Cliché is the new black, or something like that. It certainly is with By Any Means, the BBCs newest Sunday night effort, which appears to try to break through the line of parody so hard that it comes back on itself in the realms of sheer tedium.
To whit, Jack Quinn (they should have give him a more macho name, like Jim Steel or John Ripper) operates his own team that does ‘off the books’ police work, given to them by Da Chief, portrayed in a dignified cameo by Gina McKee.
In this first episode, the mission is to take down a nasty gangster type who has managed to keep his hands clean of all the nasty deeds done on his orders. Thus, Jack works on getting a result with his colleagues: attractive Jessica Jones and tech geek Thomas Tomkins, who is nicknamed Tom Tom (do you SEE?). Naturally, the best way to ensnare our criminal friend, played with true scenery chewing style by Keith Allen, to make him lose his cool and fall into making a mistake. Because he’s a gangster and therefore prone to bouts of psychotic rage, especially when it comes to the wife who is half his age. Who would have thought?
It is all essentially like Hustle except with the intention of banging a villain up rather than scamming a few million, and like that other show, suffers from huge spades of style over substance. There’s rarely any real peril or reasons to care about any of the characters. Throw in a scene when Jack drives up to a council estate and is instantly met with a bunch of young scallies giving it the “fiver to mind your car” and I’m staggered I made it to the end, where the reveal is less twists and more “here’s some conversation we didn’t show you before”. A key piece of the, ahem, puzzle turns out to be the presence of John Henshaw, making a dignified cameo as a man with a heavy cold.
If I had to nail it down, it’s the sheer lack of conviction that did it for me. In a scene where Quinn bursts into the bad guy’s office and whips out a pistol to force the heavies to back off, you feel that Allen should have laughed and said ‘oh, do fuck off’. It’s not helped by the main actor being barely out of his mid 30s and thus seems a bit young to be leading a crack team of specialists in the quasi-legal fight against crime.
Still, by the end, the team gains another member and the quartet is complete for a series, one which if it carries on like this, will soon find itself set later and later in the schedules.
Friday, 27 September 2013
Thursday, 22 August 2013
Mind Your Own Business
A few weeks ago, I posted how I noticed a series of small posters around my neck of the woods, stating how scientology was behind all kinds of mischief.
Well, now whoever was behind this startling expose has returned to the dark streets of Didsbury.
Wow! You don't hear this kind of news everyday. Psychic powers can be yours for $300,000 and zero cents. Or should that be $30,000,000? Clearly, our amateur journalist could do with clearing this up, as the former seems a pretty cheap price for such an ability. You could make that back in a night in Vegas. Probably.
But a sinister thought occurs. That I took this poster down to bring home and photograph means I have denied my fellow denizens of Didsbury the chance to learn this world-shattering truth. I now have a bad feeling that I am under the direct control of Tom Cruise and/or John Travolta. Ye Gods!
Well, now whoever was behind this startling expose has returned to the dark streets of Didsbury.
 |
| Scoop of the Century! |
But a sinister thought occurs. That I took this poster down to bring home and photograph means I have denied my fellow denizens of Didsbury the chance to learn this world-shattering truth. I now have a bad feeling that I am under the direct control of Tom Cruise and/or John Travolta. Ye Gods!
Tuesday, 13 August 2013
Reminders of the Meaning of It All, Or Otherwise Unknown
You know it's a bad day when you try to send an email and the internet refuses, giving this as a reason:
Honestly, I wanted to have a bit of a lie down after that. I mean, I know a lot of us believe that existence itself is an eternal meaningless slog towards the void, but when you have that hammered home by your email provider, you have to question the point of getting out of bed in the morning. I was only trying to send a link.
Thursday, 1 August 2013
Shoot That Green Arrow Through My Heart
If DC Comics have learnt one thing from The Dark Knight trilogy, it's that "dark" works. As they struggle to keep up arch rivals Marvel's rate of knocking out hit movies, it seems they have learned to follow the trend.
Therefore, Arrow, a new take on one of their more peripheral characters, the Green Arrow. In comic book lore, he's always been something of a Batman expy: a rich kid forged by circumstance into a crime fighter while maintaining an illusion of a playboy billionaire by day. His defining characteristics where his choice of weapons (bow and arrow, natch) and his somewhat left-wing (by American standards) politics. When written by Denny O'Neil in a series alongside Green Lantern, the character was superb, and it was good to see him make a brilliant cameo in O'Neil's essential run with the Question in the late 80s.
Green Arrow was also one of the strongest (for me) characters in the excellent Justice League Unlimited cartoon series, delivering a nice smackdown to his super-powered colleagues when needed. He also played a role in Smallville. I'm not sure if these played a part in the character getting a TV series of his own, but happened it did, and ten episodes in (I'm watching repeats) I have to admit I'm somewhat drawn in.
As stated at the top, he's been made more "dark" to fit in with the current mood. Oliver Queen, like his comic book counterpart, is indeed a carefree playboy with a tendency to shag any willing young lady before an accident sees him marooned on a desert island. This happens around the same time as his lady-of-choice drowns and his dear pop shoots himself (and some other poor sod) in order to conserve life-boat supplies for dear Ollie.
Five years on, our man is rescued and, naturally, he's a changed man. In short, he's become a huge fucking badarse who can kebab you from 500 yards, covered in scars and with a new found desire to clean up his hometown of Starling City.
A lot of Arrow is cliché city, but it remains enjoyable for reasons a little bit beyond my ken. Oliver has loved ones to keep his secret from (at least, unlike Batman, his mother is still alive, and he has a sister) and his own "Alfred" figure in Diggle, employed as a bodyguard for "Oliver" who becomes a close ally of his alter-ego. In a nice little touch, when the vigilante figure is nicknamed "The Hood" Oliver discusses that he needs a better name at a dinner party. When someone suggests "Green Arrow", it is meet with a "lame!" response. The man who suggests that? None other than John Barrowman, who manages to be pretty sinister in his role as (as far as I've seen) the Big Bad.
There's plenty of tickle the comic book geeks (characters with surnames with 'Lance' are enough to make me chuckle knowingly) and from the first episode they try to distinguish the Arrow from the Batman when he snaps some poor mook's neck in half to protect his "secret". None of this "no killing" stance that the Bat takes up for our man.
Arrow isn't another original or mega-exciting, but it does somehow manage to capture my imagination. The cast are nothing special, but then all do their jobs well - Barrowman is the exception and he comes across as both ultra-charming and outright threatening. So far, they've managed to throw in characters such as the Huntress and Deadshot, with hints at others from the DC canon, and I look forward to more.
Therefore, Arrow, a new take on one of their more peripheral characters, the Green Arrow. In comic book lore, he's always been something of a Batman expy: a rich kid forged by circumstance into a crime fighter while maintaining an illusion of a playboy billionaire by day. His defining characteristics where his choice of weapons (bow and arrow, natch) and his somewhat left-wing (by American standards) politics. When written by Denny O'Neil in a series alongside Green Lantern, the character was superb, and it was good to see him make a brilliant cameo in O'Neil's essential run with the Question in the late 80s.
Green Arrow was also one of the strongest (for me) characters in the excellent Justice League Unlimited cartoon series, delivering a nice smackdown to his super-powered colleagues when needed. He also played a role in Smallville. I'm not sure if these played a part in the character getting a TV series of his own, but happened it did, and ten episodes in (I'm watching repeats) I have to admit I'm somewhat drawn in.
As stated at the top, he's been made more "dark" to fit in with the current mood. Oliver Queen, like his comic book counterpart, is indeed a carefree playboy with a tendency to shag any willing young lady before an accident sees him marooned on a desert island. This happens around the same time as his lady-of-choice drowns and his dear pop shoots himself (and some other poor sod) in order to conserve life-boat supplies for dear Ollie.
Five years on, our man is rescued and, naturally, he's a changed man. In short, he's become a huge fucking badarse who can kebab you from 500 yards, covered in scars and with a new found desire to clean up his hometown of Starling City.
A lot of Arrow is cliché city, but it remains enjoyable for reasons a little bit beyond my ken. Oliver has loved ones to keep his secret from (at least, unlike Batman, his mother is still alive, and he has a sister) and his own "Alfred" figure in Diggle, employed as a bodyguard for "Oliver" who becomes a close ally of his alter-ego. In a nice little touch, when the vigilante figure is nicknamed "The Hood" Oliver discusses that he needs a better name at a dinner party. When someone suggests "Green Arrow", it is meet with a "lame!" response. The man who suggests that? None other than John Barrowman, who manages to be pretty sinister in his role as (as far as I've seen) the Big Bad.
There's plenty of tickle the comic book geeks (characters with surnames with 'Lance' are enough to make me chuckle knowingly) and from the first episode they try to distinguish the Arrow from the Batman when he snaps some poor mook's neck in half to protect his "secret". None of this "no killing" stance that the Bat takes up for our man.
Arrow isn't another original or mega-exciting, but it does somehow manage to capture my imagination. The cast are nothing special, but then all do their jobs well - Barrowman is the exception and he comes across as both ultra-charming and outright threatening. So far, they've managed to throw in characters such as the Huntress and Deadshot, with hints at others from the DC canon, and I look forward to more.
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
Not Quite Iron Man
Hardly anybody likes going to a hospital. That is about a clear a fact as you can make. The only exceptions are those who work there who take something from helping others, and sickos who get off on the pain of others and themselves.
Not being in that latter camp, it wasn't a thrill that I spent a couple of hours in the out patients clinic this afternoon. The reason being related to something that happened a couple of years ago, when I collapsed at work, had a seizure and wound up in hospital. Some tests later, the verdict seemed to be that it was a one-off. Great. Only it happened again last month.
A lot of people would have us believe that the government want the National Health Service sold off. It seems numerous politicians have connections to private health providers and with the media stating that entering a British hospital gives you a survival rate equal to a British solider on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, the future isn't looking too rosy right now.
The issue for me is, you don't appreciate it until you use it. I wonder how many MPs have had cause to use our NHS hospitals in recent years? Having done so, I'm glad they're there. When I keeled over in the street and some random stranger rang 999, an ambulance arrived, from which two lovely paramedics checked me out and lugged me off to hospital. Here, tests were ran and once it was established my brain wasn't leaking from my nose, I was sent home. All this for the cost of my monthly National Insurance contributions, which won't rise because I had to use the services.
To today, where I was informed that this second fit was a bit of a head-scratcher. As part of solution-seeking, it was proposed that a small monitor be fitted under the skin of my chest - a procedure that takes ten minutes. Initially, this sounded a little bit scary, I admit. I mean, cutting me open, even just a little? Urgh.
But then I thought about it some more. A piece of machinery inside my body - hey, that makes me a cyborg. Kind of. Alright, not much of one, but you've got to make the best of the situation, haven't you? Maybe I'll tell people I'm having an arc reactor fitted. While on the topic, I'd like to tell Stan Lee and Joss Whedon, if they are reading, that I'm more than happy to help out on the next Avengers flick if Downey Jnr becomes too much of a dick to handle.
Not being in that latter camp, it wasn't a thrill that I spent a couple of hours in the out patients clinic this afternoon. The reason being related to something that happened a couple of years ago, when I collapsed at work, had a seizure and wound up in hospital. Some tests later, the verdict seemed to be that it was a one-off. Great. Only it happened again last month.
A lot of people would have us believe that the government want the National Health Service sold off. It seems numerous politicians have connections to private health providers and with the media stating that entering a British hospital gives you a survival rate equal to a British solider on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, the future isn't looking too rosy right now.
The issue for me is, you don't appreciate it until you use it. I wonder how many MPs have had cause to use our NHS hospitals in recent years? Having done so, I'm glad they're there. When I keeled over in the street and some random stranger rang 999, an ambulance arrived, from which two lovely paramedics checked me out and lugged me off to hospital. Here, tests were ran and once it was established my brain wasn't leaking from my nose, I was sent home. All this for the cost of my monthly National Insurance contributions, which won't rise because I had to use the services.
To today, where I was informed that this second fit was a bit of a head-scratcher. As part of solution-seeking, it was proposed that a small monitor be fitted under the skin of my chest - a procedure that takes ten minutes. Initially, this sounded a little bit scary, I admit. I mean, cutting me open, even just a little? Urgh.
But then I thought about it some more. A piece of machinery inside my body - hey, that makes me a cyborg. Kind of. Alright, not much of one, but you've got to make the best of the situation, haven't you? Maybe I'll tell people I'm having an arc reactor fitted. While on the topic, I'd like to tell Stan Lee and Joss Whedon, if they are reading, that I'm more than happy to help out on the next Avengers flick if Downey Jnr becomes too much of a dick to handle.
Thursday, 11 July 2013
Listless Age
No Ripcord has recently published their writers poll of the top 100 albums of the 1990s.I took part and was surprised that a fair number of my picks got in. I won't bore you all with the top 40 I was asked to send away, but the ten highest choices here:
10. The House of Love - Babe Rainbow
9. XTC - Nonsuch
8. Sugar - Copper Blue
7. My Bloody Valentine - Loveless
6. Ride - Nowhere
5. Teenage Fanclub - Bandwagonesque
4. World Party - Goodbye Jumbo
3. Talk Talk - Laughing Stock
2. Mansun - Six
1. Slowdive - Soulvaki
A totally unsurprising list, I'm sure the people who know me will agree. The truth is, I found it tough to think of 40 albums. There was no Radiohead, because they ceased to be relevant to me when I hit my 19th birthday, I found.
Oasis appear, naturally, though they didn't crop up in my list, because I blame them for my complete ambivalence at the time to Britpop. A lot of people here will respond here "Ah, but Definitely Maybe..." to which I can say that I listened back to the whole album recently and bar Live Forever and Slide Away remained fairly unmoved throughout.
The issue, now if probably not back then, is the total lack of groove in the band. Frankly, the rhythm section must be amongst the worst to ever grace the top of the charts. A rhythm guitarist who studied well at Johnny Ramone school of technique, a bassist who rarely strayed beyond the safety of root notes and a drummer... well, this says it best.
Yet all the same, I guess Noel Gallagher and Alan McGee deserve a wedge of credit for taking a bunch of pub players from Burnage and getting the music press to piss themselves bigging them up as the future of rock and roll. Image is everything, of course, and it is amusing in hindsight to think that they were bigged up as a bunch of lads from the hard streets of Manchester. Presumably, any journalist who bought that line had never took a walk around the pleasant (no sarcasm) streets of Burnage. Still, to a lot of London types, the second you head North of Watford, you may as well be in Bandit Country.
Manchester, I fear, has yet to recover from the shadow of Oasis. It's become a city too keen to attach labels of the past to new bands. Everyone has to be the "next Smiths" or next New Order, Joy Division, Stone Roses or Oasis. Like Liverpool, the shackles of history seem to grip tighter as we go along.
In conclusion: musically, I found the 1990s a crappy time to grow up. Thank fuck for Eric Cantona, who has more rock and roll in his small finger than Liam Gallagher every could.
10. The House of Love - Babe Rainbow
9. XTC - Nonsuch
8. Sugar - Copper Blue
7. My Bloody Valentine - Loveless
6. Ride - Nowhere
5. Teenage Fanclub - Bandwagonesque
4. World Party - Goodbye Jumbo
3. Talk Talk - Laughing Stock
2. Mansun - Six
1. Slowdive - Soulvaki
A totally unsurprising list, I'm sure the people who know me will agree. The truth is, I found it tough to think of 40 albums. There was no Radiohead, because they ceased to be relevant to me when I hit my 19th birthday, I found.
Oasis appear, naturally, though they didn't crop up in my list, because I blame them for my complete ambivalence at the time to Britpop. A lot of people here will respond here "Ah, but Definitely Maybe..." to which I can say that I listened back to the whole album recently and bar Live Forever and Slide Away remained fairly unmoved throughout.
The issue, now if probably not back then, is the total lack of groove in the band. Frankly, the rhythm section must be amongst the worst to ever grace the top of the charts. A rhythm guitarist who studied well at Johnny Ramone school of technique, a bassist who rarely strayed beyond the safety of root notes and a drummer... well, this says it best.
Yet all the same, I guess Noel Gallagher and Alan McGee deserve a wedge of credit for taking a bunch of pub players from Burnage and getting the music press to piss themselves bigging them up as the future of rock and roll. Image is everything, of course, and it is amusing in hindsight to think that they were bigged up as a bunch of lads from the hard streets of Manchester. Presumably, any journalist who bought that line had never took a walk around the pleasant (no sarcasm) streets of Burnage. Still, to a lot of London types, the second you head North of Watford, you may as well be in Bandit Country.
Manchester, I fear, has yet to recover from the shadow of Oasis. It's become a city too keen to attach labels of the past to new bands. Everyone has to be the "next Smiths" or next New Order, Joy Division, Stone Roses or Oasis. Like Liverpool, the shackles of history seem to grip tighter as we go along.
In conclusion: musically, I found the 1990s a crappy time to grow up. Thank fuck for Eric Cantona, who has more rock and roll in his small finger than Liam Gallagher every could.
Tuesday, 25 June 2013
Attack of the Killer Celebrity Cult Clan
You know, I can dig me a good conspiracy theory as much as anyone. Get talking to me about how John F and Bobby Kennedy were shot by the Illumianti under orders from the Grand Lizard Overlords and I'll sat in rapt attention. I mean, I'll think you're completely hatstand, but I'll listen all the same.
On a similar tint, I was more than amused to read some handwritten notes dotted on Didsbury bus stops stating that Scientology was some kind of genocidal cult. Now, I don't have much time for Travolta and Cruise's personal club anyways, but it did seem a tad extreme. It slipped my mind until yesterday, while waiting for the 84 to Heaton Chapel (obscure reference, non-Manchester readers!) I noticed a new batch of bills have been stuck to the shelter - this time typed up!
I don't know if you can read the text, but it's brilliant in it's total insanity. Giving psychic powers 37,000 people is pretty impressive in itself - but then going and committing genocide against SEVEN BILLION people??! I mean - Pol Pot? Lightweight! Hitler? Amateur! Stalin? Get the fuck out of here! L. Ron Hubbard created a cult that managed to slaughter the equivalent of the ENTIRE POPULATION OF THE WORLD! Brilliant! I guess none of us noticed while that happened.
Mind you, if you want to sign up alongside Beck, you best be prepared for the long game - as our correspondent reckons once you're in, you're committed to a ten billion year contract. Personally, I'm not sure terms of such length would stand up to much scrutiny in court.
On a (slightly) more serious note, you have to be concerned by the standard of grammar in this note, and the others that have sprung up around the area. If this is the work of someone with English as a first language, then you have to wonder about standards in education.
That said, I'm glad I'm not a religious man, if apparently Heaven is supposed to be "tardy". What is that supposed to mean? You die and get held in a queue for a millennium of two while they process your request?
There's a certain line in the sand where a conspiracy theory goes from having a certain amount of plausibility (such as, Hitler escaped from Germany and lived it up in South America... well, no body, no proof of death, right?) to being the work of someone who perhaps shouldn't be allowed to walk the streets without correct supervision. I'm assuming you can guess which category this whole gig falls into. I mean, ten out of ten for effort in actually putting this things up around the place, but it never hurts to have an extra sets of eyes to act as a proof reader.
All that said, a tiny part of me (probably the part that thinks I'll still get a game for Manchester United if I finally get into shape) thinks I should take these words to heart, and to keep an eye out for Jason Lee (the actor, not the footballer) to go on some rampage down the high street against all us on non-Hubbard believer heathen scum. Stranger things have happened. Apparently.
On a similar tint, I was more than amused to read some handwritten notes dotted on Didsbury bus stops stating that Scientology was some kind of genocidal cult. Now, I don't have much time for Travolta and Cruise's personal club anyways, but it did seem a tad extreme. It slipped my mind until yesterday, while waiting for the 84 to Heaton Chapel (obscure reference, non-Manchester readers!) I noticed a new batch of bills have been stuck to the shelter - this time typed up!
 |
| I honestly didn't type this up. |
I don't know if you can read the text, but it's brilliant in it's total insanity. Giving psychic powers 37,000 people is pretty impressive in itself - but then going and committing genocide against SEVEN BILLION people??! I mean - Pol Pot? Lightweight! Hitler? Amateur! Stalin? Get the fuck out of here! L. Ron Hubbard created a cult that managed to slaughter the equivalent of the ENTIRE POPULATION OF THE WORLD! Brilliant! I guess none of us noticed while that happened.
Mind you, if you want to sign up alongside Beck, you best be prepared for the long game - as our correspondent reckons once you're in, you're committed to a ten billion year contract. Personally, I'm not sure terms of such length would stand up to much scrutiny in court.
On a (slightly) more serious note, you have to be concerned by the standard of grammar in this note, and the others that have sprung up around the area. If this is the work of someone with English as a first language, then you have to wonder about standards in education.
 |
| I don't even have a printer |
That said, I'm glad I'm not a religious man, if apparently Heaven is supposed to be "tardy". What is that supposed to mean? You die and get held in a queue for a millennium of two while they process your request?
There's a certain line in the sand where a conspiracy theory goes from having a certain amount of plausibility (such as, Hitler escaped from Germany and lived it up in South America... well, no body, no proof of death, right?) to being the work of someone who perhaps shouldn't be allowed to walk the streets without correct supervision. I'm assuming you can guess which category this whole gig falls into. I mean, ten out of ten for effort in actually putting this things up around the place, but it never hurts to have an extra sets of eyes to act as a proof reader.
All that said, a tiny part of me (probably the part that thinks I'll still get a game for Manchester United if I finally get into shape) thinks I should take these words to heart, and to keep an eye out for Jason Lee (the actor, not the footballer) to go on some rampage down the high street against all us on non-Hubbard believer heathen scum. Stranger things have happened. Apparently.
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