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I can’t say I hadn’t been looking forward to it. Released while I was on my sojourn in Prague, The Dark Knight brought rave reviews, endless speculation – did Heath overdose because playing the Joker troubled his mind, prevented him sleeping, haunted him far beyond the pages of his script? We’ll never know, and, sadly, watching the film won’t bring us any closer.
Although, it is a fair point to consider self-reinforcement. If you smile for 20 seconds, no matter what your mood is, you’ll feel better afterwards. To paraphrase Mary, “you never regret a smile”. So, if you play the Joker for 20 seconds, or 20 hours, or 20 days or months… inevitably it will begin to encroach on your psyche. The very essence of the character will slowly inch its way into your mind, your subconscious. I would imagine; this is purely speculative. A fair point to consider, as I said.
But back to the movie. I was looking forward to it. And, to be truthful, I wanted to love it. The print advertisements were nothing if not alluring; Heath’s terrifying face, painted by the hand of a distraught (or psychotic) child, peered out from shiny plasticised card. After Batman Begins, The Dark Knight had seemed to be a long time coming. And, despite my excitement, I refused to read reviews. I looked only at the stars, which were, in general positive. Empire was on its side, as were most film publications and national and international newspapers. Except, curiously, The Sunday Times. Two stars? Why so? But they often get it wrong, don’t they? So to cinema, to cinema.
Now I’ve seen it twice. The first time, my quibbles were few, but they were serious enough to warrant a three-star rating. Christian Bale, where was he? Storylines – do we need this many? Length – excessive. Christian Bale’s voice – somebody hand the man a lozenge. Better yet, grab him and ram it down his throat (I have a feeling, if offered a lozenge, Christian might just say no).
But the film itself was an undertaking. Christopher Nolan is nothing if not ambitious, and he went for it with gusto. Full steam ahead, black, dark, neo-gothic Batman is revived in this, the second of his forays into the Batman genre (with so many films differing in atmosphere and type, Batman is now a genre in itself). The scenery was spectacular; the costumes were amazing, Heath was breathtaking. The most heartbreakingly beautiful acting was done in a nurse’s costume, skipping down the asphalt outside the hospital inferno. It seems almost blasphemous to criticise a film in which Ledger gave such a beautiful performance, and, excepting his now supporting role in Parnassus, his last role. A terrible beauty is both born and extinguished, in one fell swoop.
One could ramble, but Batman is a comic book. The action is swift, sharp; the build-ups are few. And so. Maggie Gyllenhall was wrong, all wrong. I love her as much as the next breastfeeding advocate, but her smiles were too coy, her voice too pleading, her aura strong to begin with, and then… wavering, in the centre.
The 9/11 references are blatant, and interesting – but too late, Mr Nolan, too late. We’ve tired of it now, to be perfectly honest.
Spoilers aren’t really my game, but the last 20 minutes… you’ll know when you get to them, but they could happily have been skipped. But, then again, wouldn’t we complain, then, that the film had been left too open to a sequel? Too obviously “set up”? The grass is always more green, as they say.
And Bale himself seemed lost behind the bat. He lost the man. I want my heroes heroic; I want them to love themselves, to have pride in what they’re doing and to do it for a reason – a passionate one, a desire to help, to be, to excel. But Bale’s Batman seemed reluctant, and he seemed absent. Aside from the deep-throated craziness, that is.
Eckhart was, truly, the white knight of the picture. In a very gothic film, he shone like silver – he lit up even the darkest of moments.
I wanted to love it. But twice is enough; my stars remain at three, but three times’ a charm – were I to see it again, I might be with the Times.
Carrie et al are back – or, rather, were back, about two months ago. But, late to get onto that one, I saw the film alone, in the Czech Republic (with Czeski subtitles of course), one hot Monday night at 9pm.
The reviews were in long before my NYC adventure; I’d read them all, being of the school that believes that an insightful review will only improve your viewing experience. This excludes, of course, gossip magazines, whose reviews run along the lines of “here’s the entire story in five lines, and we’ll probably give it our routine four stars”.
And people talked, more about Sex & the City than about any other film in recent times, including The Dark Knight – review of which to come, eventually, one of these days. Like Marmite, SATC seemed to divide the masses, in a big way. Some individuals loved it, and all it stood for; some hated it, and all it stood for. I can’t say I went into the film entirely objective – but, then again, who ever does? Blinkers aren’t going to save you from the theme tune on the radio, from discussions on the television, from online debates, from the odd Facebook comment from one friend to the other: “Wnt 2 c SATC last nite – ws amazin! H8d Carrie’s wdng drss tho!” And, don’t even get me started on Perez - his mission, in the months preceding the release, seemed to be to spoil even the most minor of scenes.
But, at the end of the day [I know, Martin, cliche cliche], disappointment is only one of the negative emotions the film inspired me to feel. Chronologically speaking, the negative reaction began with the theme tune. Fergie? Really? Labels and Love? Really?
But that was it, wasn’t it? The entire premise of the series: which was, in short, empowered women – women who chose where to go, what to do (who to do) and where to do it, and had the opportunities that a modern world afforded them. On the silver screen, this was boiled down to handbags, and men: of course, all a woman could ever want.
And Jennifer Hudson. Ah, Jennifer. The first major black character associated with SATC, and they give her the role of being Carrie’s help? REALLY?! And the racist parallels don’t begin there: happy, fat black girl leaves St Louis, comes to the big city, can’t afford a designer handbag so she rents one, gets hired by skinny white woman, is given real designer handbag, returns to black boyfriend who once told her he never loved her, back to St Louis, “uh, yessuh”. Maybe I’m the one being racist here: surely black people do have jobs in the service industry, without this harking back to the days of slavery – but the problems here were that the film was just so shiny: Hudson (who, let’s not forget, has won an Oscar) played a character with no facets, nothing to say, nothing meaningful to contribute to what was already a sinking ship.
And . . . did it occur to anyone else that there was no sex, in the city? Or anywhere at all?
It’s too late now, but they should have gone back to the drawing board: to the original ideas, to the original writers and thinkers behind the concept. Instead they grew up, pumped more money into it – and we all know money corrupts.
Bryan’s currently chairing a discussion about the merits – and downfalls – of a multicultural Ireland.
The arguments, both for and against, I guess, are – sorry – pretty typical. What strikes me is that myself and Bryan are the only two who seem to be on the pro side, currently engaging in the discussion. Is it because people who are against immigration spend their days googling “anti-immigration” and then post angrily, ensuring their voices are heard? Perhaps not.
But it could be because those who are for immigration are too busy, too lazy, to apathetic (surprise, surprise) to bother reading up on it, and making their views heard. I don’t believe for a second that the vast majority of Ireland is against multiculturalism, even though I’ll have to look it up – according to the anti side on Bryan’s blog, the only people for it are “self-hating liberals”, “Irish Times readers” and “D4 people”. So, no stereotyping at all going on in that camp.
Furthermore, immigrants are bringing soooo many problems. Including: violence against women, theft, random acts of violence, and a huge dependence on social welfare. I wasn’t aware that those problems were new.
It seems to me that anti-immigrant sentiment is a combination of fear, xenophobia and a deeply held racism that we’re allowed to have because, like, Nigerians steal – they do, everybody knows it. I’m not being racist, but look at the facts!
I despair. I can’t keep up, so instead I googled “multiculturalism” and found this beautiful drawing. And what could be more beautiful?
In all seriousness, I do intend to address this issue when I have got my wits about me, written some notes and rewritten the comments on Bryan’s Pluralism post at least thrice. Only then will I consider myself well-informed enough to address it.
Currently reading: Complicity with Evil: The UN in the age of modern genocide. It’s a thinker.
As a preface, I would like to state that I particularly hate reading didactic novels. Why anyone would choose to read The Alchemist, for example, is beyond me (but, have at it, each to their own). Tuesdays with Morrie left me cold – Lauren seems to think that this means that I am dead on the inside, but it’s not that I don’t shed tears. What could be sadder than a much-loved college professor, on his deathbed, giving you lessons from almost [beyond] the grave (Tuesdays with Morrie, of course)? I must admit, I didn’t get past the front cover of The Alchemist; one of the quotes on the dust jacket was from (ahem) Madonna. ‘Nuff said.
Anyway, I digress; the point of this post is related to (again) the Bernard Shaw Car Boot Sale, that took place last Saturday, August 4th. It was a success, for me anyway – and for Simon, but all good things in time. The hipsters and scenesters were there again, and in force, but this time some recognised me, some bought from me; we chatted over Cake Cafe cupcakes and falafels in hummus-filled pittas. And, in between showers, I sold some goods: clothing, bags (so many bags, which took me by surprise), only two books (when did people stop reading? Was it about the same time Paulo Coelho started writing? Because that might make sense), some jewellery, especially brooches and a few belts. And the odd vintage dress, but the recession might just be making people cautious; for most, €25 didn’t seem like the bargain I’d thought it would.
Car boot sales are, for the most part, for profit; but for us (yes, yes, during my down-time from polishing my halo) it was for the Simon Community. I had a lot of stuff that I didn’t want, and, at the moment, quite happily, my job is paying my bills – so I didn’t need the profits of the fickleness of my own fashion tastes. So, long story short, we decided (along with a few friends who donated goods for a good cause) to donate our ill-gotten gains to what my Mother simply calls Simon – Dublin Simon Community.
In the end, we made €320; it’s amazing how much more willing people are to spend a little extra cash when you guilt them into it tell them it’s for charity. Today, I lodged the amount to the Simon Community via credit card online (a handy system, I tell you – plus, you can get extra through your PAYE, something I haven’t quite understood completely yet). And I got a lovely email immediately from Jennifer Donovan at the Simon Community, thanking me for my donation (I quickly corrected her, and told her that it was “ours”, the donation); when I told her how we raised it, she remarked “I think, as the year progresses, we will notice a downturn in people making donations – so receiving random donations like yours is very inspiring.”
And, I may have taken a while to get here, but, I think that’s just plain sad. When it’s cold, homeless people shiver in doorways; when it’s hot, they sit on the boardwalk and get sunburnt (and wouldn’t you?). I never thought I’d be writing didactic blog posts, trying to guilt people into giving to charity, but here I am.
A last point: I was in Prague recently (see below) and there were no charity muggers. As a former communist country, Prague doesn’t have a tradition of giving to charity. Do we?
