Pirated Media Reviews

Mad God

“And ye shall eat the flesh of your sons, and the flesh of your daughters shall ye eat.”

Leviticus 26:29 KJV

A floating ziggurat towers up into a storm cloud sky. Lightening cracks, blasting it’s pinnacle. From the sky a diving bell drops lower and lower. Sirens sound and cannon-fire rips across the screen. Inside the bell a rubber clad figure in a WWI gas mask desperately pulls levers and turns dials. From the smoothness of the motion it’s almost hard to believe that the model inside is animated, so realistically does his hands work the controls.

So begins Phil Tippett’s ‘Mad God’. A masterpiece of stop motion animation that has been over thirty years in the making. Quite frankly there is nothing else like it. Or rather there has been, the closest comparison is Richard William’s ‘The Thief and The Cobbler’. But that wonderful vision was betrayed and ultimately ruined by Disney. This one was not. To say the animation in either film is good is an understatement. They are both incredible.

In Mad God the detail of the model work, coupled with the lighting and subtlety of the motion control is particularly exquisite. A ‘simple’ walk cycle by the main character is sublimely hyper-realistic. With bulging rubber boots malformed by the weight of the foot as it crunches across a debris filled path. And that is just one little scene.

We follow the gas masked protagonist as he descends through a series of crumbling worlds that are post-everything-a-caust. Places where themes of decaying mutation and evolutionary violence abound. Dead world’s filled with fossils of our own making. Some of which are from Tippett’s earlier work. I spy ED-209 from Robocop amidst the ruins. It’s a trip that parallels Orpheus or Dante’s descent into their own respective Hell. As the figure navigates each one the map crumbles a little more..

Each one is a little more familiarly unfamiliar. A world of screaming giants strapped to electric chairs whose effluvia pours through a grate into the mouth of an even bigger beast. Who has been flayed and deconstructed, so that his organs, eyeball riddled and weeping, pump the bellowing workings of a great machine. Which in turn stamps out spindly figures, molded from dust and hair, born literally rotting to pieces into an industrial hellscape in which they are all too expendable. These figures labour to churn out metal blocks which zip through the air of this factory city. Crushing them as though they are of no consequence whatsoever.

Disney’s Fantasia this ain’t. It fact it’s a emphatic fuck you to all of that kind of schmaltzy classical Utopionist schtick. Like a Michelangelo made of plastic bags and dead seagulls, it is a parable comprised of Freudian offcuts from the grimmest of dark corners of human history. A howling glimpse of a future past that we are all complicit in. Which amidst our current pandemic and ecological collapse seems damn near prophetic.

This is reflected in the soundscape: Feet stomp. Babies scream. Bones crunch. Metal clangs. Amidst all this rotting shadow moments of poignancy do exist. One of the dust figures wants to escape and for a moment the person in the gas-mask holds out a hand.. It doesn’t end well though. There are just too many infantile heavy-footed monsters out there.

Several times the film seems to be heading towards an ending. Only to confound the viewer. One such moment takes places in a world of lost briefcases. Each one seemingly containing dynamite with a ticking clock that only requires winding. Time from this point on becomes a key theme.

This place we are journeying through is a place where time repeats itself. It slows. The hand ticks forward twice then back four time, stutters forward again then back. If mythology is set in ur-time then this one is is a rich expression of suffering time. The kind of time that happens when you break a leg or are having chemo. It drags on and all you can do is hope.

This is reflected in the scratched jerky effects of the film’s stock which turns fuzzy and static filled. Particularly as surgeon’s tear jewels out of the guts of the gasmasked hero, wrapped in gore and ichor, until they reach in to pull out the screaming spine of his or her inner child.

At this point you can make your own mind up about the direction of film. Though personally I found it rather cheering. What that says about me I don’t know exactly. I will say this was probably a sentiment not shared by my fellow cinema attendees. “What was that all about?” and “What a load of crazy shit!” Seemed to be a fairly common reaction as they staggered out of the auditorium. But then I’d shaved my ears, plucked my nose-hair and stolen a bag of donated clothes from outside a charity shop especially for this outing.

Mad God is released sometime soon hopfully. But will probably be showing at a film festival near you. Go and see it. Remember to take your kids too! They’ll love it.

Pulp Pourri

André Rieu: The Cheesemeistro of Maastricht

Play the video. I spent a whole afternoon editing it. Now I hate myself.

In a world of White People Things this is the whitest goddamn thing you will ever see. André Rieu and his fucking orchestra is the kind of classical music beloved of your Aunty Tony and Uncle Pat who hold the Express and Mail tight and dear to their blackened shrivelled hearts. If you find the proms too hoity-toity then Andre Rieu & Friends is for you! Like Fox news keep your older parents well away from it.

Not so long ago I spoke to my mother who is 108 and she was raving about some concert she saw on TV.

“It was just lovely, heartwarming fun! I had a such a good time watching it!” She said with the kind of excitement you hear when people tell you that they’ve finally found Jesus whilst sitting on the toilet.

My mother has always been fairly fussy about what constitutes good entertainment. Especially music as she’s always been a big Leonard Cohen and Marvin Gaye fan. I trusted her judgement.

“Great!” I said. “What was it called?”

“André Rieu and his orchestra! You simply have to watch it!”

So I did. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting. By the end of it I was convinced that my mother was either in the grip of a cult or had had some kind of stroke.

André Rieu is a Dutchman with a Dutch face, long foppish hair like you’d see on a bust of Mozart or Beethoven and he is always holding a violin. Though it feels it he seldom plays it for more than thirty seconds. Preferring instead to wave his Stradivarius spasmodically around in order to conduct his orchestra. Which makes him look a bit like a drunk busker being attacked by hornets.

These schlocky, derivative classical musicians seem to crop up every few years. Liberace was kind of the archetype, Lang-Lang is another, Vanessa Mae, even Pavarotti and the Three Tenors in the 1990’s to an extent. In the same way Klaus Wunderlich (whom I adore btw) made a career rejigging popular tunes into Hammond organ schmaltz for Beer Hall Polka lovers, elevator enthusiasts, and electronic music fans, these seasoned pros ham up classical pops with extra tits and flourishes.

This case the orchestra are all in costumes. Every woman is in a big shiny Anastasia princess dress dripping in diamante. Every man is in tails and a cummerbund. Or better yet national costume. At the beginning of each concert Andre and his orchestra all walk out like he’s some kind of classical music Hulk Hogan. Seriously he high fives the audience as he marches out through the crowd to the stage.

Rieu’s thing relies heavily on Strauss, pageantry, chocolate box stage art and oodles of crowd shots. This latter thing seems to be the real key to his popularity. Each concert broadcast is at least 70% reactions shots from the general public and it is utterly ridiculous. He also films them in his home town so he’s guaranteed a good reaction. I find it pretty manipulative personally, especially when they zoom in on people crying.

These people terrify me. Who brings a baby to a concert while wearing a kilt and waving a flag?
That dude is trying to take down a passenger jet.
Pirated Media Reviews

The Midnight Gospel

The Midnight Gospel on Netflix* is the best animated show you are probably not watching. It is a beautifully drawn and thoroughly moving exploration of the human condition. You’ll either love it, hate it or both. Maybe you’ll ‘get it’ or maybe there is nothing there to get. It’s all in your head and what are you exactly inside there? Pulsating meat masquerading as sentience or something greater?

The show is about Death and the ‘primal reality’ thereof. It is also about guilt, acceptance and coming to terms with failure. Which is probably not entirely accurate but that was my impression. I’ve re-watched it a few times. It’s be one of those shows that densely packed with ideas and concepts where the interpreting could shift depending on how you feel at the time.

For instance if you watch it before doing something like going on holiday, with all the expectation of happiness that such an event brings, you might feel differently about the show. The circumstances when I watched it may have affected my slant. It is also very, very funny.

* Or alternatively the show is also available on your favorite bittorrent site.

This Isn’t Really a Review.

I went home for Christmas on the 19th of December, hours before yet another lockdown was announced and ‘enforced’ in the UK. I’m not especially proud of it but it happened. Now the end is in sight maybe I can come clean. I do not have a big family and it seemed particularly important to go and see my mother who is elderly, as much as it pains me to say that. And whose short term memory is a long term worry for me.

It was a long journey from here to there. A good eight hours as the road flies. Doing it in the midst of a resurgent pandemic meant only a bare minimum of stops for petrol and the inevitable bio-break. I had tested negative. I had self isolated. I had spent a week worrying about it. I was committed to making the journey.

The coronavirus has challenged everyone slightly differently. It’s made us all redundant in one way or another. One big shared aspect of virus culture has been the slow existential dripping away of time. Isolated from solitary family members living distantly atomised lives. Silently contemplating all the worst of questions of ‘How Will I Cope If such and such dies?’ By pondering the immediate mortality of loved ones considered most vulnerable and considering the brute realities of this new era should they succumb.

How would you feel watching them slowly die via fucking conferencing software? Robbed of being 100% present in such an acutely important moment. Remember all those great things you intended to do together over the last year? It’s now a road to your own personal Hell. Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t.

Don’t be afraid. Face the void.

Am I Part of the Problem?

I took to that road at the last minute. Sensing lockdown was about to hit like a rake to the face, I threw everything I didn’t need into the back of my 22 year old import. Along with a cantankerous cockatiel and a half ounce of very strong weed called Stardawg. Once I was out there my carefully planned smuggler’s route over the high ground seemed silly in hindsight.

The motorways were just a big series of empty lanes, HGV’s and low level paranoia. The spectre of police patrols sweeping up drivers in between road blocks, checking and fining every car traveling beyond a certain distance on the ANPR cameras was just that: a spectre. A big bellowing paper tiger roaring from all forms of mass media. ‘Stay home! Save lives!’ (except in this case).

I saw only two cop cars on the whole journey. They were pulled up having a chat and a coffee at a popular services on the A1. Inside the building a naked woman screamed at her coven of teenaged children from the doorway of the ladies toilets. For their sakes I wish I had made that up. But I just walked right past them pretending I saw nothing. Eight hours later I drove into a deserted tier 4 city. Eyes bleeding, head thrumming with the cosmic vibrations of a radial tyres thumping four hundred odd miles over tarmac and hardcore.

I was happy to be back. Happy to see the dog, the cat, the parrot. The messiness of home. To be present with my mother and sharing memories once more. I took up residence in the basement in a bed next to the wine rack. Eager to be diminished by soft drugs and alcohol over Yule. I plugged in my eight year old laptop to the TV and HDMI’d my ambitions away until mid January.

The show I started with was The Midnight Gospel.

I’d been saving it for months for this moment. Like I hoard all animations, good or bad, on a special hard drive committed to animated piracy. Four terabytes of brightly coloured escapism of varying quality and theme. Series, feature films, one offs. The collected works of Jan Švankmajer and hundreds of film festival shorts rubbing shoulders with Tom & Jerry, Ugly Americans, Pingu and Thingu. It’s my own little Erebor and like the hoard under that particular hill, it has driven me more than slightly mad.

Stuck exploding. The horror.

I’ll say this; I don’t remember much about watching the entire run the first time. I interspersed it with cycling fast, thrashy laps around Regent’s park. Still stoned of course. Then I went back for more. I don’t think I knew how to feel about it at first either.

The show is about a some dood called Clancy Gilroy who lives a dimension called the Chromatic Ribbon. He owns an unlicenced computer thingy that grants him access to multiple worlds in multiple universes. He visits these worlds to generate content for his podcasts. Clancy has a single loyal subscriber for his podcasts, though he never questions whether they are worth doing. Of course they are. How else can he escape the pain of existence? Denial is not just a river in Egypt.

Due to Operator Error there are No Longer Living Things on This Planet.

While I watched and rewatched I had a lot of questions. Are the podcasts real podcasts? (They are sort of, being adapted from episodes of the The Duncan Trussell Family Hour). Was the whole thing an exercise in Pendleton Ward‘s slow slide into guru led fart-sniffing whimsy? (No it isn’t) Why did it feel so fucking ‘Californian’? Was it some new age religious bullshit masquerading as philosophy? Why was I simultaneously annoyed and overjoyed by it? Halfway through I got the theme. I shrugged. I wrestled with it. I felt uncomfortable. I went out for another bike ride. I poured another drink.

I am not fan of podcasts. They aren’t a part of my cultural diet. There’s something about the format that I find self-indulgent and it doesn’t chime with me. Which is more than a little hypocritical. Though I understand the appeal and have listened to a fair share of them second-hand: Lore, Marc Maron’s podcast, Behind the Bastards, a bit of Louis Theroux. Maybe it’s because I’m full of rage and jealousy. So it’s weird I would enjoy The Midnight Gospel when other people I know who love podcasts do not like it. At all. I think because it’s almost a pseudo fake podcast backed by really good fucking animation that I managed to initially get on board with it.

I could also see a fair bit of myself in Clancy. His rejection of the multiverse simulator as a economically viable workhorse. His unsuccessful podcast. His quixotic dedication to escapism and his embrace of the moment. His clutter. His souvenirs. His solitude. Not that these are all positives. Just similarities.

The second time around I watched odd episodes out of order. The ones I remembered thinking that I enjoyed watching. The ones where I began to realise the whole series was about the grim experience of trying and failing to cope with the inevitability of Death. These were episode four: ‘Blinded By My End’ and episode five: ‘The Annihilation of Joy’.

When I say failing to cope. I mean that in a partial sense. We all fail. It’s a condition of life. How ‘well’ you deal with it is a phenomenological question. You can be an emotional wreck and still bring home the bacon and or a zen bum without a pot to piss in but living a rich existence. What you make of existence is subjectively your life to live.

Of course visually its a real treat. Gorgeously drawn and wonderfully psychedelic and surreal with oodles of charm and neat little animated stories occurring in the background. Each illustrating in a way the underlying theme of each episode, though in some episodes this is more enigmatic than in others. Aesthetically it resembles Superjail, although thinking about it is maybe it’s more like the lesser known King Star King. Which are produced by Titmouse studios (I actually said ‘Chirp’ from their ident when I first saw the opening scene of the first episode.) Who over the last 10-12 years have really carved out their own stylistic ouevre in animation.

As I said before, The Midnight Gospel is show about death and coming to terms with it. This isn’t a hidden theme. Clancy interviews the grim reaper in one later episode but it also isn’t entirely apparent from the earlier episodes.

What struck me most was how well it deals with the both the practical and dysfunctional aspects of grief. The former is much more up front, especially in episode 7: Turtles of the Eclipse, where Caitlin Doughty explains how important and cathartic it is to simply take time to sit with a loved one once they have died. She also outlines how exploitative the funeral industry is in this regard too.

The themes of dysfunction and of how loss can make you behave in certain ways it is much more implicit in the character arc of Clancy. Especially as more of his backstory is revealed. The final episode it very moving. Although I don’t want to give anything away that might spoil it. In this manner I found it sort of similar to ‘Flowers’, which is another brilliant dark’ comedy’ about dysfunctional, traumatised people pursuing what others might deem to be irresponsible dreams. Rather than dealing with the tedious nitty-gritty of life.

As Dr Wong said in another popular cartoon: “..[T]he bottom line is, some people are okay going to work, and some people well, some people would rather die. Each of us gets to choose.”

January came and I had a birthday that I tried desperately to run and hide from. On the day I was blixxzd. Haunted and nervous. I sang karaoke and was red wine sick all over a floor. I laughed about it later while I was hungover. But was I really present for it?

There’s a saying my mother has: ‘guests are like fish, after a week they stink.’ After three weeks I really stank out the whole joint. It was time to head North again. Lockdown was still ongoing, still is in fact. But a viable vaccine seemed to be just around the corner and it wasn’t like I had options.

I drove back up with the cockatiel on my shoulder, shitting on me all the way. Shared memories are important and it had been reassuring for everyone to have a moment we could look back on and say remember what happened over pandemic Christmas? I really feel for those who haven’t been able to have that. For now at least the thought of that inevitable loss was one that I could push aside and make smaller for the time being.

I hope I didn’t kill anybody. I don’t think I did. But who the fuck knows.

Get in.

Short Stories

The Plenary Speech

Ronald’s teeth had gone numb. He crouched by the front door in the gloomy hallway of his flat, staring up at the cornicing three meters above him. It was very, very dusty. His flight was in two hours and his keynote speech for UNESCO’s World Humanities Conference was in sixteen. He had yet to write it.

“I’ve got to land that fucking plane on the fucking mountain. That’s all.” He said to himself.

“That’s all.” His voice dropped off. His eyes unfocused. He turned inward.

Ronald sat there for ten minutes before bursting into tears.

He was two bumps from running dry. The little Tupperware container that he kept in his fridge now lay on the kitchen floor. For the umpteenth time he licked his finger and ran it around the small plastic oval. Ronald tried not to think about the reserve; a little foil wrap in the inside pocket of the suit jacket he used for black tie events.

He would get into that just before the taxi to the airport. The evening flight would cheese-grate his soul otherwise. In the next hour Ronald was determined to land that plane right on top of that snowy plateau. He would write that keynote. This was the plan. It was meant to be.

Fifteen minutes later Ronald tore apart the lining of his dinner jacket hunting for the wrap. It had fallen between a seam. He could feel it. His fingers burst the inner pocket trying to reach it, fraying the Bemberg silk. Ronald caught the packet between two fingers and held it up. There was no wrap. Just a paper clip around a small plastic pouch containing a spare button.

Jet engines screamed in his ears. The plane in his imagination swooped down low over granite peaks. The undercarriage perilously close to the jagged seracs of a huge glacier. It was losing engine power.

There was nothing else for it.

Ronald went into his kitchen and opened the third drawer down. It was filled with dead batteries, empty lighters and Prosecco corks. In the very back was a scuffed cassette case of the Bee Gees greatest hits. Inside that was a folded silver baggy labelled ‘Plant Food: Not for Human Consumption’.

Ronald rolled the bag between his fingertips. He could feel a hard crystalline knot inside it. Last time it had felt like salt grains. Last time hadn’t ended well either. That was why it was still here.

On the flight Ronald had a window seat. A family embarked and stood over him.

“Hey! HOWYADOIN?!” Ronald said too loudly. The father took one look at him and changed seats with his wife.

For the rest of the flight Ronald could feel the tightness in the man’s jaw and he nodded and nodded and nodded and nodded.

Down in the hotel reception Ronald felt like he presented a clear and concise case as to why he should receive a room upgrade. Beforehand, as Ronald strode off the aircraft, he had been a well oiled machine. His suitcase whirring by his side. The wheels thrumming out a staccato rhythm as though it were a snare drum announcing his presence through each domain; arrivals terminal, shuttle, hotel. Only upon entering his hotel room had grit been flicked into the bearings and Ronald raged all the way back down to the lobby.

Ronald held up his phone to the receptionist yet again. She looked nonplussed.

“There! Right there! Do you see it? What is that?”

He pointed to the photo he had taken of the vague smear on the wall next to the bedside lamp.

“I don’t know, sir.” The receptionist monotoned.

“Exactly! Exactly! You get it! Right?” Ronald stepped back, lips quivering.

He noticed the time.

“By the way your clock is fast. I can’t have been here two hours already.”

The receptionist shot him a black look as she pushed a new key card across the marble counter.

Ronald spent the next three hours leaving scathing one star reviews of the hotel on every travel website he could find. He made a point of mentioning the receptionist by name in every one, along with an obscene description of her coupling with the hotel chain’s corporate mascot. They all finished with the phrase “Needless to say I had the last laugh”.

At three thirty a.m. Ronald sat on the toilet in the bathroom of his suite. Now he could finally write that damned keynote that he was due to give in four hours.

And write he did! A brilliant call to arms about the current state of the social sciences concerning the unequal relations of power between researchers and their subjects. It would set the theme for the conference. It would be referenced at every plenary thereon and mentioned in every workshop. It would, Ronald felt, affect the very fate of the Humanities as a scientific endeavour. He couldn’t believe it. It just flowed out of him like magic. A tour de force.

The engines of the plane roared as it circled around for another pass over the massif. This time it would land. He could see the runway lighting up on the high plateau. It was clear.

Just after seven a.m. Ronald collapsed for roughly half an hour and woke up screaming.

At quarter to nine the doorman held the door to a taxi open for him. Ronald did not say thank you because his hair felt too wet.

The words of the chairperson of UNESCO’s WHC committee blah-blahed through the PA system. Ronald heard his full name and title and stood up to applause which echoed around the auditorium. The hall was at capacity. Roughly eleven hundred sets of eyes watched him. A tech clipped a microphone to his lapel and a transmitter to his belt. Ronald drank it all in. The theatre hall was a beautiful space. A modernist take on La Scala in whirling strips of undulating wood that flowed seamlessly over the walls and ceiling. Juxtaposed decorative panels marked the staircases that travelled Escher-esque between the galleries and balconies. People were still filing in. Some had to stand against the walls.

A videographer filmed him as he made his way across the plushly carpeted stage to the lectern. Ronald riffled his papers as he placed them just so. As the committee head took her seat, Ronald inclined his head in gratitude at the panel. All well respected Stone Head professors. The finest minds and shapers of the fields of sociology, anthropology and psychology. The applause swelled as he mumbled his thanks and then Ronald stood back and smiled as he surveyed the room yet again.

This was is it. He had made it. The high point of his career.

“Excelsior.” Ronald whispered under his breath.

Suddenly there was a huge explosion overhead. Ronald ducked and grabbed ahold of the lectern, clinging on to it tightly for dear life. He looked up, startled and bewildered. But there was nothing there. The wooden mosaic was still in place on the ceiling. Everyone was still watching him. Hadn’t they heard it? He looked over at the panel. They had not. A droplet of sweat dripped onto his notes. Where had it come from? He wondered. He felt cold. Someone coughed loudly. Then silence.

Ronald smiled, took a deep breath and looked down at his speech.

“You’re all a bunch of fucking parasites, studying fleas in a circus..” read the first line.

“SHIT!” Ronald almost shouted. Instead he coughed and brought a balled fist up to his mouth. He dimly heard a second explosion as the aeroplane’s wreckage impacted the stony slopes of a non-existent mountain valley. Trying hard not to flinch this time, he bit down on his knuckles.

So many faces all looking at him. Waiting.

Ronald looked up to the heavens.

From the auditorium ceiling a giant flea dressed in a singed airman’s uniform drifted gently down, swinging from a parachute harness. Their eyes met. It saluted him.

Ronald looked back down at his notes and began to read his plenary speech.

Short Stories

Rip It Up and Start Again

A sharp pain in his rear molar and Todd was tumbling through pitch black space. A hard wooden board hit him across the ribs a moment before his arms and knees impacted the carpet. Winded, Todd slid off the end table and curled up at the foot of the ottoman. Three feet to his right and it would have been a soft landing. He tried to breathe but could only manage a gurgle, though the pain in his chest distracted him from the sharp needle of hurt in the back of his mouth. Todd rolled to his knees and crawled to the corner of the room. Feeling for the edge of the porcelain sink in the dark, he used it to haul himself up to his feet and then tore down the blind.

Daylight flooded the cabin and Todd clutched his cheek. He reached for the kettle shelf, with all the fixings for hot drinks, and pulled down the jar of sugar. Muscovado. It was always muscovado with him. Some things he would not change. Todd packed the sticky brown sugar around the offending molar, two teeth from the back of his mouth, and felt instant relief. Outside the cabin’s porthole a large pink toad sat naked, reclining in a deckchair and smoking a cigar. Seeing movement it rolled it’s massive golden eyes over to him and grinned. It’s hand reached down to it’s crotch and though Todd couldn’t see it, he knew it had begun to masturbate. It’s knees wobbled. It’s massive mouth cooed into an ‘O’.

It was a Relic. He had a word for it now. Though he couldn’t quite remember what it had started as, he sure as hell wasn’t going to deal with it at this moment.

Turning away from the porthole Todd reached for the garments strewn around the cabin floor. He flicked off the dog ends that had burned holes in his wetsuit tunic and wrestled his way into it. Todd liked the way it felt tight around his torso. His fingers lingered, probing the crisp edges of the burn holes, brushing the skin beneath. After this he bulldog clipped a thin, hard towel around his waist. It didn’t quite fit all the way around him and left a split along his thigh right up to his hip. Todd didn’t mind. He’d shaved that leg especially. Then Todd put on one Wellington boot and one Flip-flop. Open and closed rubber was a consistently interesting sensation.

Todd stepped out into the garden. The relic was still at it. Todd glanced askew at the big pink toad then did his best to ignore it. Whatever desire the Relic had begun life as was now a puzzle to him. He could have consigned it to nothing but his curiosity kept it hanging around. Todd knew the answer was somewhere within himself. But like the solution to a Snakecube or a Rubix Decahedron, when Todd got to a certain point in figuring out the beast he just kept making the same bad twist.

The Relic shifted position and began doing something lewd and unspeakable. Todd frowned disapprovingly. All he could think of as he watched it was his father. He was pretty sure that was not it’s origination but damned if he get away from the thought now. Todd hurried out of the garden in need of distraction.

He looked up to the sky and considered a party and there it was. But only so he could walk through it on his way to somewhere else. He decided on a firehouse for that ‘somewhere else’. With big red shutters and a pole. Way out on a strip of land where a lighthouse would normally stand. Todd began the trek out to it.

The party was a Block party. People appeared and fell into place. Slotting neatly into a cool scene. Odd pieces jumbled up on the dance floor. Todd revelled in wilfully ignoring them as they waved and called out to him. Then he thought about what usually came next in this iteration.

Ah yes.

He would imagine her face and then he would make her so. Just to get her approval. That was all he wanted. Then he would want her gone. It was always the way. It had happened countless times since. Not only her, his sister, his brother. Everyone he had known at one stage. The Wrongs he had righted. The Scores he had settled.

Time was All Time inside the Ecived. It did not flow unceasing any longer but was instead bottled up in a cistern with Todd’s hands metaphorically manifest on the spigot and the sluice. Time for Todd was no longer unanticipated. His molar jabbed him under the sugar poultice. He winced and sucked on the tooth, testing it for hurt. Pleasure was dull numbness. Pain let him know he was still existent.

Todd was over the party now and he threw his drink into the face of the nearest guest. A stunned hush fell over the gathering. Todd smiled as the crying started behind him. He walked through a copse of plastic marijuana trees and he could not hear it any more.

Cold hair fell from a clear sky as Todd reached the firehouse. He climbed up the stairs of the drill tower until he stood on the upper deck. High up out in the open. The pelting strands stung as they struck his exposed flank and arms. The clumps itched fiercely as they clung to his skin. When Todd shook them loose they left behind curving corrugations of red chilblains. Todd scratched and scratched the welts in satisfaction as he looked out across the land and asked it what next. Then he jumped before it could answer.

Todd had long ago passed mundane ideas of perfection. He had always wished for a place by the sea so then he always had the house by the sea. Then that became houses. Then the houses under the sea. The houses in the sea and on the sea and over the sea. Now he couldn’t see the sea but the sea was there. If he cared to listen there were waves somewhere just around the corner. But what did he truly want?

A long fall was one way to answer this question. Imminent injury had a way of focusing the mind. This fall was not a long one though. Perfect futures metastasised rapidly as he plummeted towards the ground and they all had absolutely nothing to do with a soft landing.

Then it was too late and all he had was a bush. The leaves shook as he crashed into it. Todd rolled free as it began to smoulder, leaving his towel and single flip-flop behind.

“That was stupid.” He said aloud to no one.

“Really, really fucking stupid”. He lay in the sparse grass remembering the time he had crippled himself on impulse.

When Todd stood up he found he had unconsciously spewed forth a yard. A rough Autumnal space with the first scattering of fallen yellow and umber leaves amidst the mud and gravel. Cool and peaceful. A mildewed swing-seat shook in the breeze and the faint smell of smoke was in the air. Todd automatically wondered how long it was before Halloween. A deflating football and a fading Frisbee lay next to a tipped over lawn chair. Todd righted the chair, sat down in it and sighed.

Perfection was what he’d been promised with the Ecived. This garden was almost perfection. A slice of memory from his Child-horde. Taken from The Way Before he had encapsulated himself. Todd breathed in the nostalgically crisp air and remembered the times he had visited his grandparents. They had been as mountains in the summer; Pleasant, craggy, white topped, timeless and slightly ominous when clouds passed over their faces. They were always working in the yard. Always. Todd could almost hear the sound of Granpop sweeping leaves, and decided he ought to. A pleasingly rhythmic swoosh and rattle came from nowhere.

This wasn’t bad. Was it? Surely he could stand this? Perfection in this garden seemed moderately achievable. Todd just had to build it up and settle into it for a little while. Let it mould into place. Todd remembered the advice his doppelganger had given himself.

‘Think like jazz! Only by revealing your true innermost could you reach equilibrium. Then you would know true heaven!’

That son of a bitch must’ve been lying. Todd always lied to himself. As he sat there looking around Todd felt relaxed but bored. He rolled up that feeling and dropped it into the Ecived’s metonym slot. Something rattled and clunked and then Todd thought of Chicks.

Apparently that was what he needed. Not the female kind. He had done enough of that for it to get really weird. No, this time he needed something essentially sweet and comforting.

Baby chicks.

Although maybe not just chicken chicks. Something like parrot chicks. But not bitey parrot chicks. Or maybe just a little bitey. Cute bitey. He formed a picture of them and let it wander a little at the last second until they be and was and is.

And they were! Lots of them. Hundreds in fact. Small and cute. Feathery and fluffy. They did not have wings. Todd realised he disliked like things that went flap. Too frantic and panicky. Instead they had arms. Tiny, buff little arms with cute little flappy nubbins at the end instead of fingers. They surrounded him peeping gently. Clustering around his feet as he sat there in the lawn chair.

He pondered the quail. Was what they were? Or maybe quial or qauil? Or Grouse? Or maybe just Very Odd Chickens. Budgerregards. Yes that name fit best. Still. It wasn’t quite enough. In his mind Todd turned the dial up.

The birds clambered up onto him and screamed and screamed. Their feet were plump and pointy, like tiny pin cushions. They left white scratches in his skin as they skittered over his body.

Todd selected one and named it Come Fly With Me.

He winced as his mind reached into the budgerregard’s head and wrinkled up it’s brain. Increasing the surface area as much as the tiny skull could take. The bird’s eyes went wide and its beak gibbered. Todd thought he might have overdone it. Then Come Fly With Me shook its head and cuffed the others out of the way with its tiny muscular arms. It climbed up Todd’s neoprene tunic and then onto the crown of his head, clinging tightly to his scalp. It began to sing.

‘The summer wind, came blowin’ in, from across the sea..’

The rest of them began to sway in time. En masse they crooned the refrain:


‘It lingered there, to touch your hair, an-nd walk with me..’


More of them now picked it up. They came scuttling from all corners of the yard. Or was it truly a yard? Could be a real garden if he let the grass grow. They all joined in. Todd, in spite of himself, felt that urge of morbid curiosity yet again. He increased their number with a stray flick of his mind giggling as thousands of them came bobbling towards him from all corners. They piled up thickly against his body until Todd was buried up to his neck in an enormous chick pyramid. It tickled. He could feel their tiny arms pummelling him gently.

Todd smiled in satisfaction. To be swept up in a smooth crooning hillock of warm budgerregards was apparently very soothing. In fact this was shaping up to be pretty gosh darn good as far sensations went. Todd could probably enjoy this for a quite a while.

Then Come Fly With Me shit on him.

It ran hot and wet and sausagey down Todd’s forehead and into his left eye. “AAH FUU..” Todd yelled and the cold inrush of air hit the cavity in his molar as he ripped it up and started again.

Pulp Pourri

The Great BBC Titles and Idents Graveyard.

Some of you may have known the BBC had a brilliant bat-wing ident from 1953. I didn’t!

You may never intend to procrastinate. But if like me, the urge strikes you as naturally as does swimming to a fish, a two second dopamine hit can often become ‘Wonder of the Day’ in less time it takes to you to think: ‘Fuck it. It’s still early, I can spare a minute or two..’

Today that ten hour time thief is the BBC Motion Graphics Archive at Ravensbourne University. An archive of BBC program titles and idents that stretches all the way back to the iron age. What started as a momentary flick’n’click though it’s pages turned into a one way ticket aboard the nostalgia express.

Which for a bone idle bastard is the equivalent of taking the Inverness to Penzance train. A journey of some 20 hours and 20 minutes apparently. Although roughly about five pages of old TV titles in I realised that this wasn’t really a train journey but more of a Merry-Go-Round. Alexei’s Sayle’s to be precise.

Merry-GO! Merry-GO! Merry-GO-ROWND!

Titles! Thousands of Them!

Here’s the compulsive thing about the archive: It is a huge jumble of all the shows which had brilliant titles. Shows you might only barely remember but which had title sequences that were frequently more engaging than the content. Which for the period was really the whole point of title sequences. To get you excited that the next show might just exorcise the tedium of pre-internet life for thirty minutes.

From the Seven Ages of Man.

Now in the age of slashed production budgets show titles are often cobbled together post production after-thoughts. But in years gone by titles were frequently so dynamically creative in their execution, and so symbolically evocative that you felt almost honor bound to spend at least the next twenty minutes ‘waiting for the good bit’. Whilst you were actually watching a treatise on Edward Said or Mark Urban banging about politics.

It was a brilliant bit of bait and switch and I’m sure I wasn’t the only bitter eleven year old turned into an unwilling pseud by a clever bit of puppetry or animation. Take for example Ralph Steadman’s 31 seconds of blood-spattered nightmare for ‘Leviathan’, a satirical history show (with Mark Bloody Urban, of course).

-Leviathan Title Ident by Ralph Steadman

Even no-budget shows you have never heard of had beautifully surreal title sequences, Many of which stand alone as great tidbits of visual art. To choose one at random: ‘Archer’s Goon’ I have no recollection of whatsoever. Turns out it’s a science fiction show from 1993 aimed at kids.

There are also loads of titles that are seemingly so totally unrelated to the show’s premise that it becomes a fun guessing game. See if can you figure out what this show is about?

If you thought Post-Apocalyptic Romance you’d be a half right. Just kidding it’s a hospital comedy.

The Missing & The Idents

There are some glaring omissions however. ‘Further Abroad With Jonathan Meades’ is not there, Nor is BBC One’s ‘On The Record’ which had the houses of Parliament turn into a evil looking crocodile marauding over a map of the British Isles. The actual political discussion program bored me to tears but I’d watch the hell out of the title sequence.

I also searched in vain to find the original ‘Alexei Sayle’s Stuff’ title with Steamboat Fatty and the kids in the bald caps swearing in the theme song. However the archive does make a great jumping off point for shows you can’t quite remember and then look for elsewhere

It also allows you to compare idents throughout the decades, and see how far we’ve fallen come! A great example of this is the animated bat-wing logo from 1953 at the head of this article. Sure it looks like the crypto-fascist logo from an Alan Moore graphic novel but compare it the BBC One ident from 2018 below. I don’t know about you but I find the 2018 version way more dystopian. Something about the out-of-focus people, all of them with their phones out, gathered before a massive star topped tree while the slogan ‘One-Ness’ morphs into BBC One logo. It’s schmaltzy, pandering and sinister all at once. Give me the bat-wings and shifting eye circles any day.

Or how about BBC Scotland? Years ago we had ‘Around Scotland’, where the letters all flew about above a puddle of water like you’d collapsed in the gutter and were too pissed to catch them. When they finally resolved the O in Scotland was a big flaming ‘O’ ring. If you’ve ever been for a big messy night out in Glasgow it all makes perfect sense. What do we have now? A wee crystal jobbie laid out like a fucking dog’s egg onto some wet cobbles.

My favorite part of the archive though, is that finally I can see the full ‘Arena’ titles. Including the one with the Spitting Image animal puppets aboard Noah’s Ark, which is even darker than I remembered and makes the lame Spitting Image reboot look like Gordon the Fucking Gopher.

Pulp Pourri

Masterchef The Professionals UK.

As Autumn turns to Winter and the days turn into nights about three o’clock in the fucking afternoon. So too does Masterchef the Professionals appear upon the screen like the seasonal spectre of Can’t-be-Arsed-Pour-Me-a-Drink TV.

You don’t intend to watch Masterchef, you end up marooned on it. Sure you can flick about on Netflix, or up and down the listings searching for something to watch while your horsemeat lasagna congeals on it’s little plastic tray. But you know you’ll settle for Masterchef just because it’s so easy! Perfect F.A.P fodder – Formulaic And Predictable. A televisual big old bowl o’ brown that slides down nice n’ easy.

For the minority of you who aren’t familiar with the format, it is basically of one of those food porn Marks & Spencers Xmas adverts masquerading as a competition. Whilst being as intellectually stimulating as a nuke-able Rustlers Cheeseburger bought from the reduced item shelf in the local Co-op.

It’s precisely this digestibility that makes it sort of semi-socially required viewing. The sort of show you can have a conversion with your Daily Mail reading Auntie about, before she goes off on a rant about the ‘greens and migrants’ again. There are three allegedly distinguishable variants of the show;

  • Regular, for the ‘foody’ amateurs who always take themselves waay too seriously.
  • Celebrity, which is comprised of AS SEEN ON TV clients of publicists, who once interned under Elizabeth Murdoch, daughter of Rupert and tyrant of Star TV which produces the show.
  • And finally there is Professional. Which is made up of purportedly professional chefs.

Anyways, this year we have same old buttery biscuit bollock brained Gregg Wallace. Michelin starred Marcus Wareing now looks like a knock off mascot lion from a sports tournament. As for Monica Galetti (rhymes with Alphabetti Spaghetti) she has bleached her hair yet again and could probably be either the baddie or the love interest opposite Christopher Lambert in a straight to DVD film.

Obviously serious Masterchef watchers like yourstruly don’t give a fuck about the finals or semi-finals. Nope. The early stages are where the good stuff is at, because that’s where you get the fuck ups getting chucked out early on a bed of their own toasted hubris! Pop-Up pricks who chuck shit at a wall before picking out the corn and serving it to you on mint smeared grease paper at £10 a pop. The delusional cafe/bistro hacks who slap dark chocolate in everything from duck to lamb to porpoise. And the ladder climbing ‘Executive Chefs’ who haven’t confit’d a spud since John Major was in power but they’re on the show “with something to prove!”

This season’s first episode has one in the latter category. The unfortunate Kuljit who not only buggered up the always tricky skills test with his deconstructed devilled mackerel. But also shit the bed big style in the ‘Cook Us Your Best Meal’ challenge by serving up fish and potato flavoured variations of the colour puce on a platter of despair.

This is the face Kuljit made when they said it was disgusting.

Anyway, every show is basically the same flavour. It gets kind of ridiculous week after week after week. But hey, if your life is going to shit it can be a welcome distraction and at the moment, who isn’t feeling the cutting edge of precipitous future? What I’m trying to say is I don’t begrudge people for watching and enjoying it.

What I do like to rip on are those deluded tuckfards that appreciate Masterchef. And like the show they fall into three distinct categories:

Dinner Party Despots. Love Islanders and Kitchen Confidential Coke Fiends. The second one proliferates all over the media landscape like Warhammer 40k orcs with tans and teeth whitening. They don’t require much explanation being your standard substandard schlebrity.

The Kitchen Confidential Coke Fiends I have first hand experience of. It happens like this: They take over a neat little neighbourhood cafe and turn it into a Fayne Dayning establishment with their mysterious financiers. Maybe they come to you for a bit of planning advice or a neighbourly chat about taking in their deliveries while they sleep off their hangover.

Almost like your new bestie in fact! So long as you are willing to front them two hundred quid for half a grilled lobster and chips. Failing that crucial first friendship test however now means they’ll probably dump goose grease down your drain and set fire to it.

If you really want to get under their skin mix up ‘celebrity chef’ over ‘professional’ and watch their eye twitch. Don’t worry though! Within six months they’re have legged it overnight leaving hundreds of thousands in debt and a wicked rodent infestation with a serious drug problem. Less Rasta mouse more meth mouse if you catch my drift.

Everyone knows a dinner party despot though! They stand over you in your own kitchen like some kind of poundland Gordon Ramsey and tell you how inferior your buttered toast is compared to theirs:

“Oooh don’t you want to warm the butter in a pan with a bit of harissa and muscovego? It’s so much more satisfying to spread that way. Mighty White? Oh please no! I only do sourdoughs with the yeast collected from a Cistercian nunnery where they have a 200 year old strain of candida running rampant..”

They are the same brand of petty snobs who try far too hard to ‘win’ on ‘Come Dine With Me’. I don’t mean the ones who are in it for a laugh and share the prize money. No I’m talking about those fusspots who insist they have food allergies to rare steak and make ice cream out of imaginary herbs their local ‘natural’ food shop grinds between selling packets of SPICE or K2. The majority of whom are narcissistic negging attention seeking wankers.

Not me though. Perish the thought.

Are you sure that oil is hot enough yet?

Pirated Media Reviews


This is IT folks, the real deal. A great concept beautifully realised. A perfect slice of speculative techno horror and a fantastic feature length debut from Brandon Cronenberg.

First lets give the elephant in the room a fat sack of peanuts: Brandon Cronenberg is, yes, the son of that David Cronenberg and, yes, he has certainly picked up a few things from dear papa:

Grisly subject matter: Check. Grim technology used for nefarious ends: Check. Icy performances from emotionally damaged characters: Check. Lashings of gore and blood pumping in spurts from open wounds? Check.

In this regard Brandon is certainly carrying on the family tradition regarding the Cronenbergian approach to surreal and grotesque (and in so doing transcending the usual genre niches). But he also puts his own stylistic flourishes into the film that fortifies Possessor into a prescient and substantial work that can stand quite comfortably on it’s own merits and be a part of the Cronenberg f̶r̶a̶n̶c̶h̶i̶s̶e̶ dynasty. It’s not flawless! Hell what film is. But it is pretty gosh darn good. And it is very pretty to look at too! More so than the muddy ’70’s turd browns of Cronenburg senior’s palette choice anyway.

The story in ‘Possessor’ is thus: Andrea Riseborough plays Tasya Vos, an agent who works for a Black Ops organisation who implant targets with a mind controlling device operated remotely by their agents in order to perform high level assassinations. The film opens with Tasya in the body of a professional hostess. Crying her eyes out as he emotionally calibrates with the body of her host, right before she enters a bar and savagely carves up a wealthy looking gentleman with a dinner knife. After that she slices open her host’s throat and wakes up in her own body.

Of course Tasya loves her work! So much so that she simply can’t wait to leave her perfect family behind to get back to it! Her boss, played by Jennifer Jason Leigh (channeling a certain meaty surgically enhanced facial aesthetic perfected by Mickey Rourke) can’t help but sympathise. And offers her a hit in which she must inhabit the body of Colin Tate, played aptly by Christopher Abbott. A small time coke dealer who happens to be the boyfriend of a billionaire’s daughter.

Tasya follows Colin, getting his diction and mannerisms right, so that when she inhabits him she can more easily ‘pass’ as him in front of his nearest and dearest. Kind of like Konstantin Stanislavski combined with Richard Kuklinski. Anyway, Colin has an interesting day job courtesy of his girlfriend’s father and intended target John Parse, played by Sean Bean. Colin, via virtual reality goggles must quickly catalog the interior furniture of video streamers. Cue a quite a graphic sex scene in the uncut version where Tasya as Colin fails to concentrate on describing the curtains in the bedroom of a couple of active amateur webcam pornographers. Of course, with Tasya masquerading as Colin, within Colin, things don’t go according to plan…

So far so Cronenburgian. But Brandon is doing things a little differently. The first stamp of his own auteurship (yes I know it sounds wanky but fuck it) is his eye for detail. Nothing is placed in front of the camera lens without an intense degree of thought and consideration. The sets are both sumptuous, chilling and very unsettling. From the very beginning in the opening scenes where the first ‘possessee’ walks up a flight of stairs into some vaulted cellar ceilinged bar located in a sky scraper (!), you get a strong sense of matter out of place. Of one thing masquerading as another. Indeed in that initial opening the camera follows a spine like sculpture along the ceiling of the bar which made me wonder if that sculpture was made for the film or something Brandon had seen and marked.

From then on, every location seems to have a particular purpose and significance, imbuing the film with a distinct feeling of geodemographic horror. From Tasya Vos’s grotesque modern McMansion that she lives in with her unsuspecting husband and daughter. Which overlooks an interminable row of garages, with apartments attached as afterthought. All with exposed electricity meters. To the stunningly disorientating skyline of Toronto; presented as a cornucopia of glass office-scape apartments reflecting garishly back at each other. As though the whole city were some true to life urban panopticon of blank indifference. Even Tom Parse, the targeted billionaire entrepreneur has his own terrible ostentatious interior displayed in over-carved, over-veined marble and golden gilt.

Honestly I’ve not seen anything this good regarding the dystopian horror of architecture since Gattaca [1997] and High Rise [2015]. The latter of which is surely no coincidence, considering Cronenberg senior made a pretty decent stab of filming JG Ballard with Crash in 1996.

As for the rest of the story. Well I don’t want to give away too much. There are stories with twists and there are stories with turns. Compared to those Possessor is a helter-skelter standing tall above the rest of the fair. Let’s just say that Andrea Risborough imbues Tasya Vos with not only a chilling enjoyment of her work but also a certain amount of sleight of hand. Certainly it is grim grim grim, but beautifully so. Go and watch it dammit and get an uncut copy if possible.

Pirated Media Reviews

Vampires Vs. The Bronx

I was really looking forward to this film, the overall premise seemed so promising! A teen Vampire film with an interesting subtext regarding gentrification sucking the lifeblood out of urban areas. Hopes were high when I fired it up on the big screen TV, assuming it would be a woke mashup between Fright Night, Lost Boys and possibly Vampire in Brooklyn.

For the first half it seemed like the film might deliver. But unfortunately for the second half ‘Vampires Vs. The Bronx’ turns into a flapping rubber bat of a film. It toothlessly ditches the gentrification angle, trades characterisations for stereotypes and shamelessly rips-off better teen Vampire films of yesteryear.

Don’t worry it’s just the hidden hand of the market.

The Good

Credit where credit is due. The film does starts brightly enough. The post title screen montage shows neighborhood kid ‘Lil Mayor’ Miguel as he cycles through the Bronx putting up posters for a Block Party benefit to save the local Bodega, which is run by his friend Tony. It’s a pretty good way to introduce all the named characters and setup all the locations, showing the spread of blood-sucking real estate company ‘Murnau Properties’ as it aggressively takes over the local small businesses in the Bronx.

Obviously ‘Murnau’ is an outfit owned by and for vampires that chose to ignore the recent memo from the Vampire Grandmaster regarding ‘Coach Feratu’. Seeing as they named themselves after F.W. Murnau the director of Nosferatu, and use a well known portrait of Vlad the Impaler for a logo.

In addition to turning nail salons into hipster coffee shops and artisan cheese bars, Murnau has also bought up the local creepy looking courthouse. Which it plans to turn into luxury apartment vampire nests. It’s not exactly super subtle but it’s a campy kind of fun befitting the genre. Plus there are so many po-faced, clangingly scored horror films out there now that a fun bit of pop horror goes a long way. In VVtB you get precisely 37 minutes of fun and then it loses itself.

The Bad

For me, the film starts to fall apart when the main trio get arrested for trespassing on one of the Murnau properties. The boys are trying to get proof that vampires exist. But of course vampires don’t show up on video! So when they show their phone camera footage to the cops and the gathered chorus of community members and nothing shows up on screen, cue the drama.

So far, so formulaic. However this is the Bronx! Suddenly having all the generations of assorted adults become law abiding to the point of screeching authoritarianism felt especially jarring. It didn’t stop there either. The V-Blogging character, the neighborhood girls and the two aspiring rappers all get their licks of disapproval in on poor Miguel and friends. You’d think the whole neighborhood had never known anybody who’d sat in the back of a squad car. At first it just seemed unrealistic. But the longer it went on the whole sequence came across as condescendingly moralistic. In the age of Black Lives matter and the victimisation of so many young people of color by the police, it hit a bit of a bum note.

‘Lil Mayor and his little friends got caught up by 5-0 for trespassing, such fine boys aren’t they?” Lawful Smugness does not endear.

In fact, regarding the characterisation of ‘the community’, which is always a problematic construct. The portrayal is not exactly deep and meaningful. Being comprised mainly by the usual mish-mash of urban stereotypes that commonly stand in for cultural heterogeneity; Friendly street drinkers playing cards, a couple of aspiring street corner rappers, a handful of gangsters and then the god fearing parents who work 8 days a week as office cleaners or full-time grandmas.

It’s wiggety wiggety wiggety wack.

Another issue is that the ‘kids’ are supposed to 14 or 15 but they’re presented as though if they are dorky ten year olds instead of being urbane and street-wise teens. Nowhere is this more apparent than when Miguel’s mother goes ape-shit at Tony the Bodega guy for letting the main trio watch Blade. Fucking Blade. As though a 1997 comic book movie was too adult for teens.

This also includes Cliff ‘Method Man’ Smith who plays the local priest. I was holding a fucking votive candle for Method Man’s big appearance for the entire film. Considering how many times the film mentions ‘Blade’, I really hoped he would turn up as a kickboxing ecclesiastical vampire slayer. Possibly sporting a bitchin’ Wes Snipes high top fade and wearing a pair of $300 Oakleys. Nope! Method Man’s big line is and I shit you not “They stole my Sprite.” That’s it. That’s fucking it. That’s all he gets. What a fucking waste.

N.Y.C Everything but not my Sprite? Criminally under-used in this film.

He’s not the only one. Rita played by Coco Jones, is one of the better characters of the film’s second half. She gets to go with the ‘boys’ on the climactic vampire hunt and has some funny lines. But it still feels like she was tacked on as an afterthought rather than given anything meaningful to do. Overall it’s like if some dry-drunk supply teacher who’d just speed read a pamphlet on inclusion, was asked to direct a school cast version of ‘Lost Boys’. It lacks the wit and nuance.

The dry sarcastic wit of those 80’s vampire films was what made them great. The two Corys in the Lost Boys and Roddy McDowell in Fright Night had bags of it. These were knowing films that didn’t take themselves too seriously, and reveled in playing up the comedy horror angle whenever they could. Even the more serious remake of Fright Night with Colin Farrell was still a comedy horror, though in an darker toned noughties style. So VVtB should be part of a good comedy horror genre lineage.

The Ugly

Unfortunately it’s a lineage VVtB chooses to squander. If not actively ignore in favor of theft, hoping we won’t notice. The scene where the kids go searching for the vampires in their den. Only to find them hanging upside down above them is lifted outright from Lost Boys, almost shot for shot in fact. But is entirely lacking the humor and originality of that scene. In fact at this stage of the film the vampires aren’t even a credible threat anymore and this really is the big problem with this film. It coddles the main characters so much that you know nothing bad will happen to them.

“We are Nihilists Lebowski! Fear my creeping manicure! I as reach for your humous! Do you listen to Depeche Mode btw?
“Grasping hands, grab what they can, everything counts in small amounts..”

It also means that the character’s lack any real flaws which squashes any agency or growth. If they are good to begin with then what have they learned by the end of the film? There is no journey for them to take. No arc. Just plain old return to normality. All of this totally screws with the flow of any movie. This is doubly compounded when you have three little Mary Sue’s versus your stereotypically unoriginal pale Goth bloodsuckers*. Along with any sense of suspense and drama, the cartoonish thrill of the genre itself just evaporates.

*There’s the blond one with long hair and a long coat and the bald one in a black suit and then the lady one and they are all gothy goth goth.

As for the plot about gentrification? Well, that is forgotten about so rapidly it’s insulting. It leaves so many unanswered questions. What happens to the area now that Murnau Properties has been staked through the heart? Who takes over the stolen businesses? Does a law firm run by Werewolves buy up the vacant properties? Why even bother with a gentrification angle to begin with?

Moving to the suburbs is portrayed again and again in the film as good thing. As something nakedly aspirational, even though these character’s spend their lives in a tight-knit urban community. In my experience young people and small business owners living in the real world city are completely loathe to move. Especially to some fucking car-centric suburb well away from their friends and customers. The film just lets this whole subtext go in favour of a superficial and shallow idea of community. One that is defined by block parties rather than daily lives lived enmeshed via the pressures of circumstance.

What are they gonna do for a sequel? I’m hoping an NGO run by Egyptian Mummy’s buys up the leases for the rent controlled apartments in the neighborhood. Ooh scary.

In fact by the end the whole film is unsatisfying and anemic. Phwooshing off into the ether like one of it’s vampires in daylight. It really needs some fucking hot blooded passion coursing through it’s veins. Instead we get a hollow streaming service cash-in masquerading as young adult ‘wokeness’. It’s fake, insincere and symptomatic of the recent trend of teen movies spoon feeding their target demographic de-politicised milky pap.

Stay for the first half, fall asleep before the end and you’ll think it’s just dandy. Otherwise, do yourself a favour and watch something else this Halloween. For a good fix of nostalgia horror, and if you find people in big mascot costumes creepy I thoroughly recommend the Banana Splits Movie instead.

Articles Collapse Culture

Body Horror: The Dark Patterns of Algorithmic Dysmorphia

When you’re tired of winning
When you get tired of fame
Or when your head is spinning
And you’ve drunk all the best champagne

Then we’ll all sing together
To society we’ll be true
Then we’ll all sing together

Society waits for you
Beware the CLAW of the mighty D’Va Fiddler Crab! She also looks like she could give birth to her own head.

While I try to pretend I’m innoculated against the accelerated forms of outrage culture that proliferate like fungal spores over Social Media platforms. I do enjoy engaging in a bit of schadenfraude when it comes to bad photoshop, bad cosmetic surgery and the shameless shenanigans that people engage in with their hungry-ghost like quest for endless attention.

One of my favorite places to visit for this kind of fix is Reddit’s Instagramreality, where the range of Body Dysmorphia on display is simply breathtaking.

Bongo buttocks bap dap dap bap bap. Shape seems very familiar though…


So what the Hell is going here with these ridiculous morphed-to-the-moon O.T.T. figures? Does it benefit those who do it? And if culturally monkey-see monkey-do, given that culture is a two way street, what the fuck is it doing to us?

Previously I’ve discussed shock value and it’s role in Collapse Culture and how when algorithmically regarding value, ‘ethics’ as a consideration is neither here nor there as long as a flow of attention is forthcoming. Put succinctly value is a numbers game and it doesn’t matter if you are leveraging sex, suicide or fascism, outrage sells and an eyeball on your product is eyb+1 to your internet valuation.

Dark Patterns of influence seems to be a factor in this process. Both economically and culturally, as the interplay of new digital image manipulation technologies enables the push of aesthetic boundaries. These images are the bleeding stump of surveillance capitalism, which appears to be in it’s third or fourth incarnation as it searches for yet another new frontier to tap.

But what exactly are these patterns? What are the rules of this strange new game? Whereby attention, outrage and new dysmorphic aesthetics push us into decadent new realms of dopamine addiction.

There it is! Knew I recognised it! I never forget an ass or a face. Or an ass-face.

Insta-Corporate Your Individuality! Or Die in Obscurity

Spend any time on Instagram and it’s hard not to be struck by the formulaic types of photos and the flattening effect it has regarding how people construct images. This flattening affect is probably the most interesting thing about Instagram for me, the endless copying of formulas that are purport to make the user popular and gain more followers seems counter-intuitive for a medium that is supposed to be ‘creative’. Especially when it makes everything look exactly the fucking same.

I would have used actual images from my Instagram feed but it’s shadowbanned me from viewing # topics. Fuck Instagram and Fuck Facebook too. Use a container if you have to use them.

This is partly the result of Instagram positioning itself as an all-in-one application. From the app you can take pictures, filter the shit out of them and then post the result with a few lazy flicks of your fat fingers. But that’s just the front end. Culturally this streamlining process is a kind of corporatisation of the individual, whereby a person is expected to comport themselves ‘just so’ or else be doomed to eternal indifference.

By following the ‘how to get followers’ instructions what we end up with is a simulation of a person rather that an actual being. A simulation that is wholly accumulative regarding ‘relationships’ with other ‘things’, be they people, pets, panoramas, food or appearances. A simulation of idealised life, refined into simple easily digested shapes like McNuggets. Filtered and filtered yet again until all the proverbial and actual grisly bits have been pureed away.

In addition to Instagram’s own filter version there are numerous other alternative tools. By far the most popular and pertinent one with regard to retouching a person’s physical features is Facetune. So much so that ‘tuning’ has become verb shorthand for retouching in the same way ‘to google’ has for using search engines.

Of course there’s nothing wrong with a bit of retouching, we all do it to a degree, I try to hide my big fat paunch in every photo for instance. But when it’s taken to extremes and purports to be ‘true to life’, well, then it starts getting weird. So weird in fact that it’s hard not to see it as a kind of contemporary freak show. Complete with spider-limbed ‘influencers’, wasp-waisted fitness gurus, glowing brown Fruitarians, dumpling bummed dolls and ‘roided out action men. Images such as these seem like a high tide mark for body dysmorphia.

To cynical nihilists such as yours truly, it feels like we’re only a half step away from surgically enhanced children. Although in a sense that is was we are already getting, because there is something extremely child like about these crudely manipulated figures. The way they are constructed like poorly made knock-off dolls. Which in a sad way is exactly what they are.

Cultural Domestication/S

The flood of warped cartoon shapes is utterly hegemonic on Instagram and other third and fourth wave forms of social media. In a sense there are number of contributing causes and though I don’t necessarily agree with how the term cultural domestication has been appropriated by a narrow field of technology studies. It is accurate to acknowledge that we are in an ongoing phase of technology domestication. Whereby these algorithmic image manipulation technologies are still being understood and mediated by their users.

Kill it with fire.

There are some interesting theories regarding the driving processes of domestication: One is that urbanisation and what we understand as cosmopolitanism functions as a kind of social domestication for human beings. When we look at animals that have become domesticated, we find they lack those hard edged traits that are:

A) Symptomatic of territorial sexuality i.e they cease to chase every interloper off their patch.

B) They remain at a threshold stage, that is their looks and manners adjust to consistent exposure to numbers of their own kind and are receptive to consistent interaction with such.

C) Their physical appearance stays in a proto-maturity and is altered so they become less threatening; Sharp teeth and pointed ears are rounded, jawlines soften, eyes stay large and open.

Domesticated or Eusocial animals, such as ourselves, exist in a prolonged liminal state, neither fully emerged in one phase or another. Domestication therefore operates as a kind of prolonged adolescence, whereby certain traits are extended or linger on into adulthood. It could be argued that a fascination with appearing ‘young’ beyond a certain point of your life stage would be a part of this process.

I’m not arguing that this form of urbane domestication is necessarily a bad thing. Hell I’m a product of it myself, but that there is a overwhelming tendency for it to become over focused on one realm of life over any others. Take the fetishisation of technology for instance, such things become mandatory regarding mass participation. Not just recent technologies either such as mobile phones or computers but older technological mediums such as printing presses or radios.

From that point on, technological mediation is but a short hop from becoming fetishistic and obsessive. Something we might recognise in a contemporary sense as ‘fandom’. Such as it is now, some of the most potent and profitable of these are the triple C cultural industries: Comics, Cartoons, and Computer Games. Again rooted wholly in youth culture, either current or nostalgic. This fascination with youth culture into adulthood has given rise to whole slew of cultural standards which simultaneously project youth backwards whilst bringing childhood forwards, if you catch my drift (think under 10 beauty pageants rather than child labour). All of which might help to make more sense of why some cosplayers market themselves as preternaturally young kawaii cartoon characters. These are adult women who choose to resembled sexualised children.

Do you want a lolly on your loli-chan? Or maybe some tiny fruit or skeletal hand to make your massive sword look bigger.


Ah Cosplay. Where the unreal becomes real. To me Cosplay used to seem like a fun endeavor, back when freewheeling amateurism was the name of the game about 15 years ago. Now the formerly enthusiastic amateur is now expected to conform to higher standards in order to stand out. Like so much that was and should be fun it has now become a serious business and staple of the adult entertainment industry.

The ever ubiquitous Cosplay staple..

I don’t want to do a disservice to the ‘original’ fans who possibly still enjoy playing dress up as their favorite characters but in it’s contemporary industrialised form over the last decade it could be considered one of the prime progenitors of this dysmorphic wave. Which if anything might be the only original cultural contribution considering ‘Cosplay’ itself is predicated on being entirely derivative. Being almost totally comprised of third order IP recreations with little to no true originality apart from reconfigured blends or mashups of popular tropes. Not that that in of of itself isn’t problematic enough! See any number of black facing, bullying, sexual assault or thinning out controversies! Without the factor of easy recognition or at least recognisably obscure referencing to other members of whatever fandom you wish to be considered a part of, Cosplay ceases to be relevant. It’s like when you go to a Halloween party and no one ‘gets’ your costume.

Today we have media sanctioned exemplars of Cosplay, who far from donning tights and papier mache instead parlay good genetic fortune with studio quality technical skill regarding make-up, masks and prop-making in order to make the classic ‘six figure income’ beloved of successful internet attention whores superstars .

Cosplay as a form of Live Action Roleplay therefore works to blur the boundaries of reality and fantasy, a form of Hyper-reality as postmodernist thinkers would have it. Where the cosplayer appropriates attention by clothing themselves in the skin of culturally significant fictional characters, pulling the objectively unreal into the gross physical universe. The characters they choose to inhabit are not situated inside their own narrative spaces anymore but utilised as symbolically significant attention gatherers.

Like Prometheus stealing fire from the gods or some kind of post modern Xipe Totec, Cosplayers cloth themselves in the flayed skin of their object of desire. In so doing seizing a piece of the spectacle that also might just elevate enough to grab their own slice of the attention pie and all that might accrue with it. Fame, Fortune and Fuckability is the endgame. That cosplay is based on cartoons, comics and computer game characters part of that hybrid born of cultural domestication, which is the prefer to term cosmopolitanism.

In addition to this Cosplay was partly created and resides in a continuum of other fetish related fantasy realms that often feature heavily sexualised youth tropes; BDSM, Furries, Picture books about Übermenschen in Tights. This link is explicitly important (no pun intended). For they share the same type of spaces and the same methods of technological dissemination both online and in ‘conference’ space. The latter of which is essentially a form of modern carnival whereby an inversion of norms takes place by embracing the extremes of whatever it is that the conference is for. Such spaces are also heady blends of futuristic and fantasy thinking as well as being nakedly capitalistic regarding sex, success and hierarchy. Becoming quite literally modern day festivals of Hero Worship.

Honestly in two minds about how old this person is. Definitely the most uncomfortable picture here but I want to include it because it shows how algorithmic filters can utterly de-age subjects.

So, we have these hyper real forms taken from cartoons and extrapolated into the real world. And of course 90% of the time the aesthetic is borrowed from goddamned anime, which quite frankly I am increasingly learning to hate. The main reasons being for it’s over-sexualisation of children, incomprehensible and inane storylines, and predictably lazy tropes that add absolutely nothing to your life apart from killing time by indulging in the dreaded binge watch.

I’m not talking about the good series here nor Studio Ghibli or Akira either, because everyone loves that stuff. But for every gem like Satoshi Kon‘s films there are a bajillion regressively rapey, wankhandedly crappy series about some fuckwad high school kid/s with a magical tentacle/s up their bum/s that makes them rip flesh/cook omelettes/fold origami/carry a big wangsword.

But I digress, the main point is that if there is any hegemonic aesthetic of algorithmic dysmorphia it’s found in this style of drawing fucking cartoons.

Objectify Me Rando-Chan!

Oh how we all get richer
Playing the ruling game

Only the poor get poorer
We feed off them all the same

Then we’ll all sing together

To society we’ll be true
Then we’ll all sing together

Society waits for you

The distorted bodily proportions on ‘offer’ in these photos makes feminist concerns about ’80’s Barbie look almost quaint! Many of the people in them are totally explicit about their referencing of Anime characters, referring to such either by name or ‘Real-life Anime Girls/Guys’ (without any apparent trace of irony). Where as others are more circumspect, but still utilise ‘the look’.

As for that look; BIG TITS. Big. Back-Aching. Tits. Massive Lil’s. Bazoonga Cannons. More front than Harrods. Huge long Giraffe Legs. Massive boat like feet clad bare or in heels or better yet in Big White Trainers. The Feet MUST be bigger than the Head, like loads bigger. Ctrl +++++ Bigger. While the Head should be tiny in proportion to the arms legs and torso.

As for the face, it should be as doll like as possible which means Big Eyes. Big Lips. The Pointiest nubbin of a Chin you’ve ever seen. Oh and absolutely no fucking PORES at all. Any Skin texture is a Mortal Sin. Behold:

The proportions are pretty much the quintessential manga face. I often wonder what the world would be like if some other style of cartoon facial features had become as influential. Say for instance Beryl Cook‘s or Tom Paterson’s faces. Would filter apps tune sausage noses and hooded eyes as defaults? Anyway the face is one of the most tuned aspects in many of these photos, followed by the waist, bust, butt, legs, feet, arms and hands. And genitals. In fact just fucking tune it all.

Of course there are variations; one of the most recent popular shapes is the Super Ass. In which a person will attempt to out-ass Kim Kardashian. As though they have swallowed and are about to imminently poo out an entire Vegas Surf and Turf Buffet.

I like big butts and I cannot lie. You other brothers can’t deny. That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist..
And a round thing in your face You get sprung, want to pull up tough
‘Cause you notice that butt was stuffed.. No wait stop stop I want out
The story of Sarah Baartman is heartbreakingly tragic. She had no choice about being objectified. A South African Khoikhoi woman who was effectively a slave and exhibited around Northern Europe from 1810 to 1815.

It might just seem like harmless fun. I mean who is really fooled by the obvious fakery? It is so blatant that it is laughable and when you see so many of them you start to question your own judgement. Am I missing something? Is it tongue in cheek? Are there really that many horny fetishists out there? Is it other people who manipulate their own photos and simply B-E-L-I-E-V-E? Or is it mostly just sad fuckers like me, who sit there tutting and shaking their head quietly in front of the computer? If it is the last one than the joke is definitely on me, but the truth is it that is probably a combination of all these types of people. And in our own way we’re all fooling ourselves. In that case then what is the harm? If Lolo Ferrari were alive than I would probably try to ask her but she isn’t.

RIP Lolo.

Lolo didn’t have the dubious luxury of algorithmic dysmorphia. She had the real deal. Here is what she said about her surgeries;

“All this stuff has been because I can’t stand life. But it hasn’t changed anything” and “I was frightened and I was ashamed; I wanted to change my face, my body, to transform myself. I wanted to die, really.”

The point is that like the head of a particularly egregious pimple this is a symptom of something deeper.

Yo dawg checkout my laser hair removal and my wasp thin waist/end of the wedge. Cosmetic surgery is just the bestest.

Great Unrealistic Expectations / Or Loss and Gain IRL {o<>0}

Some may call us sinners
We think of ourselves as saints

Some may call us killers
It’s done with such restraint

Then we’ll all sing together
To society we’ll be true

Then we’ll all sing together

Society waits for you
Not really that appropriate but when you see it..

Instagram likes to act as though it is a broker to better, more open communicative world. That it functions as a magic mirror whereby not only can you see the fairest of the land but you can reach out and talk to them. This is where the realms of luxury themed aspirational lifestyles begin to displace the cartoonish ones. Or is it the other way around? Either way, Instagram likes to portray itself as a kind of cultural lodestone for aspirational living. But really that’s a fucking crock of shit. Back in 2017 Instagram came out as the worst social network for mental health. It’s easy to game and chock full of snake oil masquerading as positivity, be it body, mind or soul.

In fact masquerade is probably the most accurate way to describe these forms of co-option or coercion.

It’s still filtered. But ‘naturally’ so.

Take for instance the sheer number of posts on r/Instagramreality regarding Eating disorders that show Instagrammers using tuning software to sell themselves as preternaturally thin to profit off the IRL dysmorphia of others. This is one the grossest things about algorithmic dysmorphia and is worth checking out for yourselves.

These were the top search results for “Eating Disorders”.
Second Page
And it goes on and on beyond this too.

It seems Instagram has a pretty lax policy regarding ‘Thinspo’ posts aimed mainly at young adult women and juveniles. In this regard it actively allowing profiteering from people who sick.

The image on the left was used for Thinspo posts on Instagram
Teen girls don’t need rib cages.
Subtly impossible standards. She isn’t cooking anything her non-existent internal organs can’t digest.
Bitch tit Mr Burns needs a glass of water stat.

Even supposed ‘body positive movements’ perpetrate dysmorphia to quite a staggering degree.

It’s positively good to be body positive as long as you aren’t fat. Apparently.

In fact take any given hash tagged #topic on Insta. It was recently brought to my attention that #QueenoftheMountains, an attribution commonly used by woman cyclists to post photos of themselves from their bike rides had been co-opted. Effectively hi-jacked by what is essentially an East Asian outfit that spams semi-softcore photos of woman in lycra posing on bikes, using exactly the same fucking dysmorphic anime proportions. What was once an actual space for woman to showcase their cycling prowess and achievements, virtually overnight became yet another #hashedout grouping that objectified an unreal representation of sexualised ladies in tight lycra sportswear.

The anime ratio. Big feet tiny head.
This one isn’t too bad but yea, you know I don’t think she really is a member of the 12 O’clock Crew

It is these subtle displays of algorithmic dysmorphia that are the most damaging. A constant drip feed of adjusted imageering that lodges itself in the imagination. I’m old enough to remember the furore the first time it was revealed that magazines used this form of editing, although it is arguable that it was never to this degree. With the rise of deep fakes, it seems we might spend the next decade or so attempting to tame our new simulated realities.

If you know who he is, this man is a massive pederastic piece of shit.
This woman, less so.

In it’s current incarnation Instagram is in fascinatingly decadent place at the moment. An aging third wave social media platform, not only is it one of the worst alongside Facebook regarding it’s many, many controversies. But it is also currently in competition with other forms of Fourth and Fifth generation social media in this area such as Twitch, Tik-Tok, Zoom etcetera. In some ways there appears to be a kind of ‘sphere of influence’ war regarding these platforms and their supposedly differing ideological agendas (which some of them certainly have whilst others are more nihilistic).

Viewed through this lens Social Media ends up looking somewhat like the old fashioned 20th century state propaganda networks. In this case US versus China rather than the USSR, seeing as how Instagram is banned in China and Tik-Tok is restricted in the US and banned outright in India.

These kind of social media sphere conflicts may be a defining point of the culture wars. Along with their corporate enablers. Chase where the money goes and global system deconstructionist billionaires like Peter Thiel, who founded Palantir hand in hand with state surveillance investors such as In-Q-Tel are never far away. These systems are here to safeguard and ensure the status quo, as unfair, destructive and parasitic as it currently is.

If we are indeed engaged in a culture war mediated by technology than we need a sixth wave of social media, one that functions by the people for the people. Rather than a rapacious, private information harvesting system of near monopolies with links to openly despotic and genocidal regimes. They cheapen us. All of us.

Our attention spans are preternaturally shortened as images flicker past in the manner of wheels on a slot-machine, and that is the point. The Dark Pattern par excellence, your social life as loot box mechanic. You get your hit of dopamine and then move on to the next thing and there is always another thing. Anything that isn’t crazy, cringe or common categoric currency; say aspiration, luxury, or beauty as a designated and trademarked product, might as well not exist. So it is no wonder we are continually carpet bombed by cartoonishly shaped beings. Because the outrageous is what your eye will be drawn to. It’s also where some of the most interesting tools of manipulation are aimed at. Your social media life is now a shitty Gacha RPG.

This shit needs to die.

In any event not only does tuning software give us either the hit of shock or outrage. It also give us the illusion of control via limited ‘choice’. That not only are we in control of out ‘tastes’, which we are encouraged to waste time curating and cultivating like our own pathetic little gardens of the mind (Yes that’s right they are 90% bollocks and you and I both know it). But that when so many of us lack any actual political or economic clout as compared to previous generations, the one thing you can do is refine your physical form. Groom your online identity and to Hell with the rest of the world.

So many of us are the wage worker, as portrayed by Karl Marx. Dependent upon our bodies as potential, symbolic of lost labour power. No consistent means of income and nothing other than bleak apocalyptic future horizons. So we look back to the cartoonish and grotesque spectres of childhood, with nothing left to work on but our own bodies and the abstracted value that they might produce. And so we sell them. For something as cheap as attention. In the hope that someday that might turn into some form of tangible power such as fame and fortune.

Little wonder dysmorphia seems to be at an all time high then. Warping your booty up to Planetoid level might seem like the least worst thing about Collapse Culture from a certain point of view. Although, little head, big body, obviously fake image… Where have I seen that before?

Oh yea! Prize Livestock! I wonder if we’re being fatted up for something?

Disclaimer: This article is not meant to belittle people who are currently at the mercy of Body Dysmorphic Disorder but rather examine the cultural artefacts and image manipulations that in many cases are considered to be the new norm in social media. If you feel you are suffering from body dysmorphia or any other similar obsessive compulsive disorder (and possibly hiding it) please do not suffer alone. Help is available!