The Skin I Live In

Pedro Almodóvar's latest must-see is one of the best films of 2011.

The last ten years have seen Spain reaffirming itself as the most productive breeding ground for top quality cinema.

Álex de la Iglesia (La Habitacion del Niño), Guillem Morales (Los Ojos de Julia), Jaume Balagueró (REC, Fragile), Rodrigo Cortés (Buried) and Juan Antonio Bayona (The Orphanage) are only a handful of directors typifying Spain's current cinematic run of form.

And that's without counting, of course, one of country's most celebrated film-makers, Pedro Almodóvar (of Volver fame), whose latest film The Skin I Live In (original title La Piel Que Habito) is one of his most remarkable ever.

Put bluntly, Almodóvar's films are generally weird. But I mean good and watchable weird. Never pretentious or self-indulgent, let alone overly arty and elitist, which is this blog's pet hate. You can watch almost every Almodóvar film and expect the seediness and the various quirks along the way to finally make sense at some point.

By the time you've spotted the twist coming or have clocked it altogether, the story will have drawn you in so much that you'll simply want to find out how or why right until the very end.

Given how rich and carefully textured the plot is, there's not much we can reveal about The Skin I Live In. Even the slightest clue may easily turn into the most irritating of spoilers.

The film is in one go horror, psychological thriller, crime, film noir, and distorted love melodrama as well. All the while, underlying ethical questions are posed over the extent to which Frankenstein-like medicine can go.

But, while most directors would have lost the plot trying to juggle too many genres at the same time, Almodóvar pulls it off handsomely.

His rich colours and obsessive themes are not, unlike many other directors, cheap gimmicks, fillers or clever tricks. They are integral part of his narrative.

The film is also the moment when Antonio Banderas, one of Spain's most famous actors, reaffirms his acting credentials. Often slammed as wooden, here he's absolutely superb, oozing mystery and charisma and carrying the whole weight of the film from start to finish.

Watch The Skin I Live In and you'll lose yourself into its slow but intense pace and into its intriguing and relentless buildup, while the different ends of the same web gradually come together against a backdrop that is both creepy and fascinating at the same time.

The Rite

Add a 't' in front of the title and you get the general idea.

How many films can be made about exorcists and possessed women (and why is it always the women, by the way, have you noticed...?) swearing in several languages before people realise that it's totally useless?

How many times, before producers actually decide to pack it in and focus their attention and cash elsewhere? The troubled, sceptical priest under the guidance of an older, wiser maverick. The mandatory car accident. The chained sweaty woman telling them both to fuck off. In Latin too. The cross and the prayers, the spitting and the red eyes, the premonitions, the insects and the lot...

This one here comes about 35 years too late, as it would only matter to those few souls who never watched The Exorcist and its multiple spin offs and rip offs.

If there's one thing the makers of The Rite got almost 100% right, that was the film title. They forgot to add the letter 't' in front of "Rite". Then it would have made sense, Anthony Hopkins or not.

Vanishing on 7th Street

When the apocalypse is so dull that you can't wait for it to come.

There's an unwritten rule in cinema, etched in capital letters, as old as the first reel to reel.

And it goes as follows. The fact that a director may have been behind a decent film and the fact that a story plot may also sound vaguely intriguing are no guarantee of a good film.

Brad Anderson may have been the man behind both Session 9 and The Machinist, and his latest Vanishing on 7th Street may also sound like your perfect so-called "post-apocalyptic" story. Unfortunately though, it's painfully weak as well as way too flimsy and badly acted to actually go anywhere.

For all the amount of semi-deserted, mysterious-looking and Twin Peak-esque scenes set in an old neon-lit bar, the plot is simply too feeble and anemic (yes, thanks thesaurus) to strike any chord with the viewer.

Not to mention that Hayden Christensen and the other actors are so wooden that, put next to Pinocchio, they would positively make him look like Plastic Man.

Which wouldn't be so bad were it not for the fact that character development is below zero.

The thrills evaporate after about fifteen minutes as you quickly realise that a single episode of the Teletubbies will carry more suspense than this pap.

What seem to be the only four survivors to a mysterious plague that snatches people away, are just sitting there, fiddling with ice cubes and fuel, and periodically wailing that they have lost their kid/mum/colleagues/ex wife.

That's all they seem to be saying. And after you've heard the same lines 7 times in a row you just start hoping for the entity to put the inept four out of their misery once and for all.

As for the apocalypse, it must be the most docile one to be ever conjured up by a cinematic mind.

The same monstrous thing that hits people in an instant in the first part of the film, is later on so slow that even a snail would crawl back to safety once they twig that they're about to be snatched.

Vanishing on 7th Street is like a fantastic initial idea that crashed into the worst of writer's blocks within ten minutes.

Which, given how crowded the post-apocalyptic genre is starting to look, makes this film even more redundant.

Facebook statuses debunked

Type one- Bored shitless

- "Enjoying the evening at home with a candle. Nice to have some chillout time!...xxx"
- "Had lovely day in the garden. Wonderful............."

So painful that you can actually feel their boredom. Such nothingness rammed down their Facebook friends' throats on a half hourly basis is only parallel to their stunted social skills - no doubt the product of years of cyber ineptitude.

Type two- Reaction seeker

- "Omg...Worst travelling experience ever. Stuck in traffic for 5 hours :-(...."
- "I love my family and friends VERY VERY much. You know who you are and you are very special people...."

Saddos in this category are obviously motivated by instant online gratification. Also, they're clearly gagging for replies which will inevitably consist of a flurry of "awwww" or "u alright hunni?xxx" in the first instance and "awww bless you" and "love u2 babes, u r sooo special to me 2 xxxx" for the second.

Type three- Attention seeker

- "........Wish it had never happened.....:-( "
- ".......Thanks XYZ for making me very happy......."

The above statuses are obviously an attempt to compensate lack of attention/affection during childhood. And sure enough, various Facebook friends will deliver the goods with a battery of "why?what happened????" or "...wow...what did XYZ do?..."

Type four- Spamming musician

- "Playing solo 2moro at the Bull & Gate supporting XYZ. Free entry!!!!!Get there early!!!!"
- "[my band] at [venue] tomorrow at 9pm.....Come and see us!!!!Club night to follow!"

This is the type of chap who'd invite you to gigs even if it's 600 miles away from where you live. No wonder their statuses tend to remain woefully ignored. Not afraid to constantly spam everyone on their "friends" list, 90 per cent of their social interaction consists of generally talking AT people about their band and, of course, "come to my gig next Friday".

Type five- Look at my baby

- "Little Jaden won't stop playin up. Cant get any sleep!!!!"
- "Cant believe my princess is 3 months today. Love u xxxxxxx"

Normally women, these have a tendency to change one part of their moniker to accomodate words like "proud mummy" or "happy mummy". Also, they're totally oblivous to how annoying they are with their relentless bombardment of trivial anecdotes of their little ones enjoying their new toys. As if anybody else gave a flying fuck. Not to mention the onslaught of their kids' photos. This type tend to be particularly unbearable round Christmas time.

Type six - The proto ironic one-liner

- "If the mayans were so good at predicting the future they'd still be here"
- "theres a guy in kings heath who puts a monkey in a pushchair"

These people (generally blokes) usually spend around ten to fifteen minutes conjuring up the wittiest possible contribution. They love to be thought of as witty, funny and hilarious, even though they aren't. Often twistedly double ironic and cryptic, they're also known for their penchant for posting bizarre pictures and plays on words. As long as it nets them comments.

Type seven- The "profound" cut and pasters

- "♥ Peace is not found elsewhere, it comes from within ♥"
- "Don't get confused between my personality and my attitude. My personality is who I am, my attitude depends on who you are ★☆★☆★☆".

Such specimens normally stuff their list of favourite pages with crassness like "Without Ant&Dec I'm a Celebrity is not worth watching", "Dont take a good woman for granted", "someday someone will come along and appreciate what you didnt" or "support Our Boys in Iraq/Afghanistan"....

From letters to grunts

Why vocal chords may go the wisdom tooth way as we increasingly interact by means of online grunts...

Once upon a time people living in different places would send each other letters. Maybe once a month, perhaps every fortnight, valuable time was devoted to the penning of what they'd been up to and all the important updates.

Then came the net and letters quickly gave way to emails. By the late 1990s, most people owned an email address, though it's difficult to believe that back then they often consisted of arcane combinations of letters and words like CXC765@spp2network1.dick.ac.uk

The physical ritual of opening a letter may have been on the retreat, but the concept remained nonetheless: suddenly people would spot new emails in their "inbox" folder. If anything, there was a chance to communicate more quickly and more frequently.

Fast forward less than ten years and the concept of "social networks" (read Facebook) rang the death knell for good old-fashioned emails. Private messages became increasingly rickety as less and less was there to be said, given that constant "updates" and "wall pictures" of everybody's latest night out meant little was left to the imagination.

By 2011, with the advent of iPhones and iWhatsits, most "distance" communication turned even more stunted.

Most Facebook interaction now consists of some people constantly publishing statuses (ie "omg my nephew's so cute!....xxxxxxx" or "fucks sake, stinky bloke nxt2me on bus") which is then followed by regular rounds of Facebook friends "liking" them (by simply clicking on a thumbs up button) or, if they feel more dexterous with the keyboard, leaving comments ranging from "wow", "xxx" or "awwwww" to "OMG!".

Who knows. Perhaps the toll of said levels of stunted interaction on human evolution will be such that, in a few centuries, our vocal chords will go the wisdom tooth way and turn out too undeveloped to articulate proper words.

It may be that we even go full circle and return to caveman sounds, with our exchanges (whether in person or online), consisting of thumbs up, "OMG" groans, "lovely" grunts and scratching chk chk sounds emanating from the palate which, of course, will convey a round of "xxxxxxxxxx" in pure Facebook style.

As for the answer to "wat u bin up2" (if we manage to articulate that, that is), we'll just shove a proto-phone in front of our interlocutor's eyes and show them how we pulled faces to the iCamera in a nightclub.

Ken Livingstone, "You Can't Say That"

Book review

Like him or not (and this blog has always been a supporter), you've got to admit that public figures a-la Ken Livingstone are as rare as hen's teeth, especially in this day and age of spin, staged speeches and blind obedience to the party line.

Just try and count the number of current MPs stemming from a genuinelly working-class background rather than academia, research or family fortunes. You may find you'll still have plenty of digits available.

Ok, Ken's autobiography may stretch a bit too long and its tons of details on 1970s local politics may test even the most passionate of political readers.

Still, unless you're prone to believe the rubbish routinely spurted out by the tabloid press, you've got to admire a man who (practically on his own) had the guts to take on both Maggie Thatcher and Tony Blair (as well as their fawning media machines) at the peak of their respective power.

And it's no coincidence that the most insightful chapters consist of the Thatcher government scrapping the Greater London Council elections in 1985, and Tony Blair's control freakery working overtime when votes were rigged in the vain attempt to stop Livingstone from running for London Mayor in 2000.

That is to say, the two dominant figures of post-1979 British politics showing that their mouthing of "freedom" and "democracy" was just that: an exercise in posturing, pomposity and egomania.

But his book is also an inspiring story of someone with the courage of his convictions in a political and media world stuffed with sycophants.

Livingstone must have felt very lonely each time he stuck to his beliefs and everybody reacted by throwing hissy fits and cries of "loonie leftie", "Eastern European tyrant", "pervert" and whatever other trick from the old book of right-wing character assassination.

Yet, ten or twenty years down the line, history proved him right. Quite a number of times.

Like when he was one of the few sticking up for Nelson Mandela while the Great Margaret Thatcher was busy calling him "a terrorist".

Or when the whole country was recoiling in horror at the prospects of sitting down for peace talks with Sinn Fein. Livingstone was physically attacked for pointing out that there was only one way out of the Irish issue. And guess who was proven right...

Or think how every single public figure today (barring a few remaining knuckle draggers) is at pains to portray themselves as "gay friendly". Ken Livingstone was almost literally ripped to pieces and hounded from his house when he was fighting for LGBT rights in the 1980s.

Now aged 66, with the London mayoral election on 3 May 2012, Ken Livingstone will be fighting what may turn out to be the closing battle of his political career.

Or hopefully not, if enough people realise that a millionaire Etonian buffoon acting as London Mayor won't actually do them any good.

The Best Moment of 2011

The scandal that brought the most vicious media thugs to their knees.

The notion that nature will eventually run its course, even when it comes to the humbling of the most brutal bullies, came to a belated realisation with the News of the World scandal.

What a picture, to see that particular brand of vicious, foamin-at-the-mouth, self-righteous faux-moralistic fury turning on its own creators.

The succession of the nastiest bullies in the British media tumbling like sacks of rubbish in a garbage truck was just amazing: the arrest of Andy Coulson, the fall of Rebekah Brooks, News Corp withdrawing its BSkyB bid, and finally the News of the World going to the wall, while the two Murdoch thugs pathetically feigned amnesia in the background.

The phone-hacking scandal was just waiting to happen. When somebody's power to bully and intimidate with such impunity is allowed to fester to such poisonous proportions, it's just a matter of time til the putrefying boil bursts.

No doubt soon things will settle and hordes of dimwits are already stuffing their gob with the notion that tabloid thuggery (ie the indiscriminate phone hacking of murdered children, dead soldiers and grieving relatives) is none other than "free press".

But for a moment, just a moment, it was nice to see journalism in the UK back to a version of itself that doesn't resemble a cross between Shaun of the Dead and The Wicker Man.

"Shit pensions for all!"

The right-wing solution to old age poverty

This blog felt the need to come back from the dead, if only as a one-off, courtesy of some of the most annoying red herrings that are floating about in the run-up to the public sector strike scheduled for November 30 across the UK.

I’m not talking about the typically contemptuous and shallow remark you often hear from the Tory right (as voiced on last Thursday’s BBC Question time by reptilian Tory MEP Daniel Hannan), which consists of tarring all public sector workers as “unproductive”, to which the obvious riposte should be: hope you never need your arse wiped by an “unproductive” carer or social worker in your old age, Mr Hannan, or that your house never needs “unproductive” firemen to put out a fire. And so on.

But that’s all by the by.

What is absolutely essential that we all stand up to, is the laziest (and, you will excuse me, most dim-witted) bit of criticism as thrown at the strikers. That is, “how dare those ‘privileged’ public workers stage a mass walkout and disrupt the country when most private sector workers are condemned to worse pension schemes”.

Leave aside the trite lie of “privileged pensions” in the public sector (the average being £7,800 - see this). Also, leave aside the fact that there’s nothing wrong, and everything right, in fighting to uphold the contractual conditions that public sector workers had signed up to in the first place.

What we should focus on is the warped logic according to which, because millions of people in the private sector are getting supremely exploited and taken for a ride with pension schemes ranging from very poor to non-existent (65% of all private sector workers have no pension at all – how’s that for a ticking bomb?), the right whingers’s solution isn’t to try and improve everybody’s pension.

No, they tell you, glaze-eyed, that the straightforward way out is simply crappier pensions for all.

They don’t think we urgently need to tackle head-on a future packed with even more millions of impoverished pensioners who will live longer, but with looser safety nets, less assets and even more deprivation than today. No, they just demand that the shrinking chunk of the population who still enjoy some protection for when they’re old and frail relinquish that too. Perhaps with a round of lashings before bed to beef up the penance.

Except, would they apply the same yardstick to any other walk of life? I don’t think so either.

They wouldn’t demand that people who expect decent treatment on the NHS stop acting like spoilt brats because what about those unluckier souls who catch MRSA in their hospital bed…

They wouldn’t tell you off for demanding the right to good schools just because some other people have to put up with crap ones…

And they wouldn’t give up their mansion because it’s not fair that the majority live in lesser places but still have to pay the same (and sometimes) more council tax so that the rich can enjoy their comforts better.

They wouldn’t do any of that. Because it would make no sense.

But, mainly, because this perverted race-to-the-bottom logic of “shit working conditions for all” instead of “better conditions for all” can only lead to one place – and with a series of socially devastating long-term consequences.

The sooner Tory brains cotton on to it, the better for everyone.