gin soaked girl

This blog is about me and my adventures in the land of gin. Yes, gin is a country and I've visited it often. In fact I've conducted a passionate love affair with the place. Bought the t-shirt and definitely been to the duty-free. Along the way, I've been to a few gigs and undergone a bit of a personal renaissance. This blog celebrates the art of growing old disgracefully. Roll up. Roll up. Come join the fayre!

Monday, September 25, 2006

Lupen Crook doesn’t live here anymore

The Old Blue Last, 25 November 2006

What have we got to trust in anymore? What can we believe in? Is humanity facing extinction; the world disintegrating into violence and chaos as East takes on West, Poor challenges Rich, ‘home and family’ becomes ‘nearest port of call’ to the displaced masses, and nature transforms into avenging angel?

In this world of fragmentation, you would at least think that the Indie/anti-folk faction could stick together and not let down its brethren as was displayed this Monday night at the Old Blue Last in grimy but uber-trendy Old Street. Or shabby=chic inc., as it likes to be known.

Poor Lupen Crook. So popular all of a sudden- is the pressure getting to him? Of course his lyrics and ‘call me a freak, I don’t care’ attitude presages some kind of looming disaster/incarceration, but I’d have preferred if it wasn’t on my watch; selfish GSG.

The main thing I objected to about the night was the attitude of the Old Blue Last. It was forgivable of them not to cancel and to replace the said Lupen, with a strangely similarly-named Andy Creek, followed by the imaginatively-titled It Hugs Back (nice lads, it wasn't really necessary or kind to heckle them with the downright nasty 'Can we go now?'), but really- could they not have put the notice advising of said action in slightly larger writing maybe? In a slightly more prominent position? In the corridor outside or a downstairs location? Could they not have written the notice in black ink, or maybe even a FELT TIP PEN? OBL, with this attitude you were really disappointing me.

True, it was slightly amusing to witness, in a ‘God, I’m not the only one whose been duped’ kinda way, the sad image of every person who entered the ahem, ROOMY environs of the venue, quickly losing their toothy smiles and replacing them with a look of mild embarassment that they got so dressed up for NOUGHT. And certainly, elbowing, nudging, pushing, shoving, tall megalith-type blokes- these things were not a problem tonight. But, gives us a break, oh Lord of all things Indie. Oh great gig-promoter in the sky. What have I done to deserve this?

I remember last year that I was totally put off and deflated when HAL failed to arrive at ULU for a gig I had invited my friends to and bought the tickets for, and I completely cut them off after that. But this time I might be a little more charitable, as I really do quite like the wierd and wonderful output of Mr Crook, especially The Dead Relative, Wendy’s House, and Matilda V. Thank God for the old Bombay Sapphire, that’s what I say. Gin is definately an important part of every musically disappointing evening. GSG.

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Ignore the pulse

Pulse at Cineworld St Helens

Ok so I've been on the move again- exploring the depths of sunny Liverpool and Widnes, and very nice it was too. Imagine me treading the path that the venerable Richard and Judy trode only a few short years ago at the rejeuvenated Albert Dock. How privileged I felt.

In fact culture-vulturing took complete precedence over the first day of my visit- and I can personally reccomend the Walker Art Gallery and the modern art collection at Tate Liverpool. Very enriching so it was. However, hungover and seeking some not-too-strenuous entertainment, my good friend chardonnayguzzler and myself headed off to the cinema in nearby St Helens the next day, where the only vaguely enticing film on offer was the anthology of derivative nonsense known as Pulse.

God knows what director Jim Sonzero and screenwriter Wes Craven (writing by numbers on this one) were thinking ('I've run out of ideas so I'll just pinch a few from some more talented creative types overseas' maybe), but a right-royal rehash of some perfectly sound horror movies they've made, oh yes. I havn't seen the original from which it's taken Kairo but I'm pretty sure that it's of a higher calibre that this version. Let's face it, Hollywood just can't too psychological terror.

To start with, the 'ghosts' which are let loose by some unwise computer/broadband tinkering by American computer boffins/college whizkids (sorry, can't remember the names and they're really not important), are low-rent imitations of the truly terrifying creature that came through the television screen in the iconic groundbreaker Ring. The jerky movements, the phasing in and out, the souless eyes- give us a break.

Next up on the plagiarism front is the goulishly derelict apartment building with Soviet era architecture and medieval standards of cleanliness, which has been transported piece-by-piece, stone-by-stone, from supernatural heartstopper/chiller Dark Water; another masterly Japanese shocker which delved into the secret fears of the single woman living alone. WARNING: IF YOU HAVN'T SEEN THIS, DO NOT WATCH IT ALONE.

Lastly, but not least, the voiceover narrative from the final reel is not only derivative but a near-xerox copy of the Terminator epilogue ('the world we know is gone...) . And I havn't even commented on the Sarah Michelle Geller lookylikey (aka Buffy without the spunk). It's really not all bad (a kindly impulse is taking me over) but God knows, we've seen it all before (anyone whose seen any major horror movie of the last ten years that is).

I love Japanese horror movies, but can the English-language remakes just like STOP NOW?

NB. The photo above is not from the movie Pulse- it if was the film would have been far more interesting. GSG.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Lovers, mothers, and other signs trouble

Volver at the Curzon Soho, 6th September 2006.

Ok, so Pedro Almodovar loves woman, that’s clear. Worships them in fact. No greater proof of this is needed than his latest, arguably best film, Volver; which stars a very much enhanced (larger in every way) Penelope Cruz, playing the part of Raimunda with a blowsy, Bet Lynch type joie de vivre. Following in the footsteps of luminaries such as Joan Crawford and another Bette, this time Davis, she bestrides the small town Spanish arena of the film, like a colossus, surviving the worst of calamities including a murderous teenage daughter (arguably self-defence), a lascivious husband and father, and the apparently supernatural reappearance of her long-dead mother. It’s enough to drive the average person crazy.

In addition to the statuesque Penelope (jokes are made continuously about the size of her bosoms, e.g. ‘Have you always had those bosoms? Are you sure you haven’t had a little something done?), the film also stars the brilliant Carmen Maura, a survivor of earlier Almodovar films such as GSG favourite, Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, who plays the prodigal mother turned wise old crone/banshee, who appears dramatically to a superstitious village in La Mancha (Almodovar’s home town) after the death of her sister Paula, and who seems to have come back from the afterlife in order to mend some broken relationships that she left unresolved during her eventful lifetime.

Loneliness. Sexual violence. The supernatural. Almodovar knows how to handle all of it expertly. He has a knack of injecting humour into the darkest recesses of family and village life (for this read ‘global village’), and offers his characters, whether they be the teenage virgin-princess, the lonely spinster, or the town whore, an excess of compassion and understanding for their situation. Thus Raimunda’s closest friend in her apartment block is a prostitute whose earthy sense of humour and loyalty extends to even the grittiest of funerary labours.

It is in this that Almodovar’s vision becomes transparent as the community of women emerges triumphant. Women are the strongest social force out there; “We can manage by ourselves” is the last equivocal statement of the film, and it encapsulates one of the major themes of the movie. Women working together are the guiding influence that keeps families and wider communities together. Men are either absent, ineffectual or at the worst, predatory and vicious.

The World According to Almodovar is a female-centric universe (what is the opposite of phalli-centric?) and full of visual splendours (rapacious feasts; wine, cheese, pastries, etc.) which are in stark contrast to the aridness of the natural world. Life may suck sometimes, sexual relationships and misplaced romanticism inevitably let you down, but according to Almodovar's code, same-sex friendships and platonic love can be your salvation.

God bless Pedro Almodovar. Long may he reign.
 

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