It is hot in southampton. Frickin' hot. I've had a bunch of manual labour to do over the last few days as well, which hasn't helped matters. Ever since my dad arrived on tuesday we've been tearing apart my old kitchen, putting down new tiles and I think we're now on the assembling new cabinets stage (I'm not really sure, he's sat out there scratching his head and looking at diagrams while I've snuck off to make a blog post).
So I've learned a bit about tiling and pipework, but I'm not a handyman, that's quite clearly obvious. I've never been one for all the practical skills, which is annoying, since I'm actually a landlord. Still, delicate creative types like myself have to stick to what we're good at. And what I'm good at is being a snooty anti-snob who thinks he's a far better writer than he actually is. Oh yeah. I know my place, baby.
The Summer Expanse stretches ever onwards, but I've started work on my final script now and I might even be able to continue the way I've been going without relying on finding work, which'll be a relief, since I can't seem to find work as it is. We'll see. Anyway, the contracts are signed with Mr. Anthony Burtenshaw (he so old that even Death thinks he'd better back off), so he shall be living with me next year. I shall look for another tennent when the time is right, or when the iron is hot.
I should do some ironing, on that point.
Wimbeldon (the word that normally summons rain) is drawing to a close I think and the only reason I give a crap is because my dad is watching it. In other sporting news, England are out of the World Cup. You know why?
THEY SUCK.
And that's probably the longest I've ever talked about sports. I promise now to talk about something interesting instead, such as video games, movies or experimental eyeball surgery. Or I'll just go with Bad Lieutenant.
BAD LIEUTENANT (2010)
A remake in the same sense that I'm a remake of my great-great-grandfather, this is a film that bears only thematic similarities to the Harvey Kietel film of 1992 of the same name. They might as well have called it something different, there was absolutely no reason to associate it with the '92 movie, but then I suppose there wasn't much reason not to, either.
While attempting to ascertain the nature or a particularly brutal murder case in post-Katrina New Orleans, a police lieutenant by the name of McDonagh sinks deeper and deeper into the seedy world of drugs, lies, blackmail, gambling, addiction, prostitution, murder, more drugs, gangland killing and some more drugs. It's a screwed up movie, that's for sure.
Second in a row of dirty cop movies as well, so I can't help but compare it to Brooklyn's Finest just a little. Saw this one the day after Finest. Finest was a lot saner. That's it.
Nicholas Cage is a man who is determined to play absolutely anything and everything, no matter your opinion of him, he refuses to be pigeon-holed or typecast as an actor. He has 'The Sorcerer's Apprentice' coming out soon and that couldn't look more different from this film if it were from Mars. Of course, that film isn't going to be directed by Werner Herzog.
Officially, Herzog is as mad as box of frogs who have been slurping at the good stuff. If the box was made of jelly. And the frogs were made of pop-rocks.
So this isn't a film that I would say is particularly *good* per se, nor is it bad in any way, but it's a film that will make you watch it and make you go "what the *hell* am I watching?!" It's a film that demands you succumb just a little to the insane logic that seems to run through it, while at the same time keeping things dark and mysterious in a conventional sense. The ending is almost gauranteed to throw the audiance, not because of a twist, but because there really isn't one! Several members of the audiance at my screening of it actually asked me if I understood what the hell was going on. The answer?
Of course not!
You're not meant to!
Next time: 4.3.2.1
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