Review: State Of Play (12A)

Conspiracy drama
Starring Russell Crowe, Ben Affleck
4/5

"Unlike the movie, you're all over the place, dealing with more twists, turns and close shaves than a confused man on a Rascal trying to find the loos at Alton Towers."

- OK, so this is me talking. Mr Newspaperman. Inkheart. The Knowledge of All Fonts. That scene in State Of Play? In which they show the coming together of a newspaper? Negative to plate; plate to press; press to paper; paper to bundle; bundle to lorry? All that? That's porn to me. Truly.

So when I say this, you know I'm defeated by prejudice. However...

I still think that every movie should be a newspaper movie.

No, hear me out. Newspaper movies have an excellent track record. Kevin Macdonald, director of State Of Play, knows this. Which is why he drenches his set with tropes from the golden era of the newspaper conspiracy drama (the '70s).

Hell, he even has the naming of Deep Throat as a cutting on the cubicle wall of wild-haired, plumped bellied journo Cal McCaffrey (Russell Crowe) as a tribute to the ultimate newspaper movie, All The President's Men.

The bad guys? They have a phantom office. Where's the bad guys' phantom office, you ask. I'll tell you. In the Watergate building. In the suffix-begetting Nixon-busting monolith itself.

All movies should be newspaper movies because we've entered a dubious blogospherical Wild West world of don't-ask-but-do-tell slop in which important stories are swept away by a tide of snarking diatribes, rolling inanities and celeb candy floss feuds. And good newspapers are the last refuge of the truth.

That's not me talking, you understand. That's old school, denim-shirted, lumpy Luddite Cal who finds time in his busy conspiracy-busting schedule to rail against the corporate institutionalisation of cant as commodity.

And that's just in the real world (shudder). In the movie world, the conventions of the newspaper movie make for rocking drama because, unlike police procedurals, journos can't kick down doors, or pull a Smith & Wesson or press a button on the CSI Spectrum™ which turns a mote of dust into a comprehensive suspect profile, complete with rap-sheet, record collection and recreation of a post-jalfrezi digestive tract.

Reporters have to knock on doors which are closed in their faces and make calls that are not returned and find someone who wants not to be found by deploying their IQs not their DMs.

Overcoming obstacles is at the heart of story-telling. Journos have to overcome obstacles. Police clear obstacles simply by citing abracadabra anti-terror legislation.

It's the difference between Star Trek: Next Generation (where they had a phaser setting for this and a tractor beam for that so they never broke a sweat saving the universe) and Star Trek: Enterprise (where they had to go places and do things and find solutions using lateral thinking and bits of wire and demi-masticated Tofu nuggets because the Lazyman "Picard" 3000™ had yet to be invented.)

Holy shark repellent spray, Batman, I am getting off the point.

State Of Play is a neat, intellectually stimulating, well-paced, three-dimensional condensation of the BBC conspiracy drama by Paul Abbot (who exec produces) and features the tendril thin friendship between hack McCaffrey and dead-eyed congressman Stephen Collins.

(The dead eyes aren't essential for the part. They were provided gratis by wall-faced Kryten-a-like Ben Affleck who discovers timely onions in his breast pocket when things turn boo-hoo sad.)

There are neat turns among the support cast. Helen Mirren disinters DCI Jane Tennison to recreate weathered and profane editor Cameron Lynne; Rachel McAdams is winsome as new media ingénue Della Frye, and Robin Wright Penn is fragrant and willowy as Collins's long-suffering wife whose stand-by-your-man vanilla disguises the bitter aftertaste of a free-lovin' past.

Finally, supersub Jason Bateman comes in and does his usual sleazeball cameo with such deft nuance that you see the oil ooze from his pores like he's one of those toy Plasticine-haired salon dolls.

Two dead bodies show up. Then Collins's research assistant is humbled by a speeding train. Collins's committee of Congressmen is investigating the shadowy world of private security companies who have mercenaries on tap so blackmail may be a motive.

But who really knows? Unlike the movie - which is well-paced and sharp - you're all over the place, dealing with more twists, turns and close shaves than a confused man on a Rascal trying to find the loos at Alton Towers.

To say more would be to give the game away. Nothing is what it seems and when leads coagulate into something you would recognise as the Truth, it all turns to goo in your hands and you have to re-appraise your life, career and goals based on the new-found knowledge that your instincts are shot and you're just an echoing patsy for Hollywood's impish manipulations.

It's good stuff, really is. Trust me, I'm a newspaperman.

– First published on wharf.co.uk

Book review: The Corner

The Corner
David Simon and Ed Burns
Canongate Books
£12.99
5/5

"The Corner stands as an unblinking portrayal of how people organise themselves when cast adrift from the conventions of society."

- What we have here is one of the most thorough, disturbing and eye-opening pieces of journalism in modern times.

If you're one of the many who thinks David Simon and Ed Burns shifted the TV paradigm when they created The Wire, then it is here where they first put their shoulders to the heft.

The Corner is a harrowing and uplifting true tale of a year in the life of a shifting and shiftless bunch of dealers and addicts for whom the centre of the universe is an undistinguished block where West Fayette meets Monroe in Baltimore.

The open-air drugs market feeds a helter-skelter self-contained, self-regulating habitat that has its victims and victors, its spirited and its lost.

What the authors have achieved is staggering. By observing the characters that populate the corner, by authenticating and illuminating their dreams and demons, they have created a work that is Dickensian in its breadth and warmth and social impact.

The Corner stands as an unblinking portrayal of how people organise themselves when cast adrift from the conventions of society.

Bristling with humanity - and inhumanity - and packed with the sort of detail that would busy a thousand sociologists, criminologists and anthropologists for a lifetime, this re-issued 1997 work gives the reader an insight into a brutal, feudal society that is not only far beyond the experience of many, but far beyond the imagination of most.

If you're looking for a prelude to, and companion for, The Wire, these are the comprehensive crib notes. But, at over 600 dense pages with scarcely a word wasted, it stands as a towering achievement on its own, a testament to the authors' enduring patience, integrity and commitment.

That Simon and Burns decided to focus on a single map-point and give it three-dimensions was a moment of inspiration. That they unearthed from this bloody pinprick some eternal truths that will have a resonance across the globe is an act of genius.

First published at wharf.co.uk on April 21, 2009

Russell Brand at The O2

Russell Brand: Scandalous

The O2 arena
3/5

"Russell Brand goes for the jugular and the undergarment with the same sense of glint-eyed, orgiastic devilment."

– Russell Brand is a bright man and narcissistic. So his comedy is naturally the by-product of self-absorption. He doesn't disown his screw-ups. He embraces them as the external proof of the myth of himself that plays out in his head 24/7.

In his quest to mine his own darkness for comedy - and, to be frank, that is the only comedic ground that Brand exploits with any degree of authenticity - he told his audience many truths about himself.

One stood out for those, like me, looking for a neat algorithm to explain his motives and allure.

He was referring to his calamitous debut on the American stage as the presenter of the MTV VMA awards and how his schtick - lucid and lurid - crashed and burned in front of a US audience, leading to death threats and (to his delight) his presence in the top 10 worldwide Google searches. Who is this guy, thought the United States, coming over here and disrespecting our ways.

Fame

And that is why he bombed across the pond, he said. "My personality don't work without fame."

And there it is. The reason why Russell Brand courts disaster, relishes mischief, embroils himself in the scrapes and adventures that feed the tabloids.

It is why he is a populist crowd surfer. Without the crowd, he's just some weird guy with a God complex, wriggling on the floor of an empty, echoing hall shouting for an elevation that will never come.

Fame gives him form and purpose. Without fame, Brand would be just a lairy ex-addict pub bore full of barely-credible tales of sexual conquest and "I'm mad, me" peacock prancing.

With fame he gets all this - the sell-out O2 audience at his feet, women at his zipper, cameras on his doorstep.

He can talk disparagingly - cruelly - about how his "fame wand", can turn a "slut into a celebrity overnight" and still have a certain demographic screaming to be the next in line for the transformation.

This is his life. On a tightrope. Not looking down. And if he doubts his existence for a second, he can switch on TV or pick up the Daily Mail.

As he admits, he always thought the nightly news should have been about him, and suddenly, by dint of Andrew Sachs, it was. The dream realised.

Only he didn't mean no 'arm.

And this is the source of his charisma. His unashamed self-love coupled with his naughty boy, winking disavowal of the vice.

He has an impish air. A roguish, innocent, coy boy charm which he uses to outline his many failings and faux-pas before passing the blame squarely on to his "mental illness".

His entire life splits into two - the uncontrolled dirty deeds themselves and the considered retelling of them.

Whether it be inadvertently pressing his pants on (fake queen) Helen Mirren or imagining de-robing the (actual) Queen in a Variety Show line-up, you sense the adventure is barely complete before the anecdote begins to take shape.

Hypocrisy

Live on stage, he is less leftfield, dandyish and erudite than in his books or TV shows. He is bolder and more direct. He goes for the jugular and the undergarment with the same sense of glint-eyed, orgiastic devilment.

He has no great gags, no great comedic insight. Instead he feasts on his notoriety.

And no-one is better placed to point out the hypocrisy of a media which simultaneously holds him in contempt yet craves his next folly to fill their columns and airwaves with their splenetic disapproval.

This is perfect for Brand. He's going to do this stuff anyway. As he told the audience, he does things worse than Sachsgate every day of the year.

Only, instead of being that annoying shouty bloke that no-one particularly regards, he is the celebrated totem of the age.

"Don't tell the Daily Mail," he implores the audience, disingenuously. And we're suddenly part of his gang. On his side. Egging him on.

So everybody's happy: the audience; the hungry hippo media; Russell himself; and Russell's madman in the attic doing his c-r-a-z-y, destructive antics for our enjoyment.

Oops, says wide-eyed Russell, by way of an apology. And we all laugh.

So that's alright then.

– First published at wharf.co.uk on April 19, 2009

Movie Review: The Boat That Rocked

Director: Richard Curtis

Starring: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Rhys Ifans, Chris O'Dowd

2/5

In their heyday, Ealing Studios produced a slew of comedies about the little man against the state; rebels trying to paint rainbows in a black and white world.

In timely fashion, writer-director Richard Curtis has borrowed and updated the theme - although he returns to the 1960s to allow him to explore his first love - the golden age of rock and roll.

This is his hymn to the pirate radio days, when the BBC stuck its fingers in its ears and went la, la, la, to drown out the explosion of British rock and pop.

In response, 25million people retuned the dials on their Roberts to the pirate ships and their free-form DJs who played music just beyond the reach of the law.

The Boat That Rocked recreates the battle lines of the age.

Miserly ministers

A bunch of overgrown schoolboys lock themselves in a rusty crate to write the first chapter on sex and drugs and rock and roll, egged on by a generation of nurses, dockers, mechanics and schoolgirls eager to be shocked and enlightened.

Meanwhile, miserly government ministers (embodied by a gloriously Cromwellian Kenneth Branagh) plot to bring the renegades into line with all the puritan fury of a disappointed dad waiting in the drizzle outside a disco.

Curtis puts together a formidable array of TV, film and comedic talents to recreate the boys-will-be-boys stew of innuendo and indulgence.

TV's Nick Frost and Chris O'Dowd join Curtis alumni Bill Nighy and Rhys Ifans along with newcomer Rhys (Flight Of The Conchords) Darby.

Philip Seymour Hoffman adds weight and character as The Count while a flutter of girls (including Gemma Arterton) parade in and out as mini-skirted objects of lust and conquest.

The star, though, is the music, thudding throughout. In a claustrophic cacophony of rib-digging and rivalry, the music alone is accorded space and respect. Despite the familiarity of the songs, Curtis still manages to capture the shock and awe contained in those well-thumbed 45s.

Unfortunately, the film, like the rusty hulk that houses Radio Rock, is structurally unsound.

Striking images

Curtis has no clue what to do with his ensemble cast once he has them in place so he links together feeble sitcom sequences that have no particular grounding or purpose and lead to nothing original.

With no story particularly to occupy them, the characters drift into caricature, the dialogue descends into cliché and the conflict tends towards the artificial.

The overblown third act comes from another work entirely (but does manage to showcase Curtis's developing eye for striking images) while the film repeats the directorial weaknesses of Love Actually - bagginess and lack of narrative drive.

But, Curtis always makes the best of a bad job. He just about holds the thing together by dint of his generosity of spirit and charm, helped by a dollop of nostalgia and his habit of grating sentimentality over the mix.

You smile, even though you can feel the tweak of the strings. Then your teeth fall out.

One day we'll see through Richard Curtis and have no more of him, but that day is not this day.

First published at wharf.co.uk on April 11, 2009

Star Wars: A Musical Journey

The O2 arena
4/5

In the thrill rides in the studio complexes of tourist Florida you can interact with the iconography of the blockbusters.

Ride a DeLorean through time! Journey through Jurassic Park! Fly ET home on a bike!

What's missing from these experiences is, of course, the movies. It's like eating a jam sandwich without the bread.

But, hey, jam's pretty good. Have you ever dunked your finger in the jar and tasted just jam?

S-w-e-e-t, as Homer would say.

And so it is with Star Wars: A Musical Journey.

Primarily it was a celebration of John Williams' magisterial score (which must have bemused the under-10s who turned up with their light sabres and painted faces expecting Star Wars: The Musical).

And, indeed, the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra and choir's rousing renditions alone would be enough to stir the heart. But there was more.

There were Imperial Stormtroopers near the ticket desk. Jedi Knights in the auditorium. Gold Leader taking five.

In the background, there was a monster screen with crystal clear pictures playing clips from the films, which despite everything - by which I mean the dialogue, the dull stratagems of the Trade Federation and Jar Jar Binks - still had the power to enthral and delight three decades on.

And there was Anthony Daniels - who played C3PO - narrating in the broadest terms and with Shakespearian grandeur - the thrust of the six-piece masterwork cueing up neatly edited MTV SW lite bites that distilled the story into themed compilations of character or action.

He was playing to the crowd - the thirty- and forty-somethings for whom life only truly began when a fleeing Rebel Blockade Runner, firing lasers from its rear, is dwarfed by an Imperial Stardestroyer filling the screen, the skyscape, and a million textbook margins.

As the jaunty pipes took on the tunes of the cantina band, the true followers - all nine years old once again - mouthed the words like supplicants. "Mos Eisley Spaceport. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy."

At one point, the impeccable Daniels flung open his jacket to reveal a metallic looking waistcoat and fell into character to set the scene for the next segment: "Sir, the possibility of successfully navigating an asteroid field is approximately 3,720 to one."

Everyone cheered. Star Wars heaven. We cheered again when we heard the first asthmatic breath of the Dark Lord of the Sith. We aahed at the death of Yoda. We booed the Emperor and his nefarious plotting. We laughed when Princess Leia told Han: "I love you" and the old rascal replied: "I know." That old rascal.

This was Star Wars as pantomime. This was playing to the gallery. This is Star Wars the way the fans love it - celebrated and venerated yet undercut with humour and a playful deflation of its pomposities.

Over the years, George Lucas has sliced and diced and sold his creation with alarming disregard for its sacred state among the faithful.

But this was one of its better incarnations - stirring stuff, and fun.

– First appeared on wharf.co.uk on April 12, 2009

Does my wallet look big in this?

I have not, in all honesty, been forced to ask this question much before but now it nags at my brain like a barbed wire bowler.

What should I wear? The talk is of nothing else. We press coat-hangered crustie-wear to our chests and size it up in full-length Oxfam mirrors.

We stomp up and down in mud-flecked DMs and pretend we're familiar with the form. We undo top buttons. We lick on tattoos.

In short, we are doing all we can to avoid becoming a pendulous ornament on the capital's lampposts.

I am no more an author of this recession than the next man (although the next man, in Canary Wharf, may well be The Man so it's best to despise everyone to be sure).

However, these protesters are targeting anyone who gives the impression that they are not immune to the lure of a well-pressed turn-up.

The advice has come thick and fast. No chinos, no deck shoes, no Pringles, no paisley. Nothing that smacks of dress-down-Thursday because these interlopers are savvy to our ways. Muzzy that hair. Unload those cargos. Curb that cuff.

But what's the correct balance - are jeans a bluff or a double bluff? Is a ripped knee in or outre? Is grim the new black? Is a BLiar T-shirt so, like, yesterday?

Are natural fibres a signal that I am as one with mother earth and embracing her fecundity. Or is that a typical example of bourgeoisie sheeploitation.

Is there a catalogue (Free, Man perhaps) which outlines what the anti-capitalist protester du jour is wearing?

Is organic cheesecloth the way to go or are we thinking Winter of Discontent drape?

Are clogs and a clutch practical yet stylish?

Are checks a demand for greater financial regulation or a pattern that could lighten that ghastly battleship grey boat-necked smock-tini?

These are important issues. Because when they talk of a clash between protesters and workers I hope to goodness we're talking fisticuffs because, quite frankly, if we're all wearing the same thing at the same party I'd simply die of embarrassment.

– First published on wharf.co.uk on April 1, 2009

Summit's happening

I'm hunkering down. I've bought a dozen cans of Spam, the greatest hits of Flanagan and Allen and I've converted my Breville Sandwich Toaster into an AM transmitter.

I shall live for a week behind a dusty yardage of innocuous-looking books with titles like Capitalism? Think On.

About my person, I shall carry my "papers" - passport, gas bill etc - and a mask (as usual). I shall fully expect to encounter hindrance, banter and inquisition as I pass through sandbag and barbed wire checkpoints.

I shall be obliging but sceptical when confronted by figures in "authority" as I have been told fifth columnists will inveigle their way into the ranks of officialdom to create panic based on incendiary topics such as war, the weather and the kneecapping of profligate bankers.

I shall Keep Calm And Carry On, like the poster says.

I shall expect swooping coptors, scoping marksmen and coupons for scrag end of lamb.

I shall appear exclusively in black and white.

I shall brandish neither broomstick nor Hoover nozzle for fear that their silhouette will be mistaken for that of a Russian-made Mosin Nagant 1891/30 sniper rifle.

I shall grow my own vegetables and let women do men's work. I shall generally create a community spirit that involves activities such as rolling out barrels and walking in a manner found predominately in Lambeth. I shall monitor the migration habits of blue birds.

Should I be climbing on the DLR only to hear the words "good luck" in my ear I shall grunt a brutish non-response. Gordon Jackson will not have died in vain.

And should that moley bloke keep yowling: "Take me with you. I can see. I can see," my response will be tart and to the point. "Let it go, chum. You placed that pin there, like, two hours ago. I saw you do it."

I shall have no time for the weak of limb or constitution. I shall have no time for yellow-bellied, red-tinged subversion.

There's a summit on, don't you know.

– First published on wharf.co.uk on March 29, 2009