Heart of stone

It is a brave actor who dares to speak publicly about politics, current affairs, poverty or the environment. "What do actors know about anything?" cry the media pundits, "Talking down to us from their ivory towers." True, there are plenty of artistes with little in the way of brains between their ears but that is true of any profession or walk of life. There are plenty of bright people working in the entertainment industry who have as informed opinions as anyone else who works and pays their taxes.

And then there is Sharon Stone's profound insights on the earthquakes in China:

"Well, you know, it's very interesting because at first I'm, you know, not happy about the way the Chinese are treating the Tibetans because I don't think anyone should be unkind to anyone else; and so I've been very concerned about how to think and what to do about that because I don't like... that.

"And then I've been, you know, concerned about, 'Oh, how shall we deal with the Olympics?' because they're not being nice to the Dalai Lama who's a good friend of mine.

"And then all this earthquake and all this stuff happened and I thought, 'Is that karma? When you're not nice then the bad things happen to you?'

"And then I got a letter from the Tibetan Foundation that they wanted to go and be helpful and that made me cry. And they asked me if I would write a quote about that and I said that I would, that it was a big lesson to me, that sometimes you have to learn to put your head down and be of service even if people who aren't nice to you... and that that's a big lesson for me."

You can watch the clip for yourselves here if you can stomach it.

Apparently, Sharon Stone can be a cunt on screen without crossing her legs.

The slender thread breaks

Sydney Pollack
1934—2008

REVIEW: Indiana Jones And The Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull

S'alright.

REVIEW: Living With The Truth

It can be difficult to face up to the truth, and many people avoid it at all costs, but it's difficult to avoid when the anthropomorphic personification of truth decides he is going to hang out with you for a few days.

This is the premise of Jim Murdoch's debut novel Living With The Truth.

Jonathan Payne is an aging bookseller who has all but withdrawn from the world when, one Tuesday morning, a young man turns up on his doorstep, introduces himself as, "Truth. Mister Truth. Or you can call me 'The' if you like. Or even plain ol' Truth," and makes himself comfortable as Jonathan's companion. Jonathan is initially overwhelmed by this stranger's effrontery and doesn't believe he is who he claims to be; but then the stranger demonstrates an uncanny knowledge of Jonathan's private life, his dysfunctional family, his lamentable love life, what books are on his shelf and where, his favourite type of coffee and the fact that every time he sees an attractive young woman on the street he habitually thinks, "It's not fair."

Truth's presence is a bane at first as he openly discusses the embarrassing minutiae of Jonathan's personal life in public and scrutinises aspects of his character that he has avoided confronting for years. Over time, though, Jonathan's strange new companion forces him to realise that many of his perceptions of people and events in his life are or were mostly superficial, that if he had been less self-absorbed and a little more communicative then he would have had a deeper understanding of their feelings and motivations. He also learns, however, that the truth is that a deeper understanding of those close to him may not have necessarily improved his relationships with them: knowledge can be both a blessing and a burden.

Truth himself is a mischievous character who fluctuates between tactlessly discussing taboo subjects out loud, such as Jonathan's masturbatory habits and pornographic preferences, and humouring people's secret aspirations - thanks to Truth, Jonathan is astonished to learn about his estranged sister's creative side. Truth, however, makes no distinctions between good and bad - there is only the truth: "I am not hampered by pity or anything like that. She does her job and let me do mine." This abstract-concept-made-flesh is not a new idea, one thinks of DEATH from Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels or Neil Gaiman's Sandman (indeed, there is a sly wink to Gaiman's creation at one point) - but Murdoch's novel is less a fantasy story than a down-to-earth examination of facing up to the reality of untapped potential and failure. Despite that, the book is very funny and Murdoch tackles his heavy theme with a lightness of touch that, although uncomfortably honest at times, retains a mostly positive outlook.

Jim Murdoch's debut is an intelligent, funny and moving novel that any discerning reader should enjoy.

Living With The Truth by Jim Murdoch is available to buy from the publisher, Fandango Virtual.

Or you can buy it from Amazon.co.uk via my own humble web store.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong #... sorry, I've lost count

My heart is breaking at this news, it really is:

A remake of Abel Ferrara's controversial 1992 masterpiece Bad Lieutenant is going into production later this summer.

I know. Wait, though, it gets worse:

A remake of Abel Ferrara's controversial 1992 masterpiece Bad Lieutenant is going into production later this summer. Taking on the role, brilliantly portrayed by Harvey Keitel with searing intensity in the original, is Nicolas Cage.

Yeah, I know. But wait, though, it gets worse:

A remake of Abel Ferrara's controversial 1992 masterpiece Bad Lieutenant is going into production later this summer. Taking on the role, brilliantly portrayed by Harvey Keitel with searing intensity in the original, is Nicolas Cage. And the remake will be directed by Werner Herzog. Yes, the Werner Herzog who made such magnificently barmy classics as Aguirre - Wrath of God, Woyzeck, Fitzcarraldo. Yup, another once great film-maker has "done a Scorcese", succumbed to sucking Hollywood studio cock and jumped on the remake bandwagon*.

Please, Werner, don't do it. You're better than that. Ah fuck, what's the point...

I envisage a future where Hollywood studios start remaking films that haven't even been shot yet. The Golden Age of the "Premake" is upon us!

* Yes, yes, I know Nosferatu was a remake and that was brilliant, but still...

Oi, Pavlov, get to bed!

I love bed. Being in bed is one of life's greatest pleasures; and, no, I'm not talking about that - "makin' fuck" - I simply mean the whole sitting watching TV or reading a book or lying down and sleeping business. I always read in bed. It's wonderful, bliss.

And I shouldn't do it.

I have started attending a Cognitive Behavioural Therapy group to learn how to stop thinking that I'm a loser and give myself the confidence to go out and live life. I'm only on Week No. 3 so don't ask me yet how it's done.

Anyway, today we looked at how depression can adversely affect sleep and some techniques for overcoming the problem. The essence of these techniques is to train your brain to associate "bed" with "sleep" so that when you do go to bed you subconsciously tell yourself that it is time to sleep rather than dwell on problems or worry. To aid the training of your brain is to make sure that you only use your bed for sleeping and not, for example, watching TV or... um... reading.

Suddenly a few things make much more sense like, for example, the fact that when I read in bed I become drowsy very quickly and end up having a nap; and napping during the day is not good if you are having trouble sleeping at night.

In the past I thought that the problem was with my glasses and that I needed a new prescription. I had an eye test and got some new specs but, nope, eyes still got tired. I thought that maybe the lighting was insufficient in that corner of the room so I got a reading lamp for my bedside cabinet. Nah, still got tired.

Today it occurred to me that the reason I get tired quickly when I read in bed is because my brain thinks that I should be going to sleep. Likewise, maybe I have difficulty getting to sleep at night because when I go to bed there is a part of my brain thinking that it should be reading.*

This idea got me thinking about how much human beings are driven by instinct despite our big brains and oh-so-clever capacity for abstract thought that raises us above the level of "mere" animals. Perhaps what does raises us above the level of animals is that we can acknowledge the fact that we are driven by instincts and can define and embed new instincts into our minds.

But greater minds than mine are no doubt ruminating on these ideas in much more depth than I ever could. I'm just another guy trying to learn how to get my shit together and survive.

* I do not, however, salivate when I hear a bell.

Friends for sale

The son of an 88 year old widower has found a couple of drinking pals for his dad after putting an advert in the local post office and offering a rate of £7.00 an hour.

He and his dad interviewed a few candidates and took three of them out for a "trial drink" at the local pub.

I can understand that it's difficult for an elderly man to meet new people to go to the pub with when he is living in a nursing home but doesn't he feel a bit strange knowing that his new drinking pals, no matter how much he has in common with them, are being paid to hang out with him? To be fair, one of the two successful candidates has waived his fee but the other is taking the dosh to top up his pension.

I don't know - strikes me as a bit odd. On the other hand, I'd happily accept £7.00 an hour to hang out at the pub listening to old people's life stories. It would be great for gathering writing material and it would be a nice little earner to boot. Yes, this could be an interesting career move. I should get some business cards printed up and tour the local old people's homes.

Could dance, won't dance

OK, I thought it was only Oxford crowds who don't dance at gigs but I am beginning to suspect that I am simply not abreast of current trends. As far as I can ascertain one no longer shows one's appreciation at a music concert by dancing but by standing still and taking pictures with your mobile phone. Clapping and cheering between songs appears to be acceptable behaviour but dancing is, like, so last century.

I came to this conclusion after witnessing an exuberant performance by Jamie Lidell at Koko London on Camden High Street last Tuesday night. Lidell is a singer whose music is an interesting fusion of soul and electronica; imagine Otis Redding mucking around with a sampler and a bunch of digital effects processors. Jamie's live performances are equally innovative: He starts the show singing to the accompaniment of a traditional backing band but then he will saunter over to a computer and rack of digital toys and starts to record himself humming, beat-boxing, singing a bass line, wailing, and building up layer upon layer of vocal improvisations while his band go off for a cup of tea. As he creates a new track made of vocal loops right there on stage, the band eventually drift back on stage and start to play along and somehow segue back into a familiar song. It is, quite frankly, fucking brilliant.

It is not a mere showcase of electronic trickery, though: Jamie and his gang play a damn fine set of good old fashioned-style soul music. Jamie is a performer of great energy and humour, his voice powerful, intense, tender and heartfelt. Even though he is obviously the focus of attention he is also generous to his players and gives them all their due credit. I can't remember the last time I saw a band having so much fun playing together on stage, their obvious enjoyment truly infectious.

Infectious, at least, for me and a few others.

Fair enough, the set consisted mainly of material from Jamie's new album Jim which was only released the day before. My copy turned up in the post on the morning of the gig so I was fortunate enough to give it three or four listens before heading out to the gig. That's not the point: I would have enjoyed the show regardless of whether I was at all familiar with the new songs or not. Throw some great music at me and if I engage with it then I will damn well enjoy myself. True, I dance like your dad but when I hear something I love I want to move about a bit.

My complaining about people not dancing at gigs is actually quite absurd. I'm horribly self-conscious on the dance floor and despite my eclectic tastes in music I am really fussy: if I don't like the choons then I ain't dancin'. I am also lacking the "cheese gene", the appreciation, genuine or ironic, of cheesy, juvenile pop music - you know, the standard wedding DJ repertoire. I have to hear something I really love before I can forget myself and strut my funky uncoordinated thang.

Am I a music snob? Maybe. Probably. On the other hand, I don't listen to anything because it is supposed to be cool, I listen to it because I like it - that's the bottom line: do I like it? I couldn't help but feel that many people were at that Jamie Lidell gig because he is très chaud right now - there were an awful lot of painfully trendy designer spectacles in the crowd - rather than people who simply dig his music and wanted to have a good time. Either that or they were there just to get some "cool" photos to upload to their fucking Flickr profiles.

Having said all that, I didn't dance at the concert I went to at the Barbican the following evening: Pierre Boulez conducting the London Symphony Orchestra performing works by Schoenberg, Stravinsky and Bartók. A wise decision on my part, I think. I somehow doubt the audience nor the performers would have appreciated my standing up and throwing shapes in the church of dance as they played Sonata For Two Pianos and Percussion.