Style, or something like it, Pt. II

Okay, let's do this. Not wanting to think in all negatives, here are my men's style DOs for people
who couldn't give a toss about DOs and DON'Ts lists.

- Mature skater style. Popularised by the second wave of skateboarders, now in their 30s, this style comprises relaxed yet not baggy jeans, old school Vans or similar footwear, and a slim fit Tee, possibly black. You could add some flourishes such as a chain (yes, I know, the chain mania hit fever pitch a long time ago, but certain elemental style items will subsist throughout trends) or fisherman's beenie, but that is basically it. Remember, excessively baggy shirts, overly flamboyant patterns and modern skate shoes are for kids and people who don't know any better.

- Any form-fitting suit that looks good. But you don't want to go overboard with the clean look, or you'll end up looking like any old twat that works in the financial district. The colourful shirt vs. suit jacket thing has been done to death by wankers who were dressed by shop assistants, so you'd perhaps be better off keeping it simple. Black, brown, grey; pin-stripes or no pin-stripes. Absolutely no pink, green, white, etc. suits - these belong in the domain of the self-deluding tosser. Suit jacket with jeans is okay in my books; when using a suit or just a jacket, you generally want to offset it a bit by incorporating an edgier component such as a nice pair of sneakers (but no chains). Take care, however, when choosing those sneakers, or you'll end up looking tacky.

- Clean-cut hardcore style. This is a variation on the same basic themes as the mature skater look, but integrates more tattoos, slightly more hip-hugging jeans (with possibly upturned legs), band or other black T-shirt, and close-cropped/slicked-back hair. It's neat and nasty - just as the music itself - and I like it, though I probably wouldn't be mistaken for one.

- Some elements of hip hop style. Somewhat - but not abundantly - oversized T-shirts with cool prints. Since you don't want to go for the generic, tacky brands (Pelle Pelle, Rocawear), you'll probably have to order them online, unless you have a really dedicated local retailer. With these shirts, the colour palette is pretty much there for the taking - you can go adventurous with colour and still appear stylish. The biggest hip hop statement, however, is made with the shoes. From AF1s to classic Adidas, you can't go wrong with a nice pair of footwear steeped in urban history. Also, big, fuck-you robot shades are to be favoured.

Style, or something like it

I like clothes but find people who expend a lot of energy on how they look inherently vacuous. Then again, I am a bit of a snob myself, and wouldn't be caught dead wearing something like tracksuit pants or a denim shirt to the grocer's.

However, I don't subscribe to most of the trends propagated by the society at large or the style fascism disseminated by men's magazines. It's not that my sense of style differs so conspicuously from the median when it comes to threads, but there are certain distinctions and variations, however slight they may seem.

Men's magazines at the more reputable end of the spectrum are generally very good. GQ and Arena are both worth a peek, but my money has to be on Esquire Magazine. All of these mags employ deft writers and on the main feature interesting stuff. If, however, you don't buy into the whole sleazy machismo and/or posh upper middle-class thing (I know I don't), you might be put off by the reputation and outward appearance of these magazines, not altogether unreasonably.

Twat

Although I like these mags, my biggest problem with them, of which GQ has to be the worst offender, is that they seem to be aimed at the prototypical high-powered executive or lawyer (or Brand Conceptualization Director or whatever people are nowadays called) with cash to burn, snort, and flush down the toilet. GQ routinely features suits in the four-figure range, as well as all kinds of obscenely pricey gadgets, including a $300,000 Porsche Design speedboat in its last issue. The same issue also contained a short sidebar on slide belts. The cheapest one cost a little under 400 bucks.

Then again, the August issue of the US Esquire magazine contained this super-interesting albeit also super-long article on the city of Shenzhen in China. So do what the 50s man-about-town purported to be doing with Playboy - read 'em for the articles.

To act as antidote to the swanky mass stylings of men's mags, here are my men's style DON'Ts for people who couldn't give a toss about DOs and DON'Ts lists. (A DOs list might be forthcoming but don't hold your breath.) My guiding idea is to avoid clothing and accessories that makes you look like a twat, which does admittedly preclude mountains upon mountains of men's garb from inclusion.

DON'Ts

- (Since this cannot be stressed enough) Anything that makes you look like an asshole, ie. someone who could appear on The Hills, looks like Alexei Eremenko Jr or could be found in a club blasting trance, etc.

- Those slender, slightly pointy-toed trainers still so popular among the male populace. Not only will these make you look like an asshole, they suggest you are the kind of person who tries to jump on the style bandwagon two years after it has passed your station. Sneakers are supposed to be deliciously chunky, as ready for braving the rain-drenched or sun-scorched streets of the metropolis as they are for a spin on the dancefloor.

Just say no

- Castro cap. This won't necessarily make you look like a wanker, but in my books the Castro cap has been over for at least a year and a half.

- Fake (or even real) ear studs and other items that used to be referred to as bling (which word I agree with megalomaniac extraordinaire 'Ye West is completely passé as well, and should only ever be uttered by middle-aged white people). Once over a year has passed since the Nr 1 domestic print media has done a piece on something, you know it is well and truly beyond over.

- Tribal patterns. If you jumped in and tatted yourself up when tribal was all the rage, there's only so much you can do. What you can do, however, is avoid tribal patterns on clothes like the plaque.

- Billowing button-up shirts. Only worn by engineers and general bores.

- Jeans with embroidery, "unusual" pockets and the like. Best suited to 18-year-old bodybuilding upstarts who try too hard. Most designer jeans are for dickheads as well.

Twat

- Flip-flops. These signal the kind of self-consciously "relaxed", perma-tanned island resort assholery best left to the Enrique Iglesiases of this world. You could sport a functional pair at the beach or in the gym/hostel shower, but steer clear of the leather ones.

- The Crocs. This summer has seen the proliferation of what is possibly the most hideously ugly shoe in the history of the world, the Croc. I mean, people actually have the gall to walk around downtown wearing these monstrosities. It boggles the mind, really.

The Crocs: why, sweet Jesus, why?

Plowing the Internets

I'm going to do something a little bit different this time around. Instead of a big, drawn-out post I'll be linking to some of my recent favourite things from the series of tubes that is not a big truck, complete with some pseudo-witty commentary from yours truly. Let's jump in.

The reliably hilarious Passion of the Weiss provides a heartily welcome send-up of the rapper T.I., in which his prophetic old school calculator dishes the ultimate truth on T.I.'s latest album. While at it, also check out the Aesop Rock "infomercial" for definite proof that The Beastie Boys are not the only white rappers with a penchant for 70s fake 'taches.

Cracked.com has a list of the 5 Most Obviously Drug-Fuelled TV Appearances Ever. These really are worth seeing, from Crispin Glover (you know, the famed eccentric and dad from Back to the Future) trying to jump-kick David Letterman in the head to James Brown, well, being James Brown.

Here's Premiere magazine's rather intriguing article on movies stuck in development hell.

And here are a couple of typically eloquent interviews from Guardian Unlimited, hands down the best newspaper website in the world. The first one, an intie with Pearl Lowe, lets you dip a toe in the mid-90s London of the rocking and perpetually zonked A-list that included such (feel free to apply quotation marks here) luminaries as Jude Law and Liam Gallagher. The other one's on Björk, and it managed the not inconsiderable task of actually endearing the, it seems, genuinely eccentric chanteuse to me.

When NBA stars are crazy, it's simply for the best for all our sakes. Here Slam's Sam Rubenstein explains the New York Knicks' Stephon Marbury's appearance on a talk show. And here's the video itself. To you non-basketball fans out there: it may be nigh impossible to grasp
the nuances of any of this without intimate knowledge of the personalities behind the names, but suffice it to say that, at this point, the Knicks are a bunch of overpaid, overweight, selfish delinquents and nutcases with the biggest egomaniac of all, coach and ex-star player Isiah Thomas, ruling the roost. It's like locking Charlie Manson, P Diddy, Dennis Hopper, Phil Spector and Michael Jackson in a space-shuttle, and hoping they come up with the cure for AIDS.

Ireland's own Nialler9 recounts how those merry conceptual pranksters/pop masterminds, The KLF's Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty, once wrote a manual on how to write a Nr. 1 pop hit. Quite easily, it seems. Klaxons' Jamie Reynolds says the band have stringently applied the manual in their own music. Hmm, interesting, that.

Here the gloriously quirky Wizznutzz unearths a very early basketball-related rap tune. "Shoot. Swoop. Loop Da Loop/Ya take Caldwell Jones to the hoop/I said Slam. Pow. To hear tha sounds/of the swish of the nets from the turnaround/". Great stuff. Also, check out the off-the-wall comparisons that follow in the post.

Adventures in Technology

Last night I watched my first ever VoD film. That abbreviation - which to my mind bears just a bit too striking a similarity to that of venereal disease to even sound cool in a "Wired" magazine kinda way - does not, surprisingly, denote some kind of Japanese porn involving strange uses of office equipment. No, what it means is "Video on Demand", a service that you can use to order audiovisual content such as movies and watch it on your TV or computer.

For a country priding itself so on blazing the trail of technological innovation, Finland seems surprisingly sluggish when it comes to adopting new technology. VoD films have been widely available in the States and the UK for many years now, but they are still mostly nowhere to be seen in Finland. The same is also true of other technology, such as TiVO and HDTV - the first of which is piggybacking itself into our homes with the switch to digital TV equipment, and the latter of which is only starting to land on our shores.


Thus it was only natural that it wasn't Finland's gingerly baby-stepping digital TV system that provided this new opportunity to me; it was the Internet. I was casually browsing my Internet service provider's customer magazine as I stumbled upon a feature on this new service. It appeared you only had to log in using your customer ID (and, obviously, sign an oath in blood with Beelzebub at full moon), and thousands of films would immediately be within your reach. At the click of a button. Lindsay Lohan dancing naked in the street couldn't have dragged me away. (If you were wondering about the gratuitous photo I managed to squeeze in this time around, that is Lindsay Lohan. Dancing in the street. Sort of.)


And so it was that I fired up my trusty old companion (I call it "Joe Rogan") and began scouring the film directories on my ISP's website. Somewhat to my surprise, there were actually decent films on hand. (This was surprising since, in the initial heady rush of actually getting online, I test drove some film sites, only to find out that the most presentable movie they offered was something with Rutger Hauer playing a doctor of botany.) In fact, I found some venerable titles that have yet to see a release in Finland, or that are at the very least hard to come by. These included the 2003 movie based on the semi-autobiographical comics of Harvey Pekar, American Splendor; Miranda July's lauded 2005 indie Me and You and Everyone We Know; and Kevin Smith's widely praised Clerks II. Lo and behold!

After much furrowing of the brow and meticulously poring over, I'd hazard to guess, each and every title in their not insubstantial library of movies, I finally settled on Clerks II, even though it was the one film of my front-running flick picks that had actually seen a limited DVD release in Finland.

Although I only have a 1 Mbps connection, the picture quality was okay, although sound remained only so-so even after rerouting it through my stereo speakers. I will not bore you with the details; suffice it to say that Clerks II itself was a rather limp affair, especially in contrast to the hoopla that surrounded its release. I know the whole point of the movie is to mirror the infantile fun of the first, ramshackle gem of an indie movie. The problem is, what was once cute is now cloying, what was once whip-smart now seems forced, and what was once ragged amateur charm now just feels unprofessional. It is amazing how little Smith has progressed as a filmmaker in the past 10+ years. Worse, in spite of the tagged-on irreverence and abundant swearing, at heart he is a sentimentalist to rival Walt Disney. The film had its moments though.

However, after successfully completing my first foray into the uncharted territories of VoD, I quickly forgot about it - as well as forgetting to finish this post and publish it. What had taken a vice-like grip on my attention was this other Internet thingy. Reading what is yet another attempt to market a men's "style" magazine to Finland's perpetually indifferent male population, Veli ("Brother"), I discovered that you can now actually stream full-length movies and TV series, you know, like free on the series of tubes that is not a big truck. Yowza, as Richie Cunningham might have put it. As I'm not one to support what might or might not be an illegal activity, I won't include the link here. Nor have I, of course, actually watched anything by what might or might not be illegal means; my interest in this phenomenon and all possible exhilaration over it are strictly academic in nature. (The name of one of these sites, however, might or might not contain the words "flick" and "peek".) God bless the series of tubes.

Liveblogging the Eurovision Semifinal

Finland is organizing its first (and last, I might add) Eurovision Song Contest in my home town of Helsinki. There are all types of Eurovision-affiliated happenings everywhere, tourists flocking into town and what have you, with the actual Eurovision venue located not too far from where I live. All of which has, of course, left me decidedly cold. (Which might have something to do with the cold I'm nursing... See what I did there?) All the more reason, then, to liveblog the Semifinal from the comfort of my couch. Let us begin.

I’m late to this thing. Seems I missed the completely ridiculous performances by, at least, Bulgaria and Israel, the latter one representing the most misguided attempt at combining urban music genres and politics with the Eurovision formula – it sounds like something your father would end up making given these parameters.

It’s Iceland, with an eight-rate Meat Loaf/Coverdale clone, with a hint of hobo thrown in for good measure. They’ve got three guitar players. Overdoing the whole post-Lordi rock thing, are we?

Georgia has a blinding beauty working some etno/pop magic. And guys who look like Will Ferrell dancing in some sort of pseudo-trad garb.

It’s Leppis. and Jaana Pelkonen! Pelkonen is trying too hard to achieve native intonation, and ends up all over the place, stressing words in all the wrong places.

Rock, Montenegro-style. More guitars, and horribly dressed guitarists, not to mention the hobbit-esque singer complete with some sort of natural-wool sensible-man blouse. This is already the second drummer who plays standing up during the headbanging – or ”headbanging” – part of the song.

DJ Bobo has cut his hair at some point since 1993, but it sadly hasn’t helped his singing ability. ”Vampires are alive”. Sure. There have been plenty of ridiculous-looking acts thus far, but this just might take the cake. Oh my fucking God.

We are told Moldova is repped by a local bombshell. Let’s see if this holds true... Well, she’s your garden-variety Eastern European beaut, not overly breathtaking or anything.

Do I need to say something about the music? Thought so.

Now they’re again doing the whole song and dance about how big of a deal this is in global terms – the angle being how much attention Finland will get. Honestly: who gives a toss?

Jaana and Mikko are trying too hard. (Look it’s reindeer and Saami people in traditional dress. Cause that’s what Finland’s like!)

The Netherlands with a rather traditional, jaunty, Abba-esque Eurovision number. Nice, and one of the first people who can actually sing so far. Rather voluptuous dancers, too. Always a plus.

(More shots of Lapland and Laplanders. But where are all the polar bears?)

I expected more from Albania, not this cheesy sub-Andrea Bocelli crap. Something in keeping with their illustrious history, like a skeletal swamp blues / Albanian folk hybrid – with hardcore lyrics about the means of production. Why not?

It’s actually not too bad.

There’s a drag artist from Denmark coming up. His song’s called Drama Queen, which, if nothing else, competes for the title of ”Most Obvious Song Title in the History of Mankind”. He looks like your neighbour dressed in pink peacock feathers and a dress. Not a good look. One of the most unappetizing drag queens I’ve seen... this week.

Croatia wheels out a 57-year-old dude. Let’s hope his pacemaker holds up. Plodding pub rock, with lyrics about ”my pain”. Not even funny. He’s got a hot sidekick who looks like Shakira though.

Poland is attempting to rip off Timbaland – only for the song to burst into a colourful Outkast-lite chorus. Not altogether appalling. We, apparently, have the right to party. Why, thank you.

Serbia has just carted out a hybrid of Nana Mouskouri, Toby Jones and Rosie O’Donnell (on the right). I don’t understand this. Portentous lyrics about praying, love, and all that jazz ensue.

(Update! They actually won it all, leaving me completely flummoxed. I've now heard their tune a number of times, and I still can't even begin to understand why anyone would vote for its preposterous, belting pseudo-drama. The fact that the vocalist projected a completely humorless, unsympathetic persona sure didn't help.)

(Update II: I wasn't imagining things when I called her unsympathetic and humorless. In the post-victory press conference she went on to present us with the rather megalomaniacal idea that it was God's plan that she won, while also praising voters for valuing songcraft over showbiz glamour. Lest we forget, this is the Eurovision we're talking about. In the grand history of spoilsports, she must rank right behind notorious sourpuss, Old Testament God himself.)

The Czechs (that’s word’s a bitch to get right) are in the contest for the first time. They’ve entered a Czech hard rock band, which reminds me of a constant thought I’ve been having concerning Finnish rock bands. I bet Finns don’t realize how stupendously ridiculous domestic rock bands they adore look and sound like to non-Finnish-speaking people. Just think how utterly irrelevant and hilariously self-important Greek or Belgian or German rock bands sound like to us. Same thing.

These clips about Finland are so precious it’s not even funny. Portugal has a certified hottie performing a tepid number, which must be what gets played at Portuguese petrol stations, and the homes of the undereducated. I’m being crass, I know. Very nice legs though.

Macedonia. I bet it’s a scorching woman. Yup (below left). Not a bad song either, with her singing in Macedonian. Eastern and Mediterranean countries have really perfected the whole ”let’s send a long-legged blinder and hope everyone votes for the legs” routine. Hasn’t worked that well, if memory serves. She just switched to English, which was a nice touch. Best tune thus far.

It seems Norway has jumped on this badwagon as well – with a Spanish-speaking chorus and all. Finland has tried that trick in the past, too. She’s kinda old, isn’t she though? Oooh, dress change mid-song. And another one. Yeppee, and all that. Some grumblings from the female quotient in the announcing booth.

Malta has two topless guys on stage, one of whom is pretending to play the electric violin, of all things. They’ve also plonked a Chinese gong on stage. The wind machine is jacked up to 11. The lyrics to the song Vertigo, we learn, were influenced by the eponymous Hitchcock film. But of course.

It’s Busted! Yes it is, only the Andorran version, singing in Catalan, I guess. Pretty funny. This song could soundtrack any movie starring the Andorran Olsen twins, if there indeed were such a thing. Let’s pray there’s not, for Andorra’s sake.

Yup, now they’re playing some game in a swamp in one of the video postcard clips. Oh, how preeningly eccentric and quaint can we Finns get? Very, it seems.

Hungary’s limp super-soft rock ballad gives me a bad case of the whatevers. For some unfathomable reason, they’ve a bus stop sign on the stage.

Now we are at a traditional Finnish summer dance. Oh, dear.

The Estonian rep is going for the +30-hair stylist-with-a-fake-tan look, and narrowly escaping with it. The song is craptaculous though.

Belgium: Smarmy douchebag with a perma-grin and bad accent for a singer, and summery lite-funk. In other words, I’m loving it. Apparently, they are called The Krazy Mess Groovers. Hilarious as all fuck.

Slovenia has another one of those Nightwish/Evanescence-type wailing ”divas”, except the song ain’t heavy metal but rather techno as done by studio musicians. Oooh, she has some lights in the palm of her hand. Look, daddy! Pretty horrible.

What’s this, then? A fat-faced Turkish George Michael clone, with the song exhibiting some Justin Timberlake aspirations. Yeah, no.

How is it humanly possible that all of these songs suck ass so thoroughly? I mean, really; you’d think at least some good songs would slide in almost by default.

This is gonna be bad. It is. It’s Austria, a country remembered for producing two things – Hitler and Schwarzenegger. I thought they stopped making this type of faux-rock at about the time Stiltskin folded. As ever, I was wrong.

WTF? These guys have top hats on, AND they’re attempting the whole Il Divo thing. Grandmas and sex-starved moms everywhere swoon, the rest of us feel an acute urge to overdose on cough medicine. Those hats sure look utterly moronic.

It’s over. The voting time is over as well. Let’s see who gets in the Final. As if I’d give two flying fucks. They’re trotting out a dance performance, which is all done in pretty good taste, with modernized Finnish folk music in the background. I think YLE is gonna come out on top of this thing. It’s like, has anyone ever managed to mess up the production end of Eurovision? Don’t think so. Just throw out every manner of flashy and tacky shit, and everyone’ll be happy as a clam.

Oh no, they’ve let Marzi Nyman out of his sensibly kitted out city apartment to rave about the stage with his guitar like a guy who’s trying too hard to act like a crazy person. ”Affected” is the operative word here, as ever with Nyman.

Mikko Leppilampi (who I’ve seen with his Barbie family in my trendy local eaterie/bar looking like a complete asshole out of touch with anything resembling real life, but let’s not get into that...) is repeating for the umpteenth time tonight that it’s a party in here. Woohoo. You should brush up on that English, Mikko, old chap. It seems he’s doing most of the talking.

Belarus is in. So is Macedonia. Fair tune, that.

Slovenia in. Boo. Hungary is in the Final, and I can’t understand why. Georgia in – it was one of the better songs.

Top hat dudes are in. What I was afraid of: they might actually end up winning the frigging thing. Never underestimate the idiocy of man.

The, let’s say, singular-looking Serbian girl is in.

Bulgaria. Turkey. Moldova. Whatever. I’m out like Dirk Nowitzki.

Where Did the Black Family Go?

I happened upon the film Coming to America as I was zapping away just now, and something occurred to me while watching the last 30 minutes of the movie. This was an international B.O. hit back in the day, a film I remember very well from my youth. And it features a wide array of black people, not just caricatures or one-note emblems of The Struggle.

This phenomenon was, if not prevalent, at least more on display in the 80s and early 90s. What, to me, is most striking is the disappearance of the black family from representations on TV and movies.

In the 80s we had The Cosby Show (which many people have objections to with regard to issues of ethnicity, class, etc. but I won't dwell on them here), The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and Cosby spin-off A Different World on TV, and films such as Coming to America and Spike Lee's School Daze, which is admittedly more layered and problematic with reference to what I'm proposing here.

Nowadays, we do see black characters on TV and movies, but they usually represent a very narrow slice of black life: on TV procedurals they are almost invariably depicted as thugs and victims, although there is usually one token black guy among the detectives as well; in sitcoms they are virtually non-existent (bar the Crab Man in My Name is Earl, who is as much of a good-natured stereotype as the rest of the characters), and in the modern genre-bending serials, such as Desperate Housewives, they again are not there.

When black people appear on the screen, there is usually something fishy about them. To wit: the black family on DP featured 1) a murderer, 2) a retarded person and 3) a near-bonkers mother hiding the murderer. The only other black family I can recall appearing on TV lately is the one in the superb Weeds, and they are, albeit quirky and benevolent drug dealers, drug dealers all the same.

Having studied representations of African-Americans in popular culture, I find this trend particularly troubling. Sometimes it seems we have taken leaps and bounds backwards in terms of the variety of representations. Nowadays the idea of a worldwide TV or cinema hit featuring a middle-class black family as if that's nothing special - which, of course, it isn't - seems almost far-fetched. We are so used to seeing African-Americans through certain stereotypes (the matron has to be big and yell a lot; black males are always oversexed etc. etc.) that have nothing to do with those kinds of attributes, that progress has effectively ground to a halt.

Now, I'm not suggesting that the very real issues, including racism, poverty and violence, facing African-Americans today should be glossed over in televisual and cinematic representations; that we should pretend everything is just one big post-Cosby lovefest, with birds singing and little black cherubs dancing in the streets. I'm only suggesting that, instead of gradually moving away from stereotypes in favour of a more varied palette of characters, we are firmly stuck in second gear (much like those merrily all-white Friends), with a few major black movie stars and a steady continuum of non-white faces on network TV, albeit not in such a wide spectrum of roles.


As much as The Cosby Show has caught flak for being an unrealistic or "whitewashed" depiction of black family life, it did have the virtue of showing black people in situations that are closest to most of us - the everyday, humdrum cycle of delightfully mundane things and occurrences. We got to know the characters as people, not just stereotypes or emblems representing something or other. Plus, they were likeable, which can't hurt.

I think it's paramount in the interest of parity that, in addition to deconstructing the social, political and cultural reasons behind typically African-American ailments (I hear The Wire is having a fair stab at this, though I haven't watched the show that much myself), TV and cinema offers a varied collection of non-stereotypical representations of people of all colours and creeds.

The Devil's New Clothes

Yup, as I said in the previous post, I might be taking my sweet time before posting again, and, by God, I have.

Also, it seems nowadays I'm only writing to bash some overrated movie. Call me a one-trick pony and spank my bottom.

This time it's The Devil Wears Prada. This flick got generally good reviews, many commentators going so far as to call it one of the top comedies of last year.

It is a wretched piece of crap.

I don't believe I have ever seen such a flimsy piece of couture daydream / shampoo commercial camouflaged as actual filmmaking. I know that sounds like a fairly obvious statement with regard to this movie, but to make it even more painfully obvious I'm going to go ahead and say it: there is no film there. Really.

The film seems like it was literally designed for 12-year-old girls with the attention span of a bee (and women of similar disposition), ravenous for something to fill their hours with between flicking through Teen Vogue and obsessively cutting themselves in front of the mirror. It is that bad.

There is no story to speak of, the characters' development is akin to something you might see in an E!Entertainment special on celebrity pets, and, worst of all, there is no humour. And that, my dears, is not the greatest of news if you're trying your damnedest to be a comedy. I don't believe I laughed even once.

Not only is there not humour, the so-called satire is about as blunt as a blue whale. In these post-ironic times, it is simply not enough to offer insight on the level of "fashion people are, like, really into looks" and "can be a little bit bitchy". Yawn.

The Devil Wears Prada consists of long montages of ultra-slick New York and Paris cityscapes, and people, including the protagonist, strutting along in nice clothing, soundtracked by the most obvious soundtrack music you have ever heard anywhere (Hey, it's Madonna's Vogue! In a movie about fashion! Some house music! And U2! And Mo-fuckin-by!).

This sentiment gets thrown about a lot nowadays with regard to movies, but I don't think it has ever actually occurred to me before during a film. Until now, that is. The Devil... feels exactly like a commercial; it is simply that manipulative, parading a couture fashion sensibility around under the pretext of mocking it. Guess what? This film doesn't mock fashion, or, in the end, people in the fashion industry, its fetishistic portrayl of fashion rather serving to exalt it and cement its grip on our collective psyche.

The movie does have two saving graces though: Meryl Streep as the bitchy editor (though she's not exactly funny either; she manages to portray something deeper, sadder) and, of course, Anne Hathaway's boobs.


Of course there's the knee-jerk cop-out ending in which the protagonist (Anne Hathaway's boobs) finally "sees the error of her ways"; that she should be "chasing her own dreams" since, after all, "the fashion industry is a cut-throat world", and, as she tells her ex in their big reunion scene, he was "right about everything" and she had "lost her way". I guess he won't mind then when she tells him about the sleazy journalist with something weird going on with his eyebrows who she bedded one night after they had kind of broken up. Right..?

Once more, for fun:

Sacred Cows and other Mammals

So, Iverson ended up in Denver, which I'm fine with, but sadly they haven't been stacking up a lot of Ws since he arrived. They have been playing really shorthanded, though, so maybe that is bound to change. I so desperately want him to do well.

I saw Pan's Labyrinth on the weekend - you know, Guillermo del Toro's film that reviewers have been busy having a huge collective orgasm over. (It already won the National Society of Film Critics' Best Movie award and has garnered an amazing 97 % rating on review database Rotten Tomatoes.)



You know what? (You might have seen this one coming...) I think it's terribly overrated. For starters, it is not, as suggested, a fantasy film with political or dramatic overtones; it is a rather harrowing war drama with some fantasy elements. So, of course the critics loved it - they simply adore that sort of thing, that thing being period war drama with maybe just a little twist of something unusual (but not too unusual).

It is like the post-WW II drama and the fantasy story are two different movies; there are only a few short passages where the film successfully manages to interweave these two elements. Lucky, then, that it doesn't have to, since the fantastical elements are abandoned for what seems like forever during the second and third acts, only to be brought in again at the very end.

Let's see what the critics had to say. "It's dark poetry set to startling images", gushed The LA Daily News reviewer. "This morbidly bewitching fantasy is an enchanting, escapist fairy tale", raved another. Well, it's not. Too grounded in reality for its own good, it lacks a sense of wonder and transcendence. Moreover, it is anything but escapist. In fact, the film is so bleak with so few breaks for the protagonist and her loved ones that the viewer may find him- or herself actively waiting and wishing for an escape of some kind - for the character as well as for him/herself.

My main beef with the movie, as you may have gathered by now, is that, for a flick heavily advertised as a fantasy film, there is surprisingly little fantasy involved. Reading some of the reviews, you'd think the film takes place mostly in a fantasy world, when in actual fact the protagonist never escapes the film's here and now. According to some, though, it is a "special universe", even an "entirely different universe", which "relies heavily on special effects". Did these people see the same movie as I did? Brushing aside the fact that maybe 80 to 90 percent of the movie's duration is realist drama, in this CGI age Pan's Labyrinth's special FX actually seem almost quaint.

But that's film critics for you. Not always terribly bright or cultured, but never ones to miss a chance to spout pseudo-profound high-school essay platitudes. New York Times' A.O. Scott, for instance, had this to say: "Pan's Labyrinth is a political fable in the guise of a fairy tale. Or is it the other way around?" Very cutesy, if a bit empty.

Then again, I'm probably just too shallow to grasp the film's deeper meanings, of too mundane a disposition to appreciate its wondrous elegance, let alone the subtexts (of which there are none, since its messages are so heavy-handed).

Moving on to other inexplicably revered phenomena. Mischa Barton, previously of the O.C. I keep hearing over and over again she is one of the "hottest young females in Hollywood"? What? That gangly, fidgety, flat-chested, asexual child? Are you fucking kidding me? She is about as hot as Alec Baldwin - although not for the same reasons.


Bob Dylan. Visionary poet, blaah blaah blaah ... longevity, blaah blaah ... versatility, blaah. Blaah blaah. Blaah. For once, I agree with Simon Cowell on something.

U2. Oh, please; don't even get me started on those pompous twats. Their music is the most horrific kind of portentous-yet-hollow middle-class MOR shite. In short, it's directly antithetical to all that is genuine and beautiful about music.

Joanna Newsom. She topped all kinds of critics' lists with her latest album, Ys, but left me cold, nay, frozen. If U2 are the squares even your grandma likes, Newsom is the type of wilfully weird artist who wears her supposed idiosyncracies like a crown. I certainly don't have anything against original, distinctive artists, but believing your own press and consciously feeding an idea of yourself as a stardust-sprinkled pixie just chafes me something fierce. "Oh, look at me; I'm so special and eccentric!" Freak folk, my ass.

I also hate Björk. And hippies.

Clint Eastwood. Hey, peoples; he's not the second coming of Jesus, or even John Ford. The amount of praise lavished on all of his recent movies is absurd and unfounded. Yes, his 90s/00s movies are almost uniformly decent, it's just that they aren't the ingenious masterpieces they are purported to be. That pathetic, cliche-ridden TV-movie-of-the-week, Million Dollar Baby, though, should never have won anything. I absolutely hate that movie, and the knee-jerk, sentimentalist consensus Hollywood thinking its win represents. (And of course it also greatly vexes me that he always seems to be standing in the way of one of the few true masters of modern cinema, Marty Scorsese, who is far, far more deserving, getting his due.)


What is more, now the Americans have found a way to spare themselves the unalluring task of giving awards to foreign films altogether. It's brilliant! Just give the foreign language awards to Eastwood's Japanese-speaking Letters from Iwo Jima! Moreover, both of his "opposing view point of the same war" films have been nominated for several awards. So let me get this straight: from all the films made in all of the world in 2006, Clint Eastwood made two of the best five? Yeah, right. He's gotten his props already, give them to someone else. For God's sakes.