Why Brendan Fraser’s “The Mummy” Is Still The Daddy!

At work we often engage in nonchalant discussions, in an attempt to alleviate the monotony of our day. Conversations of varying triviality. Some concerning the chauvinistic projecting of the hierarchical faculty that operate there. That parade across the warehouse like conquering hero’s. Whose mere presence inspires reverence in those subordinates, humbled by their eminence. We discuss the habitual tribulations of living with our respective partners. Provide sound, gaming recommendations that are heeded with gracious civility, but ultimately ignored. Indulge in eloquent consultations regarding the size, consistency and overall aroma of our respective bowel movements. But cinema is always the fertile ground for stimulating work place discourse. Particularly when you disagree.

It’s wonderful to debate with people that share similar interests, but different perspectives. You learn more about your own reasoning when confronted by an alternative opinion that is as committed as your own. With one such instance, deliberated with a colleague, regarding the legitimate quality of Brendan Fraser’s “The Mummy” movie. A subject that has become an infrequent, yet divisive topic of discussion. Often cited by myself, as barometer for comparative quality. And I say this with genuine sincerity. “Well Citizen Kane was good, but it’s not Brendan Fraser’s The Mummy good”. An equivalence I think “some” of us will agree with. I unironically love this movie. I have an unashamed proclivity fir it that has only endured since I watched this mythical masterpiece back in 99.

Now I’ll admit my preferential regard towards this movie is somewhat skewed by my inflated, nostalgic adolescence. It was after all the first 12 certificate movie I was officially permitted to watch at the cinemas. And there’s a certain wistful cache attached to that. “The Mummy” is energetic, irreverent and fun. With creativity for days. You only have to look at that abominable Tom Cruise excretion that was “The Mummy” remake, remake, to see that they plagiarised that whole sand wall trick from Fraser’s Mummy movie. Bastards! In contrast, evident by the judicious admission of my work colleague, there are a small, dedicated contingent that regard Fraser’s Mummy with less reverence than I believe it deserves. Echoing the divisive critical response it received on it’s initial release.

The individual in question, whose dislike of the movie, is not intended as a grievance to agitate its supporters. Nor a contrarian aversion to its popularity. Just subjective confusion of its venerated acclaim in the public consciousness. This isn’t an irrational or biased evocation, but an informed, judicious opinion. One that I disagree with, but respect. My interpretation of his enmity is that Fraser’s version absconds from its predecessors atmospheric terror, thereby diluting the horror that was the essence of the originals conception. Instead deriving preferred inspiration from movie’s like Indiana Jones. A frequent accusatory comparison by those that believe “The Mummy” is just a poor imitation of Indiana Jones. But when a movie is better than half of that lauded franchise, is that really a legitimate complaint?

Through no fault of its own, other than being awesome, “The Mummy” has attained the rather unfortunate notoriety of being recognised as the “original” Mummy movie. A fallacious ignorance that has only been further compounded by the maligned Tom Cruise abortion. With many modern audiences oblivious to the Boris Karloff classic. Which I think says as much about the the ignorance of cinema goers, as it does about the quality and longevity of Fraser’s iteration. As well as demonstrating my persuasive advocacy for high art, which this most certainly…isn’t. Not really. But it was never intended to be. The filmmakers were cognisant to the fact that they were making something dynamic, absurd and as far removed from the Karloff original they could get, without completely removing its horror organs into canopic jars. Which they dutifully revelled in. And I admire the instinctive acuity for trying something different, when they could quite as easily just done the same again, with updated effects. And I will defend this movie for as long as I live. The sequel on the other hand, well, I don’t think there is a curse severe enough to punish its violation to cinema!

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What do you guys think? What movie would you defend, regardless of it’s reputed quality. Let me know in the comments below. Cheers.

Judging A Book By It’s Contents.

I’ve always enjoyed stories. Whether that’s by way of television, movies, games or book. The latter of which has sadly become a rather glaring omission in recent year’s. Sure I may not possess a natural discipline nor the concerted application required to fully savour a good novel, but I try. I find it difficult at times to recollect specific details, character motivations or equate the names and locations with the cognitive formations I’ve already associated with them. I also struggle to formulate sentences into a coherent visual identity, that I can understand or successfully navigate plot points, without having to read entire pages again. It is a peripheral vocation that has always interested me, but never enough to sway me from movie’s and games. There’s certainly a diminishing interest in scheduled reading, when measured against the extravagant appeal of a computer game. But there has always been a potent allure about filtering these narratives through your own irascible narration. It’s an intimate process, one that requires considerable creative vision and vigour to interpret the words, into a tangible story.

It’s almost collaborative in the way the author exhibits their vision onto the page with vivid specificity, while the reader interprets those details into something distinct. With even the most relatable qualities requiring the fertile imagination from the reciter to eloquently manifest these character’s with any success. If you are unable to evoke these situations, conjure location’s or associate characters with something visually stimulating, then all you are doing is reading words off a page. But what I’ve found during this sudden renaissance for written narratives, is just how motivated my brain has become.

We are routinely advised about the importance of maintaining a healthy diet. Chastised by the media for indulging in our culinary desires. With a flurry of passive aggressive statistics concerning the nutritional impotence of fast food and cake, that implores us to exercise our bodies and impede the natural decline of life expectancy. But rarely are we encouraged to motivate our cerebral muscles. Without persistent activity the mind stagnates. Afflicted by a precipitous atrophy that’s difficult to medicate, without the necessary stimulus to engage these lethargic synapses. My renewed fascination with the written word has liberated my own cognitive sterilisation. I’m more functional, though certainly not optimised. At least capable of a producing a coherent formation of words at least. This increase in reading has ensured that my writing isn’t as laborious as it has been in the past. Espousing a fluidity into my eccentric ramblings that wasn’t there before. I certainly don’t think I’ll be publishing the volume of material released by James Patterson. Nor anything as entertaining, but the correlation between a sharper vocabulary and increased reading, certainly isn’t incidental.

What I believe has facilitated this long suspended desire for text, is the conscious withdrawal from electrical devices. There’s an undoubted convenience afforded by digital forms of reading. Technology has afforded prospective bibliophiles an expedient process to procure literature electronically, with an ease and autonomy we’ve never had. But it lacks the affection provided by the physicality of a book. There’s something inherently cerebral and inhospitable about digitised books. Something very sanitary about it. Almost devoid of any intimacy that you get from physically turning the pages, rather than an idle swipe of the screen. To touch and feel the material is almost therapeutic. A meditative alleviation from the world, as you endeavour to experience a story in the solitary confines of your mind.

Really, I just want to enjoy the simple pleasures of reading, slow the pace of my burgeoning senility with a little intellectual stimulus before I’m afflicted by the inevitable onset of dementia. And maybe even learn a little something….maybe.

Uncharted: The Lost Legacy. A Belated Review.

“Just when I thought I was out, Uncharted pulls me back in”. Having finished my play-through of Uncharted 4, I had intended to take a brief sabbatical from the spiritual epilogue to both the Legacy Collection and the series as a whole, with the “Lost Legacy”. Chloe Fraser’s debut fronting the Uncharted franchise, ensured that the series could endure after the sad, yet necessary retirement of Nathan Drake. The Ted Bundy of archaeology. Even though Chloe’s absence from Uncharted 4 was a requisite exemption for the fluency of Nates final adventure, exemplified by her rather tenuous inclusion in Uncharted 3. Giving Chloe an expedition of her own, bolstered by the presence of Nadine Ross, independent from Drake was gratifying. Yet despite my preferential interest and immediate acquisition of it when it was initially released, I never did finish it. So I was obliged to amend this notable omission and conclude the series as it was naturally intended. I owed it my commitment.

It becomes obvious very quickly as to why Lost Legacy has remained my deferred Uncharted. Now it’s worth noting that much of my chagrin can be attributed to jumping straight into Lost Legacy, having finished “A Thief’s End” multiple, tedious times, procuring specific trophies. But something about it just didn’t quite work for me. It’s just a little too scripted. A criticism that may seem rather asinine, considering that a narrative-centred game like this, requires substantial formulations and revisions. But the interactions between Chloe and Nadine felt rehearsed. Moments of levity seem less pithy and spontaneous. Like improvisations were tempered by the succinct narrative. Though the bristling partnership between Chloe and Nadine is interesting, it’s a collaboration born out of necessity, and quickly runs out of steam.

The introduction of an erstwhile character later on, further accentuates the badly engineered dichotomy between the leads. Interactions that are at times as derivative as the game itself. Not just the genre, but the series. Train set-pieces. Helicopter crashes. Armoured carriers. The near death ascent of a collapsing tomb. All congenital principles of an Uncharted game, that in Lost Legacy just feels hackneyed. As does Chloe’s personal motivations, rooted in all the “absent father” platitudes you’d come to expect of an archetypal Hollywood movie. We know it’s personal, because Chloe keeps asserting to the fact it’s personal. In another of this engineered moments of “spontaneity”. It’s disappointing that a character whose moral ambivalence and enigmatic origins are so woefully callow and devoid of any of the subtlety her first foray into lead deserves. Yet despite my exasperation’s, there are various caveats that reduce most of these criticisms to mild irritations.

Lost Legacy is gorgeous. A visual triumph that almost matches “A Thief’s End” for “Place I wish I could vacation in”. The semi-open world environment invites a scrutiny befitting a series that relishes in the plundering of ancient structures. Grand monolithic architectures, abound with ornate chambers, that conceal long detained secrets. Chloe documenting her expedition with photo’s is certainly a more practical means of encapsulating the moment, as apposed to Drake’s hurried illustrations. Sketched with an inexplicable speed and accuracy that even Bob Ross would scrutinise. Asav, the game’s chief antagonist, is a fitting inverse for Nadine and Chloe to oppose. A diligent and disciplined warlord, whose unassuming demeanour belies his ruthless personality. A man motivated by pragmatism, rather than emotion. Demonstrated by his determination to acquire an artefact that possess inherent symbolic significance to his people and heritage, but is readily traded for armaments.

Lost Legacy also contains one of my personal favourite interludes of “respite”, that has become as synonymous with NaughtyDog games as a Stan Lee cameo in a Marvel movie. Though the elephant segment might be considered a little saccharine to some, I think it might be one of my favourite moments of the game. I just wish the rest of Lost Legacy didn’t feel so lethargic. Like a series of B-sides to Uncharted 4’s “Dark Side Of The Moon”. Perhaps if Chloe and her cohorts were afforded a mainline Uncharted game to helm, these character’s could get the personal development they so desperately deserve. And I think they will. I’m confident from what “Lost Legacy” provides, that this isn’t the end. That there are more adventures to be had. Fabled cities to be plundered. Superfluous goons to be neutralised with ever more nonchalant regard. I just hope Chloe and Nadine get the “full” game these character’s deserve.

Tolerating The Intolerable.

Family gatherings are always awkward. In most instances they’re compulsory, which only further exacerbates the discomfort I endure. The solace of my mother’s cooking and genuine adoration for my family is what makes these congregations a tolerable affair. The problem comes from the one’s you’ve inherited through long term companionship. You’re familiar enough to engage in light, courteous dialogue. But not comfortable enough to express yourself without inhibiting filtration. It’s a necessary burden to maintain equanimity between yourself and your much more gregarious partner. But it does necessitate indulging in the distorted appraisals of those with a selective persuasion about the ethnicity, genealogy and sexuality that is representative of today’s society.

Engaging in direct discourse that conflicts with their own skewed perceptions of say, “immigration” for instance, is a futile endeavour. It’s also sparked by some tenuous associations, that they can retroactively assign to their own bigoted agenda. Whether it’s rising unemployment, the escalating cost of living or the reduced size of Mars bars, almost anything can be attributed to those pesky foreigners. They see it as a dilution of their national heritage. The deprivation of our sovereignty. It’s of little consequence if you are born in this country though. If you’re complexion isn’t one of perpetual pale transparency, then you are deemed an invader by default.

All the world’s sins can be attributed to those “foreigners”. Lamenting the demise of the English language, despite their own negligible understanding of it, slurring more obscenities as they sip from their bottle of imported lager. The type of person that refuses to eat anything that isn’t quintessentially British. Like chips (Portuguese/Spanish origins) or Tea (Chinese). This kind of subversive “casual” xenophobia, is only expressed in the abiding safety of a family setting. Knowing that these polarising views can be expressed without recrimination. Which is a deeply unsettling to know that they feel emboldened enough to confide in you, as though these discriminatory perceptions are reciprocated. All you can do is grimace and nod in a non committing fashion.

Nobody wants to be the errant agitator in such a relaxed, family orientated environment. Especially if you are the proverbial emigrant in the group. All it achieves would be to alienate yourself from people looking to enjoy a relaxed Easter weekend. Besides, challenging them on their flagrant, incendiary grasp of immigration policies, is like trying to describe colour’s to a blind man. Bigotry is not something easily reasoned with. But nor is it something that we should be complicit with. I’m a very tolerant person, scarcely offended. And though I’m not aggrieved by such repugnant attitudes, I do feel piteous of those that nurture it.

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But what do you think? How do you tolerate discrimination? Let me know in the comments below. Cheers.

My Favourite Uncharted 4 Character.

As far as I was concerned, I was done with the Uncharted franchise. With Drake retired, now settled into a life of domestic and legalised archaeology with Elena. Their story of anarchic excavation and subsequent destruction of mythical cities/colonies/cursed statues, resulted in a conclusion that satisfied the heart of any Uncharted fan. We got closure. Which for any established, as well as profitable franchise, is a difficult thing to achieve. Now I didn’t not want to play Uncharted because my compulsions were sated, or that once concluded these games provide no replay value. To me it just felt like tasting a satisfying meal, that I’d already eaten. So I surprised myself, despite my affection for the series, when I downloaded Uncharted 4 for the PS5.

What occurred to me almost instinctively was how great the antagonistic was. I’m not referring to the narcissistic Rafe or even the hired mercenary Nadine, both of whom provide their own entertainment, but the ominous mountain that protrudes from the veiled pirate colony of Libertalia. This natural elevation is like a perennial devil on your shoulder. Emerging over the deteriorated settlement of the once bustling criminal paradise. A leering, steadfast presence, whose dubious geographical positioning appears to move around the island, accentuating it’s pervasive scrutiny of your exploits. Its a striking occupant of the island, like a demonic terrapin breaching the surface of the earth. But what’s most disconcerting about its malevolent visage, is an overwhelming perception of knowing prescience. As if this malformed distension of rock, has cognitive autonomy.

I’m not sure if a mountain could ever be described as enigmatic, but the mountain depicted here certainly exudes a furtive concern. With a gnarled curvature embedded in the crevice of the mountain, giving the appearance of a mouth. The jagged stalactite clinging to the palate like teeth. And the deep depressions on the mountainside, giving the impression of eyes would be almost comical. Like a Bond villains lair. If not for how unsettling its grotesque facade is. Its like a dormant creature, waiting for some elaborate set of circumstances to rouse it from the decadent verdure that has ensnared it.

As you navigate the ruins of Libertalia, surviving the most precarious of situations, against a heavily armed militia, marshalled by a sneering megalomaniac with the most punch-able of faces, as you jostle for supremacy over a fabled stolen treasure, smuggled on famed pirate Henry Averys galleon, you realise that a seemingly snarling mountain, passively observing your exploits isn’t really that absurd. And probably the first inanimate object in a game that inspires fear. Besides the loading screens on a PS3.