FoolishPeople

Cut the Crap, Dammit!

Indulge me, friends, for I feel I need a spot of textual spleen-venting. I had decided that tonight's article was going to be a cool and edgy affair, offering up a well-crafted, informative overview of something profoundly important like...the Languid Death of the Arcade Scene in Clacton-On-Sea. Or somesuch.

But bugger that. My usual Thursday-night musings, taking place as they do in tandem with the considered sipping of a cool beer, inside a blissfully empty workplace, were dashed as I realized Letchworth's very own Jazz Appreciation Club were gracing me with their cacophonous, oxymoronic presence.

Now don't get me wrong, I happen to like jazz as much as the next man. If that man is John Lydon. As soon as I popped the lid off my sherbert, my eardrums were being rudely jostled about by seemingly endless variations of the same four songs. These people seem to enjoy it, however. Pointlessly noodling basslines which have no influence whatsoever on how fast the rabid drummer plays, utterly failing to mesh with six blokes simultaneously stamping on their trumpets is not really for me, I say when pressed by men with crazy fixed smiles. I had, I was enthusiastically assured, obviously missed the ferocity of Miles' playing! And the unfathomable time-changes! And that seven-minute hi-hat solo! Didn't I think that freeform stuff was fantastic?

All I heard was spittle against brass. Cars smashing into each other at high velocity. My ear canals filling with blood. And freeform!? That's just the polite way of saying no-one in the band has got a fucking clue what anyone else is doing! It's the sound of sheer desperation, cruelly pressed into vinyl and flogged as 'out there' 40 years ago. In short, no, no, no. And NO, YOU BLOODY PREPOSTEROUS BUFFOONS.

I was thinking about tying all this in with something about some games being similarly disjointed and bile-inducing, like Enter the Matrix, or some of EA's Bond efforts. You know, how a general lack of focus and cohesion can leave a game flailing about like a freshly de-hooked Trout, and stinking like one. How some developers can cram too much into a game and the whole thing can sink under its own massive ineptitude, like True Crime: Streets of L.A.. That maybe quality, not so much quantity, should be top banana in developers' minds.

But I think I'm going to leave it at that. I feel a bit tired - I tend to shout and gesticulate as I write - so I'm going to have a quiet lie down with some nice relaxing My Bloody Valentine. I'll wipe all the spit from my moniter tomorrow.

Quentin Sucks :o(

Kill Bill Vol2 Review….BAD! Quentin Tarantino you stink.

You build me up and up into a state of amorous infinity and then you drop me down like a bag of constipated rhino shite (which, I should imagine, is very heavy).

I’ve spent precisely three days in a state of terminal mourning after seeing Vol2 on Friday, unable to smile at small children, pick flowers on a sunny day or simply to enjoy Sunday morning mass, life just doesn’t feel the same anymore. The twinkle of anticipation has left my eye only to be replaced with a big ol’ cist of disillusionment.

I loved you Quentin, the way you so beautifully captured the depravity of the human soul, let loose the restraints of taste and decency and replaced them with overblown gestures of unyielding brutality. The visually outstanding film that drops jaws, the witty, lightning speed and sharp as a razor’s edge dialogue melded by soundtracks so iconic they set the pace for the film within the first bar of the opening credits and continued to add shameless degrees of irony throughout the film. It all seemed so far away as I walked the lonely walk home.

Two fingers up to you Quentin for making me love you so.

Forgive me, I’m becoming emotional…

Vol 1? A good movie, stunning cinematography edited with pin point accuracy to coincide with the soundtrack, who here remembers the atmospheric changes with light, colour and sound that came with one blink of The Bride’s eye as she fought The Crazy 88? Just the stuff anyone who knows Tarantino looks forward to. Ooh and the beautiful scene in the snow with Lucy Liu?

But that just wasn’t there this time. Following Vol 1 I was certain Vol 2 would be the better film, so positive of it, call me a foolish person, tee hee, but I convinced myself that the second part would contain the stellar kind of acting, supplied by Michael Madson and Carradine, that the first half was lacking. Let’s face it, Uma Thurman, love her style think she probably had a great creative influence on the character but not a show stopping performance, unlike ex-husband Ethan Hawke in Taking Lives which I saw yesterday and have to say…bravo old chap, anyway, I digress. Vivica Fox & Lucy Liu both were ok but no stand out performances there either (and it’s not like they’re not capable of it either* see LL in Cipher).

Maybe I set myself up for a fall or maybe this is more of an underachiever than Jackie Brown, either way I don’t want you to loose the magic Q.T, because it’s so special and rare. Shrug off the wankers accusing you of ripping off other films, you never pretended otherwise, from the start you told us you wanted to make a movie like the ones you grew up with, I just wish you hadn’t have left your own touch out so completely.

In short; it should have been one film. The content of Vol 1 lacked the content of Vol 2, and the content of Vol 2 lacked the content of Vol 1. Please don’t tell me you put your ego above the overall film because you thought what you had shot couldn’t be lost? Noooo Quentin, should have got a shit hot Editor and made it one movie. Sob. God the tears are welling again.

Gutted. It was just bland, bland, bland. Mortified and still in shock.

It was like watching a John Woo movie, i.e. (for me) bog standard action.

PGR2 Makes Turismo Eat Dust

Fed up with Gran Turismo's superiority complex when it comes to driving games? After something just a little more - dare I say it - fun? Then grab yourself a copy of Project Gotham Racing 2 and you'll find that authenticity needn't be sacrificed for accessiblity.

Technically the third installment in the series (after Metropolis Street Racer on the Dreamcast and PGR on Xbox), PGR2 hasn't simply been valeted and polished, its engine has been tuned, the suspension has been tweaked and had other mechanical metaphors bestowed upon it so that it drives like a dream.

Graphically the game really encroaches on true photorealism. Shadows dance realistically over car bonnets, tracks and roads glisten in the midday sun and cities are recreated with painstaking attention to detail. Racing through the centre of Washington D.C., for instance, you'll find yourself gawping at the Whitehouse as it flashes by, probably causing you to smash into an upcoming barrier. Replays blur the line between game and reality still further. Bizzare Creations has given us a beautiful looking game.

However, the strides made by PGR2 in the visual department also give rise to a small niggle. As characteristic and atmospheric as the locales are, it does feel at times as though you're driving through a ghost town. The streets are deserted - understandable at midnight, but it jars a little during daytime settings. This is PGR2's own fault. It looks so realistic that you can't help but feel there's (admittedly, a little) something missing.

PGR2's core is its Kudos Challenge, which drives you on through the game. There are five difficulty settings, giving the game a finely balanced learning curve. Whilst it is murderously arduous at times, you'll find yourself wanting to complete each challenge with as much style and skill as possible. Doing so gleans ever more kudos, allowing you to go to the (slimy salesman-free) showroom and purchase a newer, shinier car. Without you realising it, the game coaxes the best out of you, egging you on through the stages.

This is all helped, of course, by PGR2's brilliantly implemented handling. Flying through a corner on two wheels whilst maintaining the racing line is truly exhilarating. Challenges and races become a question of timing - the most delicate squeeze of the brakes can be the difference between the satisfying 'tick' of mounting kudos or the profanity-inducing 'BONNNG' when car meets corner head-on. Despite there being 102 models on offer each and every car has its own subtle nuances, which means some will be better suited to a challenge than others.

Unfortunately, though, there is still no damage in the game. This isn't Bizzare's fault; more the manufacturers'. Porsche, Ferrari and the rest don't want their cars depicted as being fallible. Being involved in an eight car pile-up at 120 miles per hour shouldn't involve a mere broken headlight and a jaunty-angled wing-mirror, and again it's only due to PGR2's excellence overall that this stands out as detrimental. Still, it would be nice to drive a rival off the road and have him/her stay off...

Next time Gran Turismo's garage is opened up, where once there sat the flashiest and most powerful supercar of driving games, all that will be found is a burnt out shell with the words 'Lighten up a bit, yer stuffy git' sprayed on the side in bright red paint. PGR2 is not afraid to incorporate some good ol' arcadiness into its driving sim', and as a result has Gran Turismo 4 with some catching up to do if it wants its 'Best Driving Game' crown back.

The Joy of Sacks

Bank holidays are coming round again, and I chose to spend my last one beneath canvas with some friends. (They had their own canvas, I hasten to add!). We went camping. What fun, images of lashings of ginger beer, funny life stories, dogs playing and running in circles, breathing in that fresh air. Aye, real food for the soul, getting back to "mudder nay-cher". Though anyone who has ever been camping will know this is rarely the reality. I have had my fair share of camping nightmares (don't talk to me about those pesky scottish midges, who all seemed to take their vacation to the same camp site as me near Loch Lomond a couple of years back.... I am to this day cleaning their sad little remains from my tent, sleeping bag, shoes, socks, my ears. I'm sure some even made it into my brain. It would explain a lot).
Anyway, on this Bank Holiday I managed ok; but each night as I tried to unwrap myself within my cocoon-like sleeping bag enough to at least breathe, I thought to myself "What am I doing?". I love being outdoors, walking, cycling, just being at "one" with nature (except midges), but really I think I'm quite a home bird, sad though I am to admit it. After a day out there, I need a hot bath, some warm carpet to walk on, dry shoes to walk in. Lights. A toilet which flushes, and has a door. Something soft to lay on. Somewhere to put my clothes. Somewhere to sit down without having my neck at 90 degress to the rest of me. At the risk of sounding soft, I'm not sure I much like those negative aspects of camping... being woken up in the night by a couple having loud sex in an adjacent tent (if you are already asleep when this starts, perhaps at a festival, it can sound like they are doing so in YOUR tent. A very wierd experience). Camping makes people snore like they have a drill bit in their noses. I'm not keen on having wet feet for two weeks, hearing the relentless popping of the rain on the canvas (though this can be very soothing also... less so at 3am I've found); having to stand on my soggy shoes as I try to put my (fairly) dry underwear and jeans on after taking a tepid shower (for £3 in 20 pence pieces, inserted every 20 seconds - otherwise the "heating" goes and you REALLY find out what cold water on already goose-pimpled flesh feels like) in a brick shower block, which even the cows wouldn't use for refuge. Laying there in the middle of the night, hearing the wind and feeling it tease your tents' pegs out the ground, with a tone that suggests "I could send you and your little patchwork of shiny flimsy fabric flying you know if I wanted". And how does your bladder know you're not at home? And why does it send out a "full, empty me now alert" when you have JUST got almost comfortable, it's started raining, and the last time you saw your shoes, a rabid dog was chewing them and feeding the parts to her puppies.

I think camping is great if you are a couple, for it can be a lovely experience, or at least an ordeal to overcome together. You can crouch together and cook exciting things on a throw-away barbeque ("look honey I made you some baked beans in an old cup - it took me 2 hours and I used 3 cannisters of gas, but you're worth it"!). Though having said that, it can be a test of a relationship. There's no sleeping on the couch if you fall out with your other half during the day (or night), and even the most understanding significant other tends to loose tolerance when it collapses in on itself in the night and SOMEBODY didn't put any batteries in the BLOODY TORCH.

Personally I can't wait to go again.

PS. Can't wait for the play John... how exciting! :o)

Emotion Monkey

Words friends, family and colleagues use to describe me;

Unflappable
Level Headed
Analytical
Objective….etc.

Which I can sort of see, and understand that it’s quite a big compliment.

At home I’m very passive, I don’t like to have arguments when unnecessary and I certainly try my best to be objective when presented with a situation that needs consideration from, not just my view point but other’s too.

I remember when I worked very long hours indeed, being incredibly stressed and tired, I’d go home and watch very late and very obscure T.V. One night on Channel Load Of Old Crap there was some iffy new-age-type bloke talking about what kept him level headed in stressful times; by picturing all the thoughts and commotions affecting you as electric rhythms on a black screen, dangerously zig zagging erratically up and down. Then, while still concentrating, smooth them out into straight lines. Literally with your mind either pull them until they’re tight and straight or (my preferred method) push them out.

God this sounds really wanky, but it’s very similar to some meditation methods, and I got it, that’s really the main thing….I immediately understood what he was saying.

So I embraced the method (let’s call it Withered Anatomical-Nerve Kinetic Elucidation Effigy or WANKEE) and became a practiced master, now nothing can phase me professionally and very little domestically.

For example; Stupid man treads on my toe in a rush to push in front of me when at a till in a store, then turns looks at me and sneers, just for effect. Deep breath, breathe out slowly picture black screen and electric green franticly zig zagging line, close eyes and push the line smooth, deep breathes and relax. Realising that there are simply much more pressing things to concern me, this man no longer bothers me or wastes my energy.

Another Example; Somebody strikes a real sore point, something you’re very sensitive about or upsets you or treats you like shit enough to give you feelings of anger, and abandonment. Deep breathes, close eyes big black screen with three frenzied lines all over the place, smooth them out one by one, slowly compose yourself and get through it.

Last one; At work, everybody’s pissing you off, your colleagues are shit, your clients are fuckheads, the job isn’t worth the stress, the world sucks and it’s population wants you to have done all their fucking work…yesterday. You guessed it there’s fucking multi coloured and multi faceted lines all over the fucking place up and down criss crossing getting knotted, the lot. Sort it out and you get a peaceful mind which can deal with any obstacle.

However, the problem arises when somebody says ‘you really should talk about your feelings’.

‘What?’

‘Feelings?’

‘Sorry I don’t know what your talking about’

‘Emotion?’

‘Nope. You lost me at feelings’

‘Do people still have those? Feelings, I mean. Surely not?’

‘I don’t have any bloody feelings, they’re all nice and smooth.’

‘I smoothed them out, that’s what I do to cope…to get the job done’

‘They’re all safely tucked away, were no one can see them, not even me. I’m not sharing those with you, I can’t, the WANKEE method doesn’t allow that.’

So have devised a unequivocally fool proof accompaniment to the WANKEE method; The Emotion Monkey.

It’s an animatronic monkey that sits on your shoulder and is the holding unit for all your discarded emotion. It feels everything you aren’t able to anymore, or don’t want to.

I think it’ll work, not having much luck on the sponsorship front though.

Not sure why.

Ruined Steel Update

Dear Reader,

It’s been too long since the last update, apologies.

I’ve come to the end of a week off, taken so that I can concentrate on some of the earlier aspects of the Ruined Steel pre-production, the newest piece of live art from FoolishPeople.

Generally speaking, ‘twas a very productive week. Two new announcements to make, firstly is the grand unveiling (imagine a big virtual red curtain and a heralding horn section) of kelwinser.com.

Kel is the artist commissioned and supported by FoolishPeople to capture part of the Ruined Steel story in comic art, his site contains a mass of his work to date, words from the man himself and is found at the link to your left ladies and gentlemen. To meet exactly who you are looking for at exactly the right time in the cinema is not just a freakish coincidence and enormously good luck but fate.

Crack of thunder, full moon, wavy twiggy trees etc.

If FoolishPeople are destined to work with Kel Winser, then you best prepare yourselves because the result will no doubt be outstanding.

Next is the news that we have set the first audition date, Tuesday the 4th of May, with call-backs to be held in the following two weeks.

Having spent most of the week visiting various casting websites and other less conventional entertainment agencies’ sites at home and looking through headshots and c.v’s in coffee bars I have been in receipt of several dubious looks from passers by. One friend probably reflected most opinions when she enquired as to whether we were setting up an escort agency. Note to self; take other reading matter when in public.

The script is being proof read, the budget is set, the ARG is soon to be live (visit ruined steel.com to play) and the first comic is spawning as we speak.

Pin those ears back and keep one of them to the ground, as more news is to follow….

Kind Regards,
Producer-Lady.

Malkovich Hitches On Galaxy

John Malkovich will join the cast The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, a movie based on Douglas Adams' SF radio show and book, for Spyglass Entertainment/Walt Disney Pictures, according to The Hollywood Reporter. Malkovich will play a religious cult leader called Humma Kavula, created by Adams especially for the film, the trade paper reported.

Galaxy begins shooting this month in London, with Garth Jennings at the helm. Mos Def, Zooey Deschanel, Sam Rockwell and Martin Freeman also star.

Bin Man

I’m not talking about your average yellow vest wearing, whistling, smokes likes he breathes kind of binman. I'm talking about an actual man in a bin.

Not sure if I am just getting old or I'm in a bit more of a nervous disposition recently but this guy really made me jump. Moseying on down to my favourite sushi bar I hear swathes of the great innovator of the eighties ('I don’t write the music or lyrics, I can't dance or sing and my hair is held together purely by hairspray and my record label CEO's spunk') Tiffany*.

'I think we're alone now, doesn't seem to be anyone arow-ound'

But instead of the usual teenage girl squeal, it comes complete with the drone usually reserved for the guy at the bottom of Covent garden tube lifts singing wild wild wood while carefully manoeuvring each limb to strike the right note on his one-man-band suit.

Mais non, I can not find him. Where could he be?

In the bin of course.....

So obviously I take a photo, drop a quid to which comes the muffled reply of thank you, and keep walking (nothing is going to separate me from a tempura bento today), am just slow enough to catch the first few bars of his next song, think it was Sade.

*Any references made to Tiffany the artist's hair infrastructure are purely fictional ( the spunk part ) and are a result of my jealous tendencies towards those old enough to witness the beginnings of the industrial music revolution but pissed the chance away because they where too busy giving their manager head. Shit, did it again. Sorry.

Anoraknophobia

A while ago I thought I'd dispense with all that console loyalty crap and buy myself a PS2. Up until then Nintendo and Microsoft had my sworn allegiance, especially after Sony had kicked the bejesus out of SEGA's Dreamcast and left it for dead in a pile of its own "Six Billion Players" bullshit, but I had to get one in order that I could play Pro Evolution Soccer 3.

I love playing football - not for real, you fools - and after my equally-beloved copy of ISS '98's unfortunate heel/cartridge/floor juxtaposition, a cavernous void was left in my life. I missed reversing that day's humbling England defeat or lobbing a keeper from 50 yards. If Newcastle were having a stinker, I'd switch off the real thing and indulge in some fantasy football of my own.

PES3 would be my surrogate ISS '98, and once more England would be an invincible footballing nation. Aha. Ahaha. Ahahahahahaaaa...ahem.

Six months later, and my games box has barely been opened. Actually, it's a kind of lop-sided wicker basket, but either way the software within has been denied any attention ever since Sony's second first swallowed PES3. I should have guessed by the way that little green power-light winked at me as the disc-tray receded back into its box. "Ha! Sucker! Now you're mine!", it seemed to say.

I used to have a rule that I could not start a new game until whatever I was playing before was finished. The simple, pathetic fact is that I'm easily distracted. Whenever something newer and more attractive came along, flashing its multi-polygonal temptations at me, I tossed the then-current game aside and promptly forgot about it, regardless of its state of completion. This worked fine for a while; each gaming experience was dutifully exploited to the full - I was a faithful, loving partner to Solid Snake (oh, please...), to Mario, to Link et al. And then along came PES3, and my relationship(s) lay in tatters.

At first, it was the simple act of playing an almost perfect rendition of digital football that had me addicted. But then the purist in me began to emerge. I began tinkering with players' stats - increased accuracy here, better agility there - and it's now snowballed into full-blown stamp-collecting, train-spotting, sad bastard anorakism. Michael Bridges is on loan from Leeds; gottagethimintothesideNOW. I've earned enough points to buy the Free Transfer feature, so now my obsessive-compulsive updating disorder is perpetual. It's not just about winning everything in the game, it's about being able to incorporate real-life transfers and kit changes into my own little universe - possibly to compensate for the fact that I don't get off my lazy backside and actually play. Or something. I dread to think what would happen if I played one of those management sims I'm considering buying. Sweet Lord...

But listen: I'm starting to feel anxious again and I appear to be developing a cold sweat. It's best if I go. Rumour has it Alan Smith is on his way to Tyneside so I want - need - to put a bid in. I'm glad you understand.

Next week I'll be reviewing the Carlisle-Settle Railway.

The Hyena & Hawk Man

I Seyyid Abdiweli Abdishakur, a traditional leader who also doubles up as a farmer and a pastoralist, has made a mark within his community by achieving what many men dread to even attempt.

He has trained a hyena to look after his livestock and four hawks to guard his grain farms from destructive birds.