Pontifications on a Kind of Art

... Is my most hipster title ever. Anyway, on with the show!

Even though I’ve never eaten it in my life, I’ve started saying ‘Branston’ when I mean ‘the good shit’. As in, ‘I watched Hostel 2 the other day. Ninety minutes of absolute bollocks and one single solitary instance of Branston. Fuck you, Eli Roth. Fuck you.’

Which is a pretty good link to my main feature. Films, that is, not pickle.

Anyway, films. The film industry is the popular kid in the wide and vague world of culture. It has the most money, drives the fastest cars, has the hottest boy and girlfriends (you gotta know the movie biz goes both ways) and the literature and music industries both want to be its BFF. But, like the popular kid in school, everyone secretly thinks the film biz is kind of a dick. Or not that secretly in the case of some.

I recently read an article about the kind of films being put out and the way they were marketed. To paraphrase the thing (the magazine is at my parents’ house), Love and Other Drugs is a weepie being mismarketed as a romcom. This is a pretty small marketing fuck-up when you compare it to Fight Club being marketed as muscle porn when it’s actually a satirical headfuck, but what the hey-ho. The writer of the article then went on to bitch about the lack of a good weepie these days. How ‘rom’ is all too often followed with ‘com’ rather than ‘ance’. So here’s my two cents.

It’s pretty fucking difficult to defend mainstream cinema these days, even if you like it. But I tried, and what I realised is that, while it never, ever produces the Branston (a film seems to have to be Lost in Translation-size or smaller for that to happen), mainstream Hollywood certainly is a barometer for what mood the world is in. And we’re bummed out right now. When we want a depressing storyline, it has to be vast and crushing or outlandish and weird. Personal tales about failed love have to be handled with a lightness of heart. And Ben fucking Stiller.

The war films coming out right after Hitler’s European tour ended (Reich’n’roll) never had a negative message and the good guys (The West!) were definitely the good guys and always won. Similarly, a film about a personal tragedy will never fly in an age where everyone feels so crappy about themselves and their personal lives (i.e., the present day).

Subtlety’s gone, too. If Breakfast at Tiffany’s was made today, there’d be a shitload of sex scenes, and it would be very obvious that both the main characters are prostitutes (didn’t you know that? Watch the film again now you do. Also, fuck you; you’re part of the problem). If Casablanca was made today, Rick would be a crack dealer on the side and there’d be gratuitous beatings. If The Lovely Bones was made today, Peter Jackson wouldn’t pussy out and gloss over the novel’s underage rape scene because he wanted to get a more family-friendly BBFC rating. Oh wait, it was and he still did. What a wanker.

I don’t know what this says about audiences, but it says a lot about filmmakers. They’re very desperate to please, to the point that it’s usually detrimental to the end product. Yes, Hollywood, we like tits. This, however, doesn’t mean we need to see tits unless the tits are important to the plot. I’m against censorship, as I think any rational person should be, but just because you’re allowed to do something doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to do it every five minutes. Nothing’s stopping me replacing every noun in my vocabulary with ‘sheppadinkle’, but if I chose to do that I would be punched. Hard. And rightly so, because I’d be being an absolute cunt. Get the picture?

So, that’s my views on film. For every Clerks, there’s a Jersey Girl. For every Patrick Fugit, there’s a Vin Diesel. For every smart, funny, touching, offbeat indie flick, there’s a bloated, over-hyped, bland adaptation of a children’s book to outsell it ten to one. But for every drooling, overweight, teenage Twilight fan, there’s a snarky blogger with too much time on his hands. Keep the faith.

By the way, the good part of Hostel 2 is when the heroine cuts that guy’s dick off and joins the torturer’s club. That may have been a spoiler, but if you honestly cared about Hostel 2 you deserve to have it spoiled for you, you tasteless piece of shit.

Struggling writer; will shag housewives for money and/or a New York apartment,
Nick

Pal Challange #3

So, Pal Challenge returns! Mostly because I was out of ideas and I wanted to update. Since I blogged yesterday, it's probably too fast. But, my pals have been good to me and given me these delightful subjects to yammer on about:

1)'Can I justify eating the 3 1kg tins of chocolates I was given this Christmas? Could anybody?' from Criss.

&

2) 'Indie becoming the new mainstream.' From Lydia.

Let's rock this shit! Woo! That's my enthusiasm for the day.

First thing's first, three kilograms of chocolate? It's do-able, I'm sure. Well, I'm pretty sure that if I tried that I'd vomit, but if you can stomach it that much chocolate, go for it!

See, it's the opportunities you pass up that you'll regret. Except the opportunity to see Uncle Martin's magical snake. Boy, do I regret that one. But paedophiles aside, if you're presented with three kilos of chocolate I think it'd be spitting in the eye of Fate (which now has an eye. And a capital 'F') to not eat it. This is how I justify chocolate, cocaine and mass murder.

Chocolate quality's probably a factor, too. If it's your favourite, guzzle away. If it's poo (metaphorically or otherwise), I wouldn't bother. Unless that's your thing. I'm not here to judge that. I'm only here to judge people who have sex in the missionary position and mean it when they say 'I love you.'

As for any actual health risks, I don't have a clue. I'd say drink plenty on your choc binge. Staying hydrated is important. And make sure you don't eat much else that day, or you'll just feel ill.

Now, I'm sure that chocolatey goodness has left you asking 'Is indie the new mainstream?' I sure know I'm think that. So, without further ado, let's dive in. Remember, it's not ironic to dive into water, so wear a helmet.

So, indie culture (as far as it can be called 'culture') is massive right now. We're talking really fucking huge. I mean, like, twenty beers and you'd still think it's a bit on the big side. Anywhere you go there's bound to be some ironic facial hair with an idiot hanging off it, screaming in terror as he realises too late that the hill is steep and his fixie has no brakes. So, indie is now mainstream, right?

Well ... kind of. That's honestly the best I can do. While the fixed-gear-dickheads are now all over everywhere like herpes on Taylor Momsen, it isn't strictly speaking indie. I'm gonna take a moment to regurgitate some of the hipster dictionary (hiptionary?) I swallowed and enlighten y'all:

'Indie' is a contraction of 'independent'. As in, independent bands and record labels, independent shops, independent films ... You get the idea.

I guess this means indie will never be mainstream. It's just the definitions of what is or isn't indie will change. Same for the mainstream. It runs in cycles. First something's indie, then it's mainstream, then it's unpopular, then it's retro and the indie kids love it again. You'll notice that, now they've been exposed, you see fixie-pricks (this is my name for them as of now) in Topshop more than you see them in, say, Geek Vintage (just thought I'd plug my favourite T-shirt stockists. You're welcome, guys).

So, now the fixie-pricks and their dull-as-fuck music (Yeah, I went there) are mainstream, what gets to be indie? I'm hoping skramz will get indie-fabulous (this isn't an actual term.). Think about it, it makes perfect sense. It's underground as fuck, aggressive enough to never be mainstream and as an added bonus the indie kids get to keep their thick-rimmed glasses. Not to mention, Liverpool's already representin' the music side with We Came Out Like Tigers, who are fucking brilliant if you haven't heard them (They only have one song on the link, sadly). If I was any kind of cool, I'd be petitioning on the streets for everyone to stop playing synth and start making sounds like four dogs locked in a burning shed.

Writing haikus about cannibalism in your yearbook since 1989,
Nick