Posted by Ali Gray
at 22:20 on 31 Aug 2014
Have you ever had your enjoyment of a film completely derailed by a small, insignificant part of that movie? A niggle that becomes a bother than becomes all you can think about? I had that with possession thriller Deliver Us From Evil, a competent, forgettable horror flick from the guy who made Sinister. It's a fairly enjoyable movie, if a little flat and unambitious, but in terms of possession movies starring C-list actors with bad scripts, it's par for the course. Except for one thing. A single sound effect. Which ruins the entire movie.
If you are a hipster, then you are welcome here. This website is a broad church and no one is turned away. But know this: I do not understand you. Be you Williamsburg or Shoreditch, you are an alien to me, as are all your kind. Aren't your trousers uncomfortable? Aren't jam jars massively difficult to drink out of? Do you have to eat loads of jam just to get the jars? And yet you are a significant enough cultural phenomenon that you bear documentation through film and television, which is more than you can say for me.
On a rainy August night, I was subjected to an odd and unusual experiment. In the name of science, I was strapped to a heart monitor and readings were taken of my body's response to As Above, So Below to determine how many calories I would burn watching a horror film. Unaware that I'm a complete badass and scared of nothing, the foolish scientists were in for a shock – it was clear to me that I would completely skew their results with my super-human powers (I recently ran 2k on a treadmill without stopping). However when the film finished, the results disturbed us both...
I recently had reason to look at Vinnie Jones' IMDB page. I forget why now, because my brain has been dazzled by the sheer number of projects he currently has in the works. Brother be almost as busy as Eric Roberts
The movies' use of sports as a metaphor for personal growth far outstrips the idea's efficacy in real life. Your team's against-the-odds victory in the Rumbelows Cup is unlikely to inspire a realisation that you have your priorities all wrong and lead to a marriage proposal to your long-suffering girlfriend.
But there's something in it. No, watching the snooker doesn't really mimic the ups and downs of real life, but there's a real euphoria and a despondency that sports can inspire, which can convince you momentarily that your life is amazing or terrible. Translate that to the big screen, framed around a guy who's learning to be a bit less self-centred or to pull himself out of a humdrum existence, and you've got yourself the template for a sports movie.
Kelly Brook's incompetence, Jake Lloyd's cockiness, the 90s' garishness... it's the perfect shitstorm. Just because. (via @JimothyShondell)
I was very sorry to hear about the sad passing of Lord Richard Attenborough this evening. Although I am fully aware his acting legacy extends back way beyond 1993, he'll always be Jurassic Park's creator John Hammond to me: my favourite character in my favourite movie ever. I wrote a little bit on what Attenborough brought to the role here, but I don't feel much like eulogising right now: I'm going to get busy knowing him better first. So long, Dickie, and thanks for all the dinosaurs.
Posted by Ali Gray
at 23:30 on 24 Aug 2014
Unless you toss a few sharks into the mix, or have Bill Paxton chasing them down, it’s tough to get people riled up about a tornado. No, what people want these days are several of the windy buggers, scary-as-hell firenados, entire towns flattened, confused shaky cams, people scrambling for phone signal and a pair of drunken thrill-seeking hillbillies with a GoPro looking for YouTube hits.
I am Goebbling up this Nazi pun. It falls right in Mein Kampfort zone. They've judged the tone just Reich. I hate myself.
The world of rom-coms is a fickle one; for every When Harry Met Sally there's The Other Half (starring Danny Dyer, it's on Netflix) or something-or-other starring Isla Fisher tripping over a lot. Whilst it's not going to break new romantic ground, the likeable leads and overwhelming sweetness of What If won me over. God I hate myself sometimes.