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Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal SkullCrazy name, crazy film. Well, crazy first half-hour that demonstrates a wealth of wonderful ideas - after that it's Indy business as usual. There's been a bit of criticism about for deviation from pattern, but the truth is that Crystal Skull is exactly as good as the other sequels to Raiders of the Lost Ark ie pretty damn great but not quite a masterpiece. Of the cast, Shia Lebeouf in particular is brilliant: saddled with a role that could have been unbearable, even the Scrappy Doo of the series. He's deft, simultaneously tough and vulnerable, funny and committed, and clearly a megastar of the near future. EurovisionLovely little party at ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) d_sameboy's, and some great entries - the quality was the best for years. France was well robbed. That is all. No. One In HeavenThe first of four Sparks shows I'm going to in the coming weeks, and utterly magnificent. The album is a Georgio Moroder-produced disco classic, and simply hearing those distinctive synth sounds at that volume was exciting enough. Ron was either wearing a wig accurately replicating his hair at that time or his hair is actually really like that when not slicked back. Russell bounded around, flawlessly performing songs from nearly thirty years ago which, in some cases he hasn't performed at all in the intervening years, and in other cases test even his rapid operatic delivery ( Beat The Clock). The culmination of the short album is the beautiful title track, The Number One Song in Heaven, which explodes from spooky lullaby to dancefloor inferno and is the best pop song that is all about pop in the history of pop. School for Gifted ChildrenBrilliant night of comedy broadly in lecture format at the Albany on Wednesday, compered by Robin Ince. Stewart Lee talking about a comedy LP he bought ten years ago but has never listened to, Simon Singh doing some live science and talking about the scientific method, Andrew Collins on serial killers, Jo Neary acting cripplingly nervous whilst talking about sex toys, and Martin 'internet' White composing a song live on stage using audience random factors. It was packed and hot and we had to duck out before the end in order to get back to Bedfordshire before the middle of the night, but I loved it to pieces. More, more, more! iTouchAfter my old Creative Zen Touch crapped out a few months ago, I've been struggling by on whatever I could fit on my phone whilst out or at the gym. No longer! A little bonus from work has allowed me to fork out cash on a 32GB Apple iTouch... and so I join the boring majority declaiming how lovely iPods are. And they really are! Sounds gorgeous, versatile, looks great: it would be perfect if iTunes weren't such an almighty dog. But that might just be my old, old, crashy laptop which won't even let me play Ikariam without crawling along - guess what I'm going to buy this weekend?
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A nice Penguin sent me a dirty book on the understanding that I write about it in my blog. See? I don't have a blog, so my livejournal will have to do. Georges Bataille - Story Of The EyeThere's still something stirring within Bataille's short novella that creeps into the reader, and despite the high ratio of sexual behaviour in the book it is something far from erotic. It is instead discomfiting and not a little horrendous. Story Of The Eye's narrator is young man embarking on a sexual odyssey with his rampant lover, Simone. Their lust is barely controlled, and Bataille offers us a plethora of exhibitionism, urolagnia and fun with boiled eggs before events start to take a rather more sinister turn as the couple advance their desire for new erotic experience into mad territories. The novella's punchy brevity and notorious frankness is refreshing and an easy read, but the giddiness of execution belies the dark abyss at the heart of the story. It may even be Bataille's spoonful of sugar, here hiding a pill of head-swimming, stomach churning sickness. An early episode in which the narrator mows down a hapless pedestrian whilst in a car, and consequently experiences only the visceral pleasure of seeing exposed gore is a clue to the queasy undercurrent. In tone it most resembles a condensed pre-war edition of Bret Easton Ellis' American Psycho, a morality tale striving to examine the spiral of self-indulgence and what that can cost the soul. For a couple getting all the sex they want, Story Of The Eye's narrator and Simone are amongst the least enviable in all literature. This Penguin edition comes with addendum by Bataille and essays by Roland Barthes and Susan Sontag which are all very interesting and nice to have, but sensibly do nothing to alter the brilliant and awful impact of the novella.
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Normally at this time of year it's Greg Lake, sometimes The Pogues. It's even been Bing Crosby. But thanks to d_sameboy and a ludicrous compilation he has put together, this is the next fortnight's brain soundtrack for me. Olivia Newton John's Xanadu - it's basically ELO with Olivia on lead vocals, and it is wonderful. Even amongst Jeff Lynne's miraculous pop bullseyes, Xanadu shines, so it's weird that this song has been mostly forgotten. It was a massive hit (a number one in the UK, I think) when it came out... perhaps the utter failure of the film it comes from has resulted in it being swept under the carpet somewhat. I certainly haven't heard it for years - maybe more than a decade. This is my little Christmas gift to you, my livejournal friends, to say thank-you for a lovely year. I know I've not posted a great deal, especially recently, but I read absolutely everything you choose to share with me and you often make my day. Merry Festivus. x
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Now there are two Charlies in my life. The first is the despicable motormouth from this year's Big Brother, possibly the single worst person alive on the planet at the moment. The second is a friendly, gigantic, one-eyed black cat that used to work for the NHS. After work yesterday, the_heiress and I shot down to St Charles Hospital, London: workplace of ozgirlabroad and subject of forthcoming renovation. Their geriatric ward housed Charlie for ten years, and he was so much a part of the workings of the ward that he has an official NHS ID card. The scale of the building works is so large that it won't be safe for him to stay after the ward closes, so we met with Charlie and Michelle (the lovely lady who has been looking after him for the last decade), packed his things together and transported him back to Leighton Buzzard. A couple of the old people in the ward seemed a little upset, as did Michelle. As was I. "Is Charlie going?" asked one patient. "Yes, he's going to a new home," replied Michelle. "Why?" "Because the ward is closing, remember?" she explained. "Oh," said the old man. "Bring him back to visit!"A few squeaks emanated from his carry case as we tootled back up the M1, scooting into Pets At Home for some cat equipment and Coconut Garden for some takeaway, but upon being released into his new Leighton Buzzard mansion, he squashed himself under the settee and refused to emerge. We left him to acclimatize as scissorkicks, ozgirlabroad, the_heiress and I ate, but it wasn't until about 10.15 last night that he cautiously emerged, good eye peeping around the side of the settee at us. He nibbled a bit of mackerel, came for a tickle, stared out the window, got comfy and had a nap. I'm not sure quite what's going to happen with 'toilet' as he's so far refused to acknowledge the existence of his litter tray, but I'm satisfied that everything's going to be fine. Tags: charlie
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