Tag: entertainment

Film Review: Went The Day Well?

Summon up an image of a quintessential picturesque English village and it’s quite likely you’ll get somewhere close to Bramley End, the fictitious setting for this 1942 WWII drama. Surrounded by rolling countryside, bees hum in untended hedgerows and butterflies flutter by in the warm spring sunshine. Narrow country lanes connect Bramley End to the neighbouring village of Upton Ferrars nearly seven miles away. There are picture-postcard cottages aplenty, their windows and front doors half obscured by climbing roses and honeysuckle and a church at the heart of the village and the church is our first stop as the film’s opening titles end. It’s here that a friendly pipe-smoking local welcomes us with a “Good day to you,” and leads us to the unusual memorial that we have no doubt come to see. It’s unusual because it has the names of German soldiers written on it. German names in an English graveyard? How bizarre. The local then proceeds to tell us how such a thing came about.

Saturday morning on a sunny Whitsun weekend in 1942 and a group of lorries filled with British soldiers rolls into the village. Apparently on an exercise of some sort for three days, they ask the villages for billeting for sixty men who, once the arrangements are made, settle into various houses around the village as well as the village hall. The villagers see it all as frightfully exciting and welcome them gladly but it doesn’t take long for them to discover that the soldiers are actually Nazis forming the vanguard of a German invasion of England. With their cover now blown, the Germans round up the villagers and lock them in the church while the children are held captive in the local manor house and supervised by the kind matronly lady of the manor. An attempt by those locked in the church to escape and get word to the neighbouring village is thwarted by a traitor among them, the village squire (played by Leslie Banks) who is revealed to be collaborating with the Nazis.

That night at the manor, a plucky young lad named George shins down a drainpipe after lights out and escapes into the woods to get help from Upton while at the same time, a group of extremely stiff upper lips finally manage to overpower their Nazi guards at the church. There follows numerous gun-butts to Nazi heads, a lot of gunfire and plenty of heroics from the stoic and defiant locals and just as their bullets are running out, a force of nearby British soldiers arrives to bring an end to proceedings. Oh, and as for the traitor….well, you’ll just have to see for yourself.  All in all, a nicely shot little film from Ealing Studios with a cast packed full of familiar faces, some that you’ve never seen so young – if you thought Thora Hird was born a bespectacled granny then check this out; it was her first major role and she was a 31year old sweetheart.

But what marks this film out as truly interesting is its propaganda quality. Bearing in mind it was made when the Second World War still had two years to go, the introduction that the pipe-wielding local gives us at the start of the movie is a post-war one. He speaks of the newspapers calling the event at the village “The Battle at Bramley End” but that nothing was said of it until after the war was over and “old Hilter got what was coming to him.” One can only guess the impact such a film would have had on its audience, particularly one that knew all too well that the only thing separating them from occupied Europe was a narrow strip of water. Hitler’s planned invasion of the UK “Operation Sea Lion” may have been indefinitely postponed by 1942 (due in part to the Germans not having air superiority over the channel) but to a war-weary British public, the threat must have still been real and constantly in the backs of their minds. What this film did was to show the audience that even if such a thing were to happen and Nazis did land on British soil, with cool heads, brave heart and plucky British spirit, the Germans wouldn’t stand a chance. Simply put, evil would never triumph over good and the Nazis were the personification of evil.

Based on a short story entitled “The Lieutenant Died Last” by the English author Graham Greene, Went the Day Well? was directed by Brazilian born Alberto Cavalcanti who would go on to make a handful of films for Ealing Studios in the 40s most notably, “Champagne Charlie” and “Nicholas Nickleby”. The film’s reputation has grown significantly with the passing of time and in 2005 it was named as one of the “100 Greatest War Films” in a Channel 4 poll in the UK. In 2010, the British Film Institute National Archive released a restored version of the film and it was met with critical acclaim.  I think Tom Huddleston of Time Out London summed it up perfectly by writing that it was “jawdroppingly subversive. Cavalcanti establishes, with loving care and the occasional wry wink, the ultimate bucolic English scene, then takes an almost sadistic delight in tearing it to bloody shreds in an orgy of shockingly blunt, matter-of-fact violence.”

Went The Day Well? is a great little film and a window into a time and a place that has long gone and yet to watch it and to understand its message is to truly find respect for the men, women and children that lived through those dark years of Nazi terror. A classic in every sense.

 

 

The Scottish Referendum will be a vote on music, as well as politics

Ask the common man on the street who the most commercially successful Scottish musicians are, and the chances are unless you happened to encounter an avid music fan with a taste for biographies, you’d be lucky to squeeze much out of them.

On the other hand, if you were to ask that same stranger the accolades of English musical exports, you’d have found yourself in a much more familiar place. But is this surprising?
The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland has produced some of the most influential musicians of the modern era – but considering Scotland’s population accounts for just 8.4% of its makeup, a mere 5 million people, they’ve probably got the strongest music credentials per capita of any country on the entire planet, harboring a creative ingenuity that is something more reflective of its 32% share of our geography. The 1970s were witness to such Scottish cultural sharings as the Bay City Rollers phenomena, one of the first of many acts to be labeled as ‘the biggest band since the Beatles’. Aberdeen resident, Annie Lennox, went on to achieve success not only in Eurythmics & The Tourists but as a solo artist also, selling over 80 million records and subsequently earned the distinction of the “most successful female British artist in UK music history” – collecting four Grammy Awards and a record eight Brit Awards on the way. Franz Ferdinand, KT Tunstall, The Fratellis, Paolo Nutini, Biffy Clyro and Calvin Harris are yet more examples from a long list of exemplar specimens of the Scot sound.

However, despite a fervent nationalism and such cultural romanticisms that make their southern neighbors seem drab and generic in comparison, their music industry is by no means reflective of the quirky and mythical place it calls home.

English music in comparison has a completely different story to tell, in part to the fact that it actually has a story. The woolly and strange thing about the concept of ‘Englishness’ is its lack of appropriate context; it’s strange that for a nation that tends to drop the cross of St. George for a larger and more encompassing ‘British’ mentality – its music industry is the word’s most staunch admirer, second only to football.

Gene Simmons of KISS once said in an interview with The Sun “When you say guitar god, it really just means English, doesn’t it? There are no American guitar gods. All the rock gods are English.” Whether Simmons falls into the Yankee misconception of England being synonymous with the UK is unclear, but the fact the red and white nation was singled out speaks of more than a confusion of definition.

Fact is, the geo-politics of the music business is a side often never told. Not only does this idea play out on a field between constituent countries, it’s something that has been a fierce factor in the generation of the British sound. When Manchester’s music scene blew up in the late 80s/early 90s with the likes of The Happy Mondays, The Stone Roses and The Charlatans, label scouts were ordered up north on a musical pilgrimage that would mark the most significant cultural moment for the city, ever. So powerful was this movement, even its ensuing hangover was enough to propel Oasis into the history books. But what spoke most about the comparative emptiness was the rhetoric that ‘the record execs had called them back to London’; the HQ of not just English, but British music. And it was true.

Against the industry’s London-centrism, surely Scotland had a role to play in the brewing music nationalism of Britpop and ‘Cool Britannia’ of the 1990s? Nope, not really. Mostly down to a flurry of over-excitement by the British music press, Britpop was initially an ‘Anti-American’ movement characterised by a nostalgia for English rock and character, yes, not British.

Damon Albarn of Blur spoke of his “attempting to write in a classic English vein” when talking about their album ‘Modern Life is Rubbish’ (a record that was almost called ‘England vs America’). The predominantly ‘English ideal’ of the era was somehow repackaged into a more falsly inclusive form. From its anti-grunge dogma, to its championing of more camp and socially awkward personal traits (Brett Anderson, above), the idea from its inception was a purely English one. In the years that ensued, the Union Jack went from a backward imperial remnant to a fashion icon, and by the time Geri Halliwell got her hands on that infamous dress nobody gave a fuck what started it.

The fact is, Scottish music has never had its own distinct legacy or concise narrative. And despite its creative genius and flare, it often struggles to receive its proportionate share of limelight; more times than not boiled down to an ultra-creative enclave off the north of England – with piercing through as a cultural collective being something that continuously evades them. It’s become true, now more than ever, that a union with a more aggressive larger sibling comes with a fair share of downsides. And if the Scottish public decide to go the way of independence in 2014, the inevitability of a more insular and self-concerning domestic musical policy will certainly follow. No longer would London be the speakers through which the sound of Scotland is amplified. And I think they’ll be a shitload better for it.

The Invaders – Classic Sci-Fi TV

“The Invaders. Alien beings from a dying planet. Their destination, the Earth. Their purpose, to make it their world. David Vincent has seen them. For him, it began one lost night on a lonely country road, looking for a shortcut that he never found…”

So begins, what is for me, unarguably the most atmospheric opening title sequence to any TV show ever made.

I remember watching this show when I was a kid during school holidays and its depiction of one man’s crusade against an alien invasion absolutely fascinated me.  Watching it again today thrills me no less, and possibly even more because now I can appreciate it for its subtext, the general processes that went in to filming it and of course, the nostalgia – perfectly tailored slim-fitting suits (fashionable once again) and gas-guzzling cars with chewing gum suspension and Batmobile-like rear fins over chrome bumpers so deep and wide you could stretch out and sleep on them. Having been made almost half a century ago, there are certain things about the show that are a little simple but overall it holds up very well for a contemporary audience, particularly if one bears in mind the era in which it was made.

Roy Thinnes plays architect David Vincent, who one night witnesses the landing of a flying saucer and subsequently learns of an alien plot to take over the world. However, when he attempts to convince the authorities of his discovery he is not believed and is considered to be a bit of a crackpot. Thereafter, every episode begins with Vincent turning up at random locations around the U.S. with the belief that the weird or unexplained occurrence he has learned of in the area is alien in nature and therefore worthy of investigation in the hope that he can get his hands on some proof to back up his wild claim. Sadly for him, obtaining that proof is not as easy as he would like because the aliens are a resourceful bunch and experts at disappearing without a trace. More often than not, Vincent winds up at the end of each episode back at square one, no closer to being able to show the world the truth. Although, giving the man credit, he usually manages to scupper whatever plans the aliens were up to.

The reasons this show worked so well were numerous, not least because of the central concept of one man, a hero figure, fighting against a seemingly invisible force in order to save mankind. Many of the greatest stories ever told have that saviour figure at their core. Then there was the element of paranoia rooted deep within the American psyche at the time thanks to the “Red-Scare” a decade earlier and the lingering fear that communists were infiltrating every level of society with the intention of influencing and undermining the American way of life. Invasion of the Body Snatchers made in 1956 clearly reflected this obsession and was a definite precedent for The Invaders. But then, the same concern is still relevant today as we are all uncomfortably aware of the difficultly in trying to recognise a deadly enemy with a few pounds of Semtex strapped around their waist when they look, dress and talk just like the rest of us.

The Invaders was a finely put together show with excellent production values thanks to producer Quinn Martin who was at the time, already a big noise in television. Much of the filming was done on location which injected a measure of realism into the show too and the writing was gritty and generally dark in nature. There were no happy endings to this show; at best an episode would end with a mild sense of accomplishment and relief – yes, a single battle won but let’s not forget the main war continues.

Thinnes as Vincent was perfectly cast as the lonely hero and never failed to convince me of the nightmare world he inhabited. He was certainly a capable actor in the action scenes and although he made Vincent likeable, he portrayed him as a man carrying the burden of not being able to trust anyone, of harbouring utter hatred for the invader for destroying the life that he had had and essentially forcing him into a life on the road to continually pursue or be pursued. The show also had plenty of guest stars to keep things interesting and the acting was generally top-notch.

The wonderfully evocative theme tune composed by Dominic Frontiere (a regular of Quinn Martin productions) together with the opening titles that allows us to see aliens aboard a space ship heading towards Earth while a deep, leaden voice narrates the introduction are incredibly atmospheric and have been etched on my memory forever. Seriously, if you’re a sci-fi fan who enjoys shows like the X-Files and Dark Skies but you’ve never seen The Invaders, then I highly recommend you check it out. It only ran for two seasons and a mere 43 episodes were aired between January ’67 and March ’68 but it’s gritty, intelligent science fiction and well worth viewing.

 

The Genius Behind Celebrity Culture and Tabloid Journalism

The word ‘celebrity’ is one used so often now it has virtually evaporated into the realm of nothingness. Where once it was used to denote someone worthy of ‘celebration’ and signify a prominence in the public consciousness, with ever expanding media outlets, sports, films, music, television and opportunity for pure notoriety, nowadays the label is thrown about just as liberally as if we were labeling ourselves.

In 1961 a man called Daniel J. Boorstin wrote a book called The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-events in America. In it, he defined celebrity as “a person who is known for his well-knownness”. Saying that due to a technological revolution, ease in communication and a cultural change in journalism, that the term had “severed fame from greatness” – effectively saying the relationship between what you did and how famous you were had become virtually non-existent. That was over 50 years ago.

In 2012, rich and famous like Kim, Khloe and Kourtney Kardashian, Paris Hilton, Katie Price, Amy Childs and more are some of the many individuals who have risen to the forefront of our awareness, becoming household names and making millions to boot – but for what? An interesting characteristic of the phenomena that is 21st century celebrity culture, is it’s peculiar (at worst, vulgar) fascination with personality, rather than craft, creed or contribution to society. ‘Celebrity’ enthusiasts in 2012 are much more likely to care about a star’s ‘dirty secrets’ (which in all, aren’t that secretive) than they are to find out about their latest film role or album they’ve spent nine months molding in a high-rise New York studio. The perception of what equates to success has changed drastically, who gives a fuck what you do – as long as people pay attention. Even the idea that modern ‘reality’ stars represent a fascination with character is flawed; I mean, look at this video of Kim Kardashian on Alan Carr’s Chatty Man – I’ve seen turds with more personality.

So if celebrity culture is so vacuous, empty and superficial, what’s the big deal? Where does the fascination, obsession, exposure and fortune come from? The answer is altogether a more clever affair.

If you’re a citizen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, you’re probably aware of one of the less appetising aspects of our nation. While our Broadcast Journalism oozes sophistication, sensibility and stoicism (a trait that makes the likes of yankee Fox News look like a live feed from a mental asylum) our newspapers, tabloids and print media is where our share of the nutjobs lie. With an obsession with scandal, exclusives and sensationalism wrapped in a confidently crude preoccupation with anyone off the telly – the British press and magazine stands present a fertile patch for celebrity culture to grow, and grow, and grow.

The thing is, the likes of OK!, More!, Hello, Now and every other similar magazine in existence (not to mention the tabloid’s gigantic appetite for anything ‘celeb’) are widely assumed to have a tough job on their hands. You’d be forgiven for thinking that your favourite members of the rich and famous are much too busy to deal with the likes of an army of Entertainment Journalists, and that the thought of a gabbling sweaty intern looking for column inches would be enough to convince anyone to temporarily abandon the public sphere in favour of a glass of champy and a bubblebath in private seclusion. No, not quite.

The fact is, whether it’s our luminous “prince charming” Peter Andre, or DIY SOS presenter Nick Knowles (no, i’m not even fucking joking) every single one of these ‘celebs’ will rely on these publications to some extent, whether it’s an extra buck or the basis for their entire wellbeing. Kerry Katona might rant on about ‘press intrusion’ and respecting privacy, but if it weren’t for her staple in the British magazines and tabloids, she’d be behind a till at Tesco, on top of the mountain of ‘those who were famous but aren’t anymore’. There’d be no TV interviews, no reality programmes, no fly-on-the-wall documentaries – because nobody would give a flying fuck, simple as.

‘Dramality’ programmes like TOWIE, Made in Chelsea, Geordie Shore and Keeping Up With The Kardashians essentially survive on coverage of the cast’s extra-curricular activities – and others’ interest in them. Now, imagine if the entire media simultaneously stopped giving a fuck; these people would drop off our radar like a sack of shit, but they won’t. Extroverted, fame hungry individuals like these present an opportunity for endless content, it’s a dream come true.

The magic thing about Celebrity Culture is it’s virtually self-sufficient. Publications need their column inches, celebs need their space in the spotlight, less they face the reality of a life of perceived ‘mediocrity’ – no attention, no sequins, and no glitter and champagne. OK!,  Hello and their compatriots are willing to satisfy this desire in return for endless details of your life, elaborated emotions and saucy stunts. Their very presence fortifies the myth of what’s hot, who’s in fashion, who’s worth talking about and who isn’t. Their ability to create and manifest their own stories and plot lines, only for people to lust after them later is at best a con (and at worst a travesty). The fact that Britain’s biggest selling newspaper has a Politics section dwarfed 10-fold by its Entertainment coverage is a sad sign to say the least, all the worse considering it floats on a bed of bafoons. And I’m sorry, if you’re still paying money to read about Kerry fucking Katona 11 years after she left Atomic Kitten, you’re a moron mate.