Peripatetic

Here is the opening chapter of the novel I’ve been working on for a while now. Feel free to tell me what you think, if anything at all:

Fifteen days had passed since she left. Fifteen days since she boarded the train that took her to a faraway place. Fifteen days since she last kissed me, since we last held each other and fifteen days since we last had a meaningful exchange.

We were going to talk every day. We were going to visit each other every week. I was going to see her and she was going to see me. It wouldn’t feel like we were apart at all. We would both put in the effort that others wouldn’t and we would show the world that being apart wouldn’t necessarily mean breaking up.

A lot of crap that turned out to be.

She phoned me once, to complain. I tried several times and only got her answer-phone, at every other opportunity I either forgot or I was busy. Neither of us had an excuse, yet every day I would receive a text saying “I love you, come visit soon, miss u x”. I would text back something similar in reply. On the first occasion that we spoke on the phone, I tried not to sound too upset or protective, I wanted her to find friends in her new job and I didn’t want to be the ball and chain dragging her down when she wanted to have fun. She didn’t phone because she found it too hard to speak with me; it was too difficult to be apart.

The second time was today. She kissed another guy.

Was it inevitable? Was it something I did? These questions are the first things that come to mind when hearing of a betrayal, that is after the boiling anger subsides. It was on the fifteenth day that she cheated on me, drunk, at a club with “friends”, four hundred miles away. It was on the sixteenth morning that I had originally planned to phone and confront her and take advantage of her inevitable hangover, to scream so hard it hurt.

Those feelings lasted a while, in fact they lasted a long while. I guess that it finally struck me. She had left and she had moved on. She had taken a step without me, and intended to continue in that manner. Solo. I was the one no longer on the same frequency, no longer could I tune into hers. I had lost her, she had left. We were no longer together.

Four years. Four years is a long time to be with another person. In four years you think you can learn everything there is to know about someone, their thoughts, hopes, desires and fears. Then they up and do something so mind-bogglingly hurtful and stupid that it can consume you for another four years.

To try to understand an event of that persuasion is an exercise in futility. Some things are the products of the unconscious mind, of baser desires. If she wanted to kiss him, then that was her choice. She is an intelligent person and she can make her own decisions, I recognise if she wants to take her journey alone or with another, although in the circumstances it doesn’t take a genius to figure out.

If she kissed another guy, then she did so in full knowledge of the circumstances. Ergo; she wanted to break up. It is a shame that it took cheating on me to get the message across.

So on the morning after the day that I found out, through a mutual friend, I made the inevitable phone call. At 9AM sharp I pulled out my mobile, dialled her number and was greeted with muffled swearing and a few groans. Eventually the soon-to-be-ex girlfriend of mine said “Hello? Who is this?” somewhat groggily. The hairs on my neck stood up, her voice always did something to me. Right now though, it was doing something else. I tightened my fist around the phone.

“Hey, it’s Regan. How are you?” I asked with restraint, already the desire to yell incoherently at her was unbearable. “I’m ok, I’ve got a big headache.” “Oh, really? Why is that?” “I went out with the girls from the office last night, they’re so nice! We did tequila shots and then Sourz and then had a few Coronas before going to this really cool club, it was like, they had a Vegas theme so it was all really kind of classy and glitzy, there were roulette tables and card machines and everything! They were playing really good tunes as well!” With this she inhaled, clearly unaware that I knew what she had done. I relished the thought of outing her more than anything else, but I let her continue, I simply responded with, “Sounds cool, then what did you do?”

“Well, we started playing spin the bottle on a plate of nachos that we ate earlier, we were sitting in this really comfy booth. We kind of made up our own rules for it after a while because they weren’t fun enough, so we played truth or dare basically with the bottle, it was great fun! I dared Kate to drink a bottle of Tabasco and she did it! It was so funny, I almost pissed myself!” This miffed me a bit, clearly she remembered a lot about the night and so she almost definitely remembered kissing this guy! I moved in for the kill.
“So you remember a lot about last night?” I pressed the phone to my ear, eagerly trying to hear what worried noises she might be making, desperate for feedback. “Yeah! I didn’t have as much to drink as everyone else because I’ve got a folio that I’ve got to complete for Monday and I didn’t want to be too hungover today”. I lost my patience, either my subtle inference had passed completely over her head or she had ignored it, I chose the latter. “So you remember playing tonsil tennis with some loser on the dance floor? You remember sticking your tongue down the throat of some passing stranger?”

“What?”, “Don’t play dumb with me! I know what you did! We’re done. We’re through. I don’t want to see you, hear you or speak to you ever again, do you understand? YOU BETRAYED ME! I can’t believe it! And you remember it! It’s over, don’t phone me again!” With this I hung up, I didn’t want to hear what she had to say, I had it on the word of a friend that she had, a friend who I would trust with my life (who also somewhat awkwardly for us had dated my girlfriend in the past and was pretty hung up about it).
In these circumstances it’s all about trust. Anything she could have said would be a lie. George had been down there at the club with her and had seen her kiss another guy, he told me like a good friend and now I was done with her.

We had drifted apart since she left to pursue her dream job, and this was the final deadly kiss sealing the envelope, stamped and put away for delivery into the annals of my personal history. We had both had such great hopes and dreams and we were both committed to each other, although my commitment was evidently much stronger than hers. This was going to be something we worked at, something which would defy the expectations of all around us and the unfavourable circumstances in which we found ourselves. Whether she would have cheated on me if we hadn’t been apart is something which I will never know, nor would I ever care to, for someone capable of cheating is not the person that I would ever wish to be with, never mind the circumstances in which the event could arise.

George had done me a favour by ridding me of that foul harpy, who had taken four years of my life, sucked my soul and laughed at what remained.

Did I truly love her? Yes I truly did. Will I love another? Yes, I think I shall.

Will I be fooled ever again? No I think I shan’t.

* * *

Now that you know the end of my odyssey, perhaps you should become more acquainted with the beginning.

I left high school at the age of eighteen. I did not drink. I did not smoke. I did not have many friends. I did not entertain many ambitions. I was a virgin. I had a shell, a very thick comfortable and protective shell that had thus far served me well.

I did not relish the prospect of entering the big bad world. I had been accepted to University, I was to study History. This was not my first choice. This made me want to go even less.

So it was at the end of the summer that I had my first job at a bookshop, a poky flat and all my things packed into the family car. Perhaps there are things more eye-opening than seeing your entire life compressed into three cardboard boxes, but at that moment I couldn’t think of anything moreso.

We arrived at the flat complex that the university intended to shoehorn me into, past a weird bar, up a dingy alley, next to a hearse/limo rental company. I pushed through the utilitarian entrance, stomped up the Spartan corridor and came face to face with what I shall describe, for lack of a better term, as my cupboard. Lit with one of those weird buzzing eco-friendly lightbulbs that give off an ever-so-slightly wrong light, that is to say a dirty light, I wasn’t so sure what to think. I certainly knew what I felt, that is to say, nausea, fear, anxiety and general stress. I had travelled here nervous and had arrived with fear.

Now my family had left. I was alone in my beige room with bare walls, cheap pine furniture,a dirty light, an odd radiator smell and a window blocked from fully opening due to an inconveniently placed bush. Now you might expect that I felt lost in the world, that the tide of infinity rose and swept me away to flail hopelessly while the currents of time pulled me ever further away. It definitely wasn’t like that, I was merely disappointed.

My flatmates hadn’t yet arrived and I had no wish to meet them. People were not my forte, particularly those from outwith my normal social circle of around two friends, whom I met once every month or so to play Xbox or something similar. It wasn’t that I hated other people or anything, it was just that at the end of the day I preferred my own company to that of others.

I didn’t want to see them, hear them or have anything to do with them. In fact, the less that my flatmates had to do with me, the more that I could sit on my bed with my eyes closed and hope that when I opened them I would be at home. I knew sincerely that this wouldn’t happen, yet I was ready to do anything to forget. Anything to be away from that place, to be able to escape, disappear, move and not be tied down.

Despite all of this, in a perverse way it was quite exhilarating. While you may judge me for all of the personality flaws which I have so readily provided you, it should also be known that I recognised those flaws, as any sane person would. Indeed, university was in itself another beginning as well as an end. Since I had left high school, I longed for companionship, whether romantic or platonic. This was something which I felt at a cellular level, a primal urge buried deep within my subconscious mind. Whereas my desire for solitude was genuine, it was a product of my personality and circumstance, regardless of how I insulated myself from the fact, it was an unavoidable truth that I was a human being, with human needs and feelings. If pricked I bled etc.

University had seemed to me for a very long time previously, something inherently social. I had taken a class, something which my parents had forced me into when I was fifteen. This class was of the “you-can-achieve-if-you-believe” variety, however something they said stuck: move outside your comfort zone. University was away from my home, my fortress. University was working on your own volition to deadlines, not continually being ordered. University was social, noisy, booze-fuelled and decadent. In other words, university represented the polar opposite of the life that I had, unto that point, led.

Sitting in my room, the disappointment I felt was that my new beginning had not immediately proven to be exotic and exciting. The disappointment was also something more, representative of a fear and also of mourning. My old life was gone forever, all that faced me now was an uncertain future. While I had not entered the real world, I had boarded the train that led there, no stops, high speed.
I had no idea of the life that I was to lead over the next few months and years.

* * *

Before I had moved into my flat, and indeed even before the summer, I had been desperate for a job. I had travelled into the city with my father on several occasions to go job hunting. During high school I had been employed a handful of times, once delivering one thousand phonebooks in a week, once doing two thankless paper-rounds a week for £11 (for 8 months), once as an assistant chocolate-fountain-eer (helping my mum at weddings), once as a “kitchen porter” (glorified dishwasher) and once as a farmhand. Despite my illustrious list of achievements and glowing employment record, I found it difficult achieve employment.

Eventually, after several weeks of searching, a position came up: I was to be a bookseller at a citywide book shop chain known as “Pebblebrooks”.

I began my new role as a bookseller with both apprehension and a curious gusto. I had my own room, I had left home, I was at university and I had a job. I could now confidently claim to be independent – or at least independent to a given degree.

The role itself didn’t require any great feats of thought, all that was required was to man the tills and make sales. They say that it is one of the true character forming experiences in life, taking on a customer service position as a teenager and being abused by the general populace. That may be the case, but in that first week especially, I could have sworn that some people came in simply to abuse the staff. Indeed, I soon found how annoying people can be when they feel as though they are in a position of power. Needless to say I found it emasculating.

Despite this, I was glad to meet my co-workers. I don’t know why it is, but freeform methods of interaction, such as parties, were far outwith my comfort zone. So I relished the prospect of having a common enemy in the boss, something to talk about, which is more than I ever usually had to offer. At parties I was a corner-dweller.

The group was small but cosy, there was Coleen and Emily who worked on the shop floor, Gary who handled stock and Megan who was a sort-of-kind-of unofficial assistant manager (she had many responsibilities and was paid a pittance for her extra effort). These four represented the proletarians as it were, along with myself, we were the underdog workers. This image becomes far more significant when one entertains the image of the bosses: Alasdair and Francis. Alasdair was the head honcho, ex-army and physically large but curiously clueless, he had been given the position out of the blue a few months previously as the last manager had left and hadn’t a clue what to do with his newfound power. On the other hand, Francis, the assistant manager, knew very well. He dressed as though he were da boss and certainly acted more like an authority figure than Alasdair ever did.

This led to a curious dichotomy between the two, with the manager being less of a boss than the assistant manager. This metaphorical war of the gods taking place above our heads on the second floor was waged intermittently, but we mere mortals on the ground certainly ran for shelter.

None of us were safe from the axe, something which became ever more apparent as the weeks went by. The arguments became ever more frequent and we on the shop floor were the relative stress-balls in this situation. Arbitrary tasks were assigned and clear distaste was shown towards several of us, including myself. Meanwhile the constant verbal warfare and falling out were taking their toll on the shop. With no one clearly at the helm, profits began plummeting. This was when I came to a fundamental realisation, they were paid large salaries every year to be incompetent buffoons, good at nothing but the blame game, while I, on minimum wage, would be sacked if I made a single mistake.

Despite all this tension and concern surrounding profits, we on the shop floor bonded quite well. This period was that between September and December, eighteen weeks, one hundred and twenty two days, all memorable.

Immediately as I started, I bonded with Gary. Gary was around twenty eight, local and a thoroughly unpretentious being. He had no shame, but would never judge, needless to say his jokes were terrible.

Most conversations that we had lasted around forty seconds and in all honesty were more like strings of jokes than anything else. Indeed, our first conversation was as such:

“Hey, new guy. Yeah, you. What’s your name?” As he said this he was holding a large cardboard box full of books, unloading new stock which had arrived that morning. He stood in front of me as I replied, looming, towering.

“I’m Regan, how are you?” I asked, keen to appear enthusiastic and chipper, although clearly nervous, especially with him, a perfect stranger, in my personal space, completely unmoveable. “Gary. That’s who I am. How do you make a one handed Irish man fall out a tree?” With this I paused, confused beyond all measure, what was this guy on?

I decided to take the bait. “I don’t know. How?” He then looked me straight in the eye, with an utter deadpan look on his face. “Wave. How do you sink an Irish submarine?” Again? I took the bait once more. “I don’t know.” Then same look, same expression, “You knock on the door. How do you make an Irishman burn his ear?” With this he seemed to inflate a little, I wasn’t sure why. “I don’t know.” He then gave me a broad smile and said, “You phone him while he’s doing the ironing of course! You need a humour implant! I’ll book you in for lunch today.”

I was utterly, hopelessly lost by this point. I didn’t have the best or most complete set of social skills to begin with, and now I was in way out of my depth with someone who clearly was toying with me, benevolent or not, he was surely playing on my Irish name. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and just assume that he wasn’t trying to undermine me so as to attain superiority etc, after all this wasn’t life as written by Harold Pinter.

I gave a humorous reply of my own, hoping to regain lost ground. “Well it wasn’t the highest on my list of priorities today when I was preparing for work.” He continued to look and smile, “Well maybe it should have been. Listen, I need to go and set these boxes down before my arms fall off, and you need to get a move on with whatever you’re doing.” With that, he shuttled off to goodness knows where with his armful of boxes and left me standing and flummoxed.

So while this may not seem like the ideal starting conversation, or indeed the ideal starting anything, Gary immediately established himself as confident, unusual and possessed of an ability to use humour to disarm. I didn’t particularly like him on that first occasion, or for that matter on the second or third. After a month however we started to bond and we became friends, they were good, relatively uncomplicated times that I would later look back upon with a certain wistful longing.

Gary was the first of the few friends that I made, and indeed beyond the bosses, I made friends with pretty much everyone. This was a conscious decision that I made. Throughout high school I had been invisible, and even if I was content in being so, it wasn’t a healthy way to live. I was trying to be open and be popular at work. My efforts were not all successful, but that I had any success at all put me far beyond my high school self.

* * *

It was one month in. I had friends at work, university was proving to be far less of a challenge than I had expected and I had settled into the notion that I lived away from home and that this wasn’t all some hideously complex and over-wrought dream. I was having fun, just plain fun with no strings attached, something I hadn’t felt in a while.

It seemed like these good times were set to continue. More and more people were being recruited into work, all temporary staff. By December there were fifteen of us as opposed to the original few. I got along with most of the people, although it eventually became apparent to me that some of them didn’t like me.

I didn’t much care, well that isn’t too honest, I did care, just a little bit. Particularly in the case of one individual. One girl.
When I first laid eyes on her, well, how to describe? I could say she had strawberry lips, milky skin, eyes as dark as the night sky and hair the colour of fresh straw in the summer sunshine. Or I could go on at length about her figure. Basically, this girl, when I saw her I knew that I wouldn’t see another like her for a long time.

When I first saw her, it was her first day at the shop. She was wearing black leather boots, black tights, a skirt and her uniform t-shirt, I wouldn’t have changed her for the world there and then as we shook hands and I held on too tight, crushing her hand slightly, frozen grin and wide staring eyes, evidently freaking her out.

Over the next few days I watched her around the shop, occasionally popping over for a ‘friendly’ chat. I think that without a shadow of a doubt she knew what I was up to and was having none of it. She stayed away from me generally and eventually I heard a couple of less than favourable comments come back to me that originated with her, I didn’t really care. She was beautiful and I had seen her first, I was going to ask her out.

One thing I loved to do was to toss her name around my head before I went to sleep, leaving the sound echoing in my thoughts: Iona….Iona…..Iona… Iona, island, famous for its monastery. Beautiful, remote, significant, fortified, containing treasure, open to being plundered by the most daring of souls. Iona….Iona….Iona… Eye-own-a, the sound of beauty, the perfect name.

As that week went by, the tension within me reached fever pitch. I had stopped bothering her like a lovesick puppy, but I still needed to make up and ask her out. I decided to offer to buy her lunch. This she declined. I offered to buy her coffee, which she declined also.

Eventually I lost my patience and asked her out, I offered to take her to the cinema. I had learned, mainly through noting her reading choices at the lunch table, that she liked Victorian female authors. She was making her rounds of Wolfe, Austen, Shelley and the Bronte’s, I was less than enamoured by her reading preferences, but I picked a suitably themed film at an arty cinema. Eventually I broached the subject, over our sandwiches at lunch while we were alone. It had been a month and a half, but I was finally going to ask her out properly.

I had mentally prepared myself for this moment for a while now. I was going to mention it casually in a great conversation that would ideally have me making her laugh a lot. It was going to be slick and suave, she was going to be utterly and completely charmed. I had practiced in the mirror for hours, that morning I had put on some freshly bought aftershave that looked faintly posh on the shelf at the chemists, my nicest deodorant, fresh pants and I had ironed my shirt.

I felt like a blob of jelly and an absolute twat simultaneously as I began the conversation, desperately trying to be as suave as I was in the mirror. It didn’t really work. “What is that you’re reading?” I enquired, eyebrows raised quizzically. “It’s a really good book, I’m reading it for my course, It’s The Last Man by Mary Shelley. It’s about the last man on earth who spends his final hours being a twat in Rome.” With this she settled back into her book, legs curled beneath her on the chair, clearly considering the conversation to be finished. I pushed on undeterred, heedless and determined.

“Listen, I’m just going to get this off my chest. I like you a lot. I was wondering if you would like to go out with me and some of my friends tonight, we’re going to see this new film which came out just recently, I think you’d like it. I mean you don’t have to come, but I feel like you don’t like me and I’d like to try and change that. What do you say?”

She looked at me quizzically for a moment, clearly bemused by my query. She stared slightly to the side of my head for a minute and pursed her lips. I could see the wheels spinning. “Ok,” she said somewhat reluctantly, “but on the condition that if I don’t like anything I’m not obliged to stay and that if tonight doesn’t go well then you don’t try to speak to me again. You’re right, I’m not that keen on you, but I will do this one thing if it’ll make you leave me alone.”

That was a resounding yes in my books. “I’ll text you the details later then, you’ll have a great time”. The chips were laid, the pieces set, my plan was about to come into motion. I wasn’t some sort of Machiavellian strategist with a preternatural gift for manipulation, but I certainly had my perfect night with Iona planned. I was going to convert her to be mine. I was going to lock lips with her, hold her round the waist and gaze deep into her eyes, an act which I had honed to perfection through practice with my rolled up duvet.

She was going to swoon, it was going to be magical.

I couldn’t wait.

This would be my first ever date.

Ever.

* * *

I waited outside the cinema. I hadn’t put too much effort into my appearance, I didn’t want to appear fussy. The film was due to go on in five minutes, but she hadn’t yet arrived. I was sweating a bit, just about shaking visibly in the cold, blustery wind that had chosen that exact moment to begin and utterly convinced that she was a no show.

I was under no pretence, no illusion that she didn’t like me. I knew that people could change, but I wasn’t sure if she could, I was still willing to try though.

I rubbed my hands together and did a little dance to get some blood flowing and looked up into the night sky, past the somewhat crooked chalkboard displaying what films were on that night. I decided while counting the stars that I’d wait another ten minutes, if she still hadn’t arrived by that point, then I’d call it a night.

Nine minutes passed.

I pulled up my sleeve and looked at my watch, counting down the seconds before her time ran up.

50 seconds

I whistled a little and stared through the window of a small pub across the road. It was loud, crowded and very smelly. A folk group were playing and the arty crowd had come to feel connected with the countryside. I laughed a little, I wasn’t sure why I found it amusing. It’s funny what tickles you sometimes.

40 seconds

I looked at the taxis which were passing the cinema pretty constantly, providing a stream of boozy kissing couples, aware of their audience, sometimes going a little too far.

30 seconds

I looked down at my feet at the pavement. It was black with those little white stones scattered through it like stars, dirty little diamonds in the rough.

20 seconds

I wondered whether I should leave. It seemed that if she hadn’t come in the first thirty minutes that she wouldn’t arrive in the final 20 seconds. Nonetheless I resolved to wait that little bit longer.

10 seconds

I resigned myself to my fate. She wasn’t going to come.

I’d somehow known it all along, I mean if she didn’t like me then why would she come? Of course it was a ploy of hers to make me feel like a tool and to be too ashamed to ask her out again. As unwelcome tears began to fill my eyes, showing my weakness to the world, I cursed my stupidity.

What a fool I was! Who in their right mind would go out with an intense weirdo, even once?

I threw away the sweets that I’d bought her for during the film and stalked off. It just didn’t seem fair. Why say yes and then not come? It was just plain callous!

I realised at that point that I didn’t have any change for the bus, so I made a beeline across the road to the pub, which had an ATM embedded in its wall. I drew a tenner, and began to walk off.

Something caught my eye though.

I recognised someone sitting at a table, in the window seat. It was a she. She had black hair. I looked closer.

It was Iona.

She had been watching me.

Bitch.

* * *

So she left me. Not that she had ever been with me. My first ‘date’, what a cracker.

For a few days afterwards I felt more than a complete idiot, I felt an abject failure. I considered asking for a transfer to another branch of Pebblebrooks, or even simply quitting, I couldn’t face going back and seeing her.

Finally the weekend came with all inevitability of a brick wall. Saturday, 7:00 AM. I woke up, I did my morning beauty regime, teeth and deodorant. I left half an hour later and caught the bus. Throughout this I was still, no thoughts, no feelings, I had ventured through the rapid torrents of panic and emerged in the placid lake of gut numbing terror. I sat on a bench near the shop, waiting for it to open. I checked my watch for the first time, I wished that I hadn’t. It was daylight savings, the clocks had gone back an hour. So not only was I a complete social failure, but I couldn’t even read the time right.

I raised my collar against the ever present wind and stuck my hands firmly in my pockets, entrenching myself against the outside. Fifteen minutes passed and I was becoming concerned as to possible hypothermia in my feet. Preoccupied, I didn’t notice a petite figure strolling past me, I only became aware when this mystery person sat with a thud at the other end of the bench. I looked briefly in her direction, interested as to who could be so mad as to sit on a windy bench early in the morning, in winter with a stranger. I wished I hadn’t.

I saw a brown double breasted beige coat and an emerald silk scarf, above which sat a bemused face, that of Iona. I tried to make small talk, not wishing to sit through a solid forty minutes ofmarch awkward silence,

“Some weather today, isn’t it? I’m frozen.” She studied my face for a second, as though to guess whether I was being serious or not. She called the bluff,

“Let’s cut to it. I’ve felt awful most of the week. Do you know why that is? You. You and that damn ‘date’. I know that you saw me, I wanted you to. Do you know the word? Semiotics? Of course you do, you faux-intellectual pompous micro-dicked twat! I sent a message, in bold neon, right above your door, ‘STAY AWAY! HERE BE DRAGONS!’ Ok?” She said this in a rehearsed way, with a tear in her eye, although I couldn’t tell whether it was the wind or not. I simply asked in reply,

“Why?” , “WHY? Well… it’s not something I’m really ready to discuss, let alone with you. Just get this, I’m off limits. That means nothing even remotely romantic can happen between us. We can share pleasantries, maybe even the time of day, but that’s it.” Again the tears rolled delicately down her cheeks. I decided to comply, hoping that in time I might come to understand.

I nodded and then turned to look straight ahead. The uneasy silence began and continued until work began. I had never been so pleased to walk into that bookshop and to see the same grey faces march in and out throughout the day. Iona contrived to stay as far away from me as possible while I pondered exactly why she had taken such an intense dislike to me. Clearly she had some psychological thing going on, otherwise she wouldn’t be so intense, unpredictable and weird. I decided to keep her at arm’s length and just continue with my life.

While listening to her speaking with Gary I found out why she had arrived so early, she was from Italy, something you would never have been able to tell from her name, accent or looks. Apparently, at last according to her, daylight savings wasn’t at thing there, it was mere chance that we met that morning.

The day went on otherwise as though nothing had happened. She didn’t tell anyone about our encounter this morning, nor our previous ‘date’. Indeed she seemed to be consciously denying my very existence. Luckily we didn’t have any other opportunities for speech that day, something for which I was eminently thankful.

When I arrived back at my poky flat that night I did what any self-respecting misery whore would do, I had a few beers, ate cake and pizza and watched TV on the internet until I fell asleep, doing anything I could to avoid thinking about her, that mercurial, capricious weirdo who, against all my better instincts, had me utterly captivated.

 

The Evolution of Narrative in Digital Media

Across the years, in narrative terms particularly, the videogame genre has progressed in leaps and bounds. Whereas 25 years ago there was a plumber with a princess to save (who was always in another castle) we now have the likes of Mass Effect, Dragon Age and Knights of the Old Republic. What is particularly notable about this change is that, particularly with the list provided, most of the games which have made a difference in terms of narrative come from one company: Bioware. Make no mistake, it is to Bioware that we owe the advancement of the plotlines of the medium towards something like compelling narratives and quality storytelling. Bioware are the most inquisitive and most explorative of all videogame companies when it comes to the story stakes; this essay shall both detail their successes and analyse their shortcomings, both of which are many. Along the way significant other games shall be analysed in terms of what their narrative brought to the medium. Then relevant conclusions shall be drawn and foresight given as to the future of the genre.

It all began with one game, one very important game: Baldur’s Gate. Baldur’s Gate was the first significant game that Bioware produced; in this game they sowed the seeds of their greatest successes and failures in narrative terms. Technically speaking, the game is one of the 1990’s and also one of a small budget. Voice actors were a luxury beyond the reach of the fledgling studio, but indeed this was no significant obstacle for the team in question. Baldur’s Gate was a game set in the same world as Dungeons and Dragons. Bioware’s writing team did not need to create a world, they only needed to create a compelling story within it, and indeed they did. What is notable in terms of narrative is that something which became a staple of the narrative of the videogame genre in later years was proliferated in this virgin effort: the player character is silent, seemingly mute, presumably communicating with the world through telepathy. It is said that the silent player character helps strengthen player involvement with the narrative unfolding as it allows the player to more easily inhabit their character’s shoes. Various other games have taken this path, Half Life 1&2, Portal, All of the Elder Scrolls games, all the Halo games and the first Dead Space immediately spring to mind. It is certainly debatable whether this is something positive, and indeed that is an issue which shall be addressed later in this essay. The silent PC (Player character) is a trope which Bioware would continue throughout their games. Otherwise they make no innovations from a narrative point of view, that is to say if their major innovation is excluded. The idea of a save continued between games was something that had been toyed with for many years, but many companies had simply thrown the idea out of the window. This was still a time when the videogame had no need for professional writers to pad out their works with attempts at genuine art. Mathematicians wrote flimsy stories in a short time, concerning nothing in particular. Story existed to validate and explain gameplay: this was how the marine got his laser gun, this is why he hates alien robot zombie ninjas from hell, this is the particular alien robot zombie ninja that he wants to kill, he wants to kill him because he kidnapped his cowgirl girlfriend (who happens to have DD breasts, and be blonde). What they NEVER explain is why that particular marine has the ability to heal gunshot wounds with cake and bacon he found on the floor; or for that matter why alien robot zombie ninjas from hell have cake and bacon scattered on the floor around their base. While this may be fine to laugh at now, this is due to the luxury of hindsight. In reality, these games did little to distinguish themselves from one another, defining themselves through gameplay and graphics alone.

Indeed, Bioware is now approaching this point. For years they have essentially made games with the same overall storyline and different gameplay techniques. Ever since KOTOR  they have featured plots which progress as such: 1) Start in chaos, caused by an unknown enemy who appear in great numbers, are faceless and who the player is powerless to stop. 2)  Learn that these faceless goons are the minions of some maniacal Sith Lord/Machiavellian Emperor/Dragon/Techno-Organic race of unstoppable genocidal spaceships. 3) Learn that the PC is the only person with the ability and drive to stop said threat and assemble a team of specialists. 4) Fight until the end boss, beat the end boss and save the world. This formula is certainly not unique to Bioware, Western RPGs in general are the same, from Fable to The Elder Scrolls. Bioware has attempted to innovate recently to uneven effect in Dragon Age II and Mass Effect, providing alternate endings based on player activity and decisions. It is unfortunate, but unless serious innovation takes place at least in the next decade, the RPG as a genre is going to be left stuck in a rut.

People like Peter Molyneux  suppose that they can change the face of storytelling in videogames, purporting to be able to break the mould provide innovative experiences, but in the end simply typifying the genre rather than reinventing it. Black and White, The Movies and Fable are all excellent fun and unique, but they aren’t transcendental, something which their hype would have you believe. The role of the voice actor in defining the player character is something which has defined Fable, for the first time in Fable 3 the PC was voiced, as was the case in the Mass Effect series and now in Dragon Age II. Having a voice actor removes individuality from the experience, no longer can the player simply imagine the voice in his/her head to go with the character, however the involvement of the voice actor provides immersion and far greater accessibility. The essential problem with having a mute telepath as a main character ties in with the essential problem that defines the first-person viewpoint. Being essentially a floating telepathic gun/axe removes the feeling that the character has some impact on the world. Your character is created to deal with a global threat, that is all they exist to do. Conversations do not range beyond exposition and the player cannot put down roots in the world. In The Elder Scrolls I could buy a house, but for what? My character has no need to eat or sleep and no desire in particular to go back to that house, so why bother spending the profits of three adventures on it? Instead a shiny new sword of death +1 is bought.

If the essential role of the RPG is to provide the player with a feeling of empowerment, then the most striking example of the genre is World of Warcraft. Everything within this game is designed to make the player that little bit more greedy. Mounts and loot by the bucket load, Player Vs Player combat, epic foes, it has it all. It does not do anything striking or defining, it is simply well made. Yet it is the most popular MMO game by far, with upwards of 11 million players and an in-game economy larger than that of several dozen small countries. This is essentially the problem with Bioware as of the moment. Right now, it is working on sequels, nothing new. Not even a new Jade Empire. We have Dragon Age, KOTOR and Mass Effect sequels to expect. They are retreading past glories and are profiting hugely, but now that the company is middle aged, it is resting on its laurels and failing to innovate, particularly in the field of storytelling.

There are several smaller companies who are trying to do something new however. CD Projekt have released The Witcher 2 which is a riot and possesses a very mature storyline, Team Bondi have produced LA Noire which allows player investigation among other things. They are trying something new, which is admirable, but they have failed to recognise a key problem which is coming to the fore more and more often now: the battle of gameplay vs narrative. Is the narrative simply a backdrop to explain the character’s powers, such as in Bionic Commando, or is the gameplay simply something to drive the narrative forwards, such as in Heavy Rain and American McGee’s Alice? This is something which has not been solved, however some very small companies are producing some very interesting workarounds.

The market for console games is very different to that of PC games. For one thing the PC game market is very Europe-focussed as opposed to Japan and USA focussed. There is a series of games, produced by Taleworlds and published by Paradox Interactive, based in Sweden, called Mount and Blade. These games are medieval simulations, they simply create the most realistic interpretations of medieval combat that their budget will allow and they release their product into the world. There is some hokum about five identical kingdoms fighting pointless wars yadda yadda yadda, but the important thing to note is the element of player interaction. The player can be anything they want, but they have to work to earn it. The world continues on fine without the player’s presence and the player can choose what to be, whether that be a trader, a bandit or a ruler. The predominance of player narrative means that the storylines that one can craft are limited only by the tools provided. As the team expand the world, so more options become available and the storylines become more varied. Moreover, they provide (as is common with PC games) the development tools used for the games to the community, to allow the community to produce modifications (mods) which enhance the gameplay or change the game entirely. This level of player interaction means that the story is completely fresh and unique each time, although quality cannot be guaranteed.

Games in this vein, that is to say those which are obsessed with player interaction, have existed for sometime and have proven very popular, whether they are The Sims, Dwarf Fortress or Minecraft. The problem is that their very nature prompts the question, is a game an experience or a journey? Is a game like a film, taking you on a voyage through someone else’s vision? Or is it a set of tools, a sandbox, in which you can create your own vision?

As for the future of the evolution of narrative in digital media, it is uncertain. No major players seem willing to innovate and certainly no one is taking notice of smaller teams. In this troubled financial climate where marketing men have overbearing influence as opposed to the developers, callous hackers willing to destroy for the sheer hell of it, who would dare to innovate? Conservatism abounds, but the medium is in dire threat of growing stale. Videogames are the most exciting and unique of all forms of entertainment, if they are to continue their ascendance, then changes need to be made.

Until then, we can be safe in the knowledge that at least there are some who have the courage to go forwards.

Sean Cameron

What makes a good X-Men film?

With the release of X-Men: First Class, and the success that it has achieved, both critically and commercially, it is now time to ask the question that is on everyone’s lips: what makes a good X-Men film?

There have been a total of five X-Men films now, all of them are linked and all of them share cast members. Each has a large cast and across the life of the franchise no less than four different directors have transitioned the characters to film. Brett Ratner, Bryan Singer, Danny Wood and Mathew Vaughn have all helmed, however out of them, there are those who are clearly better at directing superhero films.

So, let’s start with the directors. Danny Wood directed X-Men Origins: Wolverine, Mathew Vaughn directed X-Men: First Class, Brett Ratner directed X-Men 3 and Bryan Singer directed X-Men and X-Men 2. Prior to X-Men, Danny wood directed the Academy Award winning Tsotsi, Brett Ratner had cut his gums on the Rush Hour series, Mathew Vaughn directed the superlative Kick-Ass among others and Bryan Singer broke into the scene with The Usual Suspects. These are all very different films, and indeed none are specifically similar to any of the X-Men films. Yes, some elements are comic, as in Kick Ass,  some are touching as in Tsotsi, some are very action orientated, as in Rush Hour and the intrigue present in The Usual Suspects is very much alive in the X-Men films. Does that mean that anyone of these directors has a different expertise that benefits the franchise more? No, it does not.

On closer inspection, it can be seen that one thing holds two directors above the others, that is a love of comic-books. Matthew Vaughn and his writing partner Jane Goldman have in the past adapted the work of Neil Gaiman and Mark Millar for the silver screen to explosive effect and clearly love the genre, their dialogue and understanding is near unmatched in the film industry. Bryan Singer is a comic-book geek, he loves the characters and has grown up with them. Alone, a love for the genre and the characters does not guarantee a good superhero film, Zack Snyder loved Watchmen a little too much, suffocating the film while Christopher Nolan, only vaguely interested in Batman beforehand, revolutionised the genre. What elevates the films of Singer and Vaughn is the balance between love and technical ability. While Wood and Ratner are both technically competent directors, they don’t care much for the characters, and indeed X-Men 3 and X-Men Origins: Wolverine are very much exercises in style over substance.

That is not to say that the characters present in X-Men aren’t exercises in style over substance themselves. Who among the X-Men has real depth? Xavier is an all-powerful rich boy, Wolverine is nigh-on indestructible, Storm is Halle Berry and Mystique can become anyone. There are those who have suffered real trauma and difficulty, such as Magneto, Nightcrawler, Rogue and Beast, yet they are never truly the focus. It is when an X-film gives more breathing room to its more troubled characters that they truly begin to rise. After all, that is what the X-Men are, the representatives of genetic diversity fighting against the bigotry and fear present in the world, frightened teenagers and troubled adults who have to come to terms with overwhelming responsibility. X-Men 2 and X-Men: First Class touch on these themes to varying degrees and are all the better for it, with the truly interesting characters being given plenty of time in the sun. Again, this is where Wolverine and X-Men 3 fail, both are nothing more than glorified action scenes pasted together with vague attempts at pathos.

So, it has been established then, X-Men: First Class and X-Men 2 are the best examples of the X-franchise, while Wolverine and X-Men 3 fall flat. The directors are what truly make the difference in these productions. From casting, to scriptwriting, to producing, the directors have had a hand in many aspects of the final product that constitutes each film, not least shooting it. Danny Wood and Brett Ratner fall short where Mathew Vaughn and Bryan Singer stand tall.

So what makes a good X-Men film?

The director.

So, where next? Fox has stated that they envisage a trilogy being produced from the newly released X-film, something which should surely be celebrated. Whether it will be Mathew Vaughn at the helm is something that is yet to be seen, but one thing is sure, now that we know what happens when toads are struck by lightning and that you shouldn’t mess with the Juggernaut, bitch, we can comfortably look forward to more X-drama, X-fun and most importantly, X-citement.

Sean Cameron

Green Lantern review

DC comics has been shitting itself recently (not literally). The reason for said shitting-of-selves has been caused by Marvel comics. Marvel have floated a wide range of superhero projects on the movie market, with the likes of Thor, X-Men, Iron Man and Blade among others achieving great success. That was over one decade. In the same period, DC have released one Superman movie and two Batman movies. They were good, and indeed in the case of Batman they were hugely successful, but they haven’t enjoyed the broad success that Marvel has enjoyed.

This, the Green Lantern, was an attempt to launch a less well known property onto the general public. The Green Lantern, as directed by a geriatric Kiwi, Martin Campbell, had a budget of over $300 million. And you can tell.

This movie suffers slightly from a case of style over substance. The computer effects are great. Blake Lively is gorgeous (even if she wears so much make up she looks Hispanic at times), Ryan Reynolds is buff and easy going in the way that he always is. Tim Robbins hams it up as a crooked senator and Mark Strong uses his intense eyebrows to the same effect that he achieved in Robin Hood as Sinestro (probably the villain planned for the sequel). But while the cast are running around being likeable, there is a palpable lack of urgency in every major plot development, and oddly, although a great deal of exposition is delivered, not a lot is actually explained.

This is partially because the Green Lantern is perhaps the worst written of all DC characters. He has a magic ring (tech-based for those post-1959 revamp) that allows him to forge solid energy constructs, essentially granting him unlimited power. However if something is yellow (the power of fear, obv!) he cannot affect it. And through the wearing of a tiny mask, no one can recognise who he is, a la Clark Kent. Before that he is an ordinary guy (who drives fast cars, sleeps with hot girls and flies fighter jets with Blake Lively). We don’t get any sense of who Hal Jordon is. Sure, he doesn’t like responsibility, but beyond a weird flashback about his father, we don’t get any sense of motivation. Lively doesn’t bring much to her underwritten role, and most characters fall a little flat. Peter Saarsgard shines as a mad scientist, however he isn’t given enough air time and feels tacked on at occasionally.

It feels at times, that Martin Campbell didn’t understand the Green Lantern. We are treated to beautiful sweeping shots of space and a gloriously weird planet, however, we don’t spend much time there. We spend most of our time following some trans-dimensional smoke octopus guy who sucks the yellow out of people, an intergalactic bogeyman. Parallax is non-threatening and is merely a foil for a plot.

In short, Green Lantern is all fur coat and no knickers. They’ve spent a fortune making the film look good and spent far too little developing a script with meaning, character and wit. By all means go and see it, but expect popcorn entertainment and nothing more. The Green Lantern won’t be remembered as the greatest comic book film of 2011, but it is a pleasant light show nonetheless.

Sean Cameron

3/5

Hall Pass review

Hall Pass

The Farrellys were once the bright young talent in the comedy scene. They helped pioneer the gross-out comedy with such films as Dumb and Dumber and the infamous There’s Something About Mary. These films were notable for having a warmth to their characters that was somehow conveyed through all the pee and poo jokes. That was the 1990’s, for the Farrellys a much better era.

Jump to the year 2011 however and it is apparent that they have lost most, if not all, of that stinking lustre which they once possessed in buckets. They are the anti-Midas in today’s film industry, everything they touch turns to crap. Case in point: Hall Pass.

This film contained real promise. After real duffers such as Shallow Hal, Fever Pitch and The Heartbreak Kid, this film seemed to offer a glimmer of hope. Owen Wilson, noted funnyman, signed up, as did Stephen Merchant and Christina Applegate. The project seemed to have at least a little respectability and many heralded it (before release) as a return to form: it is not.  The fertile writing ground that this film offered has been completely squandered.

The story is this. Men are unhappy. Wives propose armistice. Men can go and indulge carnal desires. A man poos in a field. Men aren’t successful. Men go home, make peace and all is well.

Their other halves suffer in wholly underwritten roles, the two protagonists were apparently scripted in 2D and the gags just feel tired and flat. Hall Pass tries to be so much more than the sum of its parts, unfortunately those parts don’t equal an awful lot.

Mark this as the beginning of a long protracted end for the Farrelly brothers, no patch on Apatow are they.

Sean Cameron

1/5

Ironclad Review

Ironclad

Do you like violence? Do you like gore? Do you like re-workings of history? Then you’re going to love Ironclad!

Paul Giamatti is a scene chomping King John who is seeking revenge against all who forced his name onto the Magna Carta. Solomon Kane (sorry, James Purefoy) and King Agamemnon (*ahem*, Brian Cox) don’t take kindly to this. In fact they hate the idea so much that they start an armed rebellion in the best tradition of all Braveheart clones. Limbs and entrails fly, as does sanity, right out of the proverbial window.

That isn’t to say that the film isn’t fundamentally enjoyable, it is. Like 300 or the aforementioned Solomon Kane, Ironclad is at its best not when trying to have historical or emotional significance but rather when it is indulging in its baser side. The story increasingly devolves into ever more violent set pieces, as though the director figured this out half way through. As a result of this, everything becomes more than a little incoherent, it takes skill to hold a coherent narrative above all the action, skill that the mentioned director does not have. On the fun stakes it is fine to have people fight without reason, so long as the action is stylish, however trying to balance this on the story stakes as well requires the precision that only the Tarantinos, Gibsons and Snyders of this generation possess.

In short, Ironclad is a fine way to spend an afternoon, a bit of fun with no real significance. Don’t expect any high flights of cinematography or art, just be prepared to enjoy three solid central performances and a hell of a lot of blood.

Sean Cameron

3/5

Batman: What Next?

Batman: What next?

Batman is among the most famous of comic-book characters and he is certainly the most written about comic book character in existence. Countless tales involving the Caped Crusader have been woven for over seventy years now. Across film, comics, literature and videogames his story has been told and retold to successive generations.

It is in the medium of film however that Batman now receives his greatest accolades and attention, mainly thanks to the involvement of one Christopher Nolan. The director has reinvented the tale of the Dark Knight for a new millennium. Across Batman Rises and the Dark Knight and helped by an impressive performance from Christian Bale, he has remoulded Batman as a character. Gone is the anti-shark spray and gone are some ridiculous enemies (here’s looking at you Penguin). This version of Batman is dark, sanitised from the wackier realms of imagination and unafraid to philosophise.

This article will speculate as to the story of the next Batman film, The Dark Knight Rises and offer some insight as to what is next for the World’s Greatest Detective.

As has been established, Christopher Nolan isn’t one for frippery; it is presumable that the tone he has established will be continued. So far Tom Hardy has been cast as Bane, Marion Cotillard as Talia Al Ghul, Anne Hathaway as Catwoman and Joseph Gordon Levitt as the Black Mask, (it is less Batman and more Inception 1.5).

So let’s elaborate, Bane is a remarkable choice for a main villain. In Batman and Robin (1997) he was little more than a buffoon, in the comics though, he was a different story altogether. What is remarkable about the Batman universe, or at least the Nolanverse, is that very few villains can match Batman in a one-on-one conflict. Bane in every incarnation has been a muscle-bound, hyper-intelligent wrestler-a-like man. When first introduced in the 1990’s he broke open Arkham Asylum (like a gothic Alcatraz for all of Batman’s foes) and left Batman to clean up the mess. By the end (two months later) Batman was physically, emotionally and spiritually exhausted. In that time Bane had figured out his secret identity as Bruce Wayne and had also discovered the Batcave. He waited there and when Batman arrived, he promptly snapped his spine, crippling Batman.

The seriousness of this in the comic book universe is easy to overstate. Death is a recurring theme in comic books, however it is never an obstacle when you have parallel dimensions, magic, demonic bargains and all sorts of other avenues back to the realms of the living. However, presuming Bane performs a similar stunt on Nolan’s Batman, this would be a big deal. With no magic to heal or revive him, all injuries would be permanent.

Now we move on to Talia Al Ghul. The devoted daughter of Ra’as Al Ghul (Liam Neeson in Batman Begins) she is portrayed as an excellent hand-to-hand combatant and capable with advanced weaponry. What is intriguing about her is that she has been a recurring love interest of Batman’s throughout the comics for a number of years. In some stories she even bears him a son, Damien Wayne. It is more than likely that she’ll arrive looking for Batman’s blood, while this may seem slightly cliché, Nolan’s movies, while often bearing unconventional themes, often have conventional plotlines. He killed her father, so she arrives to kill Batman.

As for Anne Hathaway, she is a somewhat leftfield choice for the character, it can be assumed that she’ll perform well in the role, but whether she can quite perfect the mixture of sex appeal and danger that make Catwoman unique is yet to be seen. At least it isn’t Halle Berry in the role. Nolan’s Catwoman will presumably be a million miles from either a Burton-esque feline resurrection or a (rubbish) moisturiser transformation. However she comes into existence though, one thing is important, in the comics, Catwoman and Batman have the hots for each other, (it seems as though Bruce Wayne, whether Batman or not, has dated every woman under the sun). It has been speculated that Batman might be missing at the start of the movie and that she might fill the void left by him, presumably not using his non-lethal methods however

Our last character to analyse is that of the Black Mask. The Black Mask is one of the lesser known Batman villains. He basically performs the same role as that of the Kingpin in Spiderman, that is to say he is the lord of all organised crime in Gotham. In the Dark Knight, the Joker makes something of a mess of the organised crime bosses. It is presumable that either in the period between the films, or the speculated absence of Batman, that the Black Mask will arrive and take over all crime in Gotham. The Black Mask is notable in that (at least in the comic books) as the result of a childhood accident, his face was horribly deformed and closely resembles a pitch-black skull. It can be assumed that such an unlikely injury will not be present in the Nolanverse, rather the black skull will be an actual mask. The Black Mask will probably be the villain equivalent of Batman, wearing the mask to hide his true identity so he can keep up appearances as a ‘respectable’ business man. The Black Mask is also significant to Batman since he was a figure his youth, they were both boyhood play pals as their parents were friends.

Given this analysis, the story may go a little something like this: Batman is absent from Gotham, undertaking either a personal mission, or taking a break from being Batman, or being so disenchanted with the image of Batman that he cannot make himself don the black cowl. Nonetheless he is also in mourning, both for his love Rachel Dawes and lawman Harvey Dent.  In his absence and in Bruce Wayne’s withdrawal from public life, the city has gotten much worse. Crime plagues the street and organised gang activity is on the rise due to the appearance of a new shadowy figure, nothing much is known of him, except that he wears a Black Mask. Attacks become more frequent and violent. As a result of this a new champion of the people arrives, Catwoman, however she is no patch on the man she replaced. With ambiguous morals she steals as much as she saves. It is into this chaotic situation that Batman returns. He quickly sets things on the path to recovery, the Black Mask’s thugs are useless against him, and his operations are greatly disrupted. Bruce Wayne resumes his public life, however a mysterious new woman has appeared on the Gotham social scene, intelligent, charming and beautiful she soon works her way into his heart. After this happens, Catwoman also encounters Bruce Wayne, this time as Batman. He attempts to force her chaotic ways, but soon her seductive ways prove too much for him and they end up romantically linked also. Emotionally fragile since the death of Rachel he enters into this unusual love triangle. Each of his women don’t know of the alter egos, Catwoman of Bruce Wayne and Talia of Batman. He is forced to ask the question, is Batman the mask for Bruce Wayne, or is Bruce Wayne the mask for Batman?

Meanwhile, the Black Mask has become ever more impatient and in his hysteria decides to bring someone in to kill Batman. Whom he chooses to perform this task is none other than Bane, a hulking figure with a formidable intellect. Bane enters the fray and soon Batman is on the run for his life…

Whether this is or is not the case is yet to be seen, however it is presumable within the bounds of logic that it may be.

Research for this article was based around graphic novels. It is highly recommended that you read some of these if you plan to conduct research yourself, excellent examples include, Year One, The Killing Joke and Arkham Asylum.

As for what happens next to Batman, who knows? Christopher Nolan has plainly and authoritatively stated that he has no interest in directing another Batman film, especially with sequels to Inception in the works along with his involvement in the new reboot of the Superman franchise. How the story pans out is heavily dependent on the director. The films have made too much money not to see another picture produced. A new director would most likely remove the existing cast, (they are all going to be in Inception 2 anyway) and reinvent the origins of Batman once again.

It is needless to say that Batman will always continue to exist, so long as the character is reinvented.

Drive Angry – review

Drive Angry

Once upon a time there was a boy who grew up in great luxury. He was the nephew of a very famous director and could have anything that he wanted. What he wanted was to be an actor. So he tried and tried, but felt that he was treated differently because he was privileged. So he changed his second name to that of America’s first black superhero and set off into the acting world.  He made some good films (Raising Arizona), some bad films (National Treasure) and some preposterously titled films (Bangkok Dangerous). Drive Angry ranks among the latter category.

Titles that deal in B-movie schlock are ten-a-penny these days, films such as Machete, Planet Terror and Deathproof revel in their roots and have found a considerably sized audience on both sides of the Atlantic. It is to this audience that Drive Angry attempts to appeal. With tits, guns and gore by the bucketload this is a no-holds-barred crass comedy that attempts no great feats of cinematography. This in itself is no crime, however coupled with an inane sense of humour, bum-fluff plot and Cage’s nonsensical blond wig it makes for a frighteningly bad film.

The story, as was inferred earlier, is pure hokum. Angry Dad (Cage) comes back from hell to get revenge on the bad men (Satanists) who killed his daughter. There is also something to do with a demonic accountant and a pretty girl/stripper-in-denial who happens to drive a 1969 Dodge Charger (as waitresses do). Cage swears and drinks himself to hell and back again, shoots people and does his best to look as cool as possible with some sort of dead mammal on his scalp.

All in all, if you like bad cinema, this is for you, however if you value your eyeballs and eardrums, then this film avoid.

1/5

Sean Cameron

Top Ten Worst Horror Movies

10 Worst Horror Movies

10. Final Destination

Final Destination is on this list not so much for being an incompetent film as just a weird film. There are several elements to this weirdness, but all of them are centred on the core premise. A guy has a vision of his own death. Having received this vision he avoids said death, along with several other teenagers. Since they were ‘supposed’ to die and didn’t, Death (that is the elemental personification of Death) thereafter takes a personal interest in seeing to their demise. So far, so weird. This is just the beginning however. Over the course of the film it becomes apparent that Death doesn’t have a lot in his schedule and watches too many cartoons. Overly complex and convoluted deaths abound, often with an Acme twist, forcing an already silly plot to supreme levels of idiocy. This, along with stilted and wooden acting, unimaginative scene setting and a hammy script ensure Final Destination’s reputation as a bad horror movie.

9. Return of the Living Dead III

A little known film in many circles, Return of the Living Dead III was a film among the 80’s splatter era, and is a prime example of why that era sucked so bad. Basic premise: boy’s girlfriend dies, boy goes to Colonel Father and asks him to re-animate her. Colonel Father, in the best traditions of army whack-jobs, agrees and they promptly give her a dose of zombie gas. She wakes up, makes a snack of a few Latino gangsters and begins a new zombie apocalypse. Despite the obviously masterful plotting, what really lets this film down are the special effects. In that time of ketchup-for- blood, the special effects department managed to come up with zombies that looked as though they had wandered in from a children’s play. What ensues is just plain embarrassing, the cast seem to agree. Watching bored people run away from clay-mation monsters that they evidently don’t care about is not a way to spend an afternoon.

8. Black Sheep

This 2006 fable of killer sheep is a good example of a special kind of film. This kind of film is based around one single joke, ala Killer Tomatoes etc. The single joke that Black Sheep is based around is instead of turning into a Were-wolf, someone turns into, yes, a Were-sheep. How hilarious! Oh, and they could set it on New Zealand! And run the tagline “Get ready for the violence of the lambs!” or “Get the flock out of here!” or even “There are 40 million sheep in New Zealand…and they’re pissed off!” As this concept demonstrates, there may be beauty in simplicity, but there is also a hell of a lot of stupidity. Black Sheep fails to engage on every level. It is clear that once the writers had come up with their core idea they let everything else write itself albeit badly. The humour is confusing at best, and in a comedy horror, that is simply inexcusable. Save yourself and your eyeballs the bother and stay away, you have been warned.

7. I Am Legend

I Am Legend is a film about Will Smith showering. Oh, sorry, got it wrong. I Am Legend is a movie about Will Smith exercising and driving a fast car. Ah, damn, again. I Am Legend is a movie about world renowned biologist Will Smith being the last and therefore coolest man on earth fighting bad CGI albino vampires by night and showering, exercising, driving a fast car, playing golf on an aircraft carrier and getting emotional with a dog by day. Yes! Got it right! Oh yeah, the film is rubbish too, for the definitive last man on earth experience watch 28 Days Later, to see Will Smith be Will Smith, watch this.

6.  The Village

M Night Shyamalan has been taking a lot of stick recently. Every movie that he has done since The Sixth Sense has been derided to varying degrees, and the Village is a prime example why. It starts with an intriguing premise (as Shyamalan’s screenplays tend to), there is a village in ye olde times. This village is surrounded by a large forest, a dark forest in which exists unnamed creatures. The villagers have a truce with these creatures, they stay out of the forest and the creatures stay out of the village. Then one night the truce is broken and all hell breaks loose. It is at this point that he makes the mistake that he has been making ever since, confusing plot twists for actual plot. We are lead through a story so labyrinth that it is impossible to follow and the film suffers as a result. A poor showing given such an original premise, as such it is rightfully panned.

5. The Howling

The Howling makes for an easy entry on this list, both for being terrible and spawning a million sequels which were even worse. In this most abhorrent of features we follow our protagonist Karen. Karen is a news reporter. One day she is felt up by a bad man. Then she is upset and goes to a resort to recuperate. She is sad when she arrives because the people there are weird. This is because they are werewolves. Then she kills them all with a macguffin, turns into a werewolf herself and is killed also. As a story, The Howling is uninspired and contrite, as a movie it is awful. With many incoherent and unexplained moments, terrible effects, protracted painful dialogue and muddy lighting the film as a whole is amateurish, dull and confusing.

4. The Wasp Woman

It is a shame to drag this film up from the depths of history, however it ultimately necessary, let us elaborate. The Wasp Woman was made in 1959 on a shoestring budget (these shoestrings evidently belonged to a hobo) and is one of the single most boring films ever made. Poorly received in the day, it fares even more poorly in the present day. The basic premise is this: an anti-aging cream is invented which uses “wasp enzymes”, a female CEO of a cosmetics firm takes notice and uses the cream herself to great effect. However as time passes she changes and inevitably becomes the titular wasp woman. Halle Berry Catwoman comparisons aside, this film is let down by an awful screechy soundtrack, a flat script, hammy acting and above all, a truly laughable attempt at a monster costume, look it up if you dare!

3. Gothika

Halle Berry is another whose star has waned in the last decade. Ever since her Oscar win for Monster she has starred in a series of successively awful films. Gothika is case in point. The film opens in an absurdly gothic psychiatric hospital, with Halle Berry playing the role of one Miranda Grey. Miranda Grey drives home one night, encounters a little girl ghost, is possessed by said ghost and wakes up in the psychiatric hospital the next morning as (shock!) a patient, having murdered her husband. What follows is an attempt to attach plot to this drivel, without any success whatsoever. Plot is essential to horror, as we have seen, and Gothika is a good example of why this is the case. Without originality or suspense, no scares ensue.

2. Teeth

Teeth is a horror that attempts something new and tries to be funny about it, on the former it triumphs and on the latter it fails miserably. The premise is this, a girl has teeth in her vagina and can bite off a man’s penis with it. Where this movie fails is execution, what could have been a somewhat meditative movie is turned into a rote high school flick in which said girl lives in a town with an improbably high number of perverts and has an origin story of sorts as she bites off the penises of these men and the fingers of one gynaecologist. It is unfortunate that this is the case, as at times there is genuine promise. The reason Teeth fares so poorly is that while it is a great idea, the execution is simply terrible.

1. Feast

Feast is the result of Project Greenlight, a competition set up to encourage amateur horror directors. Throughout you can see the touch of the amateur; the strange camera shots, the occasional lighting problems and oh yeah, the absolute lack of any redeemable features. There is no humour, plot, chemistry, atmosphere, inspiration or (something essential for a horror) scares. The plot is this, monsters attack a bar. One sentence, that’s all. There is no attempt to stray beyond this, and indeed this mentality pervades the film as a whole. The characters speak in one liners. The creatures are one note. The film is set in one room (practically). One minute is too long to be watching. End of.

Christmas

Christmas/X-Mas: What to think?

Christmas time is a strange time. All around the world people laugh and sing with glee as magic fills the air and snow falls, heralding the hour where Santa on his sleigh appears, handing out good Christmas cheer! Or at least that is what Coca-Cola would have you believe. No, Christmas is a time of decadent consumerism, false hopes and terrible marketing.  This little piece will not enlighten you (no such pretentious ambitions here) but will definitely entertain you as you stare into the abyss, that black hole ever hungry for your hard earned cash…enjoy!

Christmas as a festival has very deep roots. As far back as Roman times, various tribes and peoples in the north of Europe were recorded as having celebrations in the middle of winter, during the coldest day of the coldest month because, hey, you’ve got to have something to look forward to! Over time and mainly over the spread of the Roman Catholic faith, these festivals were appropriated to suit Christian beliefs and make them more Bible-friendly. The early monks, missionaries and other converters were well aware that their austere faith didn’t offer much in comparison to the constant quaffing and carousing that the pagan lifestyle offered, so they took the festivals and rebranded them. Eventually, as the church became more centralised over time these different appropriated festivals were amalgamated into something resembling what we now call Christmas. The date was never a fixed one until relatively recently. So, yes, no one really knows if the little baby Jesus was born on this day and everybody certainly knows that Santa wasn’t Saint Nicholas.

People can harp on as much as they like about Santa being the modern image of Saint Nicholas, but that doesn’t make it the case. Santa is a modern phenomenon, evolving alongside the growing importance of Christmas as a commercial event. It is easy to lay the blame entirely at the feet of the Coca Cola corporation, so that is precisely what must be done. I don’t know who did it, but the person who came up with the image of a morbidly obese, animal abusing, alcoholic man with questionable  fashion sense who, utilising the world’s most advanced surveillance system, spies on your children and then judges them according to his uncompromisingly Manichean belief system, is not someone I’d like to meet. Not to mention that they also dreamt of him having a crack team of midget slave labourers to crank out toy after toy all year and have him break into your house to reward or punish your children while they sleep like the possibly perverted psychopath that he is. No, that image is entirely new (also entirely disturbing, Santa is an object of terror for many children worldwide, as he was for this writer).

The idea of present giving and more importantly present buying is one more rooted in the modern world, another little tidbit from the corporations. As is the concept of decorations  etc.

Now it is an old and facile view to take that all the ills and ailments of the world stem from corporate profiteering, but the phenomenon of Christmas is new (relatively) and exists but for your money. So buy your presents and indulge in your traditions, but always remember you don’t have to do it because it is ancient or to boost the economy, or to meet the present demands of your children. No, you do it, because as so many god-awful Christmas cartoon specials have reminded us ad infinitum, for the Spirit of Christmas, good times and good cheer, happy memories (I believe that this sentence may have caused me type 2 diabetes, I certainly now have glaucoma)!

Have a merry Christmas, or whatever.

Sean Cameron