Nine

It was with hungry anticipation that I went to the Odeon, Leicester Square to see Rob Marshall's new musical film, Nine, and I was happy to fork out the steep £14 for the ticket. I loved Chicago, and was delighted to see the musical film making a classy comeback. Could he possibly improve on Chicago? The trailer suggested that this was highly likely.
I couldn't have been more wrong. I was utterly disappointed with Nine, and left the cinema in a rage.
Now, I wouldn't call myself a feminist. Its a term that has earned its place in history, but it still holds separatist undertones for me. I am certainly an egalitarian though...unlike Mr. Marshall, apparently.
Nine is a story that revolves around Daniel Day Lewis, a feted Italian film-maker. To call him a total cad is an understatement. He is a completely self-absorbed, chauvinistic narcissist, totally wrapped up in his own issues, and oblivious to the hurt he is causing around him. Practically every woman in the film is "in love" with him, though he is not emotionally available to any of them. Nonetheless these overly submissive, weak women hang on every rare scrap of attention that he throws them. Its pathetic...they are pathetic. None of them stands up for themselves. They all tolerate his callous cruelty and go running back for more.
Spare me, bitches!
Daniel Day Lewis is an actor who should not sing and dance. Period. He has a poor singing voice and his "dancing" is self conscious and awkward - so he will probably get an Oscar.
The musical numbers, in themselves, are very watchable but they are cliched, sexualised Fosse-esque romps and I have seen it all done before, only better. They do little to advance a rather flimsy plot - the salvation of Day Lewis' tortured "artistic" soul.
Marshall would do well to revisit the canon of great films that changed the landscape of musical cinema. He could start with West Side Story and Cabaret, musicals that have left and indelible mark on the history of the moving image, rather than a nasty stain that no amount of scrubbing will remove, which is what Nine is. These films offered innovation in song and dance and visionary narrative devices. They were groundbreaking achievements that elevated the human spirit. Nine might be summed up with another cliche - "...all fur coat and no knickers." It is cheap and derivative yet masquerades as self-satisfied brilliance.
On a positive note, Fergie gave a wonderful performance. Her character was fascinating because she made it so. It had depth and soul and she played it with complete aplomb.
Thank God we live in an age of free downloads and don't always have to pay for dross that we kind of want to see. I was duped by "Nine" and if it were an expensive meal, I would send it back to the kitchen and leave the restaurant without paying.

The Falling Man

I have finished my first term at Photography college and have learnt an incredible amount already, not only about how to take better pictures, but also how to read images. Its a fascinating subject and I have inundated myself with biographical books about photographers and their lives. Also, of course, I am devouring tv programs and films on the subject.
I recently watched an incredibly moving documentary on Channel 4's online site, 4od, which shows that a single image really does speak more than words: The Falling Man.
A single image, captured on the horrific day of 9/11, was published only once and to me it has become the iconic image that captures the magnitude of the terror. As you can see though , the image is also strangely beautiful. The man, one of many who jumped from the World Trade Centre, rather than face a lingering incineration, looks almost balletic and serene as he plunges to his death. The composition is perfect. The Light and Shadow are split through the middle of the frame by his position in the centre. The parallel lines of the World Trade Centre increase the sense of vertigo...and yet there is a quiet, deathly calmness to the shot.
The photograph was printed in one newspaper on Sept 12th 2002 and led to an angry backlash from the American public, who felt that the image was too graphic and that it demeaned the victims. It was simply Too Much. It was never published again, and furthermore, from that point onwards, there was a concerted political effort to deny the fact that so many people jumped to their deaths from the ill-fated Twin Towers.
But thankfully the picture has survived to tell the truth about the day that forever changed America, and in a small way serves as a permanent monument to the life of the unfortunate subject, and to the fact that a single photograph can send shock waves around the globe.

The Oldest Job in the World...

...apart from prostitution, must be Advertising.
I've just returned from Rome where I was shooting a commercial for a well known German bank. And boy was it a hard job to get! After the initial interview I waited a month to be told I was shortlisted and had to do a call back. Two weeks later, after no small amount of to-ing and fro-ing, I was told I had the job. KA CHING!!
You'd swear they were casting Hamlet though, with the amount of time, energy and money that they ploughed into casting a role that basically anybody could play...well, any actor at least. This time the Gods smiled on me and I fitted the bill...but it took an untold number of rejections from other commercial castings, to reel this one in.
The amount of money, for less than a days work was wonderfully stupid and the five star sojourn to Rome was a welcome diversion.
The job was mind-numbingly simple. I basically had to pretend to be hit by a collander and fall over. No dialogue. No sweat.
Piece of proverbial Piss.
Meantime, I am back in London and rehearsing a play on the fringe. I will be paid a £500 fee (plus a share of any potential profit at the end) for four weeks rehearsal and a four week run. I couldn't be more excited or challenged. There are only two of us in the play. The work is difficult, nerve wracking...and brilliant, like nothing I've done before. Its a manic piece with dialogue that fires like bullets. No room for pause, and certainly no room for error. As usual I'm freaking out a little...will I be ready? Will i know my lines on time? What if nobody shows up? What if they hate it? But I am experienced enough now to put these insecurities in their proper place ie...in a box under the bed, and the better part of me is certain that this will be very special piece of life-affirming, contemporary theatre, to be witnessed by a select and fortunate few.
Happy Days.

Dana Popa

As a single image this photograph is engaging and evokes a strong feeling of despair. It is, however, a clichéd image, seen many times before:
“Sad young woman looks through a window at a cruel world.”
The image is technically accomplished with a simple yet effective use of colours - yellow, blue and grey. The photograph is structurally conventional, obeying the rule of thirds in its positioning of the subject.
The pattern of rain on the young girl’s t-shirt echoes the sadness that is inherent in the image, crying the tears that are beyond the expression on the girl’s face.
The bars on the window give the impression that the girl is imprisoned and fragmented. Furthermore, there are frames within the Frame, reinforcing this impression. The decaying wood suggests a further dreary cliché of gritty moral decay. The low perspective hints that this girl is somehow out of reach and beyond salvation and the photographer somehow conveniently steps aside leaving the 'captured' woman and the viewer in an uncomfortable stand-off situation.
This, however, is not a standalone image. Dana Popa's exhibition (Not Natasha - currently at the Profusion Gallery in Brixton) is a composite entity attempting to document Moldovan sex trafficked women and so none of the images truly stands alone.
The above picture feels posed, as do most of the images in the show and there are no decisive moments. Nothing is spontaneously captured. Nothing simply observed, reported and documented. All is created and posed, to fit with Popa’s pre-conceptions. She has manipulated the situation for her own artistic and commercial gain. (Her book retails at £14.95.)
Her photographic motives are more important than her subjects and she has let these people down by portraying them only as victims. Ironically, she objectifies these women by depicting only part of their story. The photographs, quite deliberately, show a complete absence of hope and joy that is difficult to believe. These women have, after all, survived, yet their strength is nowhere to be seen. Popa has skewed her photographic story too far towards a contrived victimhood and further exploits the exploited

Noodles

The island of Penang is widely acknowledged as one of the finest destinations in Southeast Asia, with outstanding beaches, exotic sites and food that is worthy of Paradise. Malaysia on the whole has an integrated racial culture of indigenous Malays, Chinese and Indians. The muslim Malays hold most of the power and privilege. The Chinese, for the most part, are money oriented. They keep their heads down, work hard and Capitalise and you will not find a more family oriented race than the (predominantly Hindu) Indians who have a traditional system of respect for others that is sometimes detrimental to their own well being.
I am holidaying here in "the Pearl of the Orient." It is the fourth time I have visited in the last sixteen years with my Malaysian-Indian friend and I love it more and more each time. You can truly slow down and relax and with a relatively stable Pound being the equivalent of six Malaysian Ringit it is possible to be a bit splashy with the cash for a short while. The Ringit has almost the same local spending value as our Sterling pound has here.
Of course there is plenty to see, from Thai and Burmese temples with large reclining buddhas, Hindu extravaganzas and time-honoured Chinese festivals to butterfly farms, tropical fruit gardens and ancient Pagodas (tiered religious towers.)
Like any nation, Malaysia has its fair share of crime, not least its part in the international child-traffiking trade, but from my experience on the ground I think its fair to generalise that Malasians are a mild mannered and considerate people who do their best to live in harmony, despite the many differences between the three races here.
They also have a direct and gentle sense of humour. Shortly after I showered yesterday in my hotel, I attempted once again to go online in the reception area. (Internet connection is not one of Malaysia's strong points.) Whilst trying to help me crank-start the computer (using cogs and steam!!) my grinning young chinese accomplice commented: " You funneeee!"
"Why am I funny?" I piqued.
He giggled.
"Yoh hair is like noodles!"

"Improve Your World"

British Gas has had a number of marketing slogans. Among them: "Don't you Love Being in Control?"
Hmmnnph!

Their current mantra: "Improve Your World!"

I await the arrival of British ("Doing the Right Thing") Gas to install a meter-key for the electricity in my friend's apartment. They say they will arrive between 8am and 2pm.

Yeah, right!

Already, between us, my friend and I have squandered fifteen hours and forty-six minutes waiting for British ("Saving You Money!") Gas.

The installation was supposed to happen three weeks ago but they just didn't show. So they rescheduled for yesterday. The noddy driving the van pulled up outside the apartment, called my pal, phone went to voicemail and so off he went on his merry way.

Numbskull Noddy didn't think to ring the doorbell.

Hence my current shift.

Don't they have a cheek though?

"You just wait there for six hours - we could come at any time. Don't go to work. Don't pee. Don't call us. We certainly won't call you. Don't put your phone down for a second. Above all, DO NOT continue with your life!

Oh, and IF we grace you with our presence, YOU will pay for the parking and the privilege."

Will British Gas ("Energy, Efficiency, Advice") give me back these precious hours as I lie, expiring, on my deathbed?

Will they feck?

Sigh....

British Gas - Pissing. Me. Off!

Vivien, Lady Olivier

The Prince Charles Cinema is the only gig in town.

I go there often, usually to catch up on films I missed when they were mainstream, and films I wouldn't dream of forking out the full-blown London price for, but kind of half want to see.

If you are a lifetime member, as I am, you get a discount on the (already discounted) ticket prices.

More importantly, they show older movies that you rarely get a chance to see on the big screen. Recently I had the pleasure of introducing a friend to the Elia Kazan classic A Streetcar Named Desire (1951). Of course Brando, as Stanley Kowalski, gives a fearsome, mind-blowing perfomance and wow...that body... but for me it is Vivien Leigh, thinly masking her delusions of grandeur and alcoholism, who shines brightest. In Blanche Dubois she gives a truly frightening masterclass in acting.

I know it's cliched and queer, but I relate to Blanche's heroic but desperate search for a place to call her own, to her battle for independence and security in a wolf's world and, at the same time, to her neurotic need for a protector in the face of devastating personal circumstances. All of this resonates in my mind with the triumphs and tragedies of Leigh's own life. Most notably her two Best Actress Oscars (Gone With the Wind & Streetcar,) the relentless grip of her manic depression and her premature demise, aged 54, from tuberculosis.

An actor's life is what it is. There is "success" and "failure" on every rung of the ladder. Elia Kazan said of Vivien that " she'd have crawled over broken glass if she thought it would help her performance."

So would I.

It Shoulda Been Me

I went to see Jude Law the other night in Hamlet. As a "resting" actor myself, I think it was quite evolved of me to go and see this hugely successful, stupidly handsome and wealthy man playing the ultimate role. To play The Dane , after all, is every actors dream. Myself included. I was willing Jude to be dreadful and for a short while he obliged, at least in my mind. He started off being very sulky with his mum. She kept trying to attract his attention in their opening scene, but he kept turning away from her, melodramatically. "Poor frail woman," I thought. "Cut her some slack, Jude."
La Law came at the part like a Juggernaut. Sometimes splashing in puddles of emotion and occasionally channelling Kenneth Brannagh, with painfully elongated vowels, I initially thought he sawed the air too much with his hands, thus.
"Stop that, Jude. You've got a whole two hours ahead and a big speech on the nature of performance, so take it easy, fella!"
By about the third or fourth scene I was actually paying attention to the other actors. Polonius was the best I have ever seen (not that I have seen many.) He came across as a man doing his best, as a caring father and so on, but, unfortunately....an imbecile. Before long I am forgetting that Jude Law is Jude Law. Forgetting my resentment. Forgetting how much better I would be playing the part. Forgetting I am in the theatre. The production and the story takes over and Jude gets better and better (as do his ensemble.) Even a saccharine Ophelia eventually redeems herself when she faultlessly plays dead.
The production is stunning and Hamlet's "To be or not to be" speech floats and falls like snowflakes over us, his rapt groundlings. Hats off to the guy.
Jude nailed it...the fecker. Completely unforgivable. It shoulda been ME!

In a few days time, I leave for Bulgaria to say five (count 'em) lines in my first speaking role in a movie. Two scenes as the camp make-up artist of a lookalikes agency. The movie is an adaption of a popular Bulgarian novel, and will most likely be successful there, and at some select festivals. It has a remote chance of making an impression on the international film market but I am assured it is a step in the right direction. We live and hope! Who knows, maybe one day I too will channel The Dane.