable makeup and death scenes.

Grip of the Strangler (1958) ***½ - The great Boris Karloff plays a writer possessed by the spirit of a long-dead, Ripper-style murderer. The concurrent Corridors of Blood takes the cake, but it's a close race.

Faust (1926) ****½ - A milestone in the German silent cinema, uniting cutting edge special effects and Expressionistic cinematography in this oft-told epic of good, evil and love. Emil Jannings is a marvellous, impish Mephisto.

New Films: 8
Month Total: 11

A Film Journal: January & February

2007-03-01T17:11:00.000Z

Ratings from 1 (*) to 5 stars (*****).
First time viewings in bold.

January

The Ghoul (1933) **½ - Minor Boris Karloff chiller, with a great premise and atmosphere wasted on frivolous comedy.

Great Expectations (1946) **** - Typically innovative David Lean Charles Dickens adaptation, capturing the period flavour. But his 1948 "Oliver Twist" is better.

A Bucket of Blood (1959) ** - Offbeat horror-comedy from Roger Corman wastes a potentially interesting beatnik premise on a hackneyed script and stagy scenes.

Tales from the Crypt (1972) **** - Inspired Amicus anthology, based on the 1950s EC horror comics. Peter Cushing has his only turn as a walking corpse.

Abbott and Costello Meet the Killer, Boris Karloff (1949) *** - Decent comedy bogged down by a few repetitious gags, but Universal applies its time-tested horror experience with success.

Corridors of Blood (1958) ***½ - Fascinating period horror with Boris Karloff as a doctor addicted to his new anaesthetic. Based on true events!

The Scarlet Claw (1944) ****½ - Universal's finest Sherlock Holmes film, an intriguing, bloody mystery set on the Canadian marshlands.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1939) ****½ - The greatest Sherlock Holmes movie, bar none. Basil Rathbone versus George Zucco make for the perfect Holmes and Moriarty.

The Madness of King George (1994) *** - Alan Bennett play makes for compelling drama, but isn't well suited to cinema. Nigel Hawthorne delivers an outstanding performance.

The Woman in Green (1945) ***½ - Fair Sherlock Holmes thriller involves the gruesome finger murders. Roy Neill's studied direction and Henry Daniell's villainy are the saviours here.

The Tomb of Ligeia (1964) **** - Vincent Price's final Edgar Allan Poe opus. Stunning lighting and camerawork dress a picturesque Norfolk abbey.

The Revenge of Frankenstein (1958) ****½ - One of Hammer's trademark films, a sequel better than the original. Jimmy Sangster imbues his inventive script with black comedy.

The Hound of the Baskervilles (1959) *** - Peter Cushing's first outing as the great detective. pales next to the 1939 film, but there remains much to enjoy here.

Maria Marten, or, The Murder in the Red Barn (1935) **½ - Deliriously hammy Tod Slaughter melodrama. Poor on most levels, but Slaughter's eyeball-rolling elevates this to near-respectability.

Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (1936) ** - Best-known version of the penny dreadful sustains limited, stodgy interest. Slaughter is back on hand, and is thoroughly perverse.

Dressed to Kill (1946) *** - Universal's final Sherlock Holmes film presents a fascinating mystery in a slightly flat, derivative fashion. It remains a good way to pass the time.

Crimes at the Dark House (1940) ***½ - Famous version of "The Woman in White" is remarkably slick and entertaining, providing a decent story as well as a fine showcase for Slaughter.

The Plague of the Zombies (1966) ****½ - One of Hammer's genuine classics, their only foray into zombie territory. The makeup is groundbreaking and creepy.

New Films: 10
Month Total: 18

February

Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror (1942) **½ - Early Universal Holmes fusion is among their weakest efforts, but has a wonderful contemporary blitz ambiance.

Dracula Has Risen from the Grave (1968) **½ - A stunning Christopher Lee, stylish cinematography and a good impaling are undone by an unimaginative script.

The Curse of Frankenstein (1957) **** - Hammer introduces Peter Cushing's marvellous Baron Frankenstein with a solid, trendsetting series opener.

Frankenstein Must be Destroyed (1969) ****½ - Possibly Hammer's greatest, this film contains all the hallmarks and Gothic beauty associated with the studio.

Frankenstein and the Monster From Hell (1973) *** - A frequently overlooked cult classic, with the wicked Baron gathering fresh materials from the local asylum.

The Others (2001) ****½ - A thoughtful ghost story framed by naturalistic performances and low key photography.

Dracula (1958) ***½ - Slightly tepid first outing for Christopher Lee in his most famous role still retains appeal through copious blood, violence, staking and crumbling to dust.

The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (2002) ***** - Sandwiched between two other instant classics, this film has neither a beginning nor an end. But it's awfully well done.

Creature From the Black Lagoon (1954) **** - Sci-fi veteran Jack Arnold brings one of the screen's most convincing rubber suit icons shuffling to life. Groundbreaking underwater scenes.

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003) ***** - Aside from the multiple endings, this epic bookend to the trilogy contains very little to fault.

Casablanca (1942) ***** - This is the classic with it all. Personal highlights include all of Claude Rains' Oscar-nominated screen time and the Max Steiner score.

The Legend of the 7 Golden Vampires (1974) **½ - Cheesy fun melds vampire horror with martial arts choreography with Peter Cushing... with mixed results.

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001) ***** - Welcome to Middle Earth. To appreciate how magnificent this film really is, one must first behold Ralph Bakshi's animated travesty.

New Films: 2
Month Total: 12

And Now For Something Completely Different...

2007-02-22T22:52:00.000Z

Heck, I was bored and short of blodging topics. This will tide you over with all the wit and pith I can muster whilst I dust off the finishing touches on a celebration of Frankenstein. Try and enjoy.

Name: James C. Swanton, the "C" standing for Christopher. Sorry to anyone named Chris out there, you know who you are. At least I presume so. There's something to add to the stupid phrase list.
Birthday: 11/03/91, sixty years on from F.W. Murnau's death (director of Nosferatu and Faust, good films that you should see pronto).
Birthplace: York District Hospital, along with all the other ruddy peasants.
Current Location: Glorious Acomb, still within the boundaries of York.
Eye Color: Brown. Not limpid pools of desire alas, but eccentric prisms of reflecting light.
Hair Color: Extremely dark brown. Blonde once upon a time. I have the photos of my three-year-old self on Acomb Green to prove it.
Height: A rather imposing 6'2". Not quite as towering as Stephen Fry or Christopher Lee yet, but about the stature of Bela Lugosi. And much taller than Claude Rains.
Right Handed or Left Handed: Right-handed, seeing as I'm socially adjusted.
Your Heritage: Mostly obliterated by World War II and an adoption somewhere down the line. I have some Mediterranean blood on my father's side though. An interesting story, that.
The Shoes You Wore Today: Black, scholarly, rather like well-worn liquorice bricks.
Your Weakness: Fully restored and digitally remastered classic films released by Warner Bros. Aw, geez! Also, people who are unconditionally nice.
Your Fears: Tall buildings, stick insects, the Conservative party.
Your Perfect Pizza: Festooned with two of every animal. Tuna is a compelling option.
Goal You Would Like To Achieve This Year: Acclaim and recognition. And more character roles.
Your Most Overused Phrase On an instant messenger: Seen any good films lately? / Oh, prattle off, you! / How's your cat? / Quite the little woman, aren't we?
Thoughts First Waking Up: Time to go back to sleep.
Your Best Physical Feature: The Geoffrey-Rush-as-Inspector-Javert nose (yeah, I wish). No? Possibly the hands then. Don't know what I'd do without them.
Your Bedtime: 11PM on a school day (aren't so many of those now!), extended into the wee early hours on a weekend.
Your Most Missed Memory: Being Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Aw, shucks. I'm a regular Norma Desmond. Or Baby Jane Hudson. Now, who would win in a cat fight?
Pepsi or Coke: I don't mind, they both taste so similar... But Coke. Not so common somehow.
MacDonalds or Burger King: MacDonalds, a name synonymous with all those glorious hydrogenated fats and oils. Although the gap is closing now they're being skimpy with the salt.
Single or Group Dates: Either. I'm desperate and resolutely celibate. Romance is all very well, but wholesome, traditional friendship is the enduring yardstick by which all lives should be measured.
Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Not so sure I've tasted either...
Chocolate or Vanilla: Chocolate I think.
Cappuccino or Coffee: Both of them are pretty disgusting. I may slurp at the frothy teat of a cappuccino though, provided it's dusted with some light flecks of chocolate that haven't been anywhere near Baldrick.
Do you Smoke: No, but I do live, which is something else entirely.
Do you Swear: Now and again. Not so often. Losing your temper like that tends to be bad manners.
Do you Sing: As a character, in purest Rex Harrison style, yes. Otherwise, it just doesn't wash with me. I'd love to be able to, but...
Do you Shower Daily: Anything less would be contemptible.
Have you Been in Love: Yes. It was arduous and painful and forced me to hate myself acutely and do an awful lot of thinking and then hate fundamentalist Christians for a bit and then get distracted and wander off. But at the same time somehow... lovable. Worthwhile experience. Not one I hope to repeat. Just ask if you wish to hear mm morph into a self-pitying moron with something worth pitying for a change.
Do you want to go to College: Indeed. And off I trot.
Do you want to get Married: I'm not so sure on that one yet, you'll have to sell me the benefits.
Do you believe in yourself: In the immortal words of Spyro the Dragon, "ya gotta believe!" Sure, why not? It's just difficult convincing the rest of the world.
Do you get Motion Sickness: Not usually. I adore fast rides. Sitting on the front of Space Mountain with my tongue hanging out approximates heaven for me.
Do you think you are Attractive: To people or to igunanas? Because no either way. Gosh, it must be disturbing to find someone has a crush on you, mustn't it? Thinking about you all hours.
Are you a Health Freak: Certainly not. My metabolism does it all for me.
Do you get along with your Parents: Yes. They contain all my genetic material. What sort of self-loathing, pseudo-Freudian paradox would I be if I didn't?
Do you like Thunderstorms: Yes. It is the perfect moment to watch a 1930s horror film, especially Frankenstein or White Zombie.
Do you play an Instrument: I wish I did, but sadly no. A good organ on which I could thunder out Bach's "Sleepers, Wake" when the mood struck me would be ideal.
In the past month have you Drank Alcohol: No.
In the past month have you Smoked: No.
In the past month have you been on Drugs: Ye-oh, wait. No.
In the past month have you gone on a Date: No... Why am I bothering with this anymore? What would I do on a date? What would a date do with me? Why do dates exist? They're not particularly conducive to love affairs.
In the past month have you gone to a Mall: I'm not American. We have Designer Outlets here.
In the past month have you eaten a box of Oreos: No, I'm not American. We have custard cremes here. And the answer is still no.
In the past month have you eaten Sushi: I'd try some if it was available and less than completely deadly.
In the past month have you been on Stage: Oh, yes. Yes indeed. Dented the Drama Studio floor too. A lifelong dream fulfilled. Mrs. Grace wept. About the floor, that is. I wasn't that bad.
In the past month have you been Dumped: I certainly hope not!
In the past month have you gone Skinny Dipping: Only by myself. Indoors.
In the past month have you Stolen Anything: Please refer to "Ever Shoplifted."
Ever been Drunk: No. I'm still clean and sober
Ever been called a Tease: Oh, sure, yeah, millions of times.
Ever been Beaten up: Not in the physical sense.
Ever Shoplifted: Only from the Spar, when Callum gives me the all clear.
How do you want to Die: Toppling out of the Royal Box in a London theatre and fatally crushing a lesser actor. Wonderful. Donald Wolfit would be proud.
What do you want to be when you Grow Up: A writer, an actor, a film historian, a madman - a Renaissance man, in short.
What country would you most like to Visit: Romania. Bran Castle is for sale again.
In a Boy/Girl.. (Hmm... ambiguous...)
Favourite Eye Color: Not fussed.
Favourite Hair Color: Auburn is a pleasant word, but I really don't mind.
Short or Long Hair: Not fussed. Sorry, long. How long? Gah. Male order brides. Nightmare.
Height: Not fussed. As long as they're not a giraffe or anything.
Weight: I'd be happy with a happy medium. Stick thin people are disgusting. I am the glittering exception that proves the rule, of course.

Best Clothing Style: Drab!
Number of Drugs I have taken: Oh, too few. Every film and TV programme I see about them makes me more desperate. Yeah, man, yeah, like, totally. Just like how the MPPA is attempting to edit out all scenes of smoking in new films.
Number of CDs I own: Around about forty. And over 100 DVDs.
Number of Piercings: None.
Number of Tattoos: Err, none again. Who reads this?
Number of things in my Past I Regret: Oh, plenty of things. But that's another blog entirely...

Reasons to be a Boris Karloff Fan

2007-02-15T13:55:00.000Z

Responsible for two influential cinematic icons - the Frankenstein Monster and the Mummy. No other actor has yet achieved this level of exposure.
At the height of his stardom, he was billed only by last name: KARLOFF (or occasionally, Karloff the Uncanny). This is a very rare accolade, representative of his sterling work in The Mummy (1932), The Black Cat (1934), The Raven (1935) The Walking Dead and The Invisible Ray (both 1936).
Lent his majestic presence to what many (myself included) consider to be the greatest horror films ever made. Standing tall among his other achievements are Frankenstein (1931), The Mummy (1932), The Black Cat, The Black Room (1935), The Walking Dead, Son of Frankenstein (1939), Isle of the Dead (1944), Bedlam (1946) and Targets (1968). Most revered and acclaimed of all are the glorious monoliths to the silver screen's finest twin decades of talking horror - Bride of Frankenstein (1935), an ingenious, operatic fantasia on the classic tale, and The Body Snatcher (1945), turning in his most fiendishly evil and disturbing performance as Cabman Gray.
His showstopping Broadway performance as Bishop Cauchon in The Lark during the fifties earned him a Tony nomination. By most accounts, he lost under very unfair circumstances.
Also had unprecedented Broadway success as Jonathan Brewster in Arsenic and Old Lace throughout the forties, in which he spoke the immortal line, "He said I looked like Boris Karloff!" It's now one of the most celebrated stage comedies in history.
Won a Grammy for his narration of How the Grinch Stole Christmas! Later used it as a doorstop. That takes some serious panache!
His marvellous vocal presence earned him the perennially successful tribute song, Monster Mash. It still gets far more airtime than any other record at Halloween, being uniquely catchy and ghoulishly groovy.
His mere presence in a film has jump started the careers of several Hollywood luminaries. Among them are The Body Snatcher's Robert Wise (his success on that Val Lewton chiller led to The Sound of Music and West Side Story); young Jack Nicholson from The Raven and The Terror (both 1963; his multiple Academy Award nominations verify his worthiness); and Peter Bogdanovich, who got his directorial break with 1968's Targets (Paper Moon). He is also indirectly responsible for the rise of Christopher Lee and the advent of the entire Hammer horror cycle, by turning down The Curse of Frankenstein (1957).
Originated the role of Captain Hook (on Broadway, yet again) in Leonard Bernstein's dark version of Peter Pan.
Played opposite Lord Laurence Olivier (himself!) in the West End to raise money for charity. And, yes, probably gave him a run for his money.
He has featured on two separate US postage stamps. This places him on a par with the Queen of England, who, to be quite honest, is only there by birthright.
Made an appearance in one of the earliest colour films, House of Rothschild (1934). Was later the star attraction in the big budget melodrama The Climax (1944), photographed in Technicolor. This process was not only expensive and rather innovative, but it reinstated faith in Boris's box office appeal.
Was fully prepared to suffer for his art. Most infamous was his makeup in The Mummy. It took a marathon eight hours to equip, had no special compartments for visits to the toilet (God forbid!), ensured that he collapsed from oxygen starvation, and kept him fully awake for well over twenty-four hours. I fear we shall not see his like again...
By all accounts, he was the most kind and generous human being. Virtually no one (minus Susanna Foster) has said a bad word about this gentleman and gentle man.
Served in World War II on night watch duty, despite the fame and glamour of his cinematic and Broadway success glittering around him.
In the best tradition of Bette Davis, "he did it the hard way." A solid twenty years or so of bit parts, hard labour, truck driving, rationing out soup tins, drifting in and out of stock and rep companies, five failed marriages, learning dozens of scripts to perform on rotation, ecetera, ecetera, loomed ahead before late bloom stardom at 44. This also shaped and guaranteed his humbleness regarding his fame.
Owned a pig named Violet. That's reason enough to make somebody great.
Worked at age eighty-two, in wheelchair and with oxygen mask equipped, for the sheer love of his craft. He was a well-off man, he didn't need to do it... but he carried on all the same. This also ended up killing him, when a torrential flood on The Curse of the Crimson Altar (1968) aggravated his troublesome emphysema. He died as he wished, "with my boots and my grease-paint on."

There you have it. The foundations of a great actor. And with no spotty, squint-eyed, midgety Daniel Radcliffe in sight. God bless cinema history!

A Bit of a Review of a Bit of a Film

2007-02-07T22:23:00.000Z

OK, so it's not a film in the strictest feature-length sense, but there are so many PNS perversities online now that I should probably "review" (an ugly word) at least one.

The latest opus is entitled Two Blokes a Beast and a Bar Wall - Episode Three (2007), following on from the likes of 2005's original and the second outing in 2006. All the hallmarks of the previous entries are there - the same repertory company, settings, editor, cinematographer, director (most of them mysteriously called CG), and so on. There is also the same rich vein of depraved humour, a rather diffuse juxtaposition of "schoolboy humour" (well, allegedly) and incest among a ribald family of sexually provocative libertines. That's a line for the poster.

I think you can pinpoint this entry as the turning point of the series, veering off in the direction of the epic. Everything is Bigger! Bolder! Louder! This can sometimes be a detractor from the subtleties of filmmaking. My only question is: what subtleties? So yes, I think it just about works here. York is a fabulous adventure playground filled with beautiful scenery that should be taken maximum advantage of. I look forward to some abseiling down the Minster next time.

There are many blessings on hand. Recycled yet again is the original opening intro, which comforts and reassures and terrifies a viewer, rather like the repeated main titles sequence at the start of Universal's twelve 1940s Sherlock Holmes outings (sorry... I'll crush down the film historian within). There's a considerably larger sense of scope and pageantry this time round, with a fairly protracted chase scene up walls, down walls and across grassy knolls. Camera motion is generally more fluid, and the soundtrack compliments the onscreen insanity well. It's a solid, high quality exercise in low budget (sorry, no budget) filmmaking, with only one instance when it becomes difficult to see what's going on (a Blair Witch homage, perhaps?). The accents are dodgy as ever, but I wouldn't have them any other way. The use of stop motion for sudden disappearances is seamless, and probably the funniest single moment on display. The pure, unadulterated shoddiness is absolutely delightful... in the best possible sense.

However, I must take slight issue with the general sense of humour. The last episode pushed the envelope just as far as I was prepared to see (and, rest assured, I found it very amusing) - but, in that timeless fashion, this one felt the urge to go even further. I don't have a particularly weak stomach (yeah, you go off and take the stench of rotting flesh at the morgue). I just don't find certain elements of it funny anymore, that's all. The sort of daring mischief that made the original almost endearing is getting just a bit old and bilious for me now. It ain't zealous ro charming - it's just shunte din there for macabtre shock effect, like a dead cow sweating it's life juices at a family barbercue. That's not to say you shoudln't continue - if you find it funny, I will defend to the death your right to carry on. Just please don't expect me to enthuse about a bit of comedy I don't find all that funny. I wholeheartedly encourage everyone with something meaningful to add or disagree with to comment.

Nevertheless, a decent production that probably won't receive so many brickbats from the mainstream. I anticipate (with joy and overwhleming fear) the next entry. And when are you getting your page on the Internet Movie Database?

Lower School Festival? Yes, of course I'm bitter!

2007-02-03T22:34:00.000Z

Bitter and resentful, to be precise. Let's discuss exactly why. (A sidebar: I suggest you ask Chris Guard for what was basically the prototype for this entry. It's a very amusing and painfully true read from a brilliantly embittered perspective. But for now, I'll just wax lyrical in my accustomed, pseudo-philosophical style.)

There is something very wrong about Manor School. Why does any worthwhile Christian organisation plunge us into such an abrasive sub-culture of hierarchies and cliques from the moment we enter? Everywhere you look, you're being ranked and organised for inspection - merit counts! Code counts! Attendance records! Mark books! I have no problem with these things. They're based upon the way we conduct ourselves (or not) and seem perfectly acceptable. There's another problem...

It's based on the house system. It boils my blood and sets my hair on fire. Never in my life have I encountered such brutal and unremitting cheating, deceit and callous favouritism running through such a skewed and unreliable system. Pray let me explain:

There's this school ya see, an' it's-a crammed full o' people. But thurs a foo-too-moo-ny people, so they 'ave to be split into groups, see. There's one called Abbey, which is kinda crappy. Another, called Manor, is a leett-le bit crappy too, ya see, reflectoid-ing the way I see its namey-sake roight noo. Then there's Stoo-hart which is also kinda rubbish. Yer see, there be other houses. But then, there is, sounding like the hammer of Thor -

WENTWORTH.

Oh. Oh, oh, oh. A thousand orgasmic groans, monsieur! WENTWORTH Oh! Brilliant, golden, glimmering, gilded WENTWORTH! WENTWORTH, yes, WENTWORTH! WENTWORTH, lynch-pin of the performing arts department! WENTWORTH, great, glorious out-pouring of the universe's talent! WENTWORTH, crammed with ardent RADA students and Tony-award winners! WENTWORTH, bubbling with young prodigies and masterworks of renaissance art! WENTWORTH, replete with its majestic hoardes of exquisitely athletic young boys and girls, vaulting over fences and doging buses on their way to school! WENTWORTH, where the fat and spotty nary show their face! WENTWORTH, where mediocrity is a byword for high treason! WENTWORTH, where dozens of young raconteurs and Stephen Fry-clones wile their way through dinner parties and costume dramas! WENTWORTH, where rules and good judgement are laid aside in favour of enormous gushings of relentless, beatific praise! If anything ever managed to stop the real God, you can bet he would be replaced by WENTWORTH.

Now, whilst I retire to the nearest piano and hastily puke into it, I would like to say that this is grossly unfair. It cheapens and destroys the hard work and effort that 75% of the school does, whilst blowing out of all proportion the other 25%. I have rarely encountered a more sickening and gut-wrenching sight than the millions of toussle-haired, dimpled urchins cavorting, capering, hugging and generally being doe-eyed, dwindling, vicious little arsewipes the moment the inevitable cry of WENTWORTH IS VICTORIOUS was called out. And I worked at the morgue. The good people I'd been working with and desperately nurturing for the last three months were instantly deflated, distraught and hastily swept under the rug. They were undervalued and ignored to the extent where I question my own sanity. Peripheral, oblique questions go twirling through my tormented brain... Should I change myself somehow? Dye my hair, don a track suit, wear eye shadow and lip gloss? Get a bit of bling? Perhaps, you wonder, in a violent fit of vomiting on the way to the stage, you should swap your name to Mam SacAvoy and start imitating Blames Junt. Or perhaps it would be simpler to invent a time machine, skirt back through the wasted years, bump off Scelena Hofield and replace her with a ginger tabby cat named Raymond Huntley to see if it still wins.

As far as I'm concerned, talent in Manor School's entirely subjective environment is little more than a flashy name or a catchphrase - buzzwords and flashing lights and pretty little elves and magic tricks all imitating true talent.

True talent. I cannot say I possess it, because I am not in WENTWORTH. I must settle for a position of vague, unfulfilled respect and no level of verbal acclaim or praise as I behold the confetti and doves rain down upon WENTWORTH. Nevertheless, I rest secure with the comforting vision that the objective realities of the real world shall reduce that brood of ravenous ghouls spewed up from the grave to dismal, drug-addled shadows of their former inflated egos.

God bless Britain and its Labour government! God curse Manor and its favouritism, prejudice and heresy!

I born a Stuart (well... not really) and I shall die a Stuart (God-willing). So let's have a little bit more of STUART! ABBEY! MANOR! And a little bit less Wentworth. Don't worry, precious. The anger only drives me to verbally (and, hopefully, physically) lash you. And please, Manor School, sort out this abhorrent theological issue.

25 People I Must Meet!

2007-01-26T22:02:00.000Z

Boris Karloff (How did you become so cool?)
Peter Cushing (Tell me something about God, and then Frankenstein.)
Stephen Fry (Hasn't you brain exploded yet? Thank you for Moab is my Washpot.)
Alec Guinness (Are you really the world's only respected actor who didn't go to RADA?)
Bela Lugosi (Typecasting? Me! Too!)
Claude Rains (Here's a tape recorder. Now, read from that telephone directory. I'll be rich soon.)
Charles Laughton (Cheer up, Charlie. And take that twnety-pound hump off.)
George Zucco (Why does nobody know who you are except Greg Mank and I?)
Alfred Hitchcock (How did you go forty-seven years without smiling?)
Vincent Price (Enough said.)
Simon Callow (Where on earth did you get that bouffant? And learn to write so very well?)
Joseph Merrick (Sick of all the pity? I have friendship to offer!)
Christopher Lee (I won't mention Dracula, but I'll make you as many cups of Earl Grey as you like.)
Henry Daniell (You made body snatching and chopping fingers off look positively cool.)
Alistair Sim (You put all other Scrooges to shame. You are the king.)
Bette Davis (Bloody hell, you did well for yourself. Deservedly, of course.)
Lon Chaney, Sr. (You suffered beyond compare to entertain the world. And it payed off!)
Carole Shelley (Hey-hey! A worthwhile character actress who isn't Meryl Streep!)
James Earl Jones (Do the voice, do the voice, do the voice, do the voice...)
Tod Slaughter (You are the definition of ham. A shining beacon to all!)
Richard Griffiths (See you in London. I'll bring my mobile phone.)
Greg Mank (How do you go about becoming the world's greatest film historian?)
David J. Skal (I want a slide lecture! Posthaste!)
Tom Weaver (You are so putting an audio commentary on all my DVDs.)
Miriam Margolyes (Sorry for saying you look like James Davies so much. You do.)

Fifteen of you are, kind of, y'know, uhm, well, how shall I put this... DEAD, so I'll be seeing you at the Pearly Gates. Another incentive to be good.

Video Collection

2007-01-07T14:22:00.000Z

Well, here's a treat for all concerned! A proverbial clip show of old news! Shoving my souped-up slideshows on to your monitor! Enjoy and despair at their ludicrous crudeness. Sincere apologies for poor sound quality (they work best with headphones). If I only placed a small piece of netting in front of the mic... but no. I'm far too important. From now on, any further video monstrosities will be relegated to my blog.

Chapter One: Hut on the Rock
This one was fun to do, but constitutes something of a public service as well. The sooner that people recognise and acknowledge the Rubeus Hagrid/Ghost of Christmas Present/Lauren Girling hate triangle, the sooner we'll all be saved from nuclear warfare. And at 702 views so far, the public is getting the message! Ratings have been pretty decent so far too. This is the one with such classic moments as the cardboard cutout, the Grace-inspired stage directions and the Christmas Schooner/Christmas Carol riffs.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FKgmbc9EXeo

Chapter Two: Trains and Trolleys
Personally speaking, I find this much funnier than part one. It has the insane tea lady, Ron Weasley catching fire, Judi Dench and Dumbledore keeling over. It may be a little too surreal for anyone not fully in on the joke... no, wait, avant-garde. So my question is who favourited it and pushed a five-star-rating? Chances are that there's somebody as sick as me out there. Then again, maybe Davies has a YouTube account and has been posting videos of himself in a cocktail dress. He keeps a crowbar in his garter, he does.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eo4q5aWE-Co

The Phantom Lament
This was posted in an underpublicised moment of inspiration when I realised I hadn't done any real acting in months. I slapped this together to ease that troubling thought. It uses Erik's extended monologue from one of my favourite books, Gaston Leroux's 1911 The Phantom of the Opera and images from one of my favourite films, the 1925 silent flick with the great Lon Chaney. The ghoulish makeup holds up very well, I think. I could pick holes in my overwrought performance here till Judgement Day, but overall I think it's rather good and something I'm proud to thrust in your general direction. Very few Emos could top this outpour. I'm bargaining on doing a one-man version of A Christmas Carol at some point, which will be amusing. The most excellent point about Phantom is that it comes with a built-in fanbase. I was inundated with pleasant e-mails and good ratings (and have been viewed and favourited a lot), with none of the usual panning and death threats. Here it is:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ykcGE9Ba6m0

Aw, I Love Acting!

2006-12-20T12:02:00.000Z

A thank you to Charles Hutchinson (yes, the same chap that brutally panned Mother Courage) for reserving a few little lines for me in his Evening Press review of the Studio production I recently did:

"Allotments ... unearths a comic talent of the future in James Swanton. Watch him blossom. It's all in the voice..."

Yeah... There's probably a slightly higher gauge of being laughed at than laughing with. And that lugubrious voice that's doomed me to character parts (or alternately crumbs) is NOT MY FAULT, by crimmeny! At least the Theatre Royal didn't supply them an image of me in costume. I mean, which one to pick? The swishy pinstripe suit (good!), the circus clown gear with the six foot shoes, rainbow wig and squeaking horn accessory (bad...), the two drag outfits (ugly, ugly, and most ugliest ugly) or the old man getup (predictable... and ugly)? But yes... it's nice to be acknowledged now and then.

Allotments was an odd play though. It had no storyline, for one thing. There was choral speaking aplenty (shudder), but, funnily enough, it didn't sound like total crap. Some female madman supplied me with fifteen jars of real jam to carry onstage (a dreadful waste - and it all went off on the last night). We were forced to listen to The Rat Pack pounding away in the background as we made costume changes. It was fun, in that slightly sick, twisted way, but not a very satisfying production and it left every little room to think. Nevermind that it came just before the mock exams.

Yet, fun it remained! You can't afford to have any dignity about drama at this age, which offers great freedom! No use getting all hoity-toity until you've built up a worthwhile reputation, which is rather difficult unless you're a talentless pudding of drug-induced hatred and happen to be called Daniel Radcliffe. I will take every single script that comes my way and enjoy it thoroughly! 'Cause at the end of the day, acting is simply an acceptable form of showing off. And that's why it appeals to so many people. You get to keep your soul and reputation (until you're forced into drag... twice), and get rid of all the egotistical, pompous, arrogant vibes onstage. Huzzah!

Also: Boris Karloff is the greatest actor of all time and I will KILL all who defy me.

The Fully Revised and Expanded... HATE LIST!

2006-12-14T21:58:00.000Z

Ta-daa! We're back! As the past few months have drifted by, my hackles have been raised by a veritable plethora of idiotic human behaviour. So I decided to squeeze my anger into a bitter little ball and release it as a convenient public explosion. Enjoy! Apologies if your name isn't on here. I'm sure you'll understand.

Pre-exam intimidation. Common practices include relaying a long list of complex facts you haven't learnt, informing people how long you've been revising for, or prodding them with a sharpened pencil.
Post-exam intimidation. Common practices include stating just how easy the test was, going into mass detail about the answer you gave to a particular question, and the sharpening of further pencils.
Atheists celebrating Christmas. C'mon people - hop on the Methodist bandwagon!
The metric system. Still.
Oh, God, yes. How I hate it.
Stealing souls. It happens.
Lickspittling... Is that a word? I know that spittle is, and as for the lick, I... Oh, well.
Tainted holy water.
Comparing poetry. 'Nuff said.
The LRC's flimsy regulatory system.
People who are endlessly critical and negative without being the least bit stylish or amusing, dammit.
The people who didn't set up the Stephen Fry Appreciation Club. How dare they!
People smearing the handle to the boy's toilets with urine and excrement as they leave. I have been forced to invent a token electrised hooking device to prise the battered piece of wood away from the threshold. If it breaks, I'm trapped forever.
Baked bean skins.
The slackers who presented that cut price DVD edition of Dracula (1931). You can see evidence of ghosting and print artefacts at 48:13:39! I sleep with the lights on now.
Clocks with minute hands.
Football on every contemptible, oozing level.
People who pretend to like football to "get in on the crowd." In fact, people who conform to mainstream society out of sheer laziness and fear. It is sickening.
People who rant on about the evils of mainstream society. The only ones who have a right to comment on mainstream society are those taht belong to it, but they never seem to put aside the time to do it with any precision, depth or credibility. Tells you something right there.
You getting any of this?
Self-awareness. Or, rather being aware of self-awareness. We can all smell it. like truffle hounds. Minus the truffle. As it were.
Ikea plates and shoes and socks and pans and chairs and tables and microwaves and aboriginal slave children and pencil holders and staplers and carpeting and toupees and...
Hair extensions. You should be ashamed of yourselves.
Going into the Product Design workshop. Look, there's no oxygen and everything smells like sawdust. Happy?
Ignorance in the face of overwhelming geekery.
... and marzipan and webcams and eraser pens and rubber stamps and postage stamps and boot polish and commemorative plates and space probes and...
People who take it Art 'cause they think it's easy. Then they retreat to the Apple computers when they realise they have to hold a pencial the correct way up.
Those that use the Apple computers who aren't ME. Back off, pal! They're MINE.
A lack of talent!
David Attenborough's insulting remarks about the head shapes of Alaskan Timbre Wolves (or whatever the hell they were called).
Swearing out of context. It's laziness, I tell you, pure fucking laziness!
People who replace a random word in a sentence with the word "pants."
Having to get up every single morning to adjust my pants.
Feeling the need to work a joke into every single line of a pointless list.
Why am I writing this?
Oh, Lord, I have no life!
I guess I just got sick of lengthy philosophical diatribes.
Yeah, I agree with you.
Who the hell asked you? Back off, loser!
Schizophrenia. Now, back to the conversation.
You don't accept me because of my club foot. I'm leaving, Harold!
Oh, Luanne, I fell in love with you for the sake of you! Not your repulsive club foot!
You're just making it worse for yourself. That's all it is these days - sex-sex-sex, career-career-career.
American sitcoms. Do they work on any level? Methinks not. they embody all that is wrong with our culture.
Whiny, pathetic cry-babies who trade off on their physical appearance as a means of drawing attention and popularity.
Pop-u-lar. Yer gonna be pop-u-lar. You'll hang with the right cohorts, you'll be good at sports, learn the slang you've got to kno-oo-oo-oow.... Yep. That song.
Grease. Don't get me started.
The day that Lauren met Kelly Clarkson. And bonded, never to separate.
James Davis. Yeah, I said Davis...
(I really meant Davies. Principally, the hair, and the birdhouse imprisoned within the hair).

100 Greatest Classic Horror Films

2006-11-12T15:09:00.000Z

Here it is... The ultimate reference point for your viewing of classic terror films, personally compiled by me in order of preference... This list is by no means definitive though. I have yet to see so many of classic slices of horror hokum. And would a definitive list really include so many Sherlock Holmes films? Or so many poverty row pictures? I'll revise the list a year from now to see how my tastes, opinions and experiences have evolved. But until then - seek out some of these wonderful old movies. You won't regret it at all!

1. Bride of Frankenstein (1935)
2. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1932)
3. The Body Snatcher (1945)
4. Nosferatu – Eine Symphonie des Grauens (1922)
5. Psycho (1960)
6. The Invisible Man (1933)
7. The Old Dark House (1932)
8. Son of Frankenstein (1939)
9. The Wolf Man (1941)
10. The Haunting (1963)
11. Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979)
12. The Black Cat (1934)
13. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1939)
14. House of Usher (1960)
15. Frankenstein (1931)
16. White Zombie (1932)
17. The Incredible Shrinking Man (1957)
18. Frankenstein Must be Destroyed (1969)
19. The Phantom of the Opera (1929)
20. Dracula’s Daughter (1936)
21. The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1939)
22. Dracula (Spanish Version; 1931)
23. The Mummy (1932)
24. The Revenge of Frankenstein (1958)
25. The Scarlet Claw (1944)
26. The Plague of the Zombies (1966)
27. Pit and the Pendulum (1961)
28. Dracula: Prince of Darkness (1966)
29. House of Wax (1953)
30. The Raven (1935)
31. King Kong (1933)
32. Bud Abbott Lou Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948)
33. Creature From the Black Lagoon (1954)
34. Son of Dracula (1943)
35. The Masque of the Red Death (1964)
36. Young Frankenstein (1974)
37. The Pearl of Death (1944)
38. Dracula (1979)
39. The Hound of the Baskervilles (1939)
40. Vampyr – Der Traum des Allan Grey (1932)
41. Frankenstein Created Woman (1967)
42. The Curse of Frankenstein (1957)
43. Phantom of the Opera (1943)
44. The Spider Woman (1944)
45. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1941)
46. The Curse of the Werewolf (1961)
47. Mark of the Vampire (1935)
48. The Fly (1958)
49. Bluebeard (1944)
50. Village of the Damned (1960)
51. Dracula (1958)
52. Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon (1943)
53. Sherlock Holmes Faces Death (1943)
54. Tales of Terror (1962)
55. Cat People (1942)
56. The Son of Kong (1933)
57. Dracula (1931)
58. The Woman in Green (1944)
59. House of Dracula (1945)
60. House of Frankenstein (1944)
61. Freaks (1932)
62. Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man (1943)
63. Rasputin: The Mad Monk (1966)
64. The Vampire Bat (1932)
65. The Picture of Dorian Gray (1945)
66. The Comedy of Terrors (1964)
67. House on Haunted Hill (1958)
68. Terror by Night (1946)
69. The Mummy (1959)
70. Mystery of the Wax Museum (1933)
71. Frankenstein and the Monster From Hell (1973)
72. Earth vs. the Flying Saucers (1956)
73. The City of the Dead (1960)
74. Dracula Has Risen From the Grave (1968)
75. Tarantula (1955)
76. Dressed to Kill (1946)
77. 13 Ghosts (1960)
78. Abbott and Costello Meet the Killer, Boris Karloff (1949)
79. Sherlock Holmes in Washington (1943)
80. Dr. Cyclops (1940)
81. The House of Fear (1945)
82. The Most Dangerous Game (1932)
83. The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1923)
84. It Came From Outer Space (1953)
85. The Hound of the Baskervilles (1959)
86. Carnival of Souls (1962)
87. Children of the Damned (1963)
88. The Raven (1963)
89. The Ghoul (1933)
90. Taste the Blood of Dracula (1970)
91. The Evil of Frankenstein (1964)
92. The Gorilla (1939)
93. The Ghost of Frankenstein (1942)
94. The Terror (1963)
95. Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror (1942)
96. Scars of Dracula (1970)
97. Invisible Ghost (1940)
98. The Ape (1940)
99. Pursuit to Algiers (1946)
100. She-Wolf of London (1946)

P.S: This list is better by far than anything Channel Four has yet to compile. Don't you dare listen to those corporate hacks!

Mr. Swanton Discusses the Meaning of Life, Pt. 3.5

2006-11-03T22:00:00.000Z

An unexpected delight popped up in my mailbox this evening. Instead of burying it away with the lesser comments, I felt it was my sacred duty to pin it up here for your reading pleasure:

divvy, while this guy can sound clever using quite advanced vocabulary, you
just sound like a twat. You sound like a really nerdy year 7 that spends his
time reading the dictionary and trying to learn "big words", but doesn't know
where to include them in a sentance, so sticks them in everywhere to appear
"interlectual". Just don't.

Whatever your gripes about my use of the English language (what is it there for if not free use?), it is probably the result of some crushing personal and emotional inadequacies/anxieties that haunt your every waking moment and leave you unfulfilled and woefully unpopular. Fortunately, my vernacular dexterity allows me not only to create your argument, but also to ruthlessly slaughter it.

You began your first sentence with a lower case letter. This is poor grammar, and hence representative of its cringing writer.
"Divvy" isn't a real word. At least so far as I'm aware. In any case, its impact is lost on me.
How dare you address me as "guy." (And so near to Bonfire Night as well, children!) When embarking upon an informal letter it is vital that the receiver knows your identity. This miserable coward didn't have the guts to tell me who they are, obviously terrified that I will beat them up after school.
"... Can sound clever..." Oh, but of course, nobody is allowed to be cleverer than you, are they diddums? It would only make you feel terribly insecure. You mention the word as if it's a trait to be admired before completely undermining it. You must have a grounding inferiority complex.
"Quite advanced vocabulary"? Is this a joke? Just because the words "ignoble," "maudlin," and "the" don't crop up in The Sun too often doesn't mean they straddle beyond the limits of human comprehension. The average article in The Times is far more complicate dthan what you'll read here. Presuming you can read.
"... You just sound like a twat." Wow. Inferiority complex 101. So you remain under the impression that mankind should grunt no more than cunt, shit, fuck, bastard and bollocks, are you? I'm guessing you also watch Emmerdale Farm and drink naught but apple cider and have been caught trying to escape the dreaded school building at some point this week. And you mentioned earlier that I "sound clever." If intelligence and insight is synonymous with degradation and misery, I'm sorry to say that the world just got a bit happier.
You typed the word "year" without a capital. Tut, tut, tut - naughty little outlaw disobeying the great God of English grammar.
By the way, in betraying the knowledge of Year Sevens, I know at once that you attend my school. You've narrowed down the millions of internet users who might've sent this petty hate mail to roughly fifty. Quite the blunder, I'd say. And I've yet to encounter the miserable Year Seven who will touch a dictionary with a sixty-eight foot literature pole.
I do not spend any time at all raiding the dictionary for new words. I use a Thesaurus. And a pretty good one too. I also have the ability to read. You know, the same sort of written article that has stopped your miserable parentage dumping you with a social worker on nine consecutive occasions.
"Trying to learn 'big words'..." I don't understand the problem here. Are they "big words" or aren't they? Black or white? Make your mind up, or simply refrain from registering your poorly-thought-out diatribes at all.
"Doesn't know where to include them in a sentence..." Right. I see. Where do you go about including alien words in a sentence? Somewhere towards the back? The front? Brackets? Slopey italics following every other word? Somebody as idiotic and foolish as myself desperately requires your insightful services. You are committing a selfish and nefarious deed in hiding your light under a bushel! You must come out into the open and lecture English at Cambridge for a multitude of burgeoning Stephen Frys! Or alternatively fuck off. I don't know, it's up to you I guess.
You spelt intellectual in a far from intellectual manner. In fact, it's a travesty to view. I hate to think how you kmust function in a classroom situation. Or a social situation. Or even this far-removed internet situation. Failure is imminent.
"Just don't." You've yet to give me a substantial reason why I should retire to tin town and live in a shoebox for the rest of my life. And to exactly waht does this particular "don't" refer to? Don't sound like a nerdy Year Seven? Don't sound clever (woe betide)? Don't learn "big words"? Don't "sticks them in everywhere"? (Since you're doubtlessly carrying a slew of chav-related STIs, you'll already know about the sort of trouble that business can get you into).

Let it be shouted from the mountain tops: James Swanton will not take this display of arrogant, ignorant petulance lightly. If you want to confront me in argument, I shall simply chop your head off with my tongue. If you want to engage in a physical battle of some sort, I shall hold no punches (they say madmen have great strength, you know - and I can already tell I must be much taller than you). If you want to show you have the guts and strength of character to state your opinions face to face, then be my guest. I shall eagerly await your apologies on Monday at school. But you won't win. For I shall carry on. A brief warning: never underestimate the sheer drive and power that bubbles just beneath my velvety surface. You will be shredded instantly and possibly expelled.

And just in case that litany of flowery verse was lost on you, I must add that you are "a cunty, bugger-sucking, bastarding mother fucker of a scumball's bollocking shit heap." And in case the more enlightened, worthwhile, upstanding members of society were unfortunate enough to read that, I send my deepest apologies. Such vermin are beneath contempt. Thank you.

How the Local Ghoul Celebrated Halloween

2006-11-01T22:30:00.000Z

Well, this year hasn't been so different to all the others. Another barrage of the most insane and recklessly greedy trick or treaters, another barrage of painfully lost sweets and another barrage of crude reality dumped on childhood illusions. Happy, happy, hip-hop-happity days in other words.

I'd like to stab the people who complain that Halloween is over-commercialised (apologies Callum). As the years go by, it increasingly seems like such a non-event. Nevermind all the skeletons in the closet (one plastic/glow-in-the-dark taken apart and neatly tucked away, one robotic one in a wedding dress, a vast array of masks and gloves, etc.) - no way in hell was I going to dress up like a chav pretending to be a vampire and parade around York bricking windows and generally arseing about at bus shelters. For one as over-exposed to the subject as I, Halloween ought to be a night of quiet reflection over a magnificent passion. Nevertheless, one conversation with some more rambunctious individuals bears repeating:

(James Swanton opens the door. There is one trick or treater.)
HE: Trick or treat!!
(Two more dwarfish, mask-wearing imps pop out from the darkness, showing off their terrible acting skills as they scream in the most tuneless and woefully dull manner available. James Swanton has a small heart attack - yeah, right - and rushes to get the gun.)
ME: Gee. Whizz-pop. Wow. Aren't you terrifying?
(James Swanton reaches for a bowl and kindly selects the smallest lollipops on display.)
ME: There you go. Goodbye...
HE: Wait. Wait a minute. I want to pick my own. Let me put this back...
ME: I'm afraid not. Now kindly piss off, I need my beauty sleep more than this mudpack might suggest.

All frighteningly true! Up till the last sentence at any rate... I may come off as a curmudgeon (I don't think I'd be doing my job properly if I didn't), but I just can't get other the atmosphere of petty thuggery, greed and just plain nastiness that's begun invading Halloween. Children become hideous, candy-driven psychopaths on the 31st, and at times their conduct strikes me as most appalling. In any case, I shall revert the wicked children in question to our dedicated staff of Senior Prefects at once, whereupon they shall be seated comfortably in an innocuous and warm RS classroom for peaceful as punishment. Is there any significant reason (related to the ancient Celtic holiday or otherwise) why I should distribute large amounts of sugar among passing vagrants once a year? Why these peculiar individuals should glower on my doorstep, craning their grubby necks into my home? We have perfectly good soup kitchens somewhere in York! They're probably a helluva lot more nutritious as well.

I got into the swing of All Hallow's Eve by simply viewing a classic horror film (cue sustained groan). Bride of Frankenstein of 1935 - not just a great Frankenstein film, or a great work of the macabre, but one of the greatest pieces of cinema ever. I deny anyone from the most snobby and elitist arthouse circuit (the ruthlessly ludicrous person who raves about films with titles like Madame Da Pompadour's Intergalactic Wishing Well and adores talentless, hack-ish French directors) to deny this simple truth after watching even five seconds of 1947's Scared to Death. And that's a James Swanton promise...!

"Twas at least fifty-five nights before Christmas,

And all through the room,

Echoed laughter from Boris,

And theremins of doom..."

A very, very happy November 1st to you all. May Bonfire Night send us all to a fiery, skin-peeling death!

The Harry Potter Spoof on YouTube, AKA "Why should I suffer alone?"

2006-10-27T16:59:00.001+01:00

Seemingly eons ago I placed the irrevent, surbversive and deeply offensive script for a Harry Potter spoof here on this very blog (cowritten with Master J.W. Davies in a whirlwind twenty minute lunch break). Reaction was mild to say the least. Callum scanned it over to break up his usual birdwatching routine. Mind you, even probablity there is rather murky.

In any case, I have sweated and toiled, set the original soundtrack to a slideshow (well, quite a creative one), and dumped it into the boundless, murky mire of the interweb, the earth's one-stop black lagoon for everything mind-bogglingly uneccessary and painful in society. I just hope that this is the exception that proves the rule...

To save you the trouble of poking the hell out of me with a sharpened ruler in your quest for the URL (thou must answer questions three!) I have attempted to embed the video here. If this is just a blank space... well, you'll have to corner my MSN address, berate me and harrass me over waves of inane babble about Boris Karloff and 1940's Sherlock Holmes thrillers, ad nauseum. Or I could edit the blog to test if it works... but that would be cheating. Enjoy!

Unfortunately this attempt failed. Thank God in Heaven above that I'm kind and charitable enough to blow my own trumpet this way, by pasting your precious link in: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FKgmbc9EXeo

The Harry Potter Spoof on YouTube, AKA "Why should I suffer alone?"

2006-10-27T16:59:00.000+01:00

Mr. Swanton Discusses the Meaning of Life, Pt. 3

2006-10-17T21:07:00.000+01:00

3. A very black mood
Oh, dear... Pardon me. Oh, dear. It's hit me once again. Dearest depression. Like homesickness, it's almost impossible to remember how awful it feels until it creeps back up on you. Be warned: I'm not here to seek sympathy, publicity or pity-driven kinship, and anyone who says otherwise will receive my particularly bony fist burrowing several inches down their miserable throat.

It's a great pity that not all of life can be smiles, sunshine and a quirky exclamation mark dotted on the end of every sentence. There's the grand comedown afterwards, when one ceases to be so ambitious or recklessly eloquent about existence. Of course, it's never a natural comedown where I'm concerned. It's always some unnatural, horrific obtrusion, whether surfacing from within me or the outside world. Actually, it's probably just seeing myself reflected in the light of the outside world that becomes so distressing. Apologies for all breakdowns in grammar, punctuation, and so forth, but creativity is locked in a vice at such frustrating times.

A number of things strike me about these mild depressive fits (might as well inspect them from a vaguely clinical standpoint). You've probably experienced some of them. Becoming a little too hysterical (and not in the positive manner) over nothing. Breaking down in private places - showers, public toilets (well, perhaps not so private), bathrooms... Losing command of dreams and abilities you particularly enjoyed, as you slowly dissolve to an inarticulate puddle on the floor. Waking up on a morning to enjoy that exquisite few seconds before the loathsome situation strikes you like a jackhammer. And sadly (and perhaps inevitably) a rekindled interest in God. Now, if we were all to maintain a sustained devotion to God, would we still elapse into constant moodswings, or merely ramble along at a bland emotional average? It's an interesting experiment, I'm sure. Not one I've ever remembered to try.

A particularly prominent feature of my black moods is an open, raw, hostile resentment of all human contact, those lucky monsters who can never hope to understand this purer form of anguish. Recognise it? It's a horrendous statement I pose myself every month or so, and one I know in my heart can hardly be true. Think of the (strikingly traditional) starving children of Africa! But I am not speaking from the heart right now, I am callously dictating from the brain, and you will listen to what this unseemly lump of festering flesh has left to say.

In actual fact, my depression does sweep in as the result of a purer form of anguish. I shall never be prepared to divulge my secret tortures (and my dignity) over the internet, so you'll forgive that I am not specific here, but rather foggy and abstract... It is a problem I will possess for the rest of my life. I am quite certain of that now. Hope has drained away over a bitter campaign of three years, whilst all sorts of internal battles and deepseated frustrations have waged within.

It is not a picnic being James Swanton at the moment, although it can hardly be as bad as being John Malkovich. Or any other human being for that matter. It is always our fault - we must never lose sight of that simple fact. There is no use blaming somebody else all the time, we have to learn to take proper resposibility for our peculiar hormone induced moodswings. We punish ourselves daily in all sorts of fickle and bitter little manners, through the crude manipulations of our conscience. We are ridiculous, laughable beasts, ridden with madcap inhibitions and inconsistencies, and remain in perpetual need of a reality check. All depression is the result of all-too-human failure. There is nothing so sad in life as a lack of effort, and I believe that (no matter who we may think is responsible) this factor can be traced back down to all of life's disappointments. We are the violator, and the violated to boot.

Still, God is good to me, and continues to support me during this bleak period. I'm not so sure that I have dug up a reasonable conclusion this time round, but it is certainly helpful to vent my insanities over the internet. Why? Lord knows. However, I solemnly believe that if we were all this much more open about our sorrows, the country would dissolve into a putrid mass of self pity and over indulgence, and life would become a corrosive blemish hissing in an acidic puddle. Take this idiotic litany of woe as a profound warning, if you will. Perhaps now and then it is nice to know that a private sorrow is shared, but such a comfort can be drawn from practically anywhere. Shakespeare. The Bible. Fairy tales... Mankind is overripe with interior suffering. You need look no further than a library.

There are few things more noble than keeping silent about personal difficulties, and I doubt I shall be swayed in my view. And if one of these soldiers is to break down in combat, we shall all know that they have fought an admirable, selfless battle, keeping their immortal souls tucked securely under their rib cages. Amen.

Mr. Swanton Discusses the Meaning of Life: Bonus Installment

2006-10-15T21:11:00.000+01:00

They're the kinds of things in life we so often forget. And yet they can elate us to the most extraordinary degrees, if we're only willing to let the absurd feeling wash over us. Most of these acts, deeds, and related contrafibularities would be unacceptable to mention in passing conversation - but I notice them a heck of a lot. Here are just a few of the things I've done in the last week that I can count among my:

Simple pleasures!

The all-too hilarious sound of the geese pecking at the grass outside the Castle Museum. the more I thought about it, the more I fell apart laughing. Passers-by really stared.
Pulling faces in front of the mirror. This is particularly fun when the soundtrack to a big, flashy musical is played in the background.
The texture of the chunky plastic keys as I type this. And the noise of the spacebar. Oddly satisfying.
Admiring the cover art on a DVD of a classic horror film.
Doing bad impersonations of Stephen Fry with a pipe and tweed jacket.
Flinging a silk scarf over my shoulder every couple of seconds. And fiddling with the tassles. Tassles!
Gelling my hair in new and ridiculous fashions.
Being intoxicated by the glorious smell of a small bakery. This almost caused me to veer under the wheels of a van. But 'twas all in good fun!
Admiring the scenery through the car window. Especially at night.
Jumping up and down to catch a glimpse of some distant fireworks from the windows of the De Gray Rooms.
Enacting a small puppet show with a black peg. Y'see - the metal bit looks like an eye, and it opens and closes like a mouth...
Abusing old fashioned phrases, like, "How the devil are you, old boy?" Boris Karloff would be most displeased.
Laughing at the Little Shop of Horrors DVD-R. Particularly Sam Coulson's wondrous underplaying!
Pressing the button at the pelican crossing. Now that really does sound peculiar, but I bet you love doing it too.
Getting up at six o'clock in the morning to watch Dracula (1931).
Making up amusing nicknames for people.
Belting out a Russian opera. Really, really terribly.
Reading in bed on a night, reflecting on the day, and enjoying a bit of glorious peace.
Placing a skull on my bookshelf so it looks like some mad scientist's laboratory.
Rearranging my books and DVDs according to increasingly eccentric new systems.
Marvelling at the high definition detail of the photography in a BBC interview.
Impersonating a Victorian prostitute with the aid of a lamentable cockney accent and the inevitable words, "Strike me pink! You interest me, governor!"

That's all for now. Remember: if you comment, you're obviously far more insane than I.

Mr. Swanton Discusses the Meaning of Life, Pt. 2

2006-10-14T13:06:00.000+01:00

Many people have informed me that I am some sort of a ghoul or creep for working so closely with the deceased during my work experience. This by itself is not a bad thing - Boris Karloff starred as The Ghoul in 1933, Universal cranked out The Mad Ghoul with George Zucco in 1943, and Rondo Hatton played the Hoxton Creeper over a number of delightful horror pictures (including the evergreen 1944 Sherlock Holmes melodrama, The Pearl of Death). However, I get the impression that few of these remarks are meant in this congratulatory, beautiful vein. Or perhaps they are. In any case, it inspires me to write the second section of my ongoing philosophical ramblings:

2. How to ignore the opinions of others
Opinions are peculiar human foibles. Most of use love and detest them at the same time. At their most positive they can inflate the spirit, raise our souls, and heighten our emotions to the most deliciously insane degrees. We become a force for good. At their worst they can corrupt and corrode us, scarring us with self-imposed aberrations and anomalies, blasting our tortured minds down to Hell's lowliest inferno. We do not necessarily become a force for evil at this time - far from it, we are deadened to the world and live out our days as shallow, meaningless zombies. this is perhaps worse. In my honest opinion, it is far better to shut off the great tide of compliments vs. insults in their entirety, rather than finding ourselves influenced by both. Humans automatically assume the worst about themselves, making sure that negative opinions are always so much more potent.

I can't pretend to be anything but human. Just because I'm getting all pious, high and mighty over here doesn't make me superior to anyone. The fault implicit in many internet rants is that they're not self-conscious enough. It's remarkably easy to come off as the successor to Jesus Christ via the printed word alone. And whilst I may enjoy using words like "oneric" and "pleonasm" every so often, they remain mere crumbs where the value of existence is concerned, and not exactly enviable ones. A keyboard is a deceitful weapon, and often projects an entirely wrong image. One simple glance at chat room paedophilia is substantial proof.

Moving on, I, like any other person you're likely to meet, carries a palpable lust for flattery and egotistical soothing. There can be no argument about it: we know it's an incredibly shallow and unrealistic picture of ourselves, but we lap up every single, little compliment that heads our way. We positively revel in this sort of unrealistic twaddle, and the man that truly believes in it is headed for trouble. All such self-gratifying impulses are doomed. Take a look at sex - one, fleeting moment of mind-blowing ecstacy, and then the miserable sod is wringing his hands in guilt for a few months. Is it worth it? That's up to you. Some people like to live on the "edge." I think it sounds like abuse of a life.

As individuals, we all find ourselves detatched and connected to different aspects of ourselves. Why is difficult to say. "Geek," you say? Well, yes, perhaps that's true. I'm not entirely sure what reaction you're trying to provoke, but this is it... That word or what it entails has never, ever bothered me. However, I do know of certain other people who would be greatly offended by the word and take it to heart immediately. It's when people begin contradicting that which we know in our hearts to be true and have desperately tried covering up for years. I hate being called "clumsy," for example. I do my best to hide this sort of thing, but I know they're right. And since they're right, they're in a position of power. And they win out, and I die quietly inside.

I've always found that insults and hurtful comments are infinitely more powerful than the greasiest compliment in existence. Our minds are predisposed, even programmed, to negativity and immediately thinking the worst. That's an all-too-human fault. Positive opinions may make us feel transparently brilliant, but the negative ones have a habit of blasting us back into reality and filling us with the most foul, revolting despair conceivable. We might even be knocked into that terrible catatonic state I mentioned before the real nightmare looms upon us.

This post is in essence a revolt against indulging ourselves where there's always such a high price to pay. It is my mission to shut off and completely ignore negative opinions about my personality, my social life (or lack of), my interests and hobbies, my sense of humour, my beliefs - anything and everything! It's ridiculously, riotously, maddeningly unhealthy! And this can (unfortunately) only be accomplished by blocking off the more positive notices as well. This technique might not always result in stupendous happiness, but it will certainly protect me from the staggering lows in my life. Trust me, if you all knew some of the downright tragedies (and that is the only suitable word) I have steered through (which shall remain a secret, I'm afraid - I'm not selling my soul for warped publicity from a bunch of internet hicks), you'd know that the preservation of happiness/sanity is key to my life.

And, by the way, handling corpses is not a terribly depressing, damaging experience, and most certainly does not make me a terribly depressed, damaged, graveyard-scavenging monster. It is a peaceful, restful time, perhaps the only time these people's features have radiated complete and utter restfulness and contentment. It is something an outsider to the trade will never understand. It's an experience that's successfully rekindled my faith in God and the afterlife, and one that I look upon as extremely valuable. And anyone who has anything negative to say about that will not register on my sonar system, thank you very much.

I trust myself. I don't need anybody else to confirm or ravage my views of the world and the multitude of experiences it offers. I am perfectly happy right now.

Deathly Days at the Funeral Parlour

2006-10-11T20:48:00.000+01:00

What a plethora of fascinating tales I have to tell. Yes, instead of filing mail (courteous nod to Mr. Reid, who recently got me off court charges of indecent exposure after I bared my nake dface in public) or stacking CDs in Virgin (courteous sneer to random inept individual, who will never represent anything but ever-so-slightly higher prices than HMV) I decided to undertake - apologies for the first of many bad, intentional puns - a job of importance and dignity. Yes, sir. I became assistant funeral director at Co-operative Funeral Services.

There are a number of curious perks to this commitment. The snappy suit, comprised of black tie, blazer and top hat; the luxurious lunch break, in which I carry my trade soley to HMV - ha ha ha - and purchase classic horror films like Village of the Damned upon a regular basis; the chance to meet interesting new people, the good the bad and the dead; the delirious prospect of pounds and pounds of paper work; and lastly, being able to get up close and personal (and maybe enjoy a sip of Cliff's imported soya milk) with the grimy, disturbing underbelly of York City.

I have seen more than a few deeply memorable sights in the last few days - most, quite oddly, revolving around cadavers - which I'm sure I will carry to my own watery grave. I positively demand it be filled with water. Once you've seen the process of cremation first hand, one becomes a good deal less eager about being incinerated after death. It's undignified, messy and resembles the most fiery pits of Hell! Sparks fly off the coffin as it whizzes on in. There are also little peep holes by which one might inspect the body's current state of disrepair. I was told that that stubborn pile of grey ash on the slab was a brain flaking away. Me, oh my... There is also an extremely large barrel filled with metal hip replacements and other such arcana. They've been filling it since December, and it's only half full. What a dreadful pity. I really feel for these people.

There was also the stimulating prospect of measuring bodies at York Hospice. It may look innocent enough from outside, with all that grass and care and Christian love, but it does come equipped with the traditional fridges stuffed with dead people. And somebody had to measure them up for their personalised caskets. Well... (cue Cheestrings advert). And speaking of cheese: most of the bodies we inspected had been properly shrouded. They were completely hidden from view, so nobody would immediately recognise old Mrs. Goggins from the post office. It was a little unpleasant to see some large, slightly yellowing feet protruding from the wrappings of one poor lady. But Mr. Francis carried on like the pro he is.

I have also had the rare pleasure to attend a Humanist funeral service. First of all, I accompanied the hearse to the home of the deceased and collected the coffin. Then I rode along next to it. This was just plain, honest-to-goodness fun. Just one big drama exercise (Mrs. Grace would be so proud). All you had to do was look solemn and grim whilst you eyeballed people passing in their cars and on the street. Most perplexing was when an All Saints girl gave me a bizarre sort of salute as she walked by. I stared her damn cold, I did, and she fled.

Well, actually the hearse just drove off. But in my mind she fled. Into oncoming traffic. But taht's another blog entry entirely ("The day I ran over a mad girl from the posh school - now with live webcam link to the courtcase, wherein Cameron Reid shreds paper with passion.")

Humanist ceremonies focus on the deceased person alone, with zero religious content. This made a refreshing change from hearing about the wild and wacky reasons the dead individual was going to Hell, and was probably slightly less heartwrenching as a result. And (for some inane clunker of a maddening reason that I shall never understand as long as I live) Rock Around the Clock blared out of the speakers at the end. I'd have surely demanded my money back, quickly rising from the grave and claiming my inheritance. I later met the woman who performed the service. After putting on this incredible facade of gentle, understanding love and tra-la-la, whoop-dee-dee sentimentality, it was amusing to see how utterly unaffected she had been by the service. These people stay reamarkably strong on a mental level, guarding themselves against depression through the blackest, most morbid humour. The most appalling puns about time share/cardboard coffins fire around the office at the rate of hundreds a day.

It is an exceedingly pleasant and comforting working environment and I simply can't wait to return. I'll let you know more as events unfold. Goodnight.

Miscellaneous Addendum

2006-10-10T21:39:00.000+01:00

It's hardly an impressive opening line (at least in comparison to, "look at me - I'm absolutely fabulous"), but I've been having a huge number of difficulties with updating my blog. You see, after a period of woefully protracted inactivity, the system gives up the ghost and refuses to let you update the old blodgings properly. If I knew a little more about computers (or calculators, remote controls, staplers, seabirds of prey, etc.), I'm sure I'd be able to solve the problem. But frankly, I'd prefer to really write and productively irritate the public at large with my randomised scribblings. I'll see the problem out for the time being, and hope it deals with itself. This kind of thing usually does.

But - now I've started posting aagin - what can you expect from this ever-so-slightly improved blogtogular spegtogular, for which there are no words in the vernogular to properly describe? How will you profit (as shareholders, naturally)? Surely you don't want the interweb cluttered up with all that puke-inducing self-righteous indignation, egomania and rabid publicity you usually find in these meagre hovels? Here is what you can expect from me (mostly rehashes of all that golden old stuff):

Updates on particularly interesting occurrences in my day-to-day life, like the time I watched grass grow, or collected pieces of paper I found in the street.
Reviews of films, old and new. But mostly old. Can't stand that modern trash. All those (argh - once more!) computers and tub-thumbed efforts at style.
Philosophical ramblings, perhaps reflecting upon the nature of existence and life in general. I love those thingies... and I've recently developed a taste for them!
Projects of interest, semi-interest, and no interest whatsoever - but, hey! You'll still read about them!
Obnoxious, irrepressible, oddball humour. Yes, red ducks still go to the supermarket for interior motives now and then. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is.

Until next time... Your host and dilligent servant, James.

If you'd like to send me a private message, that's just plain tough, 'cause you ain't getting my e-mail address unless you ask real nicely in an e-mail you won't be able to send. Alternatively, buy me a present.

Mr. Swanton Discusses the Meaning of Life, Pt. 1

2006-10-08T13:23:00.000+01:00

As the title indicates, Mr. Swanton is planning to discuss the meaning of life. Though the path may be hard and steep and treacherous, he intends to update his fractured take on existence from time to time. Stand up as I enter the lecture hall. Thank you - spit that gum out, Guinevere. Don't make me come other there! Good. I scared you off. Now, to warm up the projector...

1. How to cope with depression
There are few things more irritating in this existence than people hunting for sympathy. They're parasites. They're wretched, loathsome, coarse, base! Most of them pretend to have problems that are real and meaningful, making them into some sort of poetic creature plagued by injustice, some picturesque, dashing Byronic hero bleeding for compassion. Get real. That's no fun. Especially for the spectator.

This is grousing, plain and simple. Your peculiar public facade is a clear definition of weakness of character and a multitude of personal insecurities - those components of the soul we are all afraid of and fear will never be loved. Why not come out into the open and glut your soul over that one, eh? But if you did that, you'd realise there is no injustice that's been perpetuated against you. These problems exist because of your self perception and your positive lust for popularity. That's your fault, I'm afraid. I feel really sorry for you. And whilst I'd agree that self-pity is one of mankind's most basic requirements -

Wait a moment. Self-pity. The sort of pity one keeps to oneself, perhaps? That's right! (A star, Guinevere!) Cry in the shower every day of the year if you want, it'll get you much further and save the rest of us the bother.

There are matters in this life that demand anger and emotional destruction, and I will steadfastly support you in registering these emotions to the hilt. There are other feelings we should keep to ourselves - for the good of others who simply do not care about your human bumblings, and for the good of ourselves. We will prosper without opening so many awkward windows to the soul. Happiness is much easier to pinpoint than we might think.

But is this information relevant to you? Do you have the terrifying self-pity disease? Here are some common phrases uttered by members of this perverse, skin-crawling cult:

"I am so depressed." (Translation: "Ask me to elaborate so I can dump my personal difficulties on you.")
"Why do girls/boys hate me?" ("I want to extract pity from members of the opposite sex and emotionally blackmail them into a relationship for reasons of social standing.")
"What's the point in living anymore?" ("Tell me how wonderful I am, because I am an egotistical maniac.")
"I might as well kill myself..." ("Give me a list of reasons why I shouldn't kill myself, mostly centering on how wonderful I am.")
"I hate my life." ("I wish to improve my rather decent living standards by extracting the sympathy of my peers, hence making myself the centre of attention.")

Here are a few suggested come-backs:

"Yeah. You just go and tell the starving African children all about that. I'm sure they'll be de-lighted to hear it."
"Girls/boys hate you because you are physically unappealing and have an abrasive personality. There's the ugly truth for you. Don't talk to me ever again."
"There is no point to living. There never was. After all, you're a talentless moron and nobody likes you."
"Here's a knife. Get on with it."
"What's on TV tonight?"

To all those guilty of self-pity, don't worry. We all do it from time to time. But the sooner we stamp it out of our systems (or, at the very least, that system we show to the world at large), the sooner we will become successful. Success will be spread on a plate in front of us. And happiness will follow. But what is this fabled happiness? Where does it come from? How do we achieve it? Here are some of my thoughts...

Happiness is not conceited or brash or arrogant; happiness derives pleasure from the simple things in life; happiness is woefully uncompetitive; happiness laughs long and loud at the idiocies of the world; happiness always has the last word; happiness is a positive self-image; happiness is a hard worker; happiness is individuality; happiness wins every single argument; happiness does not have to be earned or bought or stolen; happiness is a sense of humour; happiness does not bite or kick or shove; happiness is in God, but not in religious dogma; happiness is what separates the strong from the weak; happiness is never defeated; happiness is silent respect; happiness is never self-conscious; happiness does not go in or out of fashion; happiness respects the opinions of everyone and no one; happiness is generous; happiness is life's most delightful quirk, in other words. Follow this mantra, my friends, and you will notice that "problems" start solving themselves. Ignore the numerous contradictions - life is one massive contradiction.

Those who carry on bargaining by self-pity will eventually dsiocver that they have fulfilled their death wish - all that moaning and sobbing only reduced their lives to the hollow shells they always claimed them to be. It's a contemptible, slimy existence. In similar fashion, you must pretend to be happy at first. And eventually, you might realise you are happy.

Sorry. You will realise you are happy. What a jolly, ebullient way of life.

The Hate List

2006-06-03T21:30:00.000+01:00

This place has been dead for awhile, so I'll take the time to complain about a few things I really hate (as of 03/06/06). Not in order...

The Cheesestrings advert
Simmers
The metric system
New films
Members of Scottish cults
Dennis Waterman (both varieties)
Michael Eisner
How Disney slaps the word "Classic" on any old muck
Rubber gloves
Products that break the first time you take them off the shelf
Summer weather
"Summer days... drifting away." Bad song
"Tell me more, tell me more!" Worse lyrics
The *£*$!!? who flushed London After Midnight down the toilet
Wooden paddles
The duck that watched me
The duck that kissed me, then took a bite out of my anchovie baked sandwich
Being chased around a kitchen table by timbre wolves whilst wearing socks on a slippery surface
Human eyes that resemble that of a cursed deer
Witchsmellers
Neville Longbottom
The Anti-Karloff (he's out there, somewhere)
Text messages
Post-1950's technology
THX SOUND SYSTEMS
Dolby (surround sound) forest
Car Craft
The medieval ban on scythes
Cow tools
"Little Whoopsie!" What her parents said when she was born...
The Clover advert (We all hate Clover...)
Scientology
Remakes. Original ideas, anyone?
Disneyland Beckfield Lane was replaced by Disneyland Paris
Yogi Bear
Arthur! "Hey, hey! We're gonna make yer play! Get dancin'..."
Recess and their crap-tacular moral lessons
Nudity. EVERYBODY looks better fully-dressed, with a jaunty bowler hat and a rolled-up British newspaper. Stout chap/chapesse
Mr. Moustachio, captain of hearts, souls and melody
Sentiment. "Darling, observe the flowers!"
Poppleton's cheesy underage football team
Leonard Maltin's beard
Stephen Fry's lack of a beard
Rasputin's fashion sense
Pauline, the considerate blackbird
Ignorance
Pointless wires
Talking teapots/washpots/ironingboards/people
Hypocrisy
Portabello Road. Portabello Road. Street where the riches of ages are sold
Lists that end at a nice round number. Take that Pythagoras!

Big Trouble in Little Chinatown

2006-05-04T14:45:00.000+01:00

It was just another cornball, kinda average, candy coated, sugar puffy day in the big city of Little Chinatown. And the famed and thoroughly unpronouncable detective Sherlock P. Tracy-Moto-Wong-Kay-Bugger-Holmesian-McCloud was on the case. He took a cool puff from his solitary cigarette, then collapsed to the ground in veritable palpitations of nicotine-charged sickness, spewing a black mess all over his mother's favourite lamp post. He had his sickness, all right.

Evenin' sickness to be precise. And twas on this jaded evenin' that our heroic detective went to the carnival, shot some pool, checked into a sleazy nightclub, played tennis with his spy racket, and beheld the corpse of one distinctly unesteemed and throughly pronouncable Wanda J. Crudula-McSimpson. It seemed the body in question had been tossed and turned and peppered with feathers most violently as if it had been dipped in a tar bath, thrown into a small coal fire, and rotated a full 360 degrees on a spit fashioned of candy wrappers and liberally used chewing gum before being wrenched through a wrought iron fence, and had its head jammed beneath a paving stone so that a wrinkled leprecaun possessed of stagnant rum could do a little victory dance upon it set to the tune of The Andrews Sisters' latest hit. Then a bin hungry for revenge had rolled all over it. Of course Sherlock P. knew this.

For he had done the rather popular deed!

"Hullo, a clue!" said the unconvicted homicidal maniac, "It seems old Simmers McCrum has had a rather fortunate accident. We must track down the culprit ma, and nail him to a balsa wood chair beneath a 5-watt lamp. By that kooky methoid (yep, I say meth-oid), we shall extract an expert testimony. The game is afoot... ma."

Old Shirley's ma stepped forth, clad in a sheep skin, with the rest of the fiesty but certainly deceased sheep attatched. It wrought an eerie influence on the disease-ridden pensioner.

"He's dead dearie. Baaa!"
"Yep, ma, he sure is. Dead as a certain thing that can't quite decide whther it should be inanimate or otherwise wriggly with the fruits of existence. Hullo."
"Let's celebrate with one of my famous mint julep iced teas. Baa!"
"Okey-dokey. I'm buying, ma."
"Ba."

And the moral of this story is - you can milk a lobster, but a Simmers is way too stangant. To live.

The Wedding of Dr. Jekyll

2006-04-27T13:40:00.000+01:00

Before composers became too "cool," "hip," "minted," "souless," etc., the classical genre enjoyed a whimsical but immensely quotable pheneomenon known as the symphonic poem. Works such as Dukas's "The Sorcerer's Apprentice," Moussorgsky's "A Night on Bald Mountain," Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King," and so forth have enjoyed great fame and instant pop culture recognition for their use in such diverse works as Walt Disney's Fantasia, Victor Fleming's The Wizard of Oz, and that dratted Alton Towers advert.

Somewhere in the ether drifted the great Frenchman (if there was one) Camille Saint-Saens. Famous during his lifetime for such pieces as his "Organ Symphony," (ripped off in Babe), the opera "Samson and Delilah," and his legendary tone poem "Danse Macabre," Saint-Saens was consigned to the gave with his most famous work still waiting to be unearthed. It was the thoroughly delightful "The Carnival of the Animals," unreleased through fears it would kibosh his serious reputation. Far from it, Cam, far from it...

The very nature of the symphonic poem allows it to be utilised in the medium of musical theatre, a nauseating breed of confetti-strewn arsewiping laser lightshows, manically leaping about in hysterical "look at me, look at me, look at ME!!!" fits as they wheeze out feeble blasts of thespic conceit and halfhearted melodramatics, falling to the floor like asthmatic ants suffering from heavy duty hernias.* Now there's a spot of pleonasm for you. Nevertheless, I have braved this insufferable genre in order to pay tribute to a truly great and still under appreciated composer. I do not claim to break any moulds - nor do I claim to hand out any refunds. I want only to make people laugh with classical music. That's right. You heard the words "laugh" and "classical" and "to" in the same sentence.

Don't ask me why the 20-minute show revolves around the wedding of Dr. Jekyll. I like classic horror, I like insufferable British humour as well, and I've long been wanting to dramatise The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (yep, another hollow pipedream), so I suppose it held vague logic somewhere along the line. The songs read thusly:

London Town (Introduction)
The Wedding March (The Royal March of the Lion)
Master Jekyll (Hens and Cocks)
Setting the Table (Wild Asses)
Love Burns On (Tortoises)
What a Pitiful Feast (The Elephant)
Toast to Science (Kangaroos)
Dark Underground Secrets (Aquarium)
Hyde Uncaged (Persons with Long Ears)
Peaceful Evening (The Cuckoo in the Depths of the Woods)
Day of Evil (Tropical Birds)
Hiding Hyde (Pianists)
Deeds of Cruelty and Violence (Fossils)
Love Extinguished (The Swan)
Flawed Autopsy (Finale)

Actually, that last number does sound a wee bit grim, but it's all in good, wholesome, twisted, family fun. Nevermind. Updates should be posted, but I can't vouch for that. Anybody who cares to bid for the directorial rights ought to post a comment. They ought to, they ought! Arrrrhghh!

* Christmas Schooner, sit up and take notice. And, yes. You were in competition with A Christmas Carol. How dare you usurp our revenue?

Greatest Horror Films: 1930's

2006-04-10T17:50:00.000+01:00

A compendium of Hollywood's greatest classic horror films, targeted to tutor the uninitiated in the fine art of golden terror.

Frankenstein: The archetype of the horror genre is at heart an emotive morality tale, entrenched equally in pastoral countryside and austere charnelhouse as the Monster's tragedy unfolds. Launched the careers of Boris Karloff and director James Whale in grand, Germanic style, two essential elements in horror history. 6#.
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: The vibrant and imaginative stylistics of director Rouben Mamoulian enhance this gritty drama of good and evil; the restrained, mannered Victorian versus age-old animal lust. Fredric March won a Best Actor Oscar for his dynamic efforts in the dual title role, and Miriam Hopkins is also brilliant. #2.
White Zombie: Some of the most strikingly weird and hypnotic imagery in any horror film, with dancing shadows, glowing eyes, phantom heads, spiritual visions, and Bela Lugosi's haunting role as a reckless voodoo master. Notable for introducing undead zombies to cinema for the first time, as pallid, shuffling automons who slave on a sugar plantation. 7#.
The Invisible Man: This classic story of meddling "in things man must leave alone" hasn't dated a day, retaining its absorbing drama, crazed scientific principles, and cruel wit in the person of Claude Rains. The marvellous special effects of John P. Fulton are seamless, unparalleled, and strangely beautiful, going miles beyond the hokey piano wire. 4#.
King Kong: There's little left to say about the king of lost civilizations, imperiled heroines, stirring adventure, and really, really big apes. Possibly the definition of "movie milestone," it offers incredible fascination and entertainment even today, not least in its stunning technical wizardry. 5#.
The Black Cat: Edgar Allan Poe would have reveled in this darkly suggestive, endlessly moody melodrama, displaying a twisted Bauhaus fortress plagued by bloody war and lurid Satanic worship. Slyly understated in its chilling horror and sexual sadism, this retains a nightmarish quality of inevitable doom - with Karloff and Lugosi, nonetheless! 3#.
Bride of Frankenstein: Suppose that Shakespeare made a horror film - here it is, comedy, tragedy, and cinema history rolled into one audacious powerhouse. Revolutionary in its "camp" humour, eccentric character theatrics, and unreal stylization (not to mention a fabulous musical score), this is a genuine triumph of James Whale's directorial vision. #1.
The Raven: Unprecedented Grand Guignol entertainment reigns in this insanity-fuelled, serial-like, comic strip torture tale. A true anomaly for Universal Pictures, as Lugosi was given the chance to dominate Karloff, and delivered the goods with wickedly bombastic, barnstorming flamboyance. 9#.
Dracula's Daughter: Gloria Holden lends this vampire yarn a dignified melancholy and powerful belivability, despite lacking the infamous Count. A strangely sympathetic and rather spooky entry in a hopelessly stereotyped sub-genre, and the valuable inspiration for Anne Rice's phenomenally-popular Vampire Chronicles. 10#.
Son of Frankenstein: Basil Rathbone (Sherlock Holmes himself), Karloff (in his most famous role), Lugosi, and Lionel Atwill (both at the peak of their talents in the finest roles of their careers), pad the cast of this monster myth. Epic in expressionistic sets and sprawling scope, this is the classic that relaunched Hollywood horror, ushering in a second Golden Age... 8#.

It was tough paring down the list of 1930's classics to ten films. Strongly considered were Bela Lugosi's legendary Count Dracula, Tod Browning's monster show using real-life Freaks, resurrected Egyptian Boris Karloff as The Mummy, Lionel Atwill scavenging the local morgue for beautiful corpses, ushering in the Mystery of the Wax Museum, Jack Pierce's makeup genius creating Henry Hull's WereWolf of London, Bela Lugosi's Gothic nightmare, struck by the Mark of the Vampire, and The Hunchback of Notre Dame, played by the heartbreaking Charles Laughton, which comes in at a very close #11. The list goes on. Also, please keep in mind that there are more than a few holes in my viewing pattern. Having dusted off all the classics available to me, it becomes clear that there are hundreds of titles still missing on television, video, and DVD. As a result, this list will update as time goes on...

Disney's Lynch-Pin: an Academic Study of Feathers, Beaks, and Sloppy Animation

2006-04-07T22:22:00.000+01:00

It's true. You've heard the rumours. There is a sidekick that plagues film after Disney film. The comically-wobbling BIRD!

Now that you have looked undiluted fear in the face, do not be afraid. All will be revealed.

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs: Well, for one thing, you have those pedantic, twittering, do-gooder birds flushing dust out of Snow White's house. Oh, wait - it wasn't her house. She broke into the residence of the seven dwarfs (they're just friends... right?) with her prime monkey wrench without permission, and persisted to steal pounds and pounds of valuable dust! She didn't even have the sense to sell it off to Jafar, or whichever other bum was roosting in the bushes. She pissed it away, in all senses of the phrase! Doc must have cried his eyes out.

There are also some rather evil vultures who munch on the queen's horribly mangled corpse, before giving not-so-Happy a keen mangling (see the director's cut). Hoping to capitalise on Hollywood's horror boom (running 1931-36, Snow White was only a year too late), somebody on the Disney team must have remembered Bela Lugosi's similar vulture in White Zombie (1932), or even that dratted cockatoo in Mad Love (1935). They're really cool looking, but you can bet your clogs that they'll have terrible personalities.

Then there's that squawkin' crow that inhabits the queen's lab. Frankly, he looked too much like flatulent Jeremy in Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH for comfort. Actually, a close inspection of the film's credits reveals that the crow was played by one "J. Eremy." Well, I'm puzzled. if there are any fans of the Sunday Times crossword who'd like to solve this fledgling mystery, post a comment. Please!

Next time: we dissect that jovial wooden window dressing: Pinocchio, which holds the unique distinction of being Disney's most commonly misspelled film. If you would like to vote for a favourite Disney bird, feel free. It's not like I'm in cahoots with the WED merchandising team or... anything resembling... that sort of factual... indicia...

Gotta go!

Chapter Two: Owl Post Revisited

2006-04-07T22:05:00.000+01:00

Another delightful plagiarist activity: the second installment of "Harry Potter: the Opera," which can be traced back to "Larry Rotter," (starring Simmers as the boy you love to hate) in itself a thinly disguised rip-off of Erica Smith's bestselling novella "Barry Trotter," which derived its comic inspiration from the obscure "Harry Potter," a piss-take of "The Worst Witch," who's origins go back to vile Satanic orgies among devil worshippers in the boy's toilets in manor School. It's truly the stench of evil you sense there, ignoble traveller... Enjoy the ride! I will too, provided that Bill Oddie doesn't jump out of my evening Coco Pops. One cannot be too careful where nature is concerned.

On the Hogwarts Express
(NOTE: from here on, the motherly voice of Stephen Fry appears in neatly bracketed italics)
(Harry, Hermione and Ron are all in a train compartment, possibly a line of tables, upturned, with red cloths on. The train’s smoke can be signified by black and grey tissue paper.)
Hermione: Harry Potter! Reaaally! I’ve read all about you, you know! Why, you’re- (Muffled noise comes from under Hermione) Oh sorry Ron!
Ron: Watch where you plant yourself, you great kettle!
Harry: Will you two please stop bickering! I can feel one of my dark-wizard induced migraines coming on!
Hermione: A migraine! That means that Voldemort must be on the train!
Ron: Voldemort! Never!
(Enter Dumbledore wearing a late 90’s dinner-ladies apron.)
Dumbledore: Anythin’ of’t trolley dears!
Harry: My God you need a shave!
Hermione: Aaaaaaaaaaaahhh! It’s Him! It’s Him!
(Harry, Hermione and Ron scuttle around listlessly, trying vainly to set fire to each other in abstract panic.)
Ron: Noooooo! I’m flammable, I’m highly flammable!
(Ron’s midriff impulsively catches fire.)
Harry: Pull the beard! Pull the beard! It’s an ever-so-clever disguise!
(Harry pulls Dumbledore’s beard. It does not come off. Ron smoulders obediently on the floor.)
Dumbledore: Alas, you’ve found me out! I’ve had to do this job for nine years, due to budget cuts.
Hermione: Budget cuts! Why can’t you just magic money out of thin air!
(Dumbledore does a small hand gesture by rubbing two fingers together, signifying money. Ron smoulders obediently on the floor.)
Dumbledore: So… anythin’ of’t trolley dears!
(Hedwig, signified by an old tea cosy painted white, flies at the old coot.)
Dumbledore: Aaaahh! Never work wi’ children or animals, they told me! Did I listen, did I ‘ell! An’ look where it’s got me now!
(Several treats fall into the laps of Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Hedwig flutters to the windowsill, before being sucked out through a microscopic crack. All chortle at its grave misfortune.)
Hermione: Do you think we should take these back?
Ron: Nah, we don’t have to pay for it! Come on… I’m cheap! My mother’s a ball of goddamn wool, for goodness sake!
(Ron righteously throws himself at a pumpkin pasty nearly twice his size.)
Hermione: Just because you couldn’t afford to stitch your own arm back on properly!
Harry: Oh, please stop this bickering! I can feel one of my dark wizard-induced migraines coming on… (Scene repeats, ad nauseum, in a feeble attempt to bridge a considerable narrative gap.)

Thar's all for today, but be sure to check in at the ravishing University of Davies for more Potter-stocked hilarity: www.theworldofdavies.blogspot.com. And for extra *expert copy-editing!* add this blog to your favourites list. Go now!

Callum's Rant

2006-04-07T12:59:00.000+01:00

This amused me greatly, and I feel it should get as much exposure as possible. Here you go, chaps... I find it quite ironic that a collapse in personal vanity should flourish as an unquestionable comic highlight (originally posted at the balding www.dailycallum.blogspot.com).

A. Aside from the sloppy grammar and unenviable grasp of English diction, I must say that this is among the truest things I've ever had the oppurtunity to read. I absolutely detest it when people steal my ideas, and have been known to rant on incessantly, broadcasting my worthless opinions across the internet - where such evil characters as Faust, Adolf Hitler, Mickey Mouse, Whoopi Goldberg, and James Swanton have been discovered. Why, I've known people steal my dentures, trobo-paline, invisible dog leash, inflatable stool, dog with puffy tail, lemon chutney, ideas for a web blog, and my comic ramblings. And I for one steal just about all of those from The Simpsons.

B. I must admit to being quite flattered to be called a "Mister." Usually I'm simply a Lord, Baron, or Master & Commander of the Universe, along with more degrading and dispensable titles thrown my way.

C. And, of course, I'm quiet anxious for my site to get all publicity possible. Thank you for the link, kind sir! You shall be rewarded in Heaven! You can see clearly from the dates on our blogs that Callum's existed long before mine - I am the first to admit that. True, I did start in March, whilst he started in April. But I started in March of this year! Callum, of course, started in April of last year! Which explains everything very neatly. Just one of those extraordinary brainwaves I come up with after I screw up. And I have no idea what a "sight" is. Please enlighten me, by whatever means

D. I think you'll find it's my right whether people have a go at me or not, and fortunately most of those people were mysteriously struck dead after I loaned them a men's afteshave that a giant bat I keep on a coat hanger senses, instinctively tracks, and kills the owner of, before flapping back to watch Q/I. And, yes. I'm quite proud to a be a "f*****g"plagiarist. Like many human beings, I have stolen the letters F to G hundreds of times in my lifetime, and I'm not prepared to stop now. I'm sorry but that's just the way I am. I have also been known to pirate secret documents rushing to and from the Pentagon. These things are best kept a secret.

The full hilarity is enclosed below. Well, tra la la la la:

A. One of the things I hate most in the world is people stealing your
ideas, and claiming them as your own. Doesn't it just get on your
nerves?!!!
B. For instance,
Mr James Swanton...
C. ... has a blog: www.jswanton.blogspot.com
has a
rather irritating habit of stealing my ideas and posting them on his
own
blog.AND he copied me; i had a blog first.So if you ever visit his
sight, it's
basically mine...
D. ... please feel free to have a go at him, the
f*****g plagiarist!!!

Why Whoopi Goldberg Stinks to High Heaven...

2006-04-07T12:53:00.000+01:00

1. All her films are unashamedly new.
2. She’s a hack.
3. She trades off a sunny persona to operate evil sweatshops filled with monkeys in the heart of the Amazon Jungle.
4. She’s a hack.
5. She went to school with Davis’ grandma: a relation to that awful James Davis.
6. She’s a hack.
7. Maggie Smith made her look even less professional by comparison.
8. The only reason she won that Oscar © was because she slept with Academy voters… No, wait. Threatened to sleep with them if they didn’t vote for her.
9. She’s a hack. One good point is worth being stated, ad nausem.
10. She makes sequels with the word, “2,” in the title.
11. She insults nuns. Nuns are really rather cool. But not quite as cool as penguins.
12. She sold poisoned milk to schoolchildren, and then sold her petty misdeeds to The Simpsons.
13. She hasn’t made a guest appearance on The Simpsons.
14. She’s a hack.
15. She’s the basis of 69% of all racially motivated attacks.
16. She worked with a certain other hack – Steven Spielberg.
17. She’s a hypocritical old goose, quacking eternally over her degrading crapulence.
18. She hasn’t made any films before 1951. In fact, she refrained from being born in the Golden Age at all. How very selfish.
19. She’s a hack.
20. She appears in direct-to-video sequels. Yuck!
21. Her supposedly “official” website is cruelly linked to the otherwise brilliant www.i-wish-i-could-be-more-like-boris-karloff.com.
22. Her resume consists of discontinued breakfast cereals, traces of Danish cheese, and the blood of lovable kittens.
23. She subscribes to the Capitalist newsletter.
24. Boris Karloff has gone on to a much better place. Whoopi Goldberg festers on a big ball of dirt and water floating through space.
25. Her real domain name is www.how-to-become-an-embittered-old-hack.com
26. Her “sassiness” is so 1982.
27. She holds shares in NBC International. What an idiot!
28. She holds the current record for picking her nose on T.V.
29. She has eternal hat hair.
30. Her real name is Mussolini. Blame her for the millions of fat people who die each year from overdoses of fine Italian ice cream.

Financial Advisement: the Thrilling Conclusion

2006-04-05T17:58:00.000+01:00

A reminder of just what you'll get investing with Jaffa's unique clinic:

Financial Advisement

2006-04-05T16:48:00.000+01:00

"The secret to money management is to be boldly corrupt and corruptly bold... Do I get paid now? I require funds to construct a flimsy wooden chalet for a wounded chaffinch!"

The late, great Callum Jeffrey is your go-to guy here. He'll give you top notch advice and threats, and all for a miniscule sum.

"Buy that… Sell that. Take out a loan on that. Spin that to face
that. Eat that. Scrape it clean! Scrape it clean! Put these on those. Tack down
those at a forty-four degree angle. Need more back tack! Wash that. Put that on
ice. Befoul that. Saw that one off. Mentally scar that. Explode that. Swivel
that… No – changed my mind: rotate, rotate! Fortify that. Filter this. Lick that
off that. Subtract that perpendicular table from that perpendicular lighthouse.
Travel with that. Swallow that. Bat that. Bat that! Hmm… Out of
that."

A Tentative Note

2006-04-05T12:58:00.000+01:00

It has come to my unwavering and slightly shaken attention that there are several entrepeneurs out there on the interweb, entrepeneuring their entrepeneurships around the entrepeneurnet. These scum must die. The blogs in question belong to two of Manor School's most heinious villains, detailed below:

Callum D. (for "Derwent College") Jeffrey posting at "The Daily Yawn."

James W. (for "Wishy-Washy") Davies posting at "All Things Wishy-Washy."

Avoid these so-called "sister sites" with a death vengeance. They will consume, corrupt, and contaminate your immortal soul; chain you in the deepest and most Hellish of Lucifer's pits; and trap you inside an Aero bar.

And please, will Edna Moles, Cheeseman, Maureen/Doreen, and Mrs. Dibb stop posting garbage amidst these golden pillars. All material is subject to my personal approval. Feel free to send a swarm of digital bugs over to these other offending sites. A ladybug(s), as it were.

The Dictionary Atkinsonian

2006-03-29T17:16:00.000+01:00

A few noble quotes from the world's greatest living chemist.

"You plum-bum!"
"Don't be a Geoffrey, Jeffrey."
"Why it's astatine, Justine."
"This met-ol is as soft as cheee-eee-eeese."
"Met-ols!"
"Met-uls!"
"Met-els!"
"Met-ils!"
"Right-ho!"
"Argh!"
"I invite you to talk."
"Shhhhhh - don't tok!"
"Stop your incessant char-tar!"
"Pleeeeeeeeease..."
"The gas airrr-rrr-rrr."
"Qiy-ut!"
"Let us feed the pooooooooor..."
"Notice my... rock-shelf!"
"This is... gypsum! A gypsum stick!"
*Pointlessly throws a cherished elemental substance in the air and clumsily catches it.*
"Can you beat the tee-chur?"

If we got the chance, I'm sure we would. Heh, heh, heh.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1939)

2006-03-26T14:08:00.000+01:00

This "site" can have a more serious side at times, so I'm going to force you all to sit through a precocious selection of film reviews. Try and have a Merry Christmas - I've made it as interesting a snapshot as possible.

Made on the back of the hugely successful but fairly austere The Hound of the Baskervilles (also 1939), Adventures was the second and last excursion into Conan Doyle for Twentieth Century Fox, and the second of fourteen adventures for Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, the definitive Holmes and Watson. This ranks as the best of that formidable repertoire for a number of reasons - the always fascinating George Zucco's reptilian Moriarty; the stunning production values as Fox recreates a good chunk of Victorian London, including the Bloody Tower; the dynamic musical score (especially considering its vintage) by David Buttolph; the sly undercurrent of black humour, excellently handled by Bruce and Zucco; Leon Shamroy's glittering black-and-white cinematography; and the stable directing of Alfred Werker, who hit a career peak with this film. This neat set-up has "classic movie" written all over it, a title that Adventures has rightly earned. Special praise must go to an unrecognizable Rathbone's cockney dance hall routine, which is entertaining, amusing, and weirdly compelling on so many levels. Then there's that classic line he delivers to Professor Moriarty, world ambassador of villainy: "You have a magnificent brain, Moriarty. I admire it. I admire it so much I'd like to present it pickled in alcohol to the London Medical Society."

There are a few detractors, too, but they're kind of fun in that dated fashion. The romantic lead (Alan Marshal) comes off as more of a psychopathic child snatcher than a comfort to the leading lady, and is unfairly saddled with the script's worst lines. (To paraphrase: "You think I'm going to hurt you? I sometimes wonder why I don't!"). Much has been made of Ida Lupino, other half of the love interest, but she makes very little impression here. True, her career was one of missed chances and forgotten promises, but perhaps it's not so much of a surprise that she never rose to bonafide stardom. The mystery is convoluted, complicated, and utterly incomprehensible, chunks clearly chopped from the script to speed up the proceedings. But overall, it's a very slick job.

As mentioned, George Zucco is the standout here. He had plenty of experience in the horror trade, and it clearly reflects in each bulbous, glowing eye. Whether cackling, "I'll give him a toy to delight his heart," eccentrically staring up at his plant collection with sardonic glee, softly threatening his petrified butler with a boiling in oil, or sadly announcing his intentions to retire to the abstract sciences, Zucco is the cold, cruel, calculating embodiment of malice, a dark reflection of the serpent in the Garden of Eden. There isn't a false note in his electric performance, and it certainly towers above his more conventional series rivals. Zucco again proves himself to be an unfortunately underused character player, and one who richly deserved the stardom and exposure of a Karloff or Lugosi.

The Holmes series moved to Universal Pictures for the next entry, 1942's Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror, but the series rapidly deteriorated into repetition and lethargy. The next twelve were not without a great sense of nostalgia, including some minor classics, 1944's The Scarlet Claw and The Pearl of Death, but lacked the lavish studio mounting of the first two installments. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes embodies all the best traits of these classic detective thrillers - complex mystery, cunning disguises, fog and shadows aplenty, pompous British stereotypes, genuinely funny comedy, a truly menacing antagonist, and the irreplacable Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, on top form as always. It has yet to be topped in the genre.

Stay tuned for another dull review - the bizarre 1962 horror anthology, Tales of Terror, again with Rathbone - as well as the next installment of those potty Potter adventures. And if you would rather watch Van Helsing, Saw, or that tepid House of Wax remake, kindly dunk your head in a toilet. I could pull better horror out of my posterior with a deadened Game Boy Camera, a crummy bedroom lamp, and several buckets of horse manure. And should you still persist, the collective ghosts of Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, Vincent Price, and Peter Cushing will get you while you sleep.

Heh. You've got to sleep sometime.

Chapter One: Owl Post

2006-03-24T23:20:00.000Z

Here's that delightful Potter spoof I mentioned, which James Davies and I have managed to record. We tapped a decent cast as well, including Sir Laurence Olivier as Winky, the manic-depressive house elf.

The Davies played Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, that enigmatic Tea Lady, and Professor McGonagall, as well as any number of bitchy, effeminate characters yet to surface. I, on the other hand, choked all possible fun out of Rubeus Hagrid (well, Mr. Atkinson), Ron Weasley (expertly personified by a sock puppet), Albus Dumbledore, and... well, I wouldn't want to spoil it, would I?

Introduction
We hear the wind whistling between the boards of a tumbledown gardener's shed. The faintest notes of Mozart's "The Marriage of Figaro" rise elegantly above the stormtorn myopia.
Stephen Fry: Oh, hello, there. I didn’t hear you come in! Good evening, and welcome to the humble abode of Sir Stephen Fry – the most darling little gingerbread chalet, nestled in the heart of the snow-dusted Swiss Alps! Yes – Sir Stephen Fry, reclining in a nineteenth-century armchair, using my brother and long-term partner as a cushy footstool, and with glass of port in hand, mind you! And tonight, I shall read to you lesser mortals the delightful escapades of everybody’s favourite, acne-ravaged teenage wizard. From the wonderful world of G.K. Chesterton, the bewitching magic-ry of… Harry Potter!
The Star Wars theme tune abruptly starts and fades to nothing.
Utter arse gravy!

Stay tuned for the next bewitching (ooh, clever) scene, in which various well-respected dramatic conventions are set up only to be knocked flat on their pompous faces. Ho, ho, ho!

On that note, I'll drop you a link to the right honourable Stephen Fry's take on the Dracula legend. Drawing room hilarity may or may not ensue:

http://www.electronincantation.net.nz/4_Favourites/pages/4-s-01-The-Letter.html

Baker! The Musical...

2006-03-24T22:10:00.000Z

Just a few of the song titles from the multi-million West End musical blockbuster starring everybody's favourite librarian.

Baker!
Have You Done a Print Preview?
I Got Locked in the Store Cupboard, and Lived to Tell the Tale (March)
A Life Without Spellcheck
It's Not Library, it's LRC
I Hate Martin!
Ballad of the Lost Kiwi
I'm Just as Good as Mrs. Dibb, No Mistake
Mr. Shiels, You're the Only One for Me
I Hate Martin! (Reprise)
Bags Out the Library - Not Including Me
Big Bag Romance
Fantasia on Repetitive MIDI Files
Baker! (Big, Fat Sing-Off)

I'm holding out for the sequel. It's sure to feature a certain crusty schoolmaster floating eerily around his classroom and crumbling to dust as the sun rises. In the immortal words of Rolf Harris: "Can you guess what it is yet? Eh, eh? Oh, gimme a break, sport! They're taking away my extra leg after the failure of Bestiality Hospital!"

Breaking in the Blodgings

2006-03-22T16:36:00.000Z

As Wednesday's thrilling addition to my blodgings in Baker Street, I submit a scintillating little drawing I did in Paint. Well... simple computer programs please simple minds, after all.

http://img400.imageshack.us/my.php?image=welcome0il.png

How about that! It looks almost like I imagine myself to appear! I think in some weird way, it reflects the hidden degradation of our collective immortal souls. And it's a lot more significant than Gerard Butler's piffling skin wrinkle in 2004's The Phantom of the Opera. What a wimp. If you want ghastly makeup, go see the 1925 version, starring the great Lon Chaney, who also played in 1923's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. His Phantom looks like he's come dripping out of a festering leper colony plonked in the middle of an atomic battlefield (the actor used improvised metal prongs to scrunch his nose up, and suffered from the most incredible nose bleeds). And of course, the film's silent, so you can absorb my velvet tones as I yammer on about it for ninety minutes.

Tune in next time for the first thrilling installment of a Harry Potter spoof, subtitled "Everybody Hates the Potter Boy," or "Potter: A Ten Minute Interpretive Opera." I, James Swanton (expert copyeditor), solemnly swore to write James Davies' (originator, writer, part-time pirate of Penzance) name before mine, and will do all in my power to achieve that egocentric goal of his.

Whoops.

Welcome to the Land of Phantoms...

2006-03-21T20:44:00.000Z

This blog pertains to be an ongoing chronicle of the life and times of James C. Swanton - lifelong horror lover and jack-of-all-trades, as amateur writer, actor, artist, film historian, and any other number of useless trades that will succeed in making me very little money.

Enjoy this tranquil spot in cyberspace, where you can relax in your cushy computer chair, admire the pixelated scenery, and hear some fifteen-year-old nutter debate the ever-so-charming continuity errors plaguing Dracula's Daughter (circa 1936; the golden age of vintage horror)!