A Purist's Apology to Sherlock

At some point over the summer my girlfriend and I went for a drink in a quiet little pub to the south of St. James' Park.  After leaving we decided to stroll through the park as it is quite lovely in the waning summer sunlight and all the tourists had gone home (plus I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the headless ghost of the lake but no such joy there).  As we crossed over the Mall toward the steps up to Haymarket, I was astonished to see some nutter on a motorcycle hurtling down said steps.  In fact I was horrified.
"What is that idiot doing?" I gasped as his bike bounced and tumbled down the steps.
"We'll go a different way," said my girlfriend, cautiously.  The motorcyclist - who even had a female passenger hanging onto his waste, the swine - disappeared around a corner.  Then he did it again!  Yet again he bounded down those steps with no regard for the safety of us or his passenger.  I was seething.  With the assumption that he'd never do it a third time I took my girlfriend's hand and carried on towards the steps.
Before I could start up them, a man in a high-vis jacket - presumably a policeman - crossed my path and stopped me.
"Sorry mate," he said.  "Can you just wait here please?"
"I'm just trying to get home." I huffed.
"Won't be a minute," said the man apologetically.
"What's going on?" I asked.  "Is it to do with that moron on the bike?"
"We're just filming something actually," the man replied.
My annoyance flipped to mild - but still annoyed - curiosity.  "Oh," I said.  "What are you filming?"
"Sherlock Holmes."
Suddenly I was not annoyed anymore.  "Wow," my girlfriend and I said simultaneously.
"He's not here," laughed the man, presumably referring to Benedict Cumberbatch.  "It's a stuntman.  If you don't mind waiting he's going to come down one more time and then you can go through."
"Not a problem," I beamed.  It wasn't the first time I'd stumbled upon the Sherlock location shoot (I was lucky to catch a glimpse of Martin Freeman running into the show's makeshift 221B a couple of years before), but I was still excited to be seeing it.
Having already learned that the third series of Sherlock was due to adapt The Sign of Four, Arthur Conan Doyle's second full-length novel starring the great detective, I instantly deduced (wink) that this scene - of Sherlock Holmes and a female companion hurtling through the London night - must be taken from that episode, as The Sign of Four is the most exciting, city-spanning nocturnal adventure Holmes has featured in, and it also introduces the character of Mary Morstan, Dr. Watson's eventual wife.  Sure, there were better stories in the Doyle canon, but The Sign of Four is unrivaled in its sheer sense of adventure.  There are locked-room murders, mysterious treks through darkened city streets, stolen treasure and a night-time boat chase along the Thames.  It has so much going on for a rather light read and I couldn't wait to see what Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss were to do with it in their modern retelling.
Fast forward six or seven months and it turns out I was wrong.  The motorcycle scene (which my girlfriend and I eagerly watched in the absurd hope that we'd ourselves turn up as blurry extras) took place in the first episode of the series - The Empty Hearse (a loose retelling of The Empty House).  It was all as enjoyable as ever, but an arrogant part of me was a little disappointed that I was wrong.  Furthermore, The Empty Hearse is a very, very loose retelling of its source material.  Beyond Holmes' dramatic return from the dead and his dispatching of how he managed to fake it, there is really nothing in common.  And that's fine - putting a fresh spin on the old classics is what makes Sherlock so popular and I love seeing how things are rejigged or reinterpreted for a modern setting.  But the stories Moffat and Gatiss have adapted in the past weren't so liberally detached from their origins - The Hounds of Baskerville was broadly a straight up adaptation with a few appropriate changes, and even The Reichenbach Fall, beyond its location change from the mountains of Switzerland to the heart of London, weaves in and out of the beats of Doyle's classic short story The Final Problem.  They take the stories in new directions, but they haven't before junked everything but the title and a few in-jokes.
I loved The Empty Hearse - it didn't matter a jot to me that it was so different because the episode really was about Sherlock's return and how he faked his death.  The rest was just, as he put it, window dressing to bulk out the 90-minute runtime.  But I cautiously assumed, with the drama of his return out of the way, that normal service would be resumed with The Sign of Three, the promised adaptation of my favourite Holmes novel.

I was wrong again.  If anything, The Sign of Three (they always tweak the title a bit) has less in common with the original than The Empty Hearse did.  There are sporadic nods to the story - though mainly only concerning names of characters who are otherwise completely unrelated to their Doyle counterparts - but once again it's a completely original story.  Where Doyle's novel concerns Miss Morstan's mysterious acquisition of priceless pearls and the strange disappearance of her father that leads to a cross-city ramble, The Sign of Three is centred primarily around Watson and Morstan's wedding (which admittedly occurs in the novel also, but only as a couple of lines at the end).  Holmes deduces the attempted murder of John's old army general during his best man's speech, and the rest of the episode is a non-linear series of flashbacks to events leading up to the wedding.  There really are no narrative beats communal of the two.
Now you may think that this is just another internet nerd rant about butchering source material by some purist.  But during my grumbled viewing of the episode, something occurred to me about myself.  The problem isn't the relaxed view the writers have taken to faithfulness - it's me, and my own expectations hindering the experience.  I sat through an entire episode waiting for it to become at least remotely familiar, and in doing so I missed a compelling, unique Holmes story that is inventive in its premise and veers between hilarious and dramatic in its execution.  Holmes as a best man, Holmes getting drunk at a stag party and stifling his own deductive powers as a result, Holmes admitting he loves dancing - that's where Sherlock is at its best; placing Holmes in situations where Doyle never thought to place him and watching him respond in his detached, inhuman way.  This went over my head as I impatiently waited to see something I've already read twenty times and seen portrayed in countless old TV adaptations.  What is wrong with me?  Last night's episode, as it finished and I retroactively admitted that it was a good one, taught me not to be such a purist and to learn to love a bold retelling - it's much better that way, and a note-for-note adaptation will never live up to the expectations of those who have read the original - I sat through innumerable awful versions of Wuthering Heights learning that.  And the episode did wrap up in a neat and clever conclusion worthy of Doyle at his finest.  Furthermore, if I have to be so superficial and ignore creativity for the sake of geek-placation, the episode did revolve around a sprawling nocturnal journey through the city - in the shape of Watson's ill-fated stag party wherein Holmes gets more inebriated than we thought possible, with hilarious consequences.  And that is a far more loving a nod to the original than any tedious, word-for-word transfer from page to screen.
Sorry Sherlock.  I'll be good next week, I promise.

My Top 10 Films of 2013

I did this last year, so I thought I'd eke in the illusion of structure to my sporadic blogging by doing it again this year.  Despite now owning two cinema memberships, and having acquired a job as a film writer for a UK geek culture website, I've been a bit lazier with the cinema this year compared to the filmicly more formidable 2012.  Either way, I've seen at least 11 films, so that's enough to compile a top 10.  Unfortunately my laziness has prevented me from including films that I'm sure should be included, and my resolution for next year is to go to the cinema more.  I lament the celebrated pictures I missed, and will surely catch them on DVD when the time comes and perhaps blog about them then.  Until then...

Byzantium
On paper, the premise 'Teenage vampire finds romance in a quiet town' should have had me running for the hills, given the precedent for such films.  But Byzantium, starring the always remarkable Saorise Ronan, is a very different, rawer animal to anything that may have sprung to mind upon reading the previous sentence.  Described by director Neil Jordan as 'Nirvana to Twilight's bubblegum pop,' the film is a visceral, perpetually eerie modern take on the quintessential British horror story with all the best tropes present and correct; spooky coastal villages, abandoned funfairs, blood 'n guts (used sparingly) and vampirism by moonlight - the way it should be.  Inter-cut with some impressive period backstory featuring Johnny Lee Miller at his most deliciously detestable, Byzantium went largely under the public radar, as most effective British horror movies tend to do.

Frozen
The prefix 'From the Makers of Wreck-It-Ralph' would put any animated flick in good stead with me, but nonetheless Frozen really took me by surprise.  An all-singing, all-dancing return to cheesy fairy tale form for Disney, the wintery adventure evokes the '90s golden age of the animation studio, placing itself alongside The Lion King and The Little Mermaid, oozing childish nostalgia despite its formidable CGI.  A great, uplifting closure for family cinema in 2013, with the rather dated, anti-feminist 'values' of its memorable predecessors revised and cleaned up (falling head over heels in love at first sight with a Prince is now frowned upon and the value of self beyond status is made a factor).  That aside, there's an hilarious, enchanted snowman who steals the show from the moment he pops up a third of the way into the flick.  Good times were had by all. 

The Hunger Games: Catching Fire
While last year's introduction to Panem and the grisly games is an underrated classic of dystopian Sci-fi, this year's sequel takes us further into the drained, war-torn districts of Suzanne Collins' young adult fiction series and the fallout of Katniss and Peeta's unprecedented double victory in the first film rears its ugly head as the driving force this time around.  The result is a sombre, dramatic and edge-of-your-seat thrill ride that even manages to squeeze in some sharp deconstruction of the falsities of celebrity culture.  Jennifer Lawrence outdoes herself with her superb portrayal of Katniss - a young woman taking a gradual turn toward the warrior society is forcing her to become, and survivor guilt plays out over every nuance of her phenomenal performance.  The final act is characteristically breathtaking, and even terrifying, as the continued build-up of the police state's anger with our young survivors promises to be even more brutal before the series is over.

Thor: The Dark World
The Marvel sequel, overseen by Game of Thrones' Alan Taylor, is a far more courageously fantasy-based entry to the comic book universe than the first Thor, and shares a fair bit with its brutal small-screen cousin.  Taylor delves deep into the visually stunning nine-realms of outer space, gives us more well-deserved time with the inhabitants of Asgard - glorified set-dressing the first time round - and devotes, as was predicted, a large amount of screen-time to the troubled relationship between noble meathead Thor and the superbly snide Loki.  Tom Hiddleston remains the runaway hit of the Marvel Cinematic Universe and there's even a surprise, riotous cameo from Captain America to whet our appetites for his forthcoming sequel.  While Natalie Portman's love interest remains surplus to requirements and Christopher Eccleston's villain is strangely underwhelming, The Dark World has enough going for it to render it a fresh, fun take on the gradually tiring comic book movie - with an Earth-bound final act set piece that is rather unexpectedly comedic in its execution, and all the more memorable for it.

Iron Man 3
Hot on the heels of 2012's phenomenal superhero team-up flick Avengers Assemble, Iron Man 3 had the rather nerve-wracking task of delivering something that could match up to that effort, but with only one superhero to play with (and to improve upon 2010's lacklustre Iron Man 2).  Thankfully, Lethal Weapon's Shane Black inherited the tetchy billionaire philanthropist and gave us a sharp, funny buddy movie that was rightly low key in comparison to what had come before.  Robert Downey Jr's Tony Stark, suffering from PTSD after his explosive New York runaround, is a more reflective and empathetic creature than previously, engaging in some wonderful two-handers with Gwyneth Paltrow, Don Cheadle and Ty Simpkins as his girlfriend, his best pal and a befriended kid respectively.  There are shades of Black's '80s cop classic (the Christmas setting and the banter between Downey and Cheadle among them) and a divisive character twist with Ben Kingsley's perceived antagonist which some have called a disservice to the (dated) source material but which is really the most inventive thing anyone has done with a comic book villain in decades.  If this is the be the last of Iron Man's solo outings, then it ended on a high note.

This is the End
Barely thirty seconds into this unexpected comedic/apocalyptic triumph, Seth Rogen (playing himself) is heckled by a passer-by in an airport lounge, who asks why he always plays the same character in every movie.  From then on the self-aware, self-deprecating nature of This is the End is set and we know we are in safe, hilarious hands.  No appearing actor is left unscathed, whether that be by the fantastical threat that threatens to impale them at every turn or by the script's own razor-sharp roasting of its non-fictional characters.  James Franco plays up his smug, artisan persona while Oscar-fresh Jonah Hill is an insufferable, self-important twerp.  There are two incredible cameos from a sleazy Michael Cera and a foul-mouthed Emma Watson (shredding Hermione Grainger to bits with every F-bomb dropped) and if the wall-to-wall laughs weren't enough, there are even some clever twists along the way.  Of course the film delves into absurdity by the end, but we wouldn't have it any other way.

The World's End
Parallels were inevitably drawn between the aforementioned This is the End and Edgar Wright's Cornetto Trilogy closer The Worlds' End, given their neighbouring release dates and similar contents, but if viewed as pond-crossing companion pieces, the two work surprisingly well as an unexpected double bill.  While This is the End frames its apocalyptic narrative with a no-holds-barred, frontal attack on Hollywood culture and excess, The World's End is an in-your-face, satirical grumble on the monopolisation of British pub culture ("Starbucking," as one character puts it) and the loss of identity in peripheral suburb towns personified by an invading force of hive-minded robots.  That, and it fully retains the trilogy's kinetic, sizzling wit and charm - with enough genre references to make a nerd's eyes bleed.  Simon Pegg plays out of left field as a thoroughly unlikeable and deeply troubled anti-hero (his most interesting role to date), while post Scott Pilgrim Wright is at his directorial best with the expanding number of inventive set-pieces and rolling, visual flair in bringing to life his small-town apocalypse.  Fast and funny, The World's End may not prove as memorable or quotable as its predecessors Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz (though it's certainly funnier than the latter), but it is the third installment the geek-friendly trilogy deserves, and its repeat value remains in full glory alongside its genre-spanning kin.

Gravity
If you'd have told me a few years ago that two hours of Sandra Bullock floating through a black void would be some of the most intense, exciting cinema ever filmed I'd probably have laughed you out of the room.  And I'd have been deeply wrong.  Gravity is an intense, unsettling roller coaster ride through space taking its simple premise by force and making better use of the 3D format (something which I have decried before) than any of its contemporaries.  Alfonso Cuaron, previously known for little more than a solitary entry in the Harry Potter film franchise, puts the audience squarely into the fold and as Bullock's Ryan Stone drags and pulls herself through darkest space in a life or death effort to return to Earth, you'll feel as though you lived through it with her.  Time will tell whether or not Gravity will fare as well on the small screen, but as 3D event cinema goes, nothing else comes close.

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug
I couldn't bring myself to include last year's An Unexpected Journey in my 2012 top 10, as despite being an enjoyable and welcome return to Tolkein's fantasy world, it just didn't cut it against the rest of what I saw that year.  It was overlong, with far too much unnecessary padding that felt to me as though the expansion from two films to three was leaving stretch marks on the franchise.  No such issue this time around, as Peter Jackson has delivered a taut, exciting fantasy film that dusts off the problems of its predecessor and is ultimately more confident in itself, more engaging and makes better use of its rather large ensemble cast.  There is a real sense of growing menace only alluded to the first time round, and yet The Desolation of Smaug never strays too far from its more youthful, jovial tone. Nor does it feel longer than necessary at any point.  New arrivals, save for charisma vacuum Orlando Bloom's Legolas, all fit comfortably into the mix and help to add more and more depth to this ever-expanding world.  Of course I'm talking about Smaug himself, the smoothest-talking dragon this side of Sean Connery in Dragonheart.  Voiced by Benedict Cumberbatch, he snatches the thunder from Sherlock pal Martin Freeman and runs the film into dreaded, fiery darkness, giving us Middle Earth's greatest ever antagonist.

Filth
Irvine Welsh's grimy, unstoppable novel about addiction, degradation and insanity gets a big screen adaptation that makes Trainspotting look like Love Actually.  James McAvoy's blistering police officer Bruce Robertson inhabits an Edinburgh without charm or optimism as he wiles away his crumbling existence by sleeping around, burying his face into piles of cocaine and suffering vivid flashbacks to a childhood trauma.  There are no punches pulled in this documentation of a fragile yet brutal man descending into depravity at both the cost of himself and those around him.  It is harrowing, arresting and darkly hilarious from beginning to end, and matches no film this year in its frank visualisation of pure, human filth.  Galleries of photocopied penises, nightmares of bestiality, cross-dressing sadomasochism and continual police brutality are all present and correct in the filthiest, funniest British black comedy in decades.

National Novel Writing Month 2013

The best thing about 2013 for me is that it will go down in my personal history as The Year I Wrote Three Novels (and one book of recycled material from this blog).  Having gone from four or so years of calling myself a writer with nothing to show for the claim, to completing three novels and getting two freelance writing jobs in one twelve month span is a humbling feeling, and I have high hopes for 2014 because of this (Okay, so I didn't write The Life and Loves of Jet Tea this year so much as finally finish it, but I'm counting it because it makes me feel better).

The Creeping Sewall, my second novel which I am yet to show anybody, bled leisurely out of me throughout the course of four or five months and was an easy, fun and at times chilling process (I wrote the scariest parts at night with the lights out, the window ajar and nothing but a couple of candles and a bottle of whisky to keep me company).  I plan to spend the early part of next year refining and redrafting it.  But I have National Novel Writing Month to thank for the third novel; something I doubt I would have started if I didn't have that challenge to push me into it.

There Is No Vampire or What Vampire? or The Highgate Vampire or The Vampire That Never Was or The Accursed Non-Vampire (I'm a little undecided on the title right now) is an idea I've had for a few years; ever since I lived around the Highgate area and grew interested in the 1970s media sensation of a vampire that supposedly lived in the cemetery (people believed it, I'm not making this up).  I thought it'd be funny to do a farcical comedy about three or four men that drink together and go from interested in the vampire legend to outright obsessed with it.  Originally I planned to make a film with an actor friend of mine in the lead role, but lack of motivation, experience and budget put that to bed, so I put it on the back burner for a future novel.  However, those of you that know me may be aware that I've been known to procrastinate from time to time; Jet Tea took me three years to write, and my subsequent works are far better.  I imagine without the knowledge of this annual event the vampire novel would still be a clatter of disconnected ideas in my brain right now.

That's where NaNoWriMo comes in.  Novel writing is such a solitary, lonely endeavour (I know innumerable actors, musicians and graphic designers but only one other novelist); it's easy for the mind to wander and, in this kindle-orientated, film-dominated world of DIY, to forget what the point of it all is.  I learned of NaNoWriMo through a friend who'd done it last year (and casually showed me up this year by writing two novels in the one month time slot as opposed to my paltry one) and instantly liked the sound of it - you've got one month, from the 1st of November, to write a novel of a 50,000 word minimum (that's about 250 pages in standard format).  Thousands of novelists all in it together, sharing stories, writer's block woes and meeting up where possible to hold 'write-ins'; communal gatherings during which everyone would sit around and type their arses off.  There's so much globe-spanning camaraderie, and the folks that run the event are relentlessly encouraging.  It got to the point where I felt physically guilty on any day I didn't work on my novel (of which there were few by the end) and having a deadline for the first time since university also gave me a creative sense of urgency; you learn after a time that your brain can subconsciously edit out filler when time is a factor, and I had ideas I'm more proud of than in anything I've previously done.

Needless to say, I made the deadline and the bragging rights I'm sure will make themselves useful in due course.  I almost wish that this sort of thing could happen every month (although I wouldn't get anything else done) as I miss being part of something, rather than some lonely little man in his dressing gown, aimlessly bashing keys and idly wondering what the point of it is.  I've got a lot to be thankful for, finishing the year with an achievement under my belt the likes of which Past Joe (you'll get that reference soon enough) never thought possible.  Roll on November 2014, I can't wait to do it all over again.

Stuff I've Done For Other People

You may notice that this blog isn't updated as regularly as it used to be.  WELL SORRY I'VE WRITTEN THREE (count 'em), THREE NOVELS THIS YEAR WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME??

*breathes*....

Anyway, this year I actually got some writing work for proper websites with more than twelve regular readers. Aint that nice?  And that's why I've written on this one a bit less.  I've still got plenty of things to say that no respectable blog would publish in even their lowest moments, so don't worry about that.  But here's a little list of things of mine other sites have put out.

For WhatCulture.com
A nerdy entertainment website that posts news about movies, TV, sport and video games.  Naturally I write about Doctor Who and comic book movies...

- Doctor Who: 5 Reasons Blink is the Modern Day An Unearthly Child
I'm proud of this because it was published on the weekend of Doctor Who's 50th anniversary, and being a comparison of the first ever episode and the most acclaimed episode of the revived series, it's almost relevant to the celebrations.

- Why Thor: The Dark World is the cinematic Game of Thrones
Something I was expecting to notice about the aforementioned comic book movie and fantasy TV series, given that they share the same director and high concentration of nerd-lore.

For BiographyUK
A history blog run by a friend of mine, which specialises in bitesize articles about British historical celebrities.  I pitch an article to her whenever I walk past a blue plaque or interesting little landmark that takes my fancy.

- John Snow: Physician (1813 - 1858)
Discovered that cholera is a waterborne disease and lived in Soho

- Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 - 1822)
Poet, husband of Mary and science nerd.

- Kitty Jay (c.18th Century)
A poor, disgraced farmhand whose grave lies on a crossroads in Dartmoor

Five Mismatched Showdowns That Would be More Entertaining Than 'Batman VS. Superman'

Anyone able to refer to their braincells as plural should know that Batman and Superman are about as equal in terms of physical strength as custard and Hobnobs. While Batman, in his latest cinematic outing, was seriously incapacitated by a fat bloke in a Goatse mask, Superman reacts to a bullet in the face like Ray Mears reacts to a light breeze.  He can prevent a plane crash with little more than a decent catch and a big enough patch of land to put it down on, and can turn men to bony-ash with a single angry stare.  In fact, in his latest cinematic outing, and indeed as the very same incarnation of the character that is due to go toe-to-toe with the Dark Knight in 2015, Superman faced who is arguably his deadliest foe, General Zod - a Kryptonian war general who is every bit as powerful as the Man of Steel but with pissed off and homicidal thrown into the mix.  And Superman snapped his neck in front of a scared family.  So while we anticipate Ben Affleck's cowled Batman fruitlessly hurling batarangs into Kal-El's laser-death-stare, here are five more potential showdowns between iconic characters that are just as hilariously mismatched.


1.  Charlie Brown VS. Megatron

Who Are They?
Charlie Brown; morose child creation of the legendary Charles Schultz, who spends his chilled winter days musing introspectively upon a grey brick wall and willfully ignoring the incoherent, trumpeted advice of his disassociated elders.
Megatron; gargantuan robotic leader of the evil Decepticons; a malevolent race of shape-changing, sentient robots from the planet Cybertron, hell-bent on monopolising the universe to their fascist will.  Has the ability to transform into either a tank, a canon or a Cybertronian jet, depending on the incarnation.


What Would Happen?
As Megatron is technically an adult due to his being several thousand years old, his threats to young Master Brown would be unrecognisably filtered through a barrage of nonsensical, muted trumpet sounds.  It would make little difference though, as while Charlie attempts to muse melancholic upon an inventive way to fell the robot overlord, Megatron would assume the shape of one of his deadly, military arsenal and blow the introverted eight-year-old to hell.  Or simply step on him.


2.  The Goonies VS. 'It'

Who Are They?
The Goonies; an intrepid band of adventurous children who can traverse perilous caverns and 'Never Say Die.'
'It'; Stephen King's literary embodiment of pure fear, incarnated famously as a sinister, child-snatching clown with Tim Curry's baritone drawl.


What Would Happen?
While the courageous Goonies are adept at venturing head first into dark places, 'It' is equally as adept at luring children into said dark places.  Remember how awestruck those kids were when they first saw that long lost pirate ship?  That just goes to show that, seldom as they may say die, they are still just kids, impressed by the sorts of things kids are impressed by.  Now what if a jolly old clown was waiting for them in that cave?  Or six clowns, carrying a tub of chocolate fudge brownie Ben 'n Jerry's the size of a rabbit hutch, while juggling pokemon?  'It' has been seen thwarting an eager child with nothing more than a paper boat and some balloons.  Yeah.  These kids won't know what hit them.




3.  Ian Malcolm VS. Anton Chigurh

Who Are They?
Ian Malcolm; sarcastic, quick-witted practitioner of Chaos Theory, often seen in black leather and shades, running away from dinosaurs.
Anton Chigurh; the towering, solitary killing machine of Cormac McCarthy's No Country For Old Men and the Cohen Brothers' film of the same name.  Exists solely to carry out his hit, which he invariably always achieves via a fatal blow to the head from a CO2 canister.  Has claimed the lives of Josh Brolin and Woody Harrelson without breaking a sweat.


What Would Happen?
While Dr. Malcolm has survived Tyrannosaurs, Velociraptors and Vince Vaughan, he has fared less well against his contemporaries on the mainland.  A zealous critic sharing the same subway carriage as the put-out doctor rendered him speechless with little more than a lazy dinosaur impression, for example.  With that in mind, should he be placed in Anton Chigurh's line of fire for whatever reason, it is likely that the only things standing between Malcolm and a sure-fire death-blow to the skull are a brisk jog and one or two snarky quips.  Chigurh would then follow up his success by taking out a Compsognathus or two, just for trying to slow him down.




4.  Anakin Skywalker (aged 9) VS. Darth Vader.

Who Are They?
Anakin Skywalker; nine-year-old Tatooinian slave boy, fond podracer and pioneer of the terms 'yippee' and 'wizard', destined to become a seven-foot, leather-clad, murdering space Nazi.
Darth Vader; seven-foot, leather-clad, murdering space Nazi who can strangle people to death from the other end of the room and who dislikes talking about his childhood.


What Would Happen?
Time travel has yet to be employed as a narrative device in the Star Wars universe, but with Lost and Star Trek's JJ Abrams helming the next installment, it can't be far off.  Put out by the damage The Phantom Menace has done to his all-powerful, ominous reputation, Lord Vader finds a way to travel back to his own beginnings.  Several days before the Jedi arrive in Mos Espa to liberate young Skywalker and set about inadvertently causing their own extinction, the adult Vader turns up with the intention to take out his snotty, irritating young self.  Vader has no qualms about the damage this may do to the space-time continuum, as blinking himself out of existence by employment of the Grandfather Paradox would be the lesser of two evils when compared with spending the rest of one's life being intermittently reminded what an obnoxious little twerp you used to be.  Baby Anakin, being unknowingly skillful with the force, would hold his own for a surprisingly longer time than you'd assume, but his geeky piloting skills ultimately get him nowhere against a swift burst of force lightning finished off with a heavy air-choke.  As Vader begins to fade from existence, akin to Marty McFly's picture in Back to the Future, he thinks to himself; 'And now Hayden Christensen will never happen either,' which can only be a good thing.


5.  Buzz Lightyear VS. Pazuzu

Who Are They?
Buzz Lightyear; sentient toy spaceman and proud owner of retractable plastic wings.
Pazuzu; omnipotent body-hopping demon of Exorcist fame.  Can materialise wherever it chooses and can mimic any person, living or dead.  Has harassed efficient priests to death and is champion of Satan's Hellish Horde, if he isn't in fact The Devil Himself.


What Would Happen?
The jury is still out on just how sinister the motive for the Toy Story toys' sentience is, with some even citing the magical ether from Pixar's Brave as the force behind their waking life.  Nonetheless, the ability to freeze upon the approach of an excited child somewhat pales in comparison to Pazuzu's knack for invading and desecrating the minds of even the most morally pure of human beings.
Buzz, being himself possessed by a fantastical force, may well already be aware of Pazuzu's festering presence, and as such would likely rally his band of plastic misfits together to conjure up a plan to stop him.  Unfortunately, Rex's gradually improving dinosaur roar and Buzz's ability to pretend to fly do little to hinder the efforts of a non-corporeal entity that can exact brutal punishment from the safety of a tangent realm.  Well-meaning toys are either flung helplessly to the wall or flattened by moving furniture while Buzz ineffectually fires his LED laser beam at various, empty corners of the room in a vain attempt to vanquish the unseen demon.  As a final insult, Andy's mother, entering the horrific bedchamber through panicked curiosity, is immediately possessed by Pazuzu and amidst an inhuman screech of unrepeatable profanity, Buzz's petrified head is forced violently into an orifice that it will never recover from.  You've got a friend in me, indeed.

Morrissey: 'Autobiography' Review

For many sullen, bequiffed teenagers and '80s indie pop stalwarts, this week has been a long time coming.  The autobiography of the elusive and oft-morose Smiths frontman Morrissey has finally been unleashed on a suspecting public, and suffice to say it was worth the wait.

Admittedly, Steven Patrick's earlier, pre-fame years make for a more fond and engaging read than his later life bemoaning video shoots, the tabloid's prolific use of the 'Heaven Knows he's Miserable Now' headline and the infamous court case, but that's not to say the tome in its entirety isn't a touching, hilarious and deftly-scribed memoir; a music biography that will doubtless grow in time to warrant its pretentious front cover, and is a refreshing cut above the likes of Being Jordan, or indeed any of the lightly-researched journalistic biographies churned out in place of Morrissey's own over the years.

His early years recall damp Manchester backstreets, northern working-class oddballs and hellish schoolmasters decaying in cold, shadowy classrooms.  If Charles Dickens had been born in 1960s Salford, perhaps David Copperfield would have read similarly.  Autobiography is subtitled by the suitably incongruous photograph of a smiling baby Morrissey in sunglasses, but the childhood recounted is signposted by myriad family deaths, introverted indifference and constant fear of the purgatorial classroom, while the path to Smiths glory is weaved through biting, hilarious and unmistakably Mozzean turns of phrase, whether it be describing his unadventurous palate as 'A working class host of relentless toast' (rhyme intended), or 'Turn(ing) a thousand corners without caring'.

As the legendary singer grows into adulthood, the slightly dubious nature of some aspects of the memoir begin to become apparent, particularly the characterisation of some of the pivotal players in his professional life.  Rough Trade staff, particularly Geoff Travis, appear as comic sidekicks plucked from one of Moz's beloved Carry On films while, amusingly, David Bowie pops up intermittently to ask pointless questions and showcase his impressionable carnivorousness - surely one of the least cliched depictions of the living legend.

Nevertheless, the mostly present-tense syntax is exquisite, even during the most bitter of recollections, and lilts along with all the poetic grace of his Smiths lyrics.  It is with this in mind that the decision to write without chapters is understood.  Often the memoir will blindside the reader with an atypical deviation from the observational misery and celebrity anecdotes; lengthy, prosaic analyses on 1960's television and the explosion of androgyny in the rising punk movement manage to never feel superfluous, and a surprising, post-Smiths account of a supposed paranormal encounter on the dark Yorkshire Moors is nothing short of chilling.  Foreknowledge of the author's lyrical themes and interests would likely benefit the reader during these diversions, as they are befitting his disposition for the bleak, the beautiful and the darkly funny sides of English life.  His observations are as removed and baffling as one would expect, as he describes everything from moshing ('Some heads are squashed, some aren't') to the fallout of 9/11 with an unmatched sense of societal alienation which only increases as his celebrity does.

The only laborious section of the book comes in its latter half, as Morrissey issues a lengthy account of the infamous Mike Joyce royalty court case; an account that almost matches the entire life of the Smiths in terms of page count.  One wishes that a sterner editor could have been on hand to trim the largely repetitive, spiteful indignation offered here, although it is quite clear that the author intends this to be the key focus of the book, being as it is continually referenced and foreshadowed throughout.  This is unfortunate as many of what fans perceive as the most defining stages of his life are briskly breezed through in favour of the self-justifying rhetoric Morrissey seems to revel in when making his own defense.

The decision to release the book under the Penguin Classic umbrella - a format usually reserved for the likes of Dickens, Austen and Kafka - has been met with some derision, specifically as Morrissey is the first living author to have released a book this way.  But, as aptly quoted on the reverse, he has seemingly achieved the legendary status that most songwriters don't find until death, standing alongside Bob Dylan, the aforementioned Star Man and few others in that respect.  Furthermore, to his most die-hard fans, Autobiography is already something of a classic; as it was some years ago that the man himself claimed that the book would probably never see the light of day, due to its relentless, inherent bitchiness.  It is true that few beyond his closest friends and family (and, tellingly, his current band) come out unscathed; although bygone brother-in-arms Johnny Marr seems to be granted a distant, begrudging respect.  At times his hard-done-by righteousness can be fatiguing, given that the man can seemingly do no wrong beyond his modesty in the face of mass adoration and the odd, harmless act of endearing clumsiness (losing a job for throwing a cheque away on account of not knowing what it is makes for a laugh-out-loud anecdote).  Surely he hasn't passed his fifty-plus years on this Earth without being the bad guy at least once?  Fans may be quick to accept this but it must be remembered that Moz has had a lot to salvage in recent years; with his media-portrayal as the villain in the royalty case, the NME's libelous claims of racism and the ill-received comments stemming from his animal protectionism.  Autobiography's release certainly seems conveniently timed.

Ultimately, readers non-versed in Morrissey's prolific, bittersweet brand of deprecating humour may come away from Autobiography a little put off by all the complaining and hubris, while fans will almost certainly close the book to a renewed sense of admiration and appreciation of their big-mouthed idol.  A Katie Price-esque series of follow ups seems unlikely, which is a shame because Autobiography is just the sort of funny, melancholic and beautifully crafted memoir that the saturated genre needs more of.

Whisky