Critic Cal

It has been brought to my attention that the comment facility on this blog is not functioning correctly, so that on multiple occasions comments have been posted -- apparently successfully -- and have promptly disappeared, without me ever getting to see them, and possibly giving the impression that I had deleted them myself! I cannot say emphatically enough how very sad it makes me to think that any would-be comment-maker might be thinking that I had deleted and/or ignored their thoughts. Especially if they were trying to disagree with me -- I have never had cause to delete a comment but, if I did, I am pretty confident it would not be for that type of reason. I love hearing what people think and how they feel about stuff. I hope I would try to respond thoughtfully and graciously given the opportunity. I think it would take a lot to upset or anger me, at least in the sort of conversation I'd like for this blog to potentially become a part of (ok, so maybe in life generally I'm...

I would've been happier if Vue had sorted out their sound levels. The insipid, underwhelming aural impression aggravated me so much that, 45 minutes in, I actually ventured out to the corridor to consult a man with a walkie-talkie who looked like he might be in a position to do something about something. He told me the flat sound was an intentional part of the way it was filmed -- all of it coming from the front so that you would feel more like you were in a theatre. I have been unable to verify this claim (though I haven't tried all that hard) but I do hope he was mistaken because the actual effect was of being in my living room watching telly, and I'm pretty sure that's not what Tom Hooper was going for. Anyway, the man with the walkie-talkie assured me he'd get them to 'turn it up a bit', and, eager for my excursion from my seat not to have been a wasted effort, I managed to convince myself that it was a bit better after that. Still, I wanted to be imme...

Having so far avoided seeing Argo , Lincoln , or Zero Dark Thirty  does not seem to have prevented me from waxing vitriolic about my disdain for film adaptations of real events. [1] Perhaps if I can get it out of my system in the quiet of my own blog then I can stop inflicting my opinions uninvited on others. [2] My reasons for disliking true story films are many and varied. For one thing, I find a lot of them distasteful: they strike me as 'cashing in' -- financially, and/or in terms of recognition for those inclined to court award success -- on tragedy (e.g. Elephant ), or public sentiment (e.g. The Queen ), or other people's nobility and achievements (e.g. Schindler's List ). Secondly, I dislike the fact that they inevitably present fictionalised accounts and biased analysis as historical actuality (e.g. Braveheart , A Beautiful Mind , Pearl Harbor ). It is hard to escape the conclusion that we can never *really* get to *the* objective underlying reality of any his...

Being of an uncertain footing on the levelest and driest of surfaces, the recent wintry outburst marooned me in our house for four days straight, with little but my Bible, my Kindle, several bottles of red wine, and a dangerously diminishing supply of apples, carrots and peanut butter. I was panicked -- not just about how I would sustain myself without said staples, but about the potential repercussions of sustained solitude. It felt like a return to the 'bad old days', when sitting around on my own was my predominant activity, and I was worried that I would quickly re-adapt and would struggle to remember how to be around people once the sun came out and melted my excuse for isolation. The episode was not without its advantages though. For one thing, it gave me a good clear stretch to finish Robinson Crusoe -- a book which, I confess, I was not overly sorry to escape from. Less "rousing testimony to the triumph of human spirit in the face of adversity", more "...

[NOTE: I just stumbled on  this article  by physicist and priest  John Polkinghorne  which explains everything I'm trying to say below, but better and with all the right credentials...So go away and read that, and if you are at a loose end afterwards rejoin me for my attempts to prove that I am perfectly amenable to a spot of popular culture after all, if somewhat determined to drag it through a theological hedge backwards.] Old  Cliff 's old classic seemed creepy enough to me [1]  before I discovered (that is, was forcibly encouraged to discover) ' Dollhouse ' -- Joss Whedon's playfully poignant (prematurely cancelled) existential sci-fi about programming people to spec. The premise is pretty stirringly dark: a shady operation hiring out good-looking persons ('actives') who have been imprinted with designed-to-order psyches for all manner of purposes, ranging from romantic liaisons (of varying degrees of depravity) and complex criminal dealings ...

Angry, angry, angry! Sickened, repelled, repulsed, incensed, enraged, incandescant, disgusted, frustrated, despairing, despondent, dejected, discouraged, downhearted...[1] (and: glumly and slowly resigning myself to the fact that I share in the heinous malfeasance by which I have come to be wearied and riled...) The offending article? This television ad . Transcript: Gary's cat is missing. [sad music] Hang on, you don't know Gary, do you? [happy music] Well, don't worry then. You can forget about things that don't affect you. Like with the new Peugeot 208. You can forget car insurance -- it's covered for three years. So is all this. Only with the "Just Add Fuel" finance package… Huh?! What? WHAT??! Who got to decide this, and announce it on national TV with such cheerful assurance? It is nothing short of a statement of far-fetched faith posing as universally-accepted fact (with no attempt to provide supporting evidence). The advert takes for granted t...

I'm pensive as I pair the socks. A mournful sigh or two escapes my lips. There is a dramatic flourish to the manner in which I add each newly-reunited couple to the growing pile. "What is it, darling?" -- Mr. W, resigning himself to my woes in generous acknowledgement of my none-too-subtle signals. "Oh, I dunno, you know, the usual" -- I try to keep it brief. His magnanimity takes a turn for the mischievous: "Awww. Do you feel like the kid who didn't get the presents they wanted?" A horrifying, hilarious, humbling hiatus... I feel profoundly diagnosed, with no choice remaining but to laugh at myself and my hitherto noble sense of weighty sorrow. (The sorrow lingered, but its pride and self-satisfaction were sorely dented). Indeed, the major part of my more recent miseries could be aptly described in that way: I don't get the presents I want. 'Tis true I have, in my own way, had  ' stuff to contend with' over the years -- and by t...