Descent into Mediocrity

I know I moan about the fact I’m getting older a lot. Hey, I can’t help it – being fully aware of the futility of existence in a godless universe ruled by chance and indifference, the lost spectre of my youth weighs heavy on my mind.

That, and wondering whether they sprinkle Cheerios with cocaine to make them so addictive. I tell you, I got through about six bowls of the bastards yesterday. I’m glad I haven’t got a dentist, or they’d be giving me a right telling off for that.

1. Last week, whilst passing by the university district of Manchester, I never once got offered a leaflet for some horrific student-related event. Not a big thing, on the surface, but this means that I no longer look young enough to be a student. When I first moved here, I would have all manner of flyers offering cheap shots and a thinly-veiled suggestion of copping off with some young lady fresh into town. I could tell myself that this change is because I’ve perfected my "fuck off and leave me alone" glare, but the harsh, harsh truth is too loud to ignore. Soon, the only stuff I’ll be getting handed to me is inviting me to join SAGA.

2. I have absolutely no idea who anybody is when I happen upon any kind of modern pop culture on TV or newspapers. Essentially, I have turned into my dad circa 1997, when I would be watching MTV2 and he’d ask "who’s that bunch of crap?" unless it was a band from before 1980. People at work talk about singers and actors and I have nothing to offer except a blank look of utter incomprehension. I mean, at least a few years ago I had some vague idea of what the top 40 sounded like.

Partly this may be because I hardly watch any contemporary drama/comedy/film, with the exception of NCIS. I think I watch that because the lead character, Jethro Gibbs, is a silver-haired fox of a man and as my own greyness ascends, I need to find new role models to ensure I don’t become a fat old bastard as I speed into middle age.

3. I just cannot be arsed with new things. My mobile is about six years old and is a piece of crap, frankly, but it’s too much like hard work to get one of those fancy "Smart Phones" that everyone else I know seems to have. Yes, they have all these fancy tools and suchlike but it’s a telephone, and all I really need it for is to talk and send short messages to people. Friends insist I need to invest, and show me all manner of gadgets, like a way it allows you to make the perfect piece of toast, or something, but I remain cold. I’ve only got a flatscreen TV because it makes my Playstation games look better.

Of course, all this may be because I’m still depressed that on my 30th birthday, my hand didn’t start to glow and a young Jenny Agutter didn’t appear to send me off on some mad adventure. Curses.

European Campaign

I’ve been feeling a wee bit more disillusioned than usual recently. This wasn’t helped this morn when I stepped into a newsagent to buy some milk to ensure I had a constant stream of coffee keeping me awake till noon. The front page of the Express had one of their poor hacks "occupying" the garden of one of those protestors down in the Smoke.

Well, I say "poor" hack, but if you take a job with Richard Desmond, then you lose all rights to dignity, self-respect and being able to hold your head up in public.

Although I, and countless others, raised this point, it struck me that the narrative was well and truly set. These people are lazy bums. Although some are actually quite wealthy, as it turns out they bugger off and sleep in hotels every night. Apparently. Oh, and they like drinking coffee and using laptops, so they’re all a bunch of massive hypocrites anyways.

Not that it matters, I suppose, as the story has now moved on to whether we should have a referendum on being in the EU. I felt a bit dirty for agreeing with William Hauge when he said it was "the wrong question at the wrong time". If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was an attempt to move matters on from the economy being screwed, or at least a shot at the "it’s not our fault! It’s their fault!" angle.

But as I say, disillusionment. I think that seed was planted back in 2003, when I happened to be on that march against war in Iraq. To be honest, I was there because I was in London that weekend, visiting a friend and checking out the fantastic Robert Newman’s show. But the day itself was a hell of a sight – I doubt I’ll ever see as many people in one place as I did in Hyde Park that day. I missed Tony Benn’s speech, which pissed me off, as he’s a personal hero of mine.

As history shows, it was all for jack shit, setting in motion a series of thoughts that led to my current belief that we all essentially do as we’re told and accept whatever shite is shovelled into our faces by the press. This means if we did have a vote on the EU, a lot of the thought process of the electorate would be taken wholesale from whatever the Sun or Daily Mail says.

In much the same way, I’m of the belief that the planned strike action by public sector workers is doomed due to how people see them: i.e. lazy, overpaid and in need of sorting out. Whatever the actual issues are about is moot, minds have been made up in the editorial meetings and it trickles down to the street. Which makes the idea of allowing us all a vote on something as complicated and critical as EU membership seem a bit absurd – and I’m including myself in this, as I know jack about the fine points of the matter.

Which means it becomes a question of not just making a decision, but also where you get impartial data to make any kind of informed choice. Answers on a postcard…

The Rock and Roll Years

As anyone who has been in a band before will tell you, it has this way of taking up all your time. Even when you’re not actually directly doing anything to do with it, you end up musing on plans, songs and such. It’s equally exciting and exhausting.

Despite having taken up actually playing music instead of just listening at the age of 16, fired up on a diet of Peter Hook, I never actually got my arse in gear properly till I was in my mid 20s. The university I attended was curiously short of musos, so instead I settled into a routine of heavy drinking, browsing the local record store for cheap vinyl and the odd spot of DJing at the student union. Happy days.

On arriving in Manchester, however, I decided it was time to sort myself out. For the first time in my life, I had a bit of cash to spend, so I bought a decent set-up and stuck an ad in Affleck’s Palace. I got two replies, the second of which came so long after I’d put the note up that I’d totally forgot about it. Luckily, the guy could play guitar really well – without hyperbole he was the best I’d heard.

Not that things started happening overnight. Indeed, there was a period of two months where I didn’t hear from him and I started jamming with another band. But they seemed to be heading in the direction of Oasis-lite and I took off on holiday wondering if the whole idea had been a mistake. Another few months later, the guitarist from before rocked up on my doorstep, stating he wanted to try again. He’d been playing in some wretched punk band and wanted something more. Being a bit older, with a decent record collection, I guess he thought I was the guy. He stated he’d front the band and I agreed, which in hindsight was a mistake, as he was armed with a thin voice that just managed to stay in tune.

Over the next three and a half years, playing in the band was my primary focus, the one thing that got me through the tedium of workdays. We wrote a load of songs and armed with a second guitarist who was limited to Johnny Ramone shapes and a drummer, we managed to play some gigs around town. Some went great, some were in front of ten disinterested students. Before each, my nerves would go into meltdown and I’d wonder what the hell I was doing getting up on stage.

In a stroke of good fortune, our singer/guitarist was also a bit of a whizz when it came to using his 10 track recording unit. When our drummer quit, stating he was going deaf from the volume of our songs, we spent a summer recording an album of songs. Watching them take shape was a huge buzz, as he dropped in little bits of synth, sampled noises and the like. When it was finished, I was proud as hell. It sounded great, and I felt I could state in confidence that we were streets ahead of any other band out there.

When we found another drummer, we got back on the circuit, but it was growing increasingly frustrating as we never seemed to be getting anywhere. As I remember it, our second-to-last gig was to a few hundred people who happened to be there and we went down well to the point we had to play a few ropey covers to satisfy demand for us to play more. Then, weeks later, we were stood in front of a few bored looking punters.

As happens, we argued about new songs. I figured we should push ourselves further – the rhythm guitarist had started using more than barre chords, which was a start. The others figured we should be more punky, as it was “what people wanted”. It wasn’t getting anywhere, certainly with my defining character trait being ‘stubborn’. Eventually, the singer decided to pack it in with vague words of staying in touch – I got the impression his mother saw me as a better influence than his friends back over in Salford.

I was fairly despondent about years of work leading up to not much. Then I found out that the singer and guitarist (who grew up on the same street) had got in another rhythm section and were carrying on under the same name. Finding this out led to a terrible few months where I barely wanted to talk to anyone about anything. In the end, I think they played two more gigs before splitting up, though that knowledge didn’t help sate my anger/depression.

In Head On, Julian Cope talks about the sacking of Mick Finkler, the original guitarist in the Teardrop Explodes. Having spent a couple of years seeing him every day, writing songs and touring with him, he only spoke to him two more times. “Bands are like that”, he says, and he’s dead on. In the three years since I got kicked out of the band, I’ve spoken to the rhythm guitarist once and none of the others. I did hear that the singer was trying to get my phone number, but I wasn’t interested, holding a grudge being another trait of mine. Especially against those who can’t show loyalty.

Now I’m going back in to that world again. Perhaps it helps this time that I’m surrounded by people I can have a conversation with. Having someone who can actually sing fronting the band helps too. Maybe it’ll all turn to ashes again, and I know that if we ever get to the stage of playing gigs, I’ll be hidden away in a corner beforehand, crippled by nerves. But the process of writing songs remains the thrill it always was, and it gets me out of the house, right?

"Romanes eunt domus"?

Monty Python’s Life of Brian is, of course, a work of absolute genius and I heap nothing but scorn on those who disagree. I’m a bit like that, you see.

Therefore, I was keen to tune in and watch BBC4s feature-length Holy Flying Circus, a retelling of sorts of the fuss made over it on it’s release in 1979, for which we can thank George Harrison, who stumped up the cash personally to ensure it’s completion. For that alone, his post-Beatles career is more worthy than any of the other three. Ringo gets second place for narrating Thomas the Tank Engine. George had the best Simpsons cameo too.

Moving back on topic, Holy Flying Circus wasn't an entirely serious portrayal, perhaps fittingly so. Where it was accurate was having Michael Palin shown as the Nicest Guy In The World, which he obviously is, with only Dave Grohl perhaps challenging for the title. His struggles to make sense of the growing madness around him was brought into sharp relief by getting the actor portraying Terry Jones to also show up as his wife. Quite what Mrs Palin thinks of that would be interesting to know.

A lot of the key scenes were between Palin and John Cleese, who was nailed down brilliantly, albeit by an actor a tad too short (talk about nit-picking…) It was noted by the programme itself that this performance was more playing Cleese-as-Fawlty than the man himself, but I was reminded more of some of the man’s Python creations. Especially brought to mind was how his contrary attitude was like his role in the Argument Sketch*.

The rest of the team were less seen, but still well acted. Steve Punt as Eric Idle may be a bit old, but got some great lines, including one where he mentions to Tim Rice that he’d like to write a musical someday. Graham Chapman was written as a thoughtful, quiet individual, Terry Gilliam as slightly unhinged, thinking up animations. The best of these was having the Python’s thinking up jokes about Jesus to amuse Satan, though Chapman manages to cross even that line.

It all builds up to the one section with a steady basis in reality, with Cleese and Palin debating their film with a bishop and reformed pisshead Malcolm Muggeridge. As has been said many a time, the Python chaps treated the whole thing very seriously in defence of their art, while the God Squad remained condescending. In 2011 it’s easy to see them acting like a right part of bellends, but I’m not entirely certain the verdict at the time that Python "won" was as clear-cut as was made out here.

Where the film did fall down was some of the peripheral characters. Getting a bunch of oddballs to play those protesting on religious grounds seemed a bit of a cheap shot, and their "revelation" at the end was a scriptwriting cliché we could have done without. The producer of the debate show was also constantly irritating, unfortunately reminding me of the boss from the IT Crowd in every worst possible way.

*No it isn't.

Stoned Love

It’s finally happened, then. The Stone Roses will haul their creaking bones on stage at last, and bash through their significant back catalogue to hordes of 40-something men whose Joe Bloggs t-shirts and baggy jeans will need serious readjustment to fit their, ahem, more ample current frames.

Actually, I’m being a tad harsh there. I know a fair few people my own age (and younger) who’ll be hitting "redial" constantly on Friday morn, and the band themselves were a vital part of my musical education – I spent many hours learning the basslines from the first album, which still stands up to musical scrutiny.

All the same, when I think of the band as a working concern, they seem to belong to a very specific moment in time. 1989-90, to be exact. It’s not exclusive to them, of course. One of the reasons why I always reckoned Paul Weller never reformed the Jam was that they had their moment in time (77-82) and to try to recreate it in a different world would be ridiculous.

On a human level, it is nice to see that they all buried the hatchet, kissed and made up. At their peak, the band were three incredibly talented musicians fronted by a guy whose lack of vocal skills was made up by space age levels of charisma. It’ll remain a constant shame that they couldn't follow up their superb early work, due to record label issues, and that the long wait resulted in something as average as Second Coming. Despite the odd strong song (Ten Storey Love Song), the main thing I take from it now is that if the band write new material, John Squire shouldn't handle lyrics. See also: Seahorses, the.

But I’m selfish. I liked the Stone Roses to exist solely in the past, in the memories of listening to the first album for the first time and being captivated, wanting to play songs like that. I’m not sure seeing a bunch of guys knocking on 50s door is really something I want to add to my mental picture – although, to give Reni his due, he looks in really good nick.

Reading all this back, I've just come to the conclusion that the whole affair is essentially about a group of people reliving their younger days, and another group channelling that same feeling. Is it really about the music? Probably not. So that just makes me a miserable sod who should get over themselves. Arse. Ah well, there’s always the Smiths, hey?

Welcome to the Occupation

There’s an excellent post over at The Downward Spiral about the people currently engaging in the protests at Wall Street. It notes that these are people of a certain generation, the one after Generation X, that have done all they were told to: they studied hard, they went to college, only to be told "ah, there’s no jobs, no money, so…erm, hard luck."

And to give those folk over in New York and elsewhere in the world their due, they’re doing something about it. It may turn out to be a futile gesture, but there’s always the hope momentum gathers. All of which gave me pause to thought, and what I did conclude was: "Hold on, this is my generation. Those are my peers, sort of, sleeping on the streets in protest."

See, I’ve always found it hard to connect with my own age group. Growing up, the three things that mattered to me were a) football b) computer games and c) music. With the first, nobody else at my school supported my team. The second involved not needing other people, in the main, and on the third, I took my cues from friends of my dad, who wisely steered me down the route of listening to the Smiths, Joy Division and Motown. They all seemed streets ahead of whatever the NME was pushing at the time.

But anyways: thinking about the whole "Occupy" movement and the possibility of the collapse of society into a kind of Mad Max scenario, I’m sorry to say the main thought that came to my head was "fuck, how am I going to play the latest Fallout game if there’s no electricity?" and began to run through the maths of how big a windmill you need on the roof to power a 32 inch TV and Playstation. Has to be that, as it’s not like you can go down the solar power route in Northern England. That’s not right, is it? A sense of perspective is desperately needed at times such as these.

All the same, it has been fun to see how the right-wing sections of the press react to this. They seem torn between dismissing people sleeping on Wall Street as a bunch of bums who need a wash and a job, but at the same time needing to discredit them before they grow into anything a tad more serious.

Which reminds me, to return to an issue I brought up the other week, of how amused I get when I see the word "Marxist" thrown around – I’m sure it would amuse old Karl to see that some thoughts he had 150 years ago can still cause ripples of fear amongst the great and good. More amused, I’m sure, than Eric Blair would have been to see the term "Orwellian" thrown around without due care by people whose knowledge of 1984 may have been gathered from skimming the plot synopsis on Wikipedia.

Happy Engine

Possibly as a flipside of often getting easily irritated by minor things, I'm also very easily pleased. Look at that picture on the left - it's completely brilliant. The wee train has a smile and everything. I could look at that pic for ages - smiling at the happy folk disembarking: the woman with her shopping basket, holding her daughters hand, the fella with the bowling hat and another holding some flowers - is he off on a date? Who knows! But I'll spend a good 20 minutes thinking about it. It's also got that late 70s/early 80s drawing style that has a wonderful charm and innocence to it.

I found that picture on a blog of a guy who decided to visit every station on the Merseyrail network, which I also found fantastic. You can find him at merseytart.com, if you're a bit like me and can spend an hour reading about how pleasant (or not) a railway station is. I'd be half tempted to do one for the Manchester Metrolink if I had the energy. And if it wasn't for the fact that the Metrolink is expensive. And shit.

Wind Turbines Of The Mind

Because I had the sense to book Friday off work, I’m half way through the working week, which is something of a relief. During a tedious meeting discussing matters such as "corporate restructuring", the issues of which may as well be about nuclear fission as far as I'm concerned, my mind wandered. From what I remember, I went over the following:

1.
I’m a sarky fucker, a facet of my personality I’m proud enough to own up to. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit” come the words of the sanctimonious. Well, comes my response, that’s good, as a lot of the time I can’t be arsed thinking of anything too heavy, especially when I’m trying to piss you off.

2.
Clearly, black is the coolest colour to wear. This is why Captain Black from Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons is one of the top 10 style icons of all time. And if you wear a large black overcoat, then you’re automatically kick-arse, unless it’s leather, in which case you just look like Herr Flick from Allo’ Allo’ (the Punisher being the notable exception).

3.
Having picked up a copy of Tiger Woods PGA Tour 12 on Sunday, I attempted to create a version of me that could compete for the top golf prizes in the world that exists in my Playstation. Looking up from her book, the good lady noted I looked like a crazy redneck serial killer. Tragically, she was right and everytime he/I takes to the tee, I expect the distant sound of banjo.

4.
I can’t help but wonder how much I’m mellowing with age. On Sunday, while leaving to go check out Stockport Vintage Market, there was a somewhat abusive and obnoxious note pinned in the hallway from one of the other residents stating the above mentioned good lady had been amiss with her parking, ensuring others were unable to enter/exit their automobiles with ease.

Putting it to the back of mind until our return, I first checked the apparent problem. It became immediately obvious that there was enough space to park a Transit van and still have space to unload a pair of sumo wrestlers from the side door. Somewhere in my forehead, a vein twitched.

Now, ten years ago, I think I might have exploded in rage and demanded an audience with said note writer to regale them with my thoughts on their attitude, parentage and relations with their mother with a healthy dose of Anglo-Saxon. But being over 30 years old, I instead keep the blood pressure low and informed the letting agency of the incident. That’ll learn ‘em.

5.
I've no idea why I’m writing this blog. I really don’t. I only started it up because a friend started one and wanted a “follower”. I notice she abandoned the concept a long time ago, but I've stuck at it for reasons totally beyond my ken. Partly, I think, it’s to keep my hand in the whole “writing” thing until such a time comes where I feel I’m capable of doing something more constructive.

That said, I’m constantly amused when I see the far-flung places people who pass by are from, such as Russia, South Korea and India. I like to assume it’s the same person from each of those countries every time and make up little stories in my head about who they are. Unless you're one of the readers from either Australia or Canada - I know exactly what you're like...

Quiz Whizz

When the dark clouds of boredom begin to gather in my living room, I’ve recently found myself more and more looking to the Challenge channel as a source of cheap and cheerful laughs.

For those not in the know (i.e. all you bods not from the UK), Challenge seems to have taken it upon themselves to repeat the game shows of my youth. This is, of course, absolutely brilliant, as it allows us to look through a window back to a time where being on the box was something of a novelty, instead of something any lunatic can get away with. Our choice cuts include:

Bullseye
Darts-themed antics with top "comic"/racist Jim Bowen. Teams of two gathered from the country's top pubs compete for various prizes from "Bully’s Prize Board" before deciding whether to gamble on the big mystery prize, which would generally be a holiday or a speedboat/caravan. The latter has since been the subject of jokes from Peter Kay, who nicked it from a routine Frank Skinner was doing in the mid 90s. Key aspect was the reassuring tones of scorer Tony Green, a man whom David Baddiel believed was the ideal figure to sort out any international conflict, such was the calming affect he had.

Catch Phase
Presented, at it’s peak, by top "comic" Roy Walker, in which we were urged to "say what we see" from a series of badly drawn computer graphics featuring the ever-affable Mr Chips. Silver-haired fox Walker would often throw out never-overused catchphrases of his own ("Say what you see" "It’s good, but it’s not right"). Perhaps more infamous now for a animated graphic that appeared to show the robotic Mr Chips ‘buffing the happy lamp’, as they say, which can be viewed on YouTube.

Family Fortunes
Still going in crap celebrity format presented by Boltonian twat Vernon Kay – it was much better when hosted by top "comic" Les Dennis* in the late 80s-early 90s. Two family groups of five would risk eternal grudges by attempting to guess the results of surveys on various topics. The winning team would then run the gauntlet of the final round, where they could win a few grand and potentially a car that looked like a knock off version of a Ford Sierra. Often appeared as a vehicle for the host to show off his Mavis-from-Coronation-Street impression.

What I take the most from watching these is that all the members of public appear genuinely surprised to be on television, often looking at the camera from the side of their eye in a confused/nervous manner. Compare that to these days, where it appears that everyone has some kind of emotional trauma ("My dog was serving as a sniffer for the Marines in Iraq and was killed by a suicide bomber cat") that merits them being on the show and not knowing that Queen Victoria didn’t have her head cut off. They almost appear like they think they deserve to win, when if Ray and Vera won £250 on Bullseye, they considered it a "great half days work" and state "we’ve had a lovely time".

So thank you, Challenge, for reminding me of a time of bad jumpers, bad facial hair and bad beer bellies but also one where the game show was one of true human interest and entertainment. Now, I’d be grateful if you could start showing Blockbusters again, but this time at a reasonable hour.

*I’m actually being a wee bit harsh on Les here, as he showed himself to be a great sport when he appeared on Bang Bang It’s Reeves and Mortimer in their "The Club" sketch as a special guest who has to flee when Chris the Bouncer’s "fat mam" breaks loose and wants to have sex with him.

"Is a Dream a Lie If It Don't Come True?"

I first became vaguely aware of the concept of "Peak Oil" in my teens, when reading an old interview with Joe Strummer from the Clash's heyday. He informed the interviewer that there was only 70 years of oil left. So, the interview mused, 70 years to find an alternative energy source? No, said Joe, 70 years to rock and roll.

Sadly, Strummer never lived to see whether he was on the money or not but his (perhaps semi-serious) attitude seems to have been taken on wholesale by many major world governments. By all estimates I've ever seen, we've hit the peak production of oil. Much as it pains me to say, as a lover of 80s sports cars, but we're never going to be paying less than £1 for a litre of petrol ever again (non-British readers may wish to use a currency converter to compare - last time I checked it's around £1.33 per litre).

The comedian and novelist Robert Newman made an excellent stand up show The History of Oil that also worked as a documentary about our relationship with that particular fossil fuel, including an interesting angle that World War One was fought, in part, over oil supplies.

More recently, I've been reading up on a blog entitled The Downward Spiral, by some American guy who isn't Bill Hicks. Though he doesn't have the wisecracking humour of the dead comedian he isn't, he does have the same line of indignant anger at those running his country.

His blog is subtitled "A Requiem for the American Dream", which is interesting in itself, as that concept is one that often appears something of a cliche to us left behind in the old world. Being British and brought up in a land where the class structure still means something, it appeared to me that the States had just replaced that with a new breed of ruling class. Instead of essentially telling people to know their place and shut up, Americans got fed the idea that they too could one day rise to the top.

With economic hardships continuing to tighten their grip, this hack wonders whether our friends across the pond will start to raise their heads above the parapets more to question just what the fuck is going on. It may be a long road, but the man behind The Downward Spiral shows that there are voices out there. I recommend taking a read.

Taking a Chance

Anyways, so it goes like this: Gill Grissom is chasing after the Green Goblin, because the latter has been knocking up funny money in Los Angeles. All the while, the band who told everyone to "Wang Chung tonight" soundtracks matters with their own unique brand of 80s rock.

Alright, not the best synopsis. But as I've recently mentioned To Live and Die In L.A. a couple of times recently, I thought I’d jot down a few words. To surmise in a tad more detail: Secret Service agent Richard Chance wants to snare expert counterfeiter Eric Masters. Both are a bit "on the edge", as a doctor would say: Chance base jumps off bridges for kicks, Masters creates works of art, then burns them. There’s probably some kind of metaphor at work here, and you may have also spotted the symbolism with their names – Chance takes chances while Masters is a master at his work. Brilliant.

Chance’s state of mind isn't helped when his best friend and partner decides to go snooping round Master’s workshop without back up and catches a bad case of ‘Shotinheaditis’. Not that he was helping his odds by being three days from retirement and stating at the start of the movie (when he and Chance saved El Prez from a terrorist) that he’s "too old for this shit". Honestly, a bit of genre savviness could have saved everyone a lot of trouble.

Now even more unhinged and determined to catch Masters, Chance is teamed up with idealistic rookie John Vukovich, who he drags along on his increasingly desperate plays. These include leaning on his ex-con informant/reluctant lover, whom he threatens to revoke their parole unless she keeps coming up with leads.

This was seen as a return to form for Friedkin, who’d entered a bit of a slump following his 70s peak when he directed The French Connection and The Exorcist, and as he captured the feeling of a freezing New York winter, he gets a feel of a smog-ridden LA down pat. He’s also helped by two great leads: Petersen gives his character a feeling of self-belief bordering on thinking he’s invincible. After a car chase, and surrounded by armed mystery men, it seems as if the game is up for Chance: instead, he ploughs the wrong way down the motorway, much to the screams of terror from his partner.

Better still, however, is Willem Defoe as Masters. He’s in full-on creepy mode here, as a man who has no second thoughts of killing anybody who gets in the way of business. Despite that, there’s a sense of realism as he gets a few good hidings when he does try to act the enforcer, being saved by luck or his henchman.

The support cast is solid, with my particular favourite being Dean Stockwell as Masters’ sleazy lawyer. At one point, he explains he got a client off a serious charge by stating the search warrant had the house colour incorrect. He waves away this, as well as his work with a murderous counterfeiter, as "just business" that somebody else would do if he didn't. John Pankow is also great as Vukovich, the hapless agent caught up in Chance’s insanity, slowly getting in way too deep as matters move towards an inevitably messy conclusion. It’s also a bit of a shocker, one of the few times I almost jumped up in surprise from a film.

Over the weekend, I re-watched L.A. Confidential, and at times To Live and Die seems a spiritual prequel/sequel – showing the city 30 years on. The music, by Wang Chung, is certainly a far cry from Dean Martin, all harsh keyboards, crashing synth drums. They do a good enough job, with the title track especially standing out as a classic bit of 80s pop.

But mostly, to compare the two films shows how faster life got. Richard Chance seems to be constantly moving, in need of another rush. Strangely, the car chase itself appears only speedy by the nature of it’s editing: the cars themselves are bog standard saloons rather than exotic sports cars, perhaps playing on expectations after earlier sightings of Masters’ Ferrari.

As a package, it screams "1985" in the same way an episode of Miami Vice might, but manages to overcome it's period details. In fact, I'm a little surprised that it hasn't been remade. Surprised, and probably very glad.