Father Of The Lost Arts.

Recently I’ve been engaged in a non compliant deferment of cinematic appreciation. A dutiful obligation that every father has must abide by, for imparting knowledge on their respective offspring. Now I’ve confessed in an earlier piece detailing my own concern in subjecting my daughter to stimulus that I found compelling at her age. Movies, games and other influences that help define my own adolescence, but shouldn’t be the preferred alternative to their own inquisitive appetites. Lecturing her on the indisputable superiority of my own burgeoning influences, compared to her own. But there is a necessity to diversify her options. To expand her viewing profile beyond Disney and the vapid narcolepsy of YouTube Kids. My entire responsibility as a father is predicated on teaching her the value that new doesn’t necessarily mean best. Nor that old is ostensibly better.

My task is made exponentially easier by my daughter’s natural curiosity. She’s at that impressinable age wherein the limits of her inquisitiveness are not restricted by the cynicism of others pessimism, or an elitist attitude, critical of anything new, a condition that exasperates my own thinking from time to time, but one I hope remains a dormant hereditary trait in her. Because of this energetic vigor to experience something she knows nothing about, she is far more receptive to my suggestions. For instance I felt confident in her flourishing maturity to suggest that we watch “Raiders Of The Lost Ark”, on the condition that if any moment during the movie provokes any kind of adverse emotions, that we would shut it off. Bearing in mind that my daughter would cower behind the sofa cushions when an animated otter in “Zootropolis” turned feral, I was concerned about her capacity to manage something a little more potent. But, to her credit she remained stoic in her conviction and remained unfazed by the swells of death and violence depicted. Though she did eventually get distracted as most children do, having to sit still for any length of time, which subsequently meant she missed the rather gratuitous scene with the titular “Ark” turning Paul Freeman’s head into an incendiary watermelon.

These exercises are essentially an exchange of interests. She gets to experience a modest sample of movies from before her time, of which there is considerable elapse in comparison to someone like myself who was born in the 80’s. But I too get to watch the things that interest her. It’s not always good, but objectively speaking neither were many of the movie’s or television shows I watched at her age. Some of which is reciprocated, others we might not be as amenable too. For example the “Princess Bride” just didn’t resonate with her at all. Now that doesn’t mean to say that in a few year’s time she won’t feel differently about it, but at the same time it doesn’t matter if she never watches it again. Ultimately it’s fun trying to discover thing’s that interest us both and share a quant, father/daughter connection. That’s is what is most important.

The question now is should we watch Jaws?

Reviving My 4K “Collection”.

I purchased my first DVD when I was about 14 years old. At that time I had recently come into possession of the much sought after PlayStation 2. A Christmas present I had eagerly anticipated for well over a year. Though my primary motivation was indulging in the huge back catalogue of games I’d already missed, the superlative appeal was gaining access to owning movies. Having accumulated an extensive collection of DVDS, with carefree weekends scouring every entertainment retailer for movies I liked, had interesting concepts or were adorned with striking, sometimes obscene artwork. I was never prejudicial towards genre, trusting instinct and a seemingly inexhaustible budget to provide me with my evening entertainment. As well as a supplementary remedy for the numerous hangovers I sustained.

But leaving home, moving in with a partner, having kids and paying mortgages, utilities and every expense conceivable, that once unlimited and disposable income I used to wield, had diminished and storage you assumed you had became limited. It’s hard to justify their necessity in modern society, when streaming boasts such a broad range of practical solutions to almost any singular preference. But it doesn’t satisfy an individual’s specific interests, does it? You want to watch “Back To The Future?” Tough break, it’s streaming on another service. “Silence Of The Lambs?”. Uh! That left Netflix a week ago. “A Weekend At Burnie’s?”. Ha ha! Good luck! We as a nation have become much too reliant on the convenience of subscription services to provide us with our entertainment needs. What are you going to do if a streaming service collapsed? Perhaps when it seizes being a sustainable business model or a potential looming nuclear holocaust ensues, rendering WIFI obsolete. And it’s this sudden realisation that has prompted my renewed fervour for retaining 4k movies I can watch at any time.

Now it isn’t necessarily for the expressed purpose of cinematic preservation. Or even that I feel some kind of personal obligation to conserve physical media. But more for the purpose of consolidation. Searching to find a specific movie, only to discover that it isn’t currently streaming on any of the major streaming services, bar some obscure American exclusive provider, has become an infuriating encumbrance. So to placate this constraint I have devised a comprehensive list, each satisfying certain stipulations to ensure I’m acquiring an efficient reserve of 4k Blu Rays. For instance, if I own a movie on DVD as opposed to Blu Ray, I will probably upgrade. Though movies I don’t own in any format take priority. Though it was “Who Framed Roger Rabbit”, a movie I already possessed on DVD, that was the first to reinvigorate my burgeoning collection. Not to mention a physical record that substantiates the theory that Robert Zemeckis was once a great director.

My initial “collection” prior to this renewed interest in assembling more physical media, consisted of only “Jaws”. It has now ballooned to 7, with additions both upgrades and as yet unseen, which presents its own element of risk. But in either case I’m excited to expand my catalogue of prestige entertainment. Especially when you consider that there are no regional limitations on 4K DVDS. Knowing that, at least for a select few instances, I won’t have to worry about availability on a streaming service anymore.

Guillermo Del Toro’s Pinocchio, Is My Favourite Film Of The Year.

In the wake of Disney’s derivative, live action remake of their own animated property, releasing another version in the same year as such a critically maligned adaptation is bold. Considering how much remakes are loathed for there brazen indolence and blatant nostalgic exploitation, it’s commendable that a movie as compelling as “Guillermo Del Toro’s Pinocchio”, embraces the bleakness of the source material, that until now has been sterilised by Disney’s gentrified model. Only someone of Del Toro and Mark Gustafson’s shared singular vision, could possess the initiative clarity to adapt a story we thought we already knew, and remind viewers that with just a simple shift in tone, Pinocchio has always been firmly rooted in a twisted mythology that lends itself so well to Del Toro’s depiction of fascist Italy.

Set in the emerging shadow of WWII, a local carpenter Gipetto, consumed by years of grief at the loss of his son and in a moment of drunken rage fells a tree his son planted before he died, carving an effigy of him in a futile attempt to regain his lost son. When a mysterious entity imbues this little wooden boy with life, a familiar tale unfolds, infused with some requisite Del Toro horror. By instilling the story with an intended bleakness, this adaptation benefits from a solemnity sorely missing from Disney’s original. It doesn’t shy away from death with diluted asides or musical distractions. But lingers on its destructive influence, and just how bereft the passing of a loved one can be. That grief can’t be remedied by a saccharine musical number or comedy routine. It’s not afraid to embrace the melancholy of death, but to embrace it. To depict the sadness of loss as an emotion as natural as life.

Then there’s Pinocchio himself. A characterisation that benefits from the scripts astute focus on depicting a child like boy, that has no understanding of humanity or indeed mortality. With an exuberant inquisitiveness of childlike enthusiasm, Pinocchio is as irritating as he is destructive. A child that struggles with the concept of living, in a society that views something as miraculous as Pinocchio as an insidious evil in the eyes of God. No where is this sense of religious contradiction more apparent than when Pinocchio wanders into a church full of parishioners, condemning his existence, as an effigy of Jesus nailed to a cross presides over their sanctimonious judgements. Despite his autonomy and his effusive desire to be loved, even by his own father, he remains steadfastly fervent. Even when he is manipulated as a tool for Nazi propaganda! The exploitation of something pure, for the purpose of greed or the promotion of a duplicitous regime is even more sinister when it’s a child, wooden or not. Pinocchio is still a boy wanting to please those around him, so earnest and eager to be alive and experience the joys of living, that even in a World corrupted by the tyranny of war and riddled by the cult like lunacy of fascism, can still see the beauty of the world. Even when it isn’t easy for everyone to see.

This Pinocchio is as Dark and gritty as it is gorgeous and reviting. With a perfectly assembled cast to compliment some of the most fluid stop motion animation the industry has ever seen. Characters that are complex and floored, that don’t always do the right thing or even understand what they did wrong. The years of tortuous dedication to get this movie made were well spent. It doesn’t pander to children, but imparts an important message that has been formally diluted by other renditions. That mortality is a precious thing. That death is as much a part of living as life and that without that knowledge, we can never truly appreciate the finite time we have.

Life isn’t perfect, nor is it without tribulations, but we certainly appreciate life more when there’s an expiration date.

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.