Burke and Hare

Burke and Hare
Director: John Landis
Starring: Simon Pegg, Andy Serkis, Jessica Hynes
Runtime: 91 minutes
Rating: ***

John Landis is perhaps best known for formidable cult classics The Blues Brothers, and An American Werewolf in London, as well as a stream of commercial movies in the seventies and eighties. Burke and Hare, however, is the first film he has directed in twelve years. He seems to have gotten a little rusty . . .

Burke and Hare (Simon Pegg and Andy Serkis respectively) are a pair of penniless Irish opportunists looking to get rich quick in Victorian Edinburgh. After their initial venture fails (selling mould to the naive by claiming it has omnipotent healing properties!?), the duo resort to less respectable (and less legal) means of procuring an income. The twosome realise there is a gap in the market selling corpses to professors for use in medical experiments, but they soon find themselves faced with a dilemma. Where to get the corpses from? Pegg and Serkis rapidly win themselves a small fortune murdering those unfortunate enough to cross paths with them. However, the pair’s success is short-lived as suspicion begins to grow in the city.

Pegg and Serkis star alongside a host of British stars including Bill Bailey, Stephen Merchant, and an aging Ronnie Corbett in this blacker than black comedy. The slapstick Laurel and Hardy-esque humour of the film combines itself with a graphic violence, which ultimately manifests itself in an unsettling dark humour. Although this violent, deadpan humour is in many places effective, the film always feels somewhat awkward, in that it threatens to overstep the mark of what seems acceptable. Part of me, for instance, still cannot decide whether making the viewer sit through the four minute ‘burking’ (forcible asphyxiation) of an elderly woman is just a bit too much? Needless to say, this is not a comedy for the faint-hearted. Saying this though, where the comedy can be dubious, the script is for the most part punchy and well written. The playful relationship between Pegg and Serkis is often a pleasure to watch. It is only during the final thirty minutes that one can’t help feeling that (not just the script), but the denouement lets the viewer down, playing itself out with the type of cliché that has long come to be expected of Hollywood.

It seems that Burke and Hare is a movie which relies a little too much on its big names rather than its actual content. There is no doubt that the inclusion of Simon Pegg alone will bring many to the cinemas. Although his performance is really very good and the set-pieces of a bustling Victorian Edinburgh are truly impressive, the film lacks a general cohesiveness which makes it seem somewhat rushed and incomplete. I can’t help thinking that the tagline to the movie seems coincidentally appropriate: “They’re making a killing”. No doubt they are in the box office but those expecting the next Shaun of the Dead, or Hot Fuzz should be warned. Despite being rife with cliche Burke and Hare is overall an enjoyable watch, as long as you are content not to expect too much from it.

Post-October Catch-up!

Hey guys!

I've been absent from this blog for far too long. I really mean that. It's been a ridiculous amount of time. Since coming back to university this has become somewhat a secondary.... okay maybe tertiary concern (as it always threatens to). It is only in the last week that an internet connection has actually been established in my house! It's great. And means that unlike last year, I have no reason NOT to be blogging regularly.

In an attempt to make a final leap into student societies (almost too late), I ran for Nouse film editor with my friend Michael. Nouse, for those who don't know is the university's student run newspaper. So I'll also be writing regular film reviews and features. Oh, I also get my own web based blog on the site to review/rant about surreal, weird, underground films. I'm pretty damn excited about that. Anyway, all of my posts for Nouse will eventually be fed through here anyway, so as to make a secondary 'catalogue' of my writing!

Adieu!

p.s. my author page (with very little on it at the moment)
https://www.nouse.co.uk/author/gareth-davies/

Idi I Smotri (Come and See) 1985

Critically acclaimed upon its release, and clocking over 25 million admissions in the Soviet Union alone, is Come and See, the tale of a child soldier, Florya, and his fight for survival in Nazi occupied Belarus. Despite its formidable success at the box office, Come and See is a film which has managed to glide under the radar into relative obscurity. It has, however gained a strong cult following, and for good reasons. Finding that his village and home has been raided, and all its inhabitants, including his family murdered, the young Florya finds himself alone in a desperate struggle for survival. As we follow Florya through war-stricken Belarus we bear witness, on the one hand, to the systematic genocidal activities of the Nazi troops, and on the other, to the misery of displaced communities of starving, homeless, Belarusian civilians. A distressing mask of anguish begins to replace Florya’s once pure and youthful visage. His innocence is stripped from him, revealing to the child a grim and premature knowledge of the horrors of war. Whilst with each successive scene of misery and terror, we share in this knowledge, and our senses are assaulted. Any fleeting glimpses of hope given to the viewer are quickly stolen away from us, presenting a view of war which is unflinching, shocking, traumatic. Horrific as it may be though, the film exudes an eerie and indefinable beauty. Klimov creates an emotional landscape which leaves the viewer so wrought with tension and sorrow that its climax becomes dizzying and euphoric in its intensity. Filmed using live ammunition, and portraying Nazi war crimes with graphic brutality, this film is not for the faint hearted, but those daring enough to sit through it will certainly reap the rewards, being presented with a depiction of war “as Hollywood could never portray it”.

http://www.nouse.co.uk/2010/10/27/come-and-see-1985/

Decadence

'It is the difference between the raw, white and direct light of a midday sun beating down on all things equally, and the horizontal light of evening, firing the strange clouds with reflections . . . Does the setting sun of decadence deserve our contempt and anathema for being less simple in tone than the rising sun of morning?

Theophile Gautier

Beirette

My new baby. £12 in an antique shop. Seems to be working. Loaded a black and white film, and just going to see what happens. I can't stop looking at it though, and carrying it around everywhere with me. It is such a cute little camera! Can't wait to see how these photos come out!

I need to stop buying and using film cameras. It's an expensive hobby.

*Tumbleweed*

Normal service will resume shortly


yrs, Gareth.

Essay Writing.

CLICK ME FOR DIVINE INSPIRATION

Hope you enjoy as much as I do.

Or alternatively,

HERE

Old... but still SO GOOD!

SEXY

"Mrs Robinson! You're trying to seduce me, aren't you?"

One of life's great tragedies that this never happenned.

Bill Gates should totally have got the role over Dustin Hoffman!

Eighteen...

. . . days and counting.

Getting pretty worried now. Sometimes I'm glad I'm a worrier. I'm told that it means I get more done, out of mortal fear, or a lack of belief in my own abilities. I think that's quite a good character trait to have in these situations. The rest of the time, I would disagree. It is unhealthy.

It seems like it's been a long time since I've posted anything substantially wordy on here (I like to think all my words are going to a better cause right now...). It seems as I scroll down my own page that this blog has become some kind of image-fest. Note to self: images in moderation. We can't be having all of these pictures cluttering everything up. I mean, why for example did I decide to post a picture of a skeleton praying. I suppose maybe I thought that people might interpret it in some way for themselves or find it 'interesting'. And why did I decide to post a picture of the decidedly plastic looking airbrushed Brigitte Bardot? And also... why is my computer full of photos of her!? (I really am confused about that one).

Anyway, in the name of the 'word' here I am.

Saturday I go back to York. Not sure if I'm excited, or relieved, or what. I feel distinctly indifferent. Standard feeling in this situation. I feel like I've really settled back into homelife. Unfortunately, however, everyone else has gone back to their respective employments around the country leaving me stranded in this now barren land. Unfortunately (also), the last few weeks in Cardiff have been my most socially active for the whole summer. A shame really. Everyone come back please I was just beginning to enjoy myself!

And for lack of anything else to say I am going to end this post with yet another random image from my hard drive. This won't happen again.

Giulietta Masina 

It all makes sense now . . .

Pssshhh, stupid dinosaurs

Brigitte Bardot

Part of me says she is beautiful, and part of me says she is awful. Eep.

Baby Octopus

Somebody get me one? :D

XXXVI

Hipster Dinosaurs

Fisheye

Photos came back.
It appears I am a flash abuser.
And I feel deeply ashamed of myself.

At least I know how much light I need now.
Here are some of the ones that did come out well.

♥

It's been a fun few days with this bad boy.

Getting my first film developed tomorrow.

Excited.

Gargantua & Pantagruel

Readers, friends, if you turn these pages
Put your prejudice aside,
For, really, there's nothing here that's outrageous,
Nothing sick, or bad — or contagious.
Not that I sit here glowing with pride
For my book: all you'll find is laughter:
That's all the glory my heart is after,
Seeing how sorrow eats you, defeats you.
I'd rather write about laughing than crying,
For laughter makes men human, and courageous.

BE HAPPY

Octahedron

MASTERPIECE

(seriously)

Russian Dolls in Tandem.

Russian dolls in tandem, sit deep on my windowsill. They are elaborately painted, varnished, reflect the light from behind me. There are five dolls in total. All face forward. Each doll stares into the back of the head of its respective elder. Except for the smallest. The only one which is not hollow, has not been bisected. It is the only doll which is whole. But it does not feel that way. This doll stands in defiance of the others. It has its back turned, a blue and red shell. It stares out of the window at the tear stained pane, and the giant oak which lies beyond it.

A blue origami elephant also stares, but this time into the white wall. I made it last week. It is sketchy, slightly malformed, a first attempt. I can see its reverse fold tail poking out from between two fragile hind legs. It sits on a copy of Love is a Dog from Hell. I made two. The second was much better. It has been sent to someone special in the post. These two baby blue effigies seperated by hundreds of miles. I am skilled at tearjerking. Do you feel it yet? I wonder if they think about each other at night. Maybe not. The elephant continues to stare into the wall.

The Burrow

Been reading the short stories of Kafka. The Burrow. I feel as if I have read this story at the most perfect stage in my life, that it speaks to me more than it ever could. With time I don't think i'd ever be able to take any more from it than I can now. Which is perhaps an insult to Kafka's work. I feel like I've experienced some kind of complete affinity or absorption. Probably doesn't say much for my mental state / perception of self that I can identify so much with it. I'm not too concerned about that. It's made me realise how little I identify with everything else. Instead of having to deal with my birthday on thursday, I just want to be in my burrow.
I think that Kafka may be my favourite literary 'personality'.

I had the blues but I shook them loose . . .

Letter from Sydney Smith to Lady Georgiana
16th February 1820

Dear Georgiana,

Nobody has suffered more from low spirits than I have—so I feel for you. Here are my prescriptions;

1st Live as well as you dare.
2nd Go into the shower-bath with a small quantity of water at a temperature low enough to give you a slight sensation of cold.
3rd Amusing books.
4th Short views of human life—not further than dinner or tea.
5th Be as busy as you can.
6th See as much as you can of those friends who respect and like you.
7th And of those acquaintances who amuse you.
8th Make no secret of low spirits to your friends, but talk of them freely—they are always worse for dignified concealment.
9th Attend to the effects tea and coffee produce upon you.
10th Compare your lot with that of other people.
11th Don’t expect too much from human life—a sorry business at the best.
12th Avoid poetry, dramatic representations (except comedy), music, serious novels, melancholy sentimental people, and every thing likely to excite feeling or emotion not ending in active benevolence.
13th Do good, and endeavour to please everybody of every degree.
14th Be as much as you can in the open air without fatigue.
15th Make the room where you commonly sit, gay and pleasant.
16th Struggle by little and little against idleness.
17th Don’t be too severe upon yourself, or underrate yourself, but do yourself justice.
18th Keep good blazing fires.
19th Be firm and constant in the exercise of rational religion.
20th Believe me, dear Georgiana, your devoted servant, Sydney Smith

The Slip

I don't care how many other people dislike this album. I think it's one of their best. This track has come back to dominate my life.

...And They Have Escaped The Weight Of Darkness

There is only one phrase I can think of to aptly describe the new album from Ólafur Arnalds. 

And that is, as the soundtrack of a broken heart.

I have been a fan of Ólafur Arnalds almost since his initial arrival on the neo-classical scene in 2007 with his mindblowing debut, Eulogy for Evolution. I remember being astounded that a musician of only twenty years of age could produce something so emotively charged... something so mature. It is only recently that his second complete 'studio album' (for there are other projects of his out there) hit the streets. It does not dissappoint...

It is an album which is difficult to speak of in musical terms, but lends itself to description in terms of light and dark, of weights, maybe even colours, and, of course, emotions. Ólafur's musical task is different to that of many other contemporary classical composers, in that he often fuses indie, electro sounds into his work. Similarly, although his music centres around a solitary and desolate piano, you will find a variety of instruments incorporated such as drums, an agile strings section, and of course synth. Arnalds' has stated that his aim is to mix his classical sound with those contemporary in popular and indie music. This gives him a sound which I would be reticent to compare to that of any other groups, but in some ways seems in keeping with the contemporary musical output of his home country, Iceland, which has been the home of many post-rock-esque, neoclassical groups in the past.

Like his previous albums, ...And They Have Escaped The Weight Of Darkness is a work which is deeply melancholic, one could go as far as depressive. It is the sort of music which is capable of invoking a barrage of emotion which is sometimes hard to categorise and understand. Unlike Eulogy of Evolution, however, where the album spirals into a overwhelming and dizzying climax of emotion, it is clear that this new album is much more balanced. This, of course, can be interpreted as either a good thing or a bad thing depending on taste. The album takes a course which retains a sense of brooding sadness, but listeners will find that where they least expect it a wistful, and struggling light can be found in the music, which breaks through triumphantly causing the music to blossom and revel in its own beauty.

This sense of 'balance' does not just pervade the progress of the work as a whole, but also the individual tracks themselves, which are composed with utmost delicacy and attention to detail. The richness of the music is expressed through its cadences, its crescendos, and the timbre of sounds which resonate through the whole album giving it a cohesiveness which makes each track a single fragment in a much wider musical vision. Although the classical instrumentation of the album is top notch, surprisingly powerful bouts of musical climax are expressed through Olafur's carefully positioned use of drumming and (increasingly economical) use of synth, which really take tracks such as Tunglið and Þau hafa sloppið undan þunga myrkursins to a much higher level of musical complexity, and increase the depth of sound within a genre which is often criticised for its shallowness and minimalism. It is in these instances that the contemporary style that Ólafur aims for is most obvious.

Drowned in Sound have said that the album 'is not a sudden tidal wave of emotion laid on thick, but a glacial melting of mournfulness,' a statement I couldn't agree with more. The melancholy of the album, though intense, seems to wash over the listener and be replaced at times with fleeting glimpses of optimism. But regardless of this, it still remains one of the most melancholy and touching pieces of music I've ever heard. I'm not sure I'd rate it above his debut Eulogy for Evolution but it certainly gives it a run for its money. There are few people out there at the moment with the same vision as Ólafur Arnalds, a vision which works so well. The album is an incredibly rewarding listen, and one of the most emotionally resonant works of art I've had the pleasure of experiencing. It could even be my favourite album so far this year...

The album can be bought at Erased Tapes

Spotify users can listen to his first album, and his musical 'experiment' Found Songs here

And here's a little taster of the new album for all of you.

Illuminate My Heart, My Darling.

One of the most beautiful songs I've ever heard.

It may be long, but it is SO worth it.

Apparently they'll be supporting Oceansize on their UK tour this september. Surely a chance not to be missed.

Part 1


Part 2

Provincetown

I am in love this photo which my Dad took in Provincetown, MA., in July.
It is so perfect that it looks like a painting. I should add that this hasn't been photoshopped or edited at all.

I'm still shocked at how un-real it looks.

Totoro

I want a Totoro! Now, just to find a secret passage-way under a bush and fall through a hole in a tree onto his stomach!


I've only seen six of the nineteen studio ghibli movies. This needs to be sorted out this summer. But hopefully the overwhelming cuteness doesn't affect my character too much ;)

Blueprints.

The road I'm on right now - quite literally through the bowels of Milton.
(Click on the thumbnails for a better view)

Hopefully this doesn't somehow constitute academic misconduct.

Milton.

...time may come when men
With angels may participate, and find
No inconvenient diet, nor too light fare:
And from these corporeal nutriments perhaps
Your bodies may at last turn all to spirit...
(5.494-97)

After about three months of no concentrated Milton, I decided that today was the day that 'work' (an English Literature degree is never really 'work' is it - and anyone who says it is, is taking themselves too seriously) was going to happen. Thankfully, it did. Up at 8, and to work at 10, my productivity only impeded by a man doing horrible phlegmy coughs on the other side of the room, and a (most likely homeless) man asleep, mouth wide open, snoring. Luckily someone must have complained, because a young lady quickly came to wake him up, and whispered a few cautionary words to him. It was only then that he produced a blue polyethalene bag, and began to eat spring onions out of it. Bizarre.

Anyway, that's all beside the point really. It seems slightly ridiculous to be writing to the world (wide web) about my fairly mundane trip to the library. Maybe I'm writing this because I'm somehow proud of myself, in a more than pathetic way, for having actually done something, other than reading for pleasure, or breaking out of my usual trend of getting to the library in order to boycott work in favour of reading other books. It comes as a relief to me that I finally seem to have an idea. It was only last night that I was moaning to a friend about my 'hopeless' situation. But I think I have something. The quality of which is debatable, but it is an idea, it can be worked on. Obviously I don't want to broadcast my whole idea on the internet, but it centers around the digestive processes (both mental and alimental) which operate within Paradise Lost, on various levels. Hence the quote above. My notes are littered with these little diagrams of stomachs and cosms with annotations within them. I wish I could take a picture of them, they look pretty cool. (If I do say so myself). It's also pretty entertaining to be reading about such childishly funny things like poo and farting. And Milton's own view on these things, as poo and farting are topics which (believe it or not) are worryingly common in his collected works. It is most explicitly mentioned in De Doctrina Christiana, but you can also find references to both of these things in Areopagitica, Lycidas, and of course in Paradise Lost.

I decided a few weeks ago to do a Milton tour around London (NERDY I KNOW) and visited the site of his old house in Bread Street, now the site of imposing glass office blocks, St. Paul's where he was taught and bought his books, and also Whitehall where he worked for many years of his life. I wish I could say that seeing the places that constituted Milton's world were in some way remarkably inspiring, but unfortunately, that was not the case. Although after re-reading parts of the poem today I think I have re-entered a 'love' phase, which is good for work. I just hope that the 'hate' phase doesn't swing around too soon behind it. The more I read of it, the more I feel that it is most definitely a poem to be tackled in small sections. Really small sections. Ideally probably no more than 50 lines in an evening. But obviously at this stage time won't allow for that. I wonder if there's some kind of 'Read Paradise Lost in a year' scheme, like they do with the bible. That'd be good. I always worry that I'm going to ruin my enjoyment by having to read big sections in short periods of time.

Nothing else to report.
Hopefully I can get something on paper soon.

To quote Satan himself:

"...Nor think thou with wind
Or airy threats to awe whom yet with deeds
Thou canst not..."
(6.282-84)

Seems pretty relevant in considering what I've just done - talking rubbish about my essay for which I have very little to show.

Darkness Implacable - Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road'

"No lists on things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes"

After having seen Cormac McCarthy's name bouncing around for the last few years, on numerous lists of 'best 21st century novels', award winning fiction, and perhaps most tellingly lists of 'modern classics', I began to pay attention. Not to mention after hearing about the recent film adaptation of The Road and seeing the adaptation for film of No Country For Old Men in 2008. So, when I came face to face (numerous times) with cheap editions of The Road in charity shops and online, I figured it was meant to be. It was almost as if the book were following me, begging me to read it. (Okay maybe that's bullshit, I just saw it a few times and thought why not?). But all I can say is thank you phantom stalking book. I think I could safely say that The Road has become a new favourite, and is certainly a keeper. One which will remain on my bookshelf for a long time (and which I already have an itching desire to re-read).

As I've come to realise, after reading No Country for Old Men and All The Pretty Horses, The Road marks a departure from McCarthy's usual nouveau-'wild-west' topical field. The Road, then, somewhat uncharacteristically is a dystopian and post-apocalyptic vision of a new America. The novel contains only two main characters, who are referred to as simply 'man' and 'boy'. We follow them on their journey for survival across a barren palimpsestic America, never gaining knowledge of the events whose aftermath cause an annihilation of almost the whole population of America, and for a perpetual snow of ash to rain over the country. As well as simply finding food and clothing remaining from 'old' America, the duo must also face the challenge of avoiding and fighting off other human beings who, in desperation, have resorted to cannibalism. The novel bleakly details the journey of a man and his son along the road. A never-ending road which must be travelled for sustenance and safety.Though do not be mistaken, the bleakness of this journey is not completely overwhelming. Amongst the hopelessness and wretchedness of the post-apocalyptic monochrome America that McCarthy creates, both man and boy show a tenderness towards each other which (astoundingly) defies their awful situation. The massive contrast between outer darkness and inner warmth makes The Road a novel which is capable of creating for itself an air of being in some way 'epic' and a depth of emotional charge which is often surprising considering the minimal character development.

The Road is a novel which could be argued to be much more socially and politically 'contemporary' than McCarthy's other novels, in its capitalisation upon the post 9/11 mindset and the 'era' of terror. Although the fear of mutually assured destruction and the tradition of post-apocalyptic literature reaches back some sixty-five years now, since the first use of the atomic bomb, the arms race that followed, and the Cuban missile crisis in '62. The Road's warning of a barren, empty post-apocalyptic America, as we sit on the brink of a second nuclear era, seems to have become increasingly relevant in the last four years since it was published. As previously stated The Road is somewhat an anomaly in Cormac McCarthy's otherwise testosterone filled tales of life in the deep south. What starts out as a simple tale of two men travelling along a road, gradually blossoms into an emotionally intense and shatteringly beautiful piece of literature.

The text itself is wonderfully crafted in a way which is reminiscent of both Beckett and Coetzee in style and tone (and maybe even content with Beckett). What is striking about McCarthy as an author is the economy with which he utilises his words. It is a text, which in true Coetzee-an style, can at times seem deceptively plain and simple, but is constructed in a way that it expresses a lot more than it can ever be said to let on. Whilst using these frugally concise-yet-complex sentences, McCarthy uses two of Beckett's (arguably) most characteristic literary traits, these being the one word sentence, and his re-arranged syntax, which manipulates the manner and the order in which meaning is released, and constructed. We are confronted with this particular trait in the second sentence of The Road where McCarthy remarks upon the "nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before". The style works well, for McCarthy’s purpose, and serves to highlight the disorder of the 'new life' deserving of a new modified language, and also increases a feeling of uneasiness and vulnerability in the reader, firstly from reading disjointed thoughts, and secondly for the perilous position of ‘man’ and ‘boy’. McCarthy’s one word sentences complement this occasional awkwardness of syntax by creating this punchy 'that’s all there is' feeling. It would be unfair, though, to deride McCarthy's own creation by apportioning his literary achievement to those who have come before him, and not giving him credit for his own endeavouring individuality of style. (A style which rather strangely results in the omitting of apostrophes and speech marks, which can be confusing). Whilst the novel could be labelled as Beckettian in tone, and Coetzee-an in style, it retains a sense of distinct 'American-ness' in a way which seems to function far beneath the text, but is somehow unplaceable.

Nevertheless what is striking about The Road is the sparseness of anything, be it within the actual events of the novel, or within the speech of the characters, (the majority of speech between the boy and man comes in one word entries), or even in the punctuation of the novel, commas reserved for special occasions. McCarthy favours the dead full stop, creating a sense of emptiness and desolation which can be physically portrayed in the text itself, in contrast to the lengthy comma-less sentences which seem in some way to be physically representative of the never-ending road which the duo must travel. It has been a long time since a novel has been capable of making me feel so many things with seemingly so little effort. There were times when I was scared, tense, and even just plain upset. What McCarthy has created on retrospect in The Road is incredibly impressive, considering the plain, dark and empty style. For something so flat on the surface to create something so emotionally contoured on the inside has surprised me. And it is because of this, and its deliciously dark bouts of description that it is a novel which I am sure to re-read soon. And indeed, one deserving of a hearty 5 stars in my books.

This country will kill you in a heartbeat and still people love it.

My new friend. His name? Cormac McCarthy. I am addicted.

I've only read The Road and No Country For Old Men, but they we're both really very good. Gonna be searching for cheap editions of his novels in the next few weeks. Maybe I'll pick up a new one tomorrow - perhaps Blood Meridian or All The Pretty Horses. His novels are so readable and page-turnery but also good, not shit, no no, good. Really gripping, with punchy speech, and highly plot driven, but also very American. I ended up making pages of quotes and notes on The Road. It is so deliciously dark. Maybe I will bombard you with some of the quotes here, you unsuspecting little things. Hehehe. Okay, here are my favourites. I'll only put two in. Just want to share the love. (I would try and persuade everyone around to how great NCFOM was as well by doing this if it wasn't completely and utterly unquotable- n.b. the title of this post is actually a quote from the book. Maybe I exaggerated the truth a little there. There is one quote of worth. Enjoy it.)

This first quote is the first three sentences of the novel
"When we woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he'd reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him. Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world."

Numero Duo!
He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it."

Maybe I’ll write a review of it soon, and then put a shiny hyperlink right here (____here it is____) when it’s done so people can click away. I think I will. Yeah, I’ll do that.

Feel like I haven't posted on here in a long time. Can't say there's any reason for that. Apathy perhaps? Or maybe I've realised I simply have. nothing. to. say. I don't think it's that though. I think in reality I've been too absorbed in reading things to give a second thought to this blog, or its function of keeping me sane over the holidays. I think all the reading has done me good though. It's made me feel relaxed. Maybe too relaxed. In fact I don't think I've read this many books in such a short period of time since my imprisoning holiday in France two years ago, where the only alternative to complete and utter boredom was complete and utter escapism.

In the last week I've read The Road, and No Country For Old Men. Zeitoun by Dave Eggers - a non-fiction book about one man's experience of Hurricane Katrina told in the style of a novel. It was kinda strange reading non-fiction events in that style. But it worked well. I also read All My Friends are Superheroes, by Andrew Kaufman. I think I spoke about it in my last post. It was complete and utter rubbish. Enjoyable enough to get to the end of, but still undeniably rubbish. Too cutesy. I'm currently three chapters away from finishing Watchmen by Alan Moore. Though I have to admit that my interest is waning. Surely it should be peaking about now? Oh well. As one of Time's best 100 novels I thought I'd better check it out. But it's been disappointing so far. I guess I've not finished it yet though, perhaps I shouldn’t judge. Trying to make myself believe that slowness of plot = deeper character development which will then make the climax even more valuable. Ready to read next I have Bret Easton Ellis' new novel Imperial Bedrooms, let's hope it isn't as awful as his last novel Lunar Park. I threw my copy away it was that bad. Blegh. Part of me is beginning to believe that he is past it now. The novel is supposedly a sequel to his first novel Less Than Zero, I just think that by writing this sequel he might end up shitting all over the success that was Less Than Zero, or inviting a negative comparison between the now aging Bret and the early, creative, teenage Bret.

No other news to report. Until I have to resurface, complete escapism will be the order of the day...


Along with pushing John Milton and that fucking shitting ridiculously painful neverending poem, Paradise Lost to the back of my mind for as long as is humanly and hopefully sensibly possible.

I do solemnly swear

... that I will go to the library tomorrow and think for an hour or two about this essay.

(Only then will I continue to trick myself into believing that reading any books published in the 21st century and written by American authors constitutes 'work')

Just finished Netherland by Joseph O' Neill. I'll post a review as soon as I've given it some thought. Until tomorrow's designated library time I might as well start on the next novel - All My Friends are Superheroes by Andrew Kaufman.

Oh, and, I started using goodreads again. Check it out - www.goodreads.com/garethaleddavies

Blessed & Cursed

I still can't work out whether I prefer the new Devil Sold His Soul album to their last.
Regardless, it's bloody amazing, and I can't stop listening to it!

Job 15:2

Research for my Milton essay seems to be leading on a bizarre trail through the nether areas of the bible, including Job, and the deleted book: The Apocrypha.

Seems like the research for this essay isn't actually as boring as I thought it would be. I even managed to find some pretty cool quotes:

'Should a wise man utter vain knowledge and fill his body with the east wind?'

Snails

Ah, The Format, why did you have to split up?



I am lucky that there is so much good music in my life right now.
Proof ----> click me

Jehovah's Witnesses

On the way home from school after the zoo I got in a fight with Harold Lund. He is a big grease who is friends with Marty Polaski. He ambushed me, which is dirty fighting, man, and jumped on me and pinned me with his knees on my shoulders till Shrubs smashed him in the head with a garbage can and we both ran home.
When I got home the first thing my mom said was "Don't open up your mouth," because my pants were green on the knees from the grass. (They were new, I got them at West's Clothing where they don't have doors on the little rooms and a girl saw my underpants.) "It's a crime," said my mother. "Who beat you up this time?"
"The Jehovah's Witnesses," I said
"What?"
I walked away. She chased me and grabbed my arm.
"Tell me the truth young man," she said.
So I told her. I got run over by a car which was drove by a Jehovah's Witness and he got out and said I wasn't a Jehovah's Witness but I said I was, only he didn't believe me and then we had to arm wrestle and I beat him because he was weak and then a negro came and said I could be a negro if I wanted so I said ok and then the Jehovah's witness got mad and pushed me on the grass and then I came home.
I walked up to my room. My mom yelled "You get back down here and tell me the truth." But I didn't.
(I don't know what a Jehovah's Witness is.I think it's when you wear a sports jacket.)

--- Taken from When I Was Five I Killed Myself by Harold Buten
(so charming!!)

Black Hole - Charles Burns

--Review of Charles Burns'' graphic novel Black Hole - with lots of shiny pictures as promised--

I have to admit that I am somewhat a comic book rookie. In high school I remember the craze of bringing in ultimate spiderman for the 10 minutes of compulsory reading school used to enforce on a wednesday morning. I remember reading a few of these, but never really getting into them. I always disregarded comics as a kind of illegitimate art form. One which could never say anything profound, but was a pass-time of those who found regular novels 'too boring' or inaccessible. Oh, how I was wrong. The first graphic novel I ever read was The Complete MAUS, last christmas. Since then my opinions have changed. But this entry isn't about MAUS, (as much as I would love to sing its praises almost endlessly - it really is great), it is about Charles Burns' graphic novel Black Hole. I picked up Black Hole solely because (like Eeeee Eee Eeee) it is on my postmodern fiction module next term (I am being a good student this time, and getting prepared). I knew nothing about the book before I picked up a very well read copy from the library.

The novel tells the story of a group of teenagers who are affected by a sexually transmitted disease which causes them to physically mutate. These mutations aren't particularly obvious in some cases. One woman grows a tail, another man grows a second mouth towards the base of his neck. They may not be obvious, but they're pretty gruesome nonethteless. The disease can be contracted through either sexual contact, or a mixing of bodily fluids. The one really creepy thing about the bug is that it causes affected characters to shed their skin. The novel follows the actions of two main characters, one male - Keith, and one female - Chris, and switches between the two, offering a sexually balanced tale, a form which works surprisingly well. We experience through the course of the comic how these two characters contract the bug, and the aftermath, which results in them becoming social and physical outcasts who are forced to go to various lengths to either hide themselves or get away from other people.

All of the illustrations are monochrome, like the successful MAUS comics. Burns' style, however is much more clean cut and precise than Speigelman's making many of the panels incredibly impressive and almost vibrant in their contrast. This novel could essentially be classified as horror, or teen horror, or by some as B-horror. The high contrast of images suits this genre so well, because it adds a sense of startling postmodern realism to many of the more graphic scenes (i.e. the skin shedding, but most of which I shouldn't speak about for fear of ruining the book) which you might not get with a more sketchy style. The very realistic drawing style however, combines with a very creative and unconventional ordering of panels. Burns at his most impressive makes use of the seperate panels to depict one area of a whole picture. It is hard to explain in words, but basically you get whole but fragmented images (such as the one directly below). There are also two or three occasions where a very 'rules of attraction-esque' technique is used whereby two halves of two different faces lain side by side make a whole. This creativity also manifests itself in the chapter headings, which are far from conventional, usually consisting of an image of something, mysteriously framed in an expansive black page. (None of the chapters are numbered, and none of the pages are either).

Burns seems very keen (like Tao Lin does in Eeeee Eee Eeee) on not keeping to a completely linear plot development. But whilst Tao Lin completely confuses the order of events in the novel, Burns at least retains a strong sense of direction - his confusion of time comes through the retrospective thoughts of characters, and the gaps of time between the events in each chapter (which we, as readers, in some cases, are encouraged to estimate for ourselves). You find at some points that because of the two interlinking plots, that of Keith's and that of Chris', one will sometimes seem to move faster or have more gaps than the other. Which means that events will take place, and then after the events have taken place, the character will back track on what happens directly before that event, but only after it has been told (I hope that makes sense). The effect is that you are encouraged to re-interpret the information you've been given, and consciously re-order things. Burns doesn't really use this technique to much effect though, it's not as if any assumptions you may make about these characters are overturned by their then retrospective indulgences, in order to perhaps overturn stereotypes the reader may have had, or expectations (though I realise this is very difficult and requires a lot of psychological insight into the reader and their expected thought process whilst reading).

Black Hole is clever in its use of the concept of the sexually transmitted mutation, an idea which could easily have been very cheesy - but Charles Burns does his idea justice (even if it does come across as a bit of an 'in your face' allegory for AIDS). The concept of the bug is manipulated so that it allows the author to enlighten us as to the reasons why one may become a high-school outcast. Many of those who contract the bug become deviant not only because of their disease, but due to their personal natures. It's hard to elaborate further without ruining the plot, but Burns highlights in particular those with bisexual sneaking into homosexual tendencies, and to an extent (and I am wary to say this), those with a tendency towards bestiality. But the novel isn't as skin deep as just correlating physical mutation and the outsider status. It gives us a psychological insight into this status, coming most prominently from the character Dan, a boy who was 'unpopular' in school and forced to leave because of his mutations. There is a lot in there that I haven't yet seen, I'm sure of it. I'll be reading it again in a few weeks when I have had time to think about it in more depth.

From a personal perspective, its one of the most enjoyable things I've read in months (honestly). I had to discipline myself not to read the whole thing in one sitting. Unlike MAUS (excuse my constant references to it) the artwork seems more purposeful. MAUS is almost a comic which relies more on its speech than its imagery (probably a big claim to make). But Black Hole is incredibly different, the artwork and the way it is presented plays an active part in the storytelling process. It is more than a straightforward comic (like MAUS), it actually is a great work of art, and would be a beautiful book to own, even to just look at the pictures (many of them amusingly vaginal - and a selection of which can be seen in my previous blog post on the novel). The story is engaging and the concept is well thought out and executed. As I said, there's a lot in there, from sexual deviance, to critiques on high school shootings, and even the holocaust if you want to push it that far. Mind you, it's not for everyone. If you're not into horror you my want to steer clear. But what strikes me most, and what I'm still most impressed with is the layout of panels and the effects of different types of panels including whole page images, strange zoom effects, and the bizarre portrayal of dreams in comic format. It really is more than your bog-standard comic. I rate it highly.

To those who have questioned my tendency to sporadically delete facebook

"We have become alienated from those aspects of life we might consider authentic or real. While our working lives are still ‘real’ (we go to work and pay the bills) they are not as real as, say, farming or building a ship. Instead we spend most of our time at our desks in front of a computer screen, engaging with symbolic representations rather than real, tangible objects. Much of our leisure time is spent engaging in simulated experiences or consuming more information. Existence has become more ‘virtual’ than real" - Brian Nicols

It just gets too much sometimes y'know . . . I feel like a technology slave. In fact the whole idea of facebook is weird anyway. I might as well start listing my problems with it. I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks these things. Here we go...

--1) (Excuse my pretentious use of Baudrillard(ian?) terms). The fact that hyper-real internet profiley 'me' becomes more legitimate to some people than 'real' real me.

--2) Facebook is too 1984 - let's face it.

--3) (Excuse ridiculous paranoia) Everything I say on facebook is probably recorded somewhere.

--4) Facebook is a bunch of bored people tricking themselves that everyone else isn't bored, and somehow entertaining themselves by watching the actions of many other bored people (How does that make logical sense?)

--5) I become depressed when I realise that I have a better relationship with certain people under hyper-real facebook identity than I do with them in real life, on a face-to-face basis.

--6) It is not good for my brain to be bombarded with pointless information about the (usually insignificant) minutae of the lives of a group of people. (those I do care about I see in real life) ((Those I don't particularly care about ... I don't particularly care about))

--7) Although I hate the thing it manages to suck me back in over the holiday breaks. Yes, this only deepens my loathing for it. And makes me feel like a weak smack-addicted cretin.

--8) The wall feature conditions everyone to masquerade and put on a show for others. It encourages people to present themselves not as who they are, but who they want to be or what they want to be. Basically people trick each other into what they are really like (see concern 1 in my list).

--9) The wall feature is (excuse more pretentious terms) panoptic (in the Foucauldian sense). Everyone is watching everyone else. Every stays in check, they are conscious of being judged by others (also links to point 8 and 1).

--10) Think of all of the things you could have achieved if you hadn't spent however much time on facebook in your life so far? Doesn't it give you a stomach lurch?

Obviously it's a useful tool for keeping in touch with people who perhaps live in other places or are old friends who have moved on. But for me the cons outweigh the pros. Even if not having facebook does result in me missing out on invites to certain events (probably the one main con of deleting it). Oh yeah, and there's something really dodgy in that facebook won't actually let you delete your account - it can only be 'deactivated'. Somehow once you've joined there is no escape . . . a bit cult-ish really.

Anyway, that's for all the people who have asked me why I keep deleting facebook, and asking me when I'm 'coming back' (sounds weird, as if facebook is a geographical place) on occassion. Unfortunately I am too weak to keep it deleted all the time (I am only a puny mortal). As soon as I get back to Cardiff I feel its horrible itch coming back to me. I guess that's the result of too much time in the house. Oh well. I think I'll delete again next week perhaps... My productivity multiplies exponentially when it's deleted. Even just reading a book or daydreaming is more productive to me than watching a stream of information from a group of people (the majority of whom I don't have a regular functioning close human friendship with). P.s. I'm sure that this -----> Top Ten Reasons You Should Quit Facebook will be interesting to many of you as well. (Though I'm not sure how legit it is).

(It's kind of painful that I'm making these statements writing on an internet blog, which will then be published on facebook...irony sucks. P.S. sorry for any pretentiousness in this blog post.)

Eeeee Eee Eeee

"It's depressing that people are different. Everyone should be one person, who should then kill itself in hand-to-hand combat"

Just finished reading Tao Lin's debut novel Eeeee Eee Eeee. What can I say? It is unlike anything I've ever read before. It is on my reading list for a module I'm taking next term in twenty-first century post-modern fiction. I was surprised to find that Tao Lin is relatively unknown, with a close cult-ish following. I could use many adjectives to attempt to describe this novel - but I'm not sure that any one could do it justice, or that using many would help clarify Eeeee Eee Eeee at all. The novel could be pigeon-holed as being kind of surreally hyper-existentialist. It is almost Beckettian in its minimalism and snapishness. The novel seems to focus (of course you could make a massive claim -probably the most valid one- that there is no focus) on American collective identity through repeated turns of phrase and slang, as well as shared names and a sense of a depressive loss of individuality. By far the most confusing instances in the book (and the most notorious) are the set of unexpected conversations with talking bears, hamsters and dolphins . . . one of which result in a bear named Andrew, and a man named Andrew realising that they share the same name (and therefore identity?) It's a witty novel, without a doubt, with laugh out loud humour which will make you wince with its sarcasm. It is often a confusing read, but nevertheless one which does not leave you feeling out of your depth, or as if you've failed to understand something along the way. You learn very quickly that you just have to accept that that's the way it is. Eeeee Eee Eeee is a difficult novel to review, solely because it has no driven start to finish plot, it has talking animals, and is constructed in such a novel way. To present a plot synopsis would be ridiculous - in fact it would almost defy the way in which the novel is written. Tao Lin's prose is is aware of its fragmentation, and in being aware manages to smooth out the fragments and somehow fit them together into a coherent, flowing and whole piece of work (excuse my mosaic-esque analogy). Time itself is fragmented in the novel. It is only in the closing chapter of the novel, that we find out what happenned in the protagonist (dare I call him one) Andrew's life before the novel began - information which would surely be expected within the first few pages, to introduce us to him. The timeline of the book is indeterminably linear, but it is the indeterminability of its linearity which causes those questions to creep in, and for the rational part of the mind to be tempted to organise and make sense of what comes where, to try to establish a time/space linearity which we expect from most novels.

Needless to say (post-blurb), it is a peculiar novel. But amongst the mayhem, the teleporting bears, the murder of Elijah Wood by a dolphin, and the secret passages which lead to a secret animal world, are concerted criticisms on political apathy, identity loss, herd mentalities, terrorism and depression. Many of the reviews I've read have disregarded it for its alleged art-school pretentiousness. Pretentious or not, it is a novel which is engagingly short, easy to read, and seems to simplify, but still accessorise the genre of bizarro fiction while kind of fitting in with the glossy Generation X writers. I don't know if I'd go as far as labelling it 'literature' or saying that it was particularly enjoyable, or 'good', but it certainly is a breath of fresh air and unlike anything I've read before. (N.B. Just because it's refreshing doesn't mean it isn't strange and sometimes seems disconcertingly self-conscious...in fact Gawker magazine said that he is "perhaps the single most irritating person we've had to deal with" YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED).

I'm sure I'll be reading some of his other stuff as soon as I can get my hands on it anyway. He is certainly an interesting writer, even if I'm not sure what I make of him yet. Eeeee Eee Eeee has really confused me a great deal.

His new novel Richard Yates is released on September 7th (with speed and cunning).
Maybe if I enter enough of the competitions on his FRUSTRATINGLY TITLED BLOG (perhaps testimony to his being irritating), I'll be able to win myself a copy!

Currently Reading

I've never seen so many vaginal images in a comic in my life . . . seriously.

What do you make of this?

Only started it this evening. But the artwork is so crisp, mm. It's good. Makes it infinitely more enjoyable to read than other monochrome comics, like MAUS.

When I'm done I'll be sure to write a review - with lots of those nice shiny crisp screenshots, mmmmmmm.

Still waiting for 'When I was five I killed myself'... Damn you Amazon.