Miami Connection

The year is 1987. Motorcycle ninjas tighten their grip on Florida's narcotics trade, viciously annihilating anyone who dares move in on their turf. Multi-national martial arts rock band Dragon Sound have had enough, and embark on a roundhouse wreck-wave of crime-crushing justice.

And that, according to www.miamiconnection.org, is the plot of one of the greatest best-worst movies ever made.  However after watching the film myself, shown last week on the roof of the Oh Yeah Music Centre, I’m not sure I noticed too much of that plot in action.  I’m not entirely sure what I saw – I just know it was awesome.

First of all, the bad guys in this movie are motorcycle ninjas.  Have you even heard of motorcycle ninjas before?  Have you?  Of course you haven’t.  It’s ridiculous.  It’s genius!  I mean, even ninjas face transportation problems – especially ones who deal in “stupid cocaine”.  Do you think they’re going to drive a battered Ford Fiesta?  You’re a fool.  They’re going to drive motorcycles.

As for the good guys, they’re a martial arts rock band called Dragon Sound.  A multi-national martial arts rock band.  Consisting of five orphaned men.  Who are also college students.  Who live together.  And constantly walk around their house half naked.  Enough said.  Well, I say rock band...they mainly seem to sing good natured synth pop songs about being friends forever while performing tae kwon do on stage.  You know you would go to that gig.

And, hey!  It turns out our heroes aren’t all orphans!  One of the gang, Jim (Maurice Smith), discovers – and here’s a great big spoiler warning, film fans – that his father (“a black American”) is still alive!  While the rest of Dragon Sound are initially disappointed to learn their orphan connection has been broken, they eventually share in Jim’s squealing happiness, hoisting him aloft on their shoulders, all shirtless as usual.  It’s a beautiful thing.

In amongst the touching male bonding, though, we get several action packed tae kwon do scenes to enjoy.  I was particularly impressed with a montage in which Mark (played by writer/actor/tae kwon do expert/motivational speaker Y.K. Kim) demonstrated how the humble foot can be used as a deadly method of martial arts face control.  Or something.

The tae kwon do scenes get more ridiculous as the film progresses, and by the end band member John (Vincent Hirsch) is basically just running around a park with his shirt off, covered in the blood of his enemies and screaming.  It’s rousing stuff.

If shirtless men engaging in hand to hand combat doesn’t grab your attention, there is at least a touching love story for the more sensitive viewers to enjoy.  And just like Romeo and Juliet, our young lovers belong to two rival camps.  The aforementioned John is deeply in love with Jane (Kathy Collier), but Jane is the sister of Jeff (William Ergle) – and Jeff is the second in command of the motorcycle ninjas!  It’s OK though – John kills Jeff in battle, and Jane is refreshingly cool with this.  This may not be exact dialogue from the film, but their deep and meaningful talk about the killing basically goes like this:

John:  “Yeah, sorry about killing your brother and stuff”

Jane:  “Whatevs”

And then they kiss, while Jim leers over them thinking about his daddy.  

There’s just so much going on in Miami Connection, I couldn’t possibly blog about it all.  I mean, I haven’t even touched upon the scene in which another band member hilariously sexually harasses bikini clad strangers on the beach.  Or the scene in which Mark playfully force feeds grapes to his still half naked house mates.  And who could forget the touching scene where Jim buys a new suit in which to meet his long lost daddy, his friends in the changing room with him, caressing his new threads lovingly and calling them “beautiful”?

If I haven’t sold you on this film by now, there is no hope.  All I can do is leave you with the same powerful message Miami Connection leaves its viewers with, and trust you all to do the right thing.  Love your friends, listen to synth pop, and stay away from stupid cocaine.  Peace, guys.

Shonen Knife, Black Box, 9th May 2014

"When I finally got to see them live, I was transformed into a hysterical nine-year-old girl at a Beatles concert" - Kurt Cobain

It was a snap decision to go see Shonen Knife at the Black Box.  My friend Claire and I had never actually heard of the band before, but Kurt Cobain’s fandom and the idea of an all-girl Japanese punk rock band who played Ramones covers was too good to ignore.

We spent the week doing our Shonen Knife homework so we wouldn’t be completely lost.  I was in love with their 60’s style matching girl band outfits and music videos featuring nothing but cats.  And how can you not love a band whose songs feature lyrics like “banana chips for you, banana chips for me, in the afternoon banana chips and tea”?

The first thing that struck on us on arrival at the venue was, of course, the fabulous merchandise stall – even though an over zealous Black Box staff member tried to shoo us away, telling us the stall wouldn’t open until after the gig.  Of course 5 minutes later said stall opened for business, staffed by the lovely Atsuko, former Shonen Knife drummer and sister of front-woman Naoko.

We immediately proceeded to spend money we didn’t have buying Shonen Knife tote bags, badges, Space Xmas tour posters and, in Claire’s case, a rather fabulous green vinyl edition of their new album, Overdrive.  We spent a brief moment jumping up and down excitedly with Atsuko before taking our place in the moshpit.

Support came from local band European Jane who defied usual support act protocol by actually being rather good.  I was particularly taken by their set list, featuring song titles such as “shit riff”.  Their bassist informed the crowd they had no online presence whatsoever and invited people to come up and actually speak to them instead.  Real communication, how quaint!  Still, it turns out they are on Twitter after all, so go investigate them (once you've finished reading this).

But of course, we were there for Shonen Knife, and eventually the women themselves took to the stage in matching blue sequin tunics.  Only having been listening to the band for about a week at this stage, I’m afraid I can’t go into too much detail about how they played this song and that song.  Even the set list I nabbed after the show doesn’t provide much help here, written as it is in Japanese.

I was able to recognise and vaguely sing along to Twist Barbie, but in all honesty that wasn’t the point.  The point was – Shonen Knife rock.  We weren’t here to watch earnest singer-songwriters sing equally earnest acoustic ballads about feelings, we were here to see three awesome women play punk rock pop songs about ramen noodles (amongst other things).

Inspired by the fabulously haired bassist Ritsuko, the women in the moshpit (us included) all began a very girly style of headbanging, the aim being to get hair your to swish about like you’ve just stepped out of the best shampoo commercial in the world.  There was also some gorgeous synchronised punk rock posing from from Ritsuko and Naoko, while drummer Emi played with the energy of a large army of Duracell bunnies.

If the Shonen Knife rider really does consist of Snickers bars, marshmallows and gummi bears, as Naoko’s Twitter suggests, it’s easy to see how their sweet-based calories get burned off each night – the band just can’t stand still.  Coupled with the fact the Black Box was hotter than hell during a heatwave, the entire crowd probably sweated off a few pounds over the course of the gig too.

After their main set the band came back onstage for an encore, asking for any audience requests.  Despite the fact I’d only been listening to Shonen Knife for a week, I still felt the need to shout out my request for Choco Bars (the song, not the product).  Another fan requested the track Explosion, and democratic Naoko put the final decision to the crowd.  Needless to say, the vast majority of people also wanted to eat choco bars all day long and my request was played.

The band hung around afterwards for an autograph session, during which Emi and I bonded over bobbed hair.  Well, I say bonded.  I drunkenly pointed at my bobbed hair, pointed at her bobbed hair and she laughed.  With me, not at me.  Honestly.  The ladies graciously hung around long enough to ensure everyone who wanted an autograph got one before helping to pack away their own merch stall and equipment.  Sisters are doing it for themselves.

We left the Black Box exhausted from our relentless pogoing, our hair a terrible sweaty mess with added Hello Kitty hairslides.  It was brilliant.  Shonen Knife are my new favourite band and I want to listen to them all day long.

Neil Finn, Dublin Olympia, 30th May 2014

“The doors don’t close, love – especially not for you two!”

Oh dear.  It should have been the time we went into the Olympia to watch Neil Finn’s support act Tiny Ruins take to the stage.  Instead, we were checking with the doorman whether we could definitely still get in once the support act had finished, so we could go drinking instead.

Being the classy ladies we are, my friend and I had already drank pre-mixed G&T and Pims & lemonade on the bus down, and a cocktail each on arrival in Dublin.  As another cocktail started calling to us, we decided to ditch Tiny Ruins, as good as they might have been, to go drink a Harvey Wallbanger and a shot of something foul , in a pub populated with slightly creepy old Irish men.  It was a good idea at the time.

Eventually, we put our glasses down and headed back to the Olympia.  Where we immediately lifted our glasses again, plastic ones this time, filled the foulest wine we ever had the misfortune to drink.  I had been worried that our seats in row L wouldn’t exactly offer a memorable view, so was pleased to see that we actually had a pretty clear view of the stage.  Still for a woman who’s used to being crushed against a barrier in the mosh pit, it took a bit of getting used to.   I also had a pretty clear view of the arse of the man in front of us, who frequently had to stand up for whatever reason, letting his low-riding jeans travel further southward. 

I should add a disclaimer to this, namely that I am a huge Neil Finn fan.  And, as this was my first Finn gig, I was practically jumping up and down in my seat by the time the man himself took to the stage.  Unexpectedly, he began the gig with a piano-led version of Black and White Boy, one of my favourite Finn tracks, so I was sold already.

“It’s good to be back on the sloping stage of the Olympia”, Finn enthused as his backing band joined him on said stage, “though no-one knows why it’s sloping, exactly”.  The set list for the evening obviously contained numerous tracks from Finn’s excellent new album Dizzy Heights, but also ran through plenty of his greatest hits, from his Split Enz days right up to Pajama Club.

I was pleased to hear the Split Enz track Strait Old Line get an airing – it’s not exactly a well known song in this neck of the woods by any means, but is another favourite of mine (hell, they’re all favourites of mine) and Finn performed it in the gospel style he had originally intended.

One particular highlight of the evening came when Finn’s Crowded House band-mate Nick Seymour joined him on stage for a couple of tracks, and even an impromptu dance routine of sorts.  Having never seen Crowded House live myself, it was rather lovely to the see the two of them on stage together, clearly enjoying the brief reunion.

Special mention has to go to the beautiful backdrop behind Finn and his band, designed by former Split Enz cohort Noel Crombie and his partner, Sally Mill.  Thanks to some clever lighting the backdrop appeared to change colour according to the song being played – during Divebomber, for example, the backdrop looked like a gorgeous sunny morning sky as the aircraft sound effects soared across.

The Olympia, Finn told us, has “a soft curfew” and, having recently seen Bruce Springsteen play a three hour set he saw no reason to end his own gig any earlier.  And so it was that Finn came on stage for what amounted to a 12 song encore, just him, his guitar and his piano.  As the evening wore on, people began leaving in order to catch public transport or relieve babysitters of their duties, but if anything this reduction in numbers only improved the atmosphere.

Going to a Neil Finn gig doesn’t feel much like going to a gig at all – instead, it feels as if he has invited quite a lot of people to his rather large living room for a bit of a sing-a-long.   The decreasing crowd served to make the proceedings feel a bit more intimate, and certainly the crowd that remained definitely appeared to sing along much louder than they had been before.

I did, fuelled by alcohol no doubt, attempt to call out a request for Song of the Lonely Mountain which sadly went unheard, but he did play a request for Love Is All That Remains which, in retrospect, was probably a much better choice anyway.

The gig ended with Better Be Home Soon, the audience singing louder than Finn, and considering it was midnight before we left the Olympia, it was an apt choice of song.  My friend and I did attempt to hang around for some Neil Finn Stage Door Action afterwards, but alas, we left empty handed.  Considering the man had just played a three hour set, we could hardly complain.

So, yes, my own fangirlishness probably gets the better of me here and prevents me from saying anything negative whatsoever about the evening.  If I had to make a complaint it would be that seated gigs just don’t do anything for me in general, and I had to make do with dancing in my chair during tracks that were really too good for chair dancing.  However, as a large amount of the gig was Finn performing solo, I admit it was hardly moshing material.

The journalist Peter Paphides once wrote about “Crowded House moments”, where certain songs have defining moments that stay with you forever.  Not having been a Crowded House gig it’s perhaps a bit redundant to talk about that, but those of us in the Olympia that night certainly had a Neil Finn moment anyway. 

Robert Newman's New Theory of Evolution, Black Box, 7th May 2014

"I’m reading Tolstoy in Russian....just doing the verbs at the moment”.  And that ought to give you some idea of kind of jokes featured in Robert Newman’s new show, The New Theory of Evolution.

That’s if you can call what Newman offers jokes, of course.  It’s certainly very funny, but it’s essentially a very funny Royal Institution lecture.  The basic premise of The New Theory of Evolution is that neocons have distorted Darwin’s theories, with big business-style interests clinging to the idea of “survival of the fittest” as it’s what fits their ideology best. 

In fact, Newman argues, it’s mutual co-operation and not a dog-eat-dog mentality that has led to the evolution of the species.  “Survival of the misfits”, he calls it, or the idea that that all species originate from misfits pushed to the edges of ecological tolerance in tiny populations.  So definitely not your standard Comedy Roadshow routine, then.

Newman has definitely done his research on the subject – and not just watched the Life on Earth box set, he assures us.  It’s a show full of genuinely interesting ideas and scientific facts.  I particularly liked the research cited on nematode worms, who cannibalise their fellow worms and in doing so, actually appear to consume their knowledge as well as their bodies.

It’s all so packed full of ideas, I couldn’t help but feel there should have been an accompanying reading list.  And of course, it turns out there actually is, on Newman’s own website.  Seriously, comedy gigs with reading lists – more of this, please.

I admit, it’s very much the kind of show people go to in order to feel clever about themselves – you can almost hear everyone in the crowd mentally slapping themselves on the back for getting all the jokes. 

Of course, my friend Ian and I probably have to be included in this mental self congratulation too, especially as we’d had three glasses of wine before Newman took to the stage.  The alcohol did lead to a moment of confusion for Ian towards the end of the first act, as he drunkenly thought Newman was leading up to some vaguely homophobic debunking of the “nature vs nurture” argument.  Exactly how this thought came to him I’m not sure.  Through a wine glass, I assume.

Fortunately, I managed to set Ian straight (as it were) before some very unusual alcohol-fuelled and science-based heckling took place.

Annoyingly, people were still taking their seats once Newman began his routine, so clearly not much of a late door policy, then.  One woman sat down next to me ten minutes into the set and, as if to hide her late arrival, began laughing loudly straight away even though she had effectively walked in mid-sentence.

Considering Newman used to be a stadium filling stand-up pin-up, he appeared to be genuinely quite nervous in the tiny space of the Black Box.  Gone was the ever so slightly arrogant (but, you know, sexily arrogant) technique of old.  Instead, Newman was a little bit stammering and distracted, especially in the face of the Black Box’s bright lights (“We’re not at a disco”).

Pathetic fangirl that I am, though, I was pleased to see that his looks have largely remained intact.  He might not be the long haired, Byronic sex god he once was – now he’s more the ruffled but sexy university professor you’re probably not supposed to fancy.  But hey, that works for me.

I’ve noticed that a number of reviews for The New Theory of Evolution have grumbled either about Newman letting comedy get in the way of a good science lecture, or for letting the lecture get in the way of the jokes.  Personally, I thought there was a good balance of both and admire Newman for being so unashamedly clever.  It might not be the kind of routine that sells out stadiums (to misquote Tim Minchin, you could be as clever as Voltaire but it won’t get you nowhere if you want to sell tickets), but it’s Newman doing the kind of material he wants to do and is clearly passionate about. 

Having said that – the ukulele songs need to go.  I’m happy for the show to be a mix of part-comedy gig, part-lecture, but twee songs played on a small stringed instrument don’t really fit either of those moulds.

Still, ukulele aside, listening to a clever, funny person say clever, funny things makes for a lovely way to spend an evening.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a reading list to get through.  Then, as Newman quipped at the start of the show, “we can all spit into groups and discuss our findings”.

The Tingler

“At any time you are conscious of a tingling sensation, you may obtain immediate relief by screaming. Don't be embarrassed about opening your mouth and letting rip with all you've got, because the person in the seat right next to you will probably be screaming too. And remember - a scream at the right time may save your life.”

We’ve all experienced it – that tingling sensation down the spine in moments of terror.  The fear you’re being followed home down a dark street, strange noises heard in the middle of the night, the realisation otherwise sane human beings actually vote for UKIP – that sort of thing.

What if that tingling wasn’t just a mere feeling?  What if it was caused by a living, parasitic creature that exists in all of us, feeding on your fear then growing and crawling up your spine, even potentially killing you in the process?  That’s the idea behind William Castle’s The Tingler, shown last week as part of the Belfast Film Festival.

The Tingler stars Vincent Price as pathologist Dr William Chapin, who discovers the horrible creature’s existence.  He dubs it ‘the Tingler’ due to the sensation it produces in down the spine and because, as his assistant David proclaims: “since we don’t know what it is yet, we can’t give it a Latin name”.

Fortunately, the Tingler isn’t undefeatable.  The creature can be stopped by simply screaming – letting rip with all you’ve got, indeed. 

Dr Chapin gets the chance to examine a real life Tingler after the untimely death of Martha, the deaf-mute co-owner of a silent movie theatre who is literally scared to death due to her inability to scream.  Realising news of the Tingler would cause untold panic among the public, Chapin decides to hush up his discovery and return the creature to Martha’s body, brought back to the apartment above the movie theatre she had shared with her husband.

But of course, things don’t go quite to plan and the Tingler gets loose, wreaking havoc on the unsuspecting film goers below with terrifying (and unintentionally hilarious) consequences.

William Castle loved to break the fourth wall with various movie gimmicks.  When the movie was first released, this was the point his latest gimmick was deployed in the form of ‘Percepto!’ – basically, electrical buzzers attached to the underside of some chairs in the cinema.  On screen, the Tingler gets into the projectionist’s booth, the silent movie being screened breaks down and the creature crawls across the screen.  It was at this point in the real life cinema the lights would get turned off and ‘Percepto!” would get switched on, giving some unsuspecting cinema goers a jolt as Vincent Price warned them not to panic but to “scream! Scream for your lives!”

Obviously, the Film Festival’s beanbag cinema wasn’t quite able to attach electrical buzzers to the underside of the beanbags.  However they did their best with some large speakers on the floor and the bass turned all the way up to eleven, causing the beanbags to shake and the spine to tingle, well, sort of.   During the shorter scenes this technique didn’t really have enough time to work, but it was most effective during two of the longer set pieces where Dr Chapin embarks on a memorable acid trip in the name of Science, and when poor Martha gets scared to death.

Another technique Castle used when The Tingler was first released was to employ screamers and fainters to attend the film screenings and, well, scream and faint in the theatre.  There were no fainters present among the beanbags, though as most people were watching the movie in a horizontal position it would have been hard to tell anyway.  Pleasingly though there was a screamer present, but of course, she could have just been genuinely unable to cope with all the horror onscreen.

And there is plenty of horror onscreen, though most of it unintentional.  The Tingler hasn’t earned itself the title of camp classic for nothing after all.  Some truly terrible dialogue is coupled with some truly terrible acting for full fearful effect.  “Well, everyone can scream!”, Dr Chapin’s sister-in-law exclaims.  “A deaf-mute can’t scream”, David replies ominously.

If you wanted to look deeply enough, you could probably find something interesting in the film’s subplot involving marriages gone wrong – Dr Chapin’s relationship with his wife is full of adulterous behaviour and matching attempts to kill each other, while the unfortunate deaf-mute Martha is also killed off by her ineffectual little husband.  Unfortunately, the characters are all so one-dimensional that this is never really developed.

The film doesn’t exactly advance the portrayal of women on screen either.  Dr Chapin’s wife is a drinking, smoker adulterer who attempts to kill her husband and possibly killed her father, too.  On the other hand, her sister is a virginal, clean living girl who cheerfully rolls her eyes when the men go off to discuss their highly important men’s work.  And let’s not forget Martha, a deaf-mute bundle of OCD and nerves who gets scared to death by things worthy of the ghost train in a particularly low-budget amusement park.

However, critiquing the plot points of a movie like The Tingler feels a little bit pointless.  It’s b-movie fluff, and highly enjoyable for what it is, especially when it’s a Friday night, you’ve had a glass of wine and are watching the movie from a beanbag, for example.  If you’re a fan of Castle, Price or just campy horror in general, watching The Tingler is a fun way to spend an evening – just as long as you don’t panic and remember to scream.  Scream for your lives!

Going Dark

                                       

Spending 75 minutes in a darkened room full of strangers might seem like an odd way to spend an evening, well, for most people anyway.  However Sound & Fury’s Going Dark, performed recently at Belfast's Mac, is a play that asks you to do just that.

The play tells the story of Max, an astronomer who learns he losing his sight, and is performed in very low level lighting, sometimes in complete darkness, in order to fully explore Max’s condition.  Part play, part astronomy lesson, the audience is invited for some of the evening to become one of Max’s students, gazing up at astral projections on the ceiling as he walks us through the Milky Way and the history of our universe.

I loved the astronomy lesson aspect of Going Dark.  Max, played by actor and Sound & Fury co-creator Tom Espiner, walks around the small space of the theatre, directing his laser pointer at various constellations and using some neat tricks to explain the birth of stars.  His love and enthusiasm for the subject is obvious, which makes it all the more heartbreaking when he can no longer see the starry projections that are clearly visible above him.

However the real emotional punch of Going Dark is how Max’s worsening condition affects his relationship with his son, Leo.  A single father, Max is determined that he and his son can cope with his blindness together and panics when it is suggested that social services might need to become involved. In one scene, Max even blindfolds himself in an attempt to see if he can still prepare his son’s school lunch and is delighted to find that he can – even if he does almost send Leo off to school with a can of beer.

We never actually see Leo – he appears as an unseen voice – but thanks to some excellent sound direction you find yourself genuinely believing Leo is in the room, even craning your head towards where the sound is coming from to get a better look at the boy who isn’t actually there.  Leo is voiced by Espiner's own son, who was recorded asking questions and chatting away about the subject matter.  The recordings were then edited into individual cues, with Hattie Naylor’s script partly written around these.  This improvisation creates a very natural feel to Max’s interactions with Leo – you believe you are listening to a father talking to his son, rather than an actor reading lines with a stage school brat.

The sound direction is excellent elsewhere, too.  During the scenes where the audience is plunged into complete darkness the sound itself almost becomes a character in the play.  In one scene, for example, you appear to be have been thrown into the middle of deafening traffic that seems to coming at you from everywhere, genuinely making you feel like you’re about to bit hit by a car despite sitting in the middle of a theatre.

The complete darkness is startling at first - and Going Dark's very first 'scene' is in pitch black, as the theatre turns into the great outdoors with crashing thunder, falling rain and birdsong surrounding the audience.  It all does a better job of portraying Max's sight loss than words ever could, as it makes the audience actually experience it rather than just watch a performance.

Tom Espiner is excellent as Max.  Even for a professional actor, performing a one man show in such an intimate venue takes a lot of nerve, and Espiner never loses the audience’s attention for a second.   He perfectly captures Max’s enthusiasm for the stars, the love for his son and the sheer panic his worsening condition causes him – from his confusion during a peripheral vision test, fear caused by the hallucinations he suffers as a side effect and the realisation his very career might be under threat.

The script's attempt at marrying together the various aspects of the play, through Max's assertion that "the universe itself is going blind", is perhaps a little bit forced.  However, Going Dark is ultimately a beautifully realised piece of experimental theatre that fully immerses the audience in a deeply affecting story.

The Borderlands

There’s a certain snobbishness to found regarding found footage horror movies – unsurprising perhaps, considering the glut of uninspired Blair Witch wannabes that have occupied the market in recent years.  Director Elliot Goldner, however, has proved there are still frights to be had with the genre in his debut film, The Borderlands.

It possibly sounds like the beginning of a very bad joke – an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman walk into a haunted church – but that’s the premise at work here.  Gordon Kennedy, who British viewers will recognise from his roles in, well, everything really plays Deacon, a world wearied priest who has been sent by the Vatican to investigate a supposed miracle in a small country church.  He’s accompanied by fellow priest and Vatican investigator Mark (Aidan McArdle), and technical expert Gray (Robin Hill) who kits the team out with the headcams that capture their footage.

And for once there is at least a reason for team’s use of headcams – although the reasoning behind their entire base camp being fitted with cameras is perhaps a little muddier.  Still, the in-house cameras capture some distinctly creepy scenes early on in the film, such as the untimely church bells chiming in the dead of night and the agonised screams of a sheep that gets set alight by local teenagers, all of which sets the tone for the rest of the film.

The Borderlands does stick to some familiar horror movies tropes – characters going off alone into dark buildings, crucifixes crashing off walls, unwelcoming local villagers who may as well have burning pitchforks – but for the most part it works well here.  The scene where Deacon runs off to the church on in his own in the middle of the night might tick every cliché in the “Horror By Numbers” guide to film-making, but it does also provide some of the movie’s most scary moments.  And once again, this time round there is a genuine reason for it.  Deacon is a man who has a lot to prove after other investigations of his have had terrible consequences.  As he desperately tries to unravel exactly what is happening in the church you at least understand why he heads off into dark crevices on his own – even if you do still wonder if he’s ever watched a horror movie before.

If anything, what makes The Borderlands work so well compared to other found footage movies of recent years is its very MR James-style Britishness.  There are plenty of beautiful – and vaguely ominous – shots of the English countryside setting the mood, for a start.  And instead of nubile young Americans screaming down a camera, here we’re watching a couple of middle aged British men discussing fantastical paranormal happenings over a couple of pints in the local boozer, which seems to make the film’s events all the more believable.  It’s the central double act of Deacon and Gray that serves The Borderlands so well – a sort of Peep Show meets Paranormal Activity style relationship providing laughs amid the ghost hunting.

Notable mention has to go to Robin Hill as Gray, the agnostic techie who is more amazed and eager to believe in the supernatural goings on he witness than the two priests, particularly Mark, who is keen to find a scientific explanation for everything and not drag the church back into the “dark ages”.

Gordon Kennedy and Aidan McArdle both deliver strong performances too, although I did feel the film suffered a little from casting actors who aren’t exactly strangers to mainstream TV shows.  Surely it’s more believable to think you’re watching the found footage of a doomed investigation if you don’t recognise the men on screen from Sherlock or Mr Selfridge?  That’s a minor complaint though, and is possibly a reflection of me watching too much television as opposed to what a general movie going audience might think.

The Borderlands does somewhat lose its way in the final act, after the arrival of elderly priest Father Calvino (Patrick Godfrey) and the plot goes, for want of a better phrase, completely mad.  However the final scenes, which do owe more than a passing nod to The Blair Witch Project, are still thrillingly claustrophobic and deeply unsettling.

Brunch at Balthazar

Oh, to be one of the beautiful people...

I’m not sure if Belfast has many places where the beautiful people gather.  If it does, I don’t gather with them.  But as it was our last day in London, we decided to experience a taste of the glamorous life before we returned home, and headed for Saturday brunch in Balthazar, Covent Garden.

Balthazar first opened in New York back in 1997, but now London has its very own branch of the French brasserie.  It opened last year in a blaze of hype, with dinner reservations booked weeks, if not months, in advance.  The hype didn’t appear entirely justified, though, with initial reviews not exactly glowing about the food on offer.  General consensus was that the brunch was much better than the dinner, and as my friend Julie and I couldn’t say no to chance to start drinking in the mornings, we were happy to oblige.

Not that our morning started off very well...we made the mistake of relying on an iPhone to direct us to our destination, with some trademarked Hilarious Consequences.  We realised we were in the wrong part of London entirely ten minutes before our booking, and had to flag down a black cab to get us where we needed to be.  Which turned out to be a ten minute walk from our hotel.  I told you, Hilarious Consequences.

All of which meant we turned up at Balthazar looking less fresh than when we had set out that morning – especially as we had been carting our suitcases around with us, having checked out of our hotel. But that was fine, yes?  Just a relaxed Saturday brunch, who needs to look good?

Ah, yes.  The beautiful people.  I don’t think we expected the Balthazar staff to be quite so beautiful.  Wafer thin bodies, perfectly styled hair, expertly applied make-up...still even if we didn’t get a chance to be beautiful, we got to feel pretty cool.  Balthazar was packed, with even more people piling in behind us.  Requests for brunch from people who hadn’t pre-booked were met with a quick “we can only fit you in for an hour”.  Julie and I, on the other hand, were led to our table by our beautiful waitress, looking at the one-hour brunchers with disdain for not being as damn cool as us.

The interior of the London Balthazar all terribly New York – which is odd, really, considering the interior the New York Balthazar is a copy of French style brasseries.  The tables were fairly small, with not a lot of space between us and our brunching neighbours, but that was fine.  Or at least it would have been fine, if only one of our neighbours hadn’t been an unspeakably pretty, size 0 woman tucking into a giant sticky bun that caused me to a gain 7lbs just looking at it.  Ah, I love the taste of resentment in the morning.

We momentarily felt a pang of panic strike us when we looked at the menu and realised the mimosas we had been planning on drinking were not listed.  Fortunately when we mentioned this to our waitress, she was happy to have two mimosas prepared for us anyway.  Clearly, tourists with burgeoning drinking problems do not faze the staff of Balthazar.

It was decided we would start the brunch with one vaguely healthy dish each.  I opted for the granola with fresh fruit and natural yoghurt, while Julie ordered the fruit salad.  My granola was fabulous, which is not a sentence I say often.  It had a lovely nutty taste to it, and with a generous helping of the yoghurt and plenty of berries, it would have been perfectly filling on its own.

Julie also enjoyed her fruit salad, which appeared to have been covered with a sort of syrup or honey glaze which was beautifully sweet and went well with the fruit.

Healthy options consumed, we then ruined our good intentions with some rapid weight gain in a basket– a basket of assorted breads and pastries.  Balthazar has its own bakery separate to the restaurant, so we had high expectations for this part of the meal.

Our basket contained slices of fresh, white bread which came with three different types of spread to go with them.  Although the chocolate spread mentioned on the menu didn’t seem to materialise, the jams and marmalade we did get more than made up for this.  We particularly loved the marmalade, which tasted like pure oranges turned into a spread, and which Julie felt sure was slightly alcohol-infused.

We also had some chocolate bread to try out, though neither of us was very impressed by it, even if we both liked the idea.  We moved on instead to our croissant, which was the lightest, fluffiest croissant either of us had ever eaten.  The pastry practically melted on our tongues.  The same could be said for the pain au chocolat we had next, although we did feel a little bit more chocolate wouldn’t have gone amiss.

Next in the basket was a giant Danish pastry, filled with plump raisins and covered in sticky glaze with sugary icing drizzled over it.  I would normally avoid Danish pastries as I find them too heavy to be enjoyable, but this too had Balthazar’s light pastry and left us feeling as virtuous as a Danish pastry the size of a man’s head can do.

We left our favourite pastry of all to the end – the almond croissant.  In retrospect, this did mean that by the time we came to eat it, we were almost entirely bread-based, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.  Not to worry, though, as the almond croissant was as gorgeous and light as everything that preceded it.  If I had to be very picky, I would say it could have done with a little bit more almond filling,  but considering I was ready to be rolled out of the restaurant this is a minor point.

When our bill arrived, we noticed it came attached to a Balthazar postcard – not wanting to start an argument in the restaurant over who got it to keep it, we asked our waiter if we could have another one.  He returned with a selection of postcards for the pair of us, which we thought was a nice touch.  Bloody tourists, eh?

People were still crowding into Balthazar as we left, so I would say that booking ahead is a must.  As we emerged blinking into the Covent Garden daylight, our sense of being cooler-than-thou immediately evaporated, leaving us feeling like the travel-worn, pastry-stuffed women we were.  Still, it had been nice while it lasted.

Did we buy anything that couldn’t be bought at your average Caffe Nero on a Saturday morning?  Well, apart from the cocktails, no.  And at just under £70 for the two of us, Balthazar will never been a cost-conscious option.  But if you want a brief taste of being cool along with your croissant – and not forgetting the socially approved morning drinking - it’s a good choice.  

Dinner by Heston Blumenthal

It’s never a good sign when the staff at a restaurant have to be told to “wash their hands more often” – but it’s perhaps an even worse sign at a two-star Michelin restaurant.

Dinner by Heston Blumenthal, at the Mandarin Oriental hotel in London, appears to have fallen foul of the same norovirus that previously closed his Fat Duck restaurant in Bray.  So, what better time to write up my norovirus-free experience of the place?

The food at Dinner is apparently inspired by “historic British gastronomy”, meaning that each dish on the menu comes complete with a year of origin next to it, with dishes dating all the way back to 1390.

Our initial impression of Dinner wasn't great – the girls at the reservations desk appeared to be judging my Primark cardigan as if I had turned up for lunch wearing an unwashed dishcloth.  However once we entered the restaurant itself, we were met by much friendlier staff who appreciated that people paying nearly £200 for lunch might not like being glared at too much.

We loved the table we were sat at – from my seat I had a great view of Hyde Park on a winter’s day, while my Heston-loving companion Julie had a view of the kitchen (and the not-terribly-unattractive chefs inside).

The cheapest wine on the menu was £25, so a bit different from my usual £5 M&S number, but we ordered it anyway in a fit of extravagance (we don’t get out much) along with some tap water.  And then on to the task of ordering food.

For our starter, we both opted for the most Heston-ish thing on the entire menu, the Meat Fruit.  Normally, anything called Meat Fruit would cause to me descend into innuendo-mode, but as I found myself in a classy joint I decided to aim for some higher ground.  The Meat Fruit is, essentially, pate shaped like an orange – as you do – with a slice of grilled bread on the side.

I had never actually eaten pate before, but as all the other starters seemed to include snails, tails and frogs legs, I was sort of at a loss as to what else to eat.  I therefore gingerly spread it on my bread, in fear I had opted for a £17.50 disaster.  I was pleased then, to find the Meat Fruit was a beautifully smooth and creamy creation, with the mandarin jelly adding a nice touch of sweetness.  Owing to my scaredy-cat spreading of pate on bread, I found I still had over half of my starter left by the time I finished my slice of grilled bread.  However, I didn’t even have to ask for another slice – as soon as the waiter saw I had finished, he let me know a second slice was on its way.

While we were eating our starter, the couple next to us was treated to a display of Heston’s famous liquid nitrogen ice cream in the making.  A waiter wheeled round his giant ice cream trolley and explained the dish with full theatricality...until the ice cream appeared to curdle, that is.  The trolley was then wheeled away and the ingredients refreshed before the couple could finally get to sample their tiny, tiny cone of liquid nitrogen happiness.

On to the main course, where Julie couldn’t quite decide between the roast halibut and cod in cider.  Our ever helpful waiter was called upon for a recommendation, and on his advice Julie opted for the cod.  We were particularly pleased by this, as he had actually suggested the cheaper of the two dishes – so no pushing of the more expensive meal on the diners.  The cod, Julie thought, was creamy, buttery and not dry in the least.

Being the fussier eater of the pair, once again I had some slight difficulty picking my main.  I’m not a big fish eater, I didn’t care for the idea of eating pigeon or umbles (entrails, don't you know?) and I didn’t want to spend £42 on steak and chips.  I opted then for the slow cooked pork belly with spelt, Robert sauce and black truffle.  I would never normally order pork off a menu as it can be a very heavy main, but this was an incredibly light dish and I cleared my plate completely.

We split one order of Heston’s famous triple cooked chips between us.  When the dish arrived, I couldn’t help but think how small it looked and how we probably should have ordered one serving each.  In the event, there were more than enough chips to go round.  The chips themselves were perfectly cooked – crispy on the outside, soft and fluffy on the inside.  Not being a big mushroom fan I avoided the mushroom ketchup that came with them, but Julie thought it was a fantastic addition.  It was, apparently, quite sweet for something made from mushrooms and contained tiny chunks of mushroom within.

On to the most important part of any meal – dessert.  Julie ordered the caramelised apple tart with Tahitian vanilla ice cream.  The tart was shaped to look like an actual apple sitting in cup of puff pastry, and contained a custard centre, while the creamy Tahitian vanilla ice cream helped the cut through the sweetness of the apple.

I, however, ordered yet another signature Heston creation – the tipsy cake.  Tipsy cake is a rum soaked brioche and, due to the preparation time, has to be ordered at the beginning of your meal.  It arrived in a small, cast iron pot and from the first mouthful I was floating on a happy, rum soaked brioche cloud.  The tipsy cake is pure comfort food, right down to the gorgeous custard it’s filled with.  It comes with a slice of spit roast pineapple, which might seem like an unusual addition but gives a nice sharp taste that clears your palette in between each rich mouthful.

Not feeling feeing even remotely rushed by the staff, we hung around for tea and coffee after our three courses had finished.  My coffee came with frothed milk to pour into it, while the loose-leaf tea came in a lovely clear glass tea pot with built-in strainer.  And just in case we weren’t already full enough, we were then presented with Earl Grey tea-infused chocolate ganache and caramelised biscuits.  Fortunately, it was just a small serving of ganache so you didn’t feel too greedy for eating it all.

In total, we were at Dinner for almost three and a half hours and at no point were made to feel like we needed to vacate our seats so other diners take our places.  By the time we asked for our bill, the sun was setting on Hyde Park and the jelly mould-style lights in the restaurant began to really stand out against the dark wood interior.  I would imagine Dinner is much more impressive looking at night time than during the day, when it all looks very neutral and traditional.

Our bill came to around £190, so a pretty pricey lunch but worth it for a one-off treat, we felt.  Our only real complaint was that, apart from the meat fruit, nothing on the menu particularly stood out for us compared to the kind of food Heston has on offer at the Fat Duck.  It was all very typical gastro-pub fare, though admittedly, very well cooked and very tasty.  And expensive.  Don't forget expensive.

All of which is why we found the news it had been temporarily closed due to the norovirus outbreak so surprising.  It’s hard to imagine any of our well mannered waiters or waitresses wouldn’t be familiar with hand washing techniques, for example.  I wouldn’t let that put me off returning to Dinner again, but maybe a little bit more Heston Blumenthal flair could be added along with the clean hands...

Defending Tom Hiddleston Fangirls From Intellectual Snobs

I admit it - in the past I have been guilty of having a go at Tom Hiddleston’s fangirls.  The whole “chasing him down the street and getting the after-show signings cancelled” thing was quite embarrassing, for example, and I did complain at the time.  It made us all look bad, quite frankly.

However, for once, I actually feel the need to DEFEND the Hiddleston fangirls.

Last night, Coriolanus was broadcast live in cinemas across the world as part of NT Live.  This means a lot more people got the chance to watch it, which is brilliant.  I went to see the play at the Donmar Warehouse last week and loved it – great performances, impressive but simple staging, and surprisingly moving.

The problem came when I logged on to Tumblr today, as it often does, and saw a few posts from people complaining about the same things.  Things like:

“Oh my god, during the shower scene the fangirls were giggling and squealing”

“That scene was NOT erotic, but the Hiddleston fangirls were so embarrassing”

“The kiss between Coriolanus and Aufidius was not supposed to be sexy but the fangirls are fixated on it”

“It’s so annoying for people like me who just wanted to see the play and love Shakespeare”

They’re all variations on the same complaints made when the tickets went on sale last year:

“I just wanted to watch some quality actors perform Shakespeare, but the seats have all gone to fangirls!”

The problem with all of this is it implies the fangirls are not capable of enjoying a play like Coriolanus, and are not deserving of the chance to see it.  It is intellectual snobbery of the highest order, and incredibly insulting to boot.

Okay, first of all – the shower scene.  No, watching a man wash blood from his wounds and cry in agony is clearly not sexy.  However, let’s not be shy  – Tom Hiddleston is.  I know when my friend and I saw the play in the Donmar, we turned to each other and exclaimed “HOLY SHIT LOOK AT THAT MAN” (or words to that effect). 

Appreciating physical beauty does not mean you can’t appreciate anything else.  And my word is Tom Hiddleston beautiful.    Yes, perhaps the fangirls did react to the shower scene with giggling and general flailing of limbs.  When I saw the play there was only one fangirl who was visibly having a moment in the stalls, but obviously there’s a different atmosphere in a cinema than in a West End theatre.

And let’s not forget, the shower scene was specifically added to this production.  I am sure the intention with this was not to get people’s motors going.  But do you honestly believe that nobody in the entire production team realised casting a handsome, physically fit actor and getting him half naked and showering on stage would have an effect on certain members of the audience?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m as guilty of showing off my education as much as any other intellectual snob.  However I’m not going to pretend I’m some pious gentlewoman whose ability to appreciate hot actors gets switched off when I enter the theatre.

It’s the same with the, quite frankly, OBVIOUS homoeroticism in this production of Coriolanus.  Again, I am sure the intention was not to get fangirls writing Coriolanus/Aufidius slash fic and “shipping” them in fanvideos across YouTube (though that will surely happen).  But really, the fangirls are not the only people to notice this aspect of the play – broadsheet theatre critics have picked up on it too.  Hell, there are dead deafblind people who probably picked up on it.  Director Josie Rourke and the actors she cast knew exactly what they were doing, don’t doubt that for a second.

The fact is, the people making these complaints are clearly under the impression the Hiddleston fangirls aren’t as deserving of their seats as they are.  They’re like those men at sci-fi conventions who seem to think the young women present aren’t really sci-fans, not like them, and unless they’re willing to put on a skimpy Wonder Woman costume what’s the point anyway?

Who cares if many of the seats went to fangirls?  Why is that a bad thing?  These are people who actively paid out their money to go to a little theatre and watch one of Shakespeare’s more difficult plays – that’s fantastic!  How do you know none of those girls went out the next day and bought the Complete Works of Shakespeare?  How do you know it didn’t affect them more than just firing up their loins?

Yes, perhaps hearing them giggling and squealing in the cinema last night was annoying.  When I went to see August, Osage County the other night, a group of middle aged women chatted their way through the opening scenes and took selfies mid-way through the movie.  Annoying. To the extreme. I get it.  But I don’t know if you noticed, Coriolanus is one hell of dark play.  I’m sure nobody was giggling and squealing by the final scene.

Obviously, invading an actor’s personal space is appalling, as is being rude to the staff at the Donmar, and behaviour like that can’t be accepted.  But getting a bit hot under the collar when Tom Hiddleston takes his shirt off isn’t quite the same thing, and it doesn’t mean the rest of the play went over anybody’s head.  It may have temporarily annoyed you, but life is annoying.  Suck it up.

I had never read or seen Coriolanus before I bought my tickets last year.  I went because I wanted to see Tom Hiddleston and Mark Gatiss act together, in a good production in a good theatre.  The fact is, I got to see a Shakespearean play I had no previous knowledge of AND I got to see Tom Hiddleston take his shirt off.  If you think it’s impossible to celebrate both of those things, you’re not really the sort of person I want to sit in a darkened room with.

Fish Are Jumping, Cotton Is High

If it’s Friday, it must be Ben Whishaw.

Alas, all good things must come to an end.  You spend months planning out how you’re going to That London to see three plays in three nights, and before you know it you’re taking your seats for the final play.

Unexpectedly, I found myself more excited about going to see the revival of Jez Butterworth’s Mojo than either of the previous plays.  This may have been due to the presence of Ben Whishaw.  Or, it may have been down to the fact I had an ice cream sundae the size of Mount Doom for breakfast, and half a bottle of wine at dinner. 

Either way, I arrived at the Harold Pinter theatre full of excitement.  Which quickly evaporated when faced with a sea of people pushing and shoving each other in the lobby.  And then vanished some more when I took to my seat in the Royal Circle and realised just how poor a view it offered a Hobbit like me.   Once the man seated next to me knocked over my drink as he sat down, my good mood finally shrivelled up and died.

The play itself is a defiantly male affair, set in a seedy nightclub in 1950s London.  Club owner Ezra has discovered a rising star in the form of singer Silver Johnny, and is keen to protect his young protégé from the advances of his rival, a gangster called Sam Ross.  Club workers Potts and Sweets, meanwhile, sit in the back office dreaming about the easy life Silver Johnny surely has in store for them now – “The fish are jumping and the cotton is high”, Potts declares.

However, the following morning Ezra is discovered sawn in half by his second-in-command, Mickey, and Silver Johnny has gone missing.  Ezra’s psychotic son Baby takes the news of his father’s murder in a daydream-like manner, and as his mental stability begins to crack even further the men grow increasingly fearful for their future.

Mojo gets off to a great start – Silver Johnny silently gearing himself up for the evening’s performance, the sound of his female fans screaming in the distance.  But other than that, the first half of the play tends to drag a bit.  It’s definitely funny – Daniel Mays in particular steals the show with his portrayal of Potts, all zinging dialogue and nervous energy.  And the news of Ezra’s death offers some wonderfully dark humour.  When club doorman Skinny questions Mickey if he’s absolutely sure their boss is dead, Mickey shouts: “He’s fucking cut in half.  He’s in two bins!”

I had some problems with Rupert Grint’s performance as Sweets, mainly the fact I found it so hard to figure out what he was saying half of the time.  To be fair to Grint, it’s his stage debut, and when I could actually understand him I thought he delivered a good performance.  As Sweets essentially forms a comedy double act in the play with Potts, it would be hard for anyone to match up to Daniel Mays, nevermind an actor with considerably less experience.

My main issue with the first half of the play is that it’s all talk and very little action (though I’m sure both halves of Ezra would disagree with that).  At times, it all reminded me of the episode of Rock Profiles where Matt Lucas portrayed mockney Cockney Damon Albarn: “So I went up the apples and pears stairs and sat on an apple and pear chair and got an autograph from apples and pear Lionel Blair...”

The action doesn’t really get going until the first act comes to an end, when Baby – played with a real sense of unhinged menace by Ben Whishaw – dons Silver Johnny’s silver jacket and performs a dance routine that’s as menacing as a dance routine accompanied by silver glitter possibly can be.

The second act is much more interesting, right down to the set change as we go from the back office to the sequinned interior of the Atlantic club, where the two bins containing the dearly departed Ezra have been brought.  As Baby’s mental state continues to deteriorate and Whishaw is given more to do, the play gets more engrossing. 

Whishaw is excellent as Baby, going from a dreamy, trance-like state to an overtly sexual and genuinely threatening menace in the blink of an eye.  He also turns out to be an excellent singer and not necessarily as slight and willowy in the flesh as you might expect.  Whishaw also handles the black comedy of the play very well – after Baby has tracked down Silver Johnny, he describes his revenge upon Mr Ross: “he's got his yellow hair parted right down between his eyes...if he is coming he's going to need a jolly good lie down first”.

At heart, Mojo is a play about male relationships.  Baby’s decidedly fucked up relationship with the never-seen Ezra is just one example.  In the second act, we learn that Baby has been the victim of sexual abuse.  Later on, Baby talks about a childhood memory in which his father took him for a drive in the country and he noticed a bag of knives in front seat.  Convinced his father is going to kill him, he eventually finds out that Ezra actually plans for them to kill and cut up a cow, leaving Baby covered in blood.

The character of Skinny, played by Colin Morgan, is another interesting one.  With no father at home – just an “uncle” – he hero worships Baby, copying his hairstyle and dress sense with a barely disguised sexual tension simmering between them.  And when I say “barely disguised”, what I mean is Baby demanding that Skinny “kiss my pegs” before grinding up against him on the jukebox.  Considering the cheekbones and sharp hips on both actors, it’s a wonder the front row doesn’t walk away with paper cuts.

Another aspect of the play I really enjoyed was the real sense of claustrophobia that sets in once the Atlantic club goes into lockdown following Ezra’s death.  Daytime beckons and punters begin to gather outside waiting to be let in, but the club has become a makeshift prison for the men inside, with daylight only breaking in once as Mickey briefly opens a window.

Even if it’s not a perfect play, it certainly is an interesting one, perhaps more interesting once you’ve actually had time to sit down and think about what you’ve just seen.  Compared to the previous two plays we had seen, it may not have always held our attention to begin with, but once it got going it was very hard to look away.

Once the play ended, we decided that as it was our final night, we would carry on our tradition of being stood up by pretty-boy actors.  We arrived at the stage door just as the security man began removing the barrier, explaining that as it was raining and the actors had two performances the following day there would no be signings that night.  Failure, again!

As we were about to walk away before the pouring rain gave us pneumonia, a fellow theatregoer appeared behind me and happily exclaimed “I just got Whishaw – he’s over there”, pointing across the street.  Once I determined this wasn’t just some middle aged man toying with a fangirl’s emotions, I ran off down the street , arms flailing, Whishaw bound.

Despite the appalling weather he held court with his small army of admirers, signing whatever was put in front of him and posing for all photo requests (my own included).  A girl breathlessly explained that she had travelled all the way from China for the play.  I got overexcited and offered “We came from Belfast!”  Because, yes, travelling from Belfast to London is every bit as impressive as travelling from China.  Whishaw’s pen stopped working in the rain and I offered him my own, which he took – I am now considering designating the pen as a holy object and starting a religious order based around it.

My friend, clearly the only person gathered who wasn’t an oversexed fangirl, became Whishaw’s semi-official photographer, snapping both my picture and a picture for one of the Chinese fans.  “You were very good tonight” she said, like the friend of a proud parent who has been dragged along to the school nativity.  “You were BRILLIANT” I cried, still overexcited.

And so our final night of theatre ended.  As Potts himself put it, the fish were jumping and the cotton was high.  And most of all, the fangirls were flailing.