Retail Therapy… July 31, 2008
Posted by John Hodson in : General , 9 commentsLet’s see; the checklist for 2008 thus far…
There was the computer crash, which took down all the terminals in the office and at one point threatened the entire business. My fault. Well, Mr Gates and I will actually share the blame. I get all the credit for sorting it…balanced out by it costing us an unnecessary three figure sum and several dead working days. Strike one.
I barely had time to congratulate myself on what turned out to be no more than a harrowing experience, rather than a life changing one, than our home was burgled, while we slept. Electrical goods, clothing, credit cards, cash, laptops and more, all bundled into the family MPV - the keys being handily placed for the intruders to find - and then driven into the night. After hitting our gatepost and leaving part of the car on the drive as a souvenir. Strike two.
Panic ensued, not surprisingly, with chez Hodson being kitted out with a brand new, and very expensive, state of the art Alarm System that, amongst other features, rings us up to tell us if the house is being ransacked.
Or if it’s accidentally triggered at 4am by my dozy son. Oh, how I laughed…
First time we venture from Hodson Towers after the theft, my ‘phone rings and I very nearly have a pulmonary embolism. The thoughts of leaving these shores and having the alarm call me up to tell me in that monotone computer drawl that some recidivist scrote is thumbing through my DVD collection - dear God, take anything but my copy of The Searchers - while I’m an impotent 2,000 miles away, means we may never holiday again. I’m considering holing up in the dining room with a loaded shotgun. ‘Cept I need to sleep. And I don’t own a shotgun. Damn my insomnia proof, pacifist hide!
Meanwhile, the car insurance company, determined to get its pound of flesh from somewhere, asks for a copy of my driving license so that they can ‘put the claim to bed’. Like a lamb to the slaughter I happily do so, and a 19-year-old call centre monkey ’phones me up to tell me I’m a ‘very naughty boy’. I failed to declare a speeding ticket that West Yorkshire Police (lying in ambush at 7am - a few yards from a derestricted sign and safety - just outside Leeds) slapped on me in 1991. Seventeen bloody years ago. The insurance company wants it’s money back for the years that I ‘benefited from cheaper car insurance’. I suddenly feel like Nick Leeson; you’ll never take me alive, copper…
The Ford Motor Company meanwhile, cannot immediately replace my vehicle. It will be a ‘few weeks’; apparently demand is so high in Russia and China for the minions of oligarchs in Moscow and the thrusting young turks of Beijing’s tiger economy that Ford can’t build ‘em fast enough, and Brits must wait their turn to get MPV’d up. I still haven’t got it. It will be ’soon’.
Good job; allows us breathing space to shell out for the new outside security lights, the fencing and lockable side and rear gates. The wrought iron specialist asked Mrs H whether she wanted ‘balls or spikes’ atop the side gate; Silly question; of course, she wants the thieves balls on the spikes. Mrs H asked, Lady Macbeth like, if the spikes could be specially sharpened and dipped in a swift acting, extremely painful, snake venom for which there is no known antidote. Not an option, however. Sadly.
We fax the gate company with the suggestion. Look out for their Black Mamba line come 2009.
The toaster and microwave pack in; irritating. What next? I idly enquire of the Gods. You don’t want to know, they reply out of my hearing…
If only we’d have remembered the bottle of wine and not had to turn back for it. If only it hadn’t have been at rush hour, and I hadn’t been rushing. If only I’d have ignored the nice little old lady in the Peugeot who stopped and beckoned me into the gap in the traffic that she’d left (she was, I now know a succubus from Hades). If only I’d have been paying much closer attention to the line of traffic coming down her outside. And not pulled out straight in front of that big white Mazda Taxi. Ouch.
The poor bugger didn’t stand a chance. In one of those adagio moments, I see everything in an ultimate clarity; the driver’s face contorted as he wrenches the wheel, his teeth clamped hard at the physical exertion of stamping with all his strength on the brake pedal. Out of the corner of my eye, I note my daughter’s face buried in her hands. I sit there, zen-like, for the inevitable outcome. Motionless. I don’t recall there being any sound as glass, metal and plastic burrows deep into the side of the car I’m in; it’s almost like an ‘out of body’ experience. The driver of the taxi shakes his head, and I respond with a weak and totally inadequate ’sorry…’ People stand around and gawp; not one person offers any help, though there is, in truth, none that they can give. I look at them, they look at me. Now I know how a goldfish feels.
My wife’s car is now pretty much wrecked, though happily no-one has suffered any injury. The front wheel of her Citröen hanging at a nasty, spastic angle, our cars entwined as lovers. Someone shoot me now.
So here I am, my daughter very bravely adding my name to her insurance so that I can get about. And I drive Mrs H to get a hire car (’It’s HOW much!?’), in Katie’s cute little Renault. With the pink carpets and accoutrements, and the sparkly fairy tiara on the dash. Someone shoot me now - please? I call about my car on a daily basis; ’soon’ they say. Strike three - you’re out…
I need cheering up. Family expenses through the roof, right now I would, of course, be foolish in the extreme to spend money on anything more than necessities. I understand this. Completely; do I look stupid?
I order a new $399 DVD player.
It’s either that, Prozac or therapy, I really, really, can’t afford therapy, and I hate taking tablets. Besides, I don’t know any therapists with as many Michael Ripper films as I, and I’m not entirely sure that Prozac would allow me the benefit of watching my DVDs in upscaled 1080p. At least, it mentions nothing pertaining to such on the pack. Er, or so I’m told.
So, an Oppo DV-983H it is then; I’ve uhmmed and aahhed long enough, considered buying a Blu-ray player, but my obscenely humongous collection of SD discs - many of which will never see the light transferred to BD - deserves the best I can give it (that’s what the voice in my head keeps saying; obey the voice). The best at a time when we can least afford it. ‘Twas ever thus - I think I may get them to carve it on my headstone.
The Oppo will go nicely with the new monitor. Didn’t I mention that? Silly me.
The burglars very neatly (so neatly that I half expected to find a calling card a la ‘Sir Charles Phantom, the famous Lytton’…) unhooked our Toshiba LCD and hauled it to their - my - transport. The 42″ set cost over £1,600 just two years ago, but such is the march of time and technology, it was already showing signs of being very much out of date (or so I kept telling anyone that would listen. Which was no-one as it happens). Only a few days previous to the theft, I’d been mulling over how to gently persuade Mrs H that it might be replaced. Be careful what you wish for.
The house insurance company offer us a ‘like for like’ replacement. Except, instead of a ‘top of the range’ Toshiba - which it was just 27 months prior to being appropriated for drug money by a desperate junkie (police theory) - we are offered a near bottom of the range model. We take the cash value - £720, which is some depreciation to swallow, but swallow we must - and decide to put it towards something better. A quick look round (and you have to be quick because technology doesn’t exactly march as sprint these days) and we plump for a Samsung A656; because they don’t do a 42″ model, we’ll be getting a 46″ model instead. Corrrr!
It’s two days before the UEFA Champions League Final and we go to buy our new telly, from Costco, because of the excellent price, the 90-days no quibble return policy and the five year guarantee. They have none. But they do have a 52″ model - totally outrageous because it will be too big; the 42″ model was vulgar enough, but crikey Moses, with the 52″ there can be no place to hide your shame. Should ‘Ideal Home’ come to call, can you throw a sheet over it and call it a Matisse? I think not…
It is now 29 hours to kick-off, Sir Alex Ferguson needs me standing in front of my TV screaming for my team, telling them they are totally bloody useless, and won’t someone please - please - turn this stupid thing off?! At least he did in 1999. So we arrange to have the 52″ delivered; and buggeration to what the neighbours think. It is in place with hours to spare, and the rest is history. It was a damn close run thing and the denizens of Old Trafford will never know the debt they owe me; after the match, I need sponging down and a good rest in a darkened room. Football is hell.
There follows weeks and weeks of playing with the flippin’ thing, tweaking, calibrating, changing settings again and again. And again. Once upon a time, your TV came, you switched it on and either your colour was set so high that it looked like a very poor early two-strip Technicolor movie, or it was muted so low that it resembled a gently fading sepia tone lithograph. Up a lot, or down a lot; that was extent of ‘calibration’. No more, gentle reader, this is the freaky deaky technology-zone known as the 21st century, where fridges come with an internet connection.
Modern TVs have a host of confusing controls to cope with a host of conditions, environments and the variety of techno-freaks who suffer from OCD and buy large screen TVs. AKA ‘men’. And there are few LCDs on the market right now blessed with as many picture controls as the Samsung ‘6′ Series; not just brightness and colour, oh deary me no, nothing so mundane - we can control the ‘Colour Space’, the ‘Gamma’, the ‘Facial Tones’, the ‘White Balance’, the ‘HDMI Black Levels’, the ‘Tachyon Emitter’ (okay, I made that one up…) and the ‘Dynamic Contrast’ (which we subsequently learn is A Very Bad Thing. Apparently the AV Police come and take you away should you even think of touching any digital whatchermacallits). On and on, a whole host of gadgets to play with…and drive the family totally nuts. And I do, gentle reader. And how.
This is almost as good as my esoteric hi-fi days, except back then buying British - Scottish - gear was de rigeur. And keeping your CDs in the freezer was considered a major tweak. Well, it was cheap (which is more than can be said for the Scottish gear). I digress.
I can even update the firmware, which Samsung issues to solve the inevitable problems (because, as we all know, we are all beta testers now…). To check which firmware you have, you must access the Service Menu. Accessing the Service Menu, says Samsung apparently, invalidates the warranty. So, if I update the firmware, how to check if I have been successful and the serial number of my new firmware is correct? You have to go into the Service Menu. Can’t you hear Joseph Heller chuckling? Isn’t this just brilliant.
Apparently, I can pay to have my set calibrated professionally. A well-read chap will come to my house and set my TV up for me, tell me what’s good and bad; not what I like, you understand, but what is right. And I’m interested in what is right. How much? Around £300, depending on the distance. I lose interest verrry quickly. Besides, he may have to go into the Service Menu, and that’s another Very Bad Thing as we now know. I need a rulebook; quick.
But I play and play, and eventually, come across a whole bunch of settings which appear to be ideal for my monitor; I’m astonished that the picture looks as good as it does. There are the usual LCD caveats; it does look better in a room with at least some ambient lighting, but it’s substantially better than the Toshiba, which, I decide, Burglar Bill (I’m guessing; it could be Intruder Ian, or Light-fingered Larry…) is more than welcome to. SD or broadcast HD (and trust me, just a few weeks ago, I hadn’t a clue what most of these terms meant), it’s quite excellent. 52″ too big? Like hell it is…
However (and there always is a ‘however’ in these situations), the extra inches seem to be a little too much for our two years old Oppo DV-971H, a multi-region upscaling DVD player much lauded on release, and which has proved to be utterly reliable. When Oppo unveiled their flagship 983 model earlier this year, they were at pains to point out that users with screens of 50″ and above would benefit most from this most muscular deck. Suddenly, as a brand new member of that club, I began to see their point. And here, by the way, was the proof I needed to show Mrs H that we needed - we simply had to - replace our utterly reliable, up to this point, quite excellent DVD player. Which wasn’t even broken. I contemplated dropping it for good measure.
I agonised over what to do, should I spend the money, should I keep the wallet closed. Think of the poor starving children, the ravaged planet Earth. The greenhouse gases, the dwindling rainforests, the melting polar icecaps, the…
Screw ‘em. I ordered one. Forgive me, Sting, mea culpa Al Gore.
First I placed my order with a UK company; neither they, nor Oppo itself out in Mountain View, California, had any stock. And as the expected ship date slipped, then slipped again, I switched my option to Oppo direct. Within 24 hours of placing myself on their notification list, a thumbs up email arrived, the order was placed and within four days, I got the shipping notice. Five more days it was here; our (well, to be honest, my) reward for being burgled, having my car nicked, smashing up my wife’s car, allowing the toaster and microwave (no toast and scrambled egg for me, then) to break and for failing to negotiate ’super economy’ deals with any number of workmen shoring up chez Hodson’s creaking defences. It pays to be bad.
That was Monday last. Like all men, I love these toys; I love to tinker with them, sweat and strain to hook them up, twiddle the knobs to get their output perfect, then twiddle ‘em some more just for the hell of it. It’s sheer bliss. After 24 hours, I discovered I had the speakers wired up incorrectly (around the time Clint Eastwood threw something in front of him and the sound came from behind my head) and had to dismantle the whole spaghetti mess of wires and start again. Even more bliss.
The Oppo itself? Well, I can only use the cliché that it is a ‘jaw-dropping experience’. I can’t describe how much better a machine it is than the 971, you’d have to judge that yourself, but the second part of the whole ‘let’s buy the best for our SD collection, then get a Blu-ray player’ plan has now gone on the back burner. Mrs H, who happily admits she cannot tell the difference between broadcast SD and HD (it’s a ‘Venus and Mars’ thang…), and frankly couldn’t give a hoot in hell about such matters actually volunteered the information that the 983 was a huge improvement on the 971. A first. My flabber had never been so gasted; someone pass the salts…
Not content with the ‘Mrs H Seal of Approval’, the Oppo has been winning accolade after accolade, scoring an unprecedented top score in a Secrets of Home Theater test, and is said to play SD DVDs better than not only rivals costing breathtaking sums, but also any current BD player; the fact that it can also play them from any region without trauma also gives it a distinct edge over most fancied Blu-ray decks.
Colours are beautifully lush and true, the picture is so much more incredibly detailed (how can they do that?), digital artifacts have simply disappeared and once problem discs are a problem no more, non-anamorphic discs are born again. Sonically, the Oppo actually outperforms our Yamaha DSP-A1 amplifier on the decoding front; the Yamaha was a bit of a beast in it’s day, but using analogue connections from the DVD player to the amp and letting the Oppo decode is a real improvement on the previous digital coax set up.
My Bought & Watched page reflects some of the titles I’ve been revisiting (yes, the first was The Searchers), all of which have been eye-wateringly gorgeous, and that’s not listing the chunks of other films that I’ve played, knowing that they contain previously difficult material, edging my seat closer and closer to drink in each new delight. I am truly gob-smacked each time I boot one up.
Can the leap to HD, particularly for the type of films that we want to watch, be that great, that much more stunning? Possibly, but the yen to find out has eased considerably. My DVD collection has, you will be pleased to know, been revitalised and saved for this proud nation. And I can now wait for the whole messy BD business to level out. Huzzah!
Is the Oppo DV-983H worth the money? You betcha, at twice the price even (hush now, don’t tell Oppo). Would I go through the whole of 2008’s trials and tribulations again, just to reach this point?
Are you mad? This is film, we’re talking about…
Oppo Digital’s website is here, and DVD Times excellent and detailed review of the Oppo DV-983H is here.
Things To Come, Those That Have Gone… February 12, 2007
Posted by John Hodson in : General, DVD News & Info , 2 commentsI’ve mentioned Network’s ‘on-off-on again’ DVD of William Cameron Menzies brilliant realisation of H.G. Wells prescient Things To Come several times in past blogs. On the last occasion, Network had scheduled an R2 (again), but taken away the proposed disc’s ‘Special Edition’ status. Well, now, it has been reinstated.
Reading that Legend Films U.S. R1 - they produce ‘colorized’ abominations, but, sometimes, the process involves restoring the elements used and a nice black and white transfer is included - was none too good (some said downright terrible), in sheer frustration I bought DD Home Entertainment’s R2 disc, and, though it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared it might be, it was again taken from an inferior American print, and could have been a whole lot better. Particularly the soundtrack, Arthur Bliss’ wonderful score sounding a trifle underpowered, as if it was being played down a telephone line. That ‘SE’ status of the Network disc has me puzzled (because we don’t don’t yet know what extras are included), but there is, potentially, quite brilliant news at this link (courtesy of Glenn Erikson, aka DVD Savant):
SCI-FI-LONDON, the UK’s only annual festival of science fiction and fantastic film is delighted to announce that the restored, extended edit of THINGS TO COME will be given its first theatrical screening after the Arthur C Clarke Literary Award on 2nd May 2007 at the SCI-FI-LONDON Film Festival, with an additional screening plus Q & A open to festival-goers on Friday 4th May 2007.
The digital restoration of the H.G. Wells SF classic THINGS TO COME will be given a nationwide theatrical and special edition DVD release in May 2007. This version of the film is the one which most closely resembles director William Cameron Menzies’ original vision created over seventy years ago. Every version of the film shown in cinemas, on television and available on video since 1936 has been drastically cut. Network has commissioned the best and longest known version to exist of this film anywhere in the world in H.D. One of the most memorable Sci-Fi stories ever made in motion picture history, THINGS TO COME set a benchmark for innovative design and incredible special effects when it was first made in 1936. One of the best and most ambitious British movies ever made, Oscar™-winning director William Cameron Menzies (INVADERS FROM MARS) creates a breathless vision of post-war desolation and utopian futurism. This memorable classic stars Oscar-nominated Raymond Massey (A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH, ARSENIC AND OLD LACE) as John Cabal and his descendants and award-winning actor Ralph Richardson (Q PLANES, THE FOUR FEATHERS) as The Boss.
It’s Christmas 1940. The people of Everytown, unprepared and ill-equipped, find themselves at war against an enemy who has been planning a conflict for years. The land is devastated by the horrors of aerial bombardment as the war drags on until 1966 causing a period of despair, with feudal tyrants ruling a downtrodden population suffering from famine and a plague called the Wandering. Can the human race rise above their desperate situation and use science for the common good?
THINGS TO COME has never looked this good and was the first film to show human civilisation reduced to ashes.
Commented Network Managing Director Tim Beddows, “We are delighted to be releasing THINGS TO COME both theatrically and on DVD. This pro-science film is Britain’s answer to METROPOLIS and this restoration is a world first for this ground-breaking film that is just as relevant today as it was on its release seventy years ago.”
Discussing the technological process involved in restoring THINGS TO COME to its full glory Beddows added, “This version of the film is the longest known to exist anywhere in the world and has been sourced the best available 35mm elements. This restoration is the result of excellent cooperation between Network and Granada International.”
Referring to Network’s association with the sixth SCI-FI-LONDON Film Festival running from 2nd – 7th May 2007, Beddows added, “We are delighted to be headlining the UK’s only film festival dedicated to the science fiction and fantasy genres as well as providing a public screening of the restored version of THINGS TO COME at the festival.“
Held annually at the APOLLO WEST END, SCI-FI-LONDON screens world and UK film premieres, documentaries and a selection of classic SF titles. SCI-FI-LONDON also has a strong international shorts programme and screens a short film with every feature screening.
The next festival is 2 - 6 May 2007. www.sci-fi-london.com.
It appears as if it might be worth the wait. I’m wondering now what other goodies are in store on this set - it has been hinted that a young fellow who did some work early in his career on the film is still with us and might feature, one Jack Cardiff. The cheapest pre-order I can see, £9.99 delivered, is at Sendit.com. My order is in…
Several caveats are expressed by the Savant himself, however. Over at DVD Talk, Glenn says:
Odd qualifiers sneak into the announcement copy: “This version of the film is the longest known to exist anywhere in the world and has been sourced the best available 35mm elements.” Available to whom? “Network has commissioned the best and longest known version to exist of this film anywhere in the world in H.D.” I’m awful glad it was commissioned. Longest known to whom? Did they really search the world over? Does H.D. mean that this is a digital video job, and not a real film restoration?
Some American companies will identify a reamed 16mm print transferred to digital tape as a ‘digital restoration.’ How come the BFI is not mentioned, or any archive or restoration entity? Granada television is the only other company cited. Perhaps some helpful Savant reader can step forward and better inform us of the facts. I’d be happy to apologize for my suspicious attitude, should this be the restoration we’ve been waiting for.
I’ve been assured that Things To Come already exists somewhere in a version slightly longer than its present 96 minutes, but continuities and stills show that when originally screened it was upwards of 113 or 117 minutes, perhaps even longer. So we shall wait and hope in cynical optimism.
Being, mostly, a ‘glass half full’ kinda guy, Granada Ventures being the UK rights holders, having a little history when it comes to doing the right thing and pulling out all the stops when the occasion calls (and I think the occasion calls), I maintain a cautious optimism. Here’s hoping…meanwhile, can I also point you at Glenn’s excellent and fascinating review of the Image R1 version of Things to Come here.
Can’t let this post pass by without mentioning another real cause for celebration (hopefully - no detail yet); it has been flagged by Warners as ‘coming’ but it looks like R2 is going to get the Rio Bravo: The Special Edition first this May.
All The Brothers Were Valiant…
I name checked my Uncle Albert in my review of One Of Our Aircraft Is Missing. Aged 93, and in poor health for many years, Albert died a couple of days ago.
In a period of a few short months in late 1943, early 1944, my grandfather John, an easy-going Lancastrian colliery worker and his less than easy-going wife Florence endured untold agonies as each of their three sons became victims of a war that changed their lives forever. As described in that post, Albert nearly freezing to death in the mid-upper turret of his Halifax, his brother Fred missing in action in Italy (dead as it turned out; how or precisely where we will never know, but his name is on the Memorial at Monte Cassino, the scene of a savage action). And my father, Jack, horribly wounded during the equally brutal Salerno landings and, like Albert, hospitalised.
The ironic thing is, that each of them died in February; Fred in ‘44, my father in ‘91 and now Albert. What’s this got to do with film? Absolutely nothing (or maybe everything, I don’t know). But I felt I should mark the passing, on my fathers side of the family at least, of a generation of true heroes, and - for those that survived - heroes both during the conflict and thereafter.
Heroes for - knowing that they had seen things which I can’t (don’t want to) imagine, that they had borne pain beyond endurance - having the strength to carry on. For all these these ordinary, extraordinary family men, my admiration is limitless.
Goodnight and God bless.
2006 And All That… December 28, 2006
Posted by John Hodson in : General, Film & DVD Reviews , add a commentWhat a really strange year. There have been so many fine releases of classic films on DVD during 2006 that only some crook-backed misanthrope would complain. Well, I’m not crook-backed, but…
It has been postulated elsewhere that 2005 was the year DVD hit the profitability ceiling, and that after what was a truly great 12 months for film fans, that 2006 was always going to be a ‘top that if you can’ kind of year. 2005 - a tough act to follow indeed.
That’s probably true, but chez ‘aitch, that was only part of the bigger picture. Around the turn of last year, we decorated. No biggie there, but it did mean that my entire DVD collection had to be boxed and stored for a while, and in doing so, I was slapped right in the kisser by that huge, slippery wet codfish also known as reality. Several truisms became crystal clear, coalescing right before my disbelieving eyes; my collection was quite simply out of control. My spending was beginning to rival the GDP of a small South American dictatorship, that I was buying too many films because I felt I should own them and not because I really wanted them. And, worse, as Mrs H was none too shy at pointing out on many an occasion, we were running quickly out of space.
Something had to be done. So I worked the ‘one out, one in’ principle for a while, selling off titles that I felt I would no longer watch, that were dupes, that were inferior transfers or that would simply make money because something else would inevitably come. Worked well too and was quite satisfying. I was buying films that I felt I really wanted, and I was making a little dough from others that were only gathering dust. I haven’t, sadly, reclaimed too much shelf space, but at least we haven’t had to move house to accommodate my DVD collection. Which would have been a little, ah, well…nuts.
I strongly suspect that 2006 was the year many a film collector woke up and smelt the celluloid, DVD wise. Only a hunch, but I get the feeling that my experience, or something resembling it, has been replicated in many a consumer household and that for various reasons those of us that gathered little shiny discs like they were going out of fashion, suddenly hit the brake.
I think we’ve also been helped in that respect by the major studios and distributors. 2006 appears to be the year that many of them simply upped and switched direction. Paramount, never the most prolific, had quite a decent 2005 - the Batjac releases a case in point (the last of which were postponed from 2005 until this year) - but 2006 was the year they could care less about releasing classic back catalogue movies from their vaulted little prisons. Still, they managed Reds, The Conformist and Oh! What a Lovely War, so it’s not all bad news.
Fox on the other hand seemed to realise that there was not enough profit in their own back catalogue, and that in particular their ‘Studio Classics’ line was not cutting the mustard when it comes to the corporate balance sheet. So, they brought in the higher price point ‘Cinema Classics’ line and chucked into the mix a number of dusted off and made over previous releases.
Their box sets - laudible though the titles and stars chosen were - were considered to be a little beyond the pale; placed against some of the offerings from Universal and Warners, Fox raised the bar price-wise and for many, it was just a little too much. Odd when you think of the prices many of us were paying at the turn of the century for DVDs; the price we paid then for a single disc is now considered much too much for a box set of three or four movies. Market forces indeed.
Which brings me neatly to Warners. Unchallenged at the top of the tree for several years now when it comes to that balance of quality and price, but I get the impression that even their accountants are beginning to squeal a little. Gone, in most cases, are the handsome gatefold digipacks, gone too are the inserts, the printed chapter listings and so forth. And gone too is an impeccable quality control with Warners dropping the ball on several occasions and making some quite silly, irritating, mistakes. There is no doubt that when it comes to classic releases, Warners are still the kings; maybe, just maybe, it is the sheer quantity of their output that is affecting quality? That may be considered a tough assessment when for every The Naked Spur you’ve got an impeccable The Maltese Falcon, that for every On Dangerous Ground, you’ve got a Grand Prix. Which is why Warners still get my vote for Region 1 supplier of the year.
We’ve tended to take Warners for granted, that they’ll hit the spot every single time. And, don’t forget, for a fraction of the profit that they made on similar releases five or six years ago. Tough, tough competitive game. When you’re a big name on the top of the DVD mountain, it seems you make an easier target to hit.
I suppose the same can be said of Criterion. Criterion has after all, set itself up as the byword for DVD quality. We still call them expensive, but that’s only in relation to the rest of the market. When they produce work of the quality of their latest The Seven Samurai iteration, managing to secure a copy for circa £20 seems to me to be a bargain in the great scheme of things. They have turned out some excellent stuff this year, from Young Mr Lincoln to Kind Hearts and Coronets, A Canterbury Tale and the aforementioned Kurosawa, only blotting their copybook by continuing to window box Academy ratio transfers, but for the most part, Criterion does indeed equate with quality. My Region 1 suppliers runners-up.
Universal meanwhile, plods on, generally suprising us with the quality of their transfers, causing few eyebrows to be raised by supplying few if any extras (this has mostly been their style for some time). It’s slow progress, but at least it’s progress inasmuch as the transfer appears to be king, and for that reason they get the Region 1 suppliers third place spot.
Sony, well, what can I say? How can a company that can produced such beautiful package as The Cary Grant Box Set or The Frank Capra Collection be so generally awful otherwise? Hopes that they would come up with the goods at least with their MGM catalogue were raised when the marketing of same was handed to Fox, but thus far, all that appears to have happened there is a number of bland re-releases. For shame; Sony, of all the big names, is without doubt the worst Region 1 supplier.
In the UK, the Region 2 suppliers among the big name studios are generally worse than their Region 1 counterparts, certainly when it comes to classics. Only Universal is exempt; ironically, while others get black marks for releasing titles in R2 that have fewer extras than in R1, Universal can’t do any less than ‘none’, so all we can go off is the quantity and quality of their transfers - which are pretty good.
In the UK, the big name player is Granada Ventures which holds the rights to 100s of great - and not so great - British films. For 2006, Granada made the decision to release fewer titles itself, licensing them out itself to other companies - Network & DD Home Entertainment - and doing deals for joint box sets with themselves and Optimum, which itself was transformed from a minor to a major player the instant it was taken over by the giant French company Studio Canal.
Unlike their American counterparts, companies like Network and DDHE, have generally eschewed boxed sets, and their output has been, in terms of quality, highly variable. But there is no doubt that they have both upped their game; witness Network’s fabulous release of Odd Man Out. Whether they can go a step further, however, is questionable. Optimum, meanwhile, has been on something of a binge, issuing titles and re-issuing others that only went out of print a few months previously when the Warners / Studio Canal deal lapsed. Again, quality has been variable; some downright dreadful, others - like their The Third Man - beautiful.
The sometimes esoteric Masters of Cinema range from Eureka has rightly earned the British outfit comparisons with Criterion and quite rightly so. Eureka continues to turn out quality discs, and even if you can’t always appreciate the content, you can’t fail to recognise that they are striving for top quality with every single release. My Favourite? The Prisoner of Shark Island…
Eureka then has earned the title of UK Region 2 supplier of the year, with Network and Optimum coming a close joint second for the huge strides they’ve made. Universal must take third spot, and it’s quite satisfying in some perverse way to see releases like the forthcoming Douglas Sirk box ruffling a few feathers among the insular ’why can’t we have that?’ multi-regionless DVD fans over the Pond. They must remember that the real shame for us over here is that when it comes to most of the big studios, R2 has to be content with the scraps from R1’s table.
And so, in no particular order…
My Top Three Classic DVD Releases of 2006 - Region 1
The John Wayne / John Ford Collection & The John Ford Collection: Released the same month, I cannot split these superb boxed collections containing 13 films by arguably America’s foremost director of the 20th century. There was some controversy over Warner’s restoration of the The Searchers with some complaining (and Warner admitting) it lacked the vibrant Technicolor shades, unique to VistaVision, of original prints. The row threatened to knock the gilt off this golden box set, but for my part, the latest transfer was streets ahead of previous releases on home video. Presented for the first time in its full width, this magnificent film overcame any shortcomings in the transfer and remains truly breathtaking.
The Gary Cooper Signature Collection: Bravo Warners; an excellent collection, some of the films marvellous, some less so, but all celebrating the fact that ‘Coop’ was a major star, and a damn fine actor.
Mr Arkadin: I can’t imagine any other company other than Criterion coming up with such a comprehensive package. Utterly wonderful; and the film’s not bad either…
Highly Commended
The Sam Peckinpah Legendary Westerns Collection: To have these films collected together at what was then a bargain price (and moreso now), seemed more than enough back in January, and it’s possibly churlish to gripe over the mostly frothy extras. I can even overlook the monstrous travesty that is the new cut of ‘Garrett’ (what were you thinking of Warner?); after all, I have Peckinpah’s cut, even if it appears to have been chucked in to the set like some overlooked orphan. Artististic appreciation is subjective I know, but I don’t think, in this case, it was wise to try and second guess one of the great cinematic geniuses.
The Cary Grant Box Set: Sony hasn’t done much worth a damn, and this could so easily have been a bunch of previous titles warmed over and tossed out on to the market. Not so. In terms of presentation, this is a quite beautiful set with mostly excellent new transfers, nice extras, and all at a very nice price indeed.
Young Mr Lincoln: Criterion’s pristine transfer of Ford’s homage to the ‘young jake-legged lawyer’ and President to be, complete with some excellent extra features, not least the excellent Parkinson interview licensed from the BBC plus one half of the Lindsay Anderson narrated BBC documentary on Ford. I can’t wait for part two…in fact I can’t wait to see the title that accompanies it (whatever that may be…)
My Top Three Classic DVD Releases of 2006 - Region 2
The Ipcress File: Network kicked off the New Year with this ’special edition’ also available with Len Deighton’s novel and the movie soundtrack in a nicely designed box. It was this kind of presentation that raised hopes that we would be getting something similar at least once a month. Alas…
Buster Keaton - College / Steamboat Bill Jr. / Three Ages: A quite wonderful set from Cinema Club and French outfit Mk2; beautiful transfers and sparse but informative extras.
Odd Man Out: Another winner courtesy of Network from the Granada vaults. Granada had been boasting of their restorations of a number of British films, but nothing could prepare me for the tear-jerking beauty of Carol Reed’s masterpiece. It is quite stunning.
Highly Commended
Adam Adamant Lives!: A superb set from 2 Entertain, with mostly fine quality transfers of what remains of both wonderfully entertaining series, excellent extras and quite possibly the best researched and most informative booklet included with any DVD presentation.
The Prisoner of Shark Island: Beautiful transfer, excellent, authoritative extras, a John Ford film. What more do you want?
High Noon SE: Cheating here because this is a Paramount Dutch release, but cheat I must. I’ve stated before that this possibly the best restoration and transfer of any black and white film of 2006, or maybe any other year. Superb.
I’m terrible at lists. No doubt in several hours I will have changed my mind on several of the above selections, and wonder why I didn’t choose ‘x’ or ‘y’. Yes, there are many, many other releases that could have - probably should have - maybe made either of those lists; The Seven Samurai (I haven’t waded though all the extras, so I thought it would be cheating to include it), any of the the Bette Davis Collection, the Clark Gable and James Stewart sets, the Humphrey Bogart Signature Collection 2 (what kind of numpty could miss the three-disc The Maltese Falcon off any list like this?), the Paul Newman and Brando sets, Forbidden Planet 50th AE, the Busby Berkeley Collection, the Astaire Rogers Ultimate Collectors Box Set (I already owned set one, and bought the exclusive partial set from Amazon.com - fabulous, just fabulous) excellent The Quiller Memorandum from Network, and the Jack Rosenthal set again from Network, The Innocents from the BFI, any of the value for money Universal ‘Glamour Collections’, or any of the releases of films from more recent years, the tremendous Brokeback Mountain for one, on and on…
On and on into 2007 in fact; let’s hope it’s a classic…
My Money Saving Plan; Spend, Spend, Spend… November 16, 2006
Posted by John Hodson in : General, DVD e-tailers, DVD News & Info , add a commentMy brand spanking new policy of trying to avoid buying too many films that will appear at a later date - at a fraction of the price - in box sets, and which I discussed in this post, has coincided with the 20% off sale at Deepdiscountdvd.com, where, having been careful with the pennies of late in anticipation, I’ve had a bit of a splurge.
As outlined on my ‘Bought & Watched’ page, I’ve been suckered into buying - beg pardon - used my newly acquired financial acumen to purchase The Paul Newman Collection, The Gary Cooper Signature Collection, and The Marlon Brando Collection in DDD’s sale for the simple reason that the 20% off offer brought all three sets (not including p&p obviously, which does not come into the equation for customs until you exceed the limit) under the £18 ‘VAT-free’ customs ceiling (£18? Gordon Brown - and prudence - are having a larf!)
Thus I’ll be avoiding a further £7-£8 per parcel bill, £4 of which is the Royal Mail’s outrageous, painful - just plain criminal - ’handling’ charge. I mean, they pop a card through my door and I have to drive five miles to their depot for the pleasure of queuing, handing over their ransom and then collecting the damned things myself. And the chap on the other side of the counter isn’t even wearing a mask (though he may be riding Black Bess for all I know…) Handling fee - pshaw!
It also means I hopefully won’t have to put up with a delay of anything up to a fortnight while the civil servants at Mount (Un)Pleasant stick my parcels in a corner (as they get their abacus out), before they pass them on to the posties, who stick ’em in another corner and stare at them. For days. Well, just because they can, I reckon.
I also took the opportunity to nab the Warner Legends of Horror Collection, tagging on Paramount’s Oh! What a Lovely War to the same order, the two coming to well under the customs limit. I’d been mulling over getting Universal’s Cary Grant Screen Legends Collection, but I finally caved and, again - so I had a cost efficient customs beating parcel - added Charley Varrick and another bargain (I’m really quite good at convincing myself I’m somehow saving money am I not?), the almost Criterion worthy release from the former sub-Criterion label Home Vision, of the quirky British film, The Rocking Horse Winner.
I’d railed against Universal’s piss-poor release of Siegel’s excellent crime flick (or is it a chase? Or a caper? Well, maybe not quite a caper…); they just tossed it out onto the market like some love starved orphan (the swine) open-matte, no menu, no chapter stops to be seen, no extras (obviously). No passion, sometimes Universal.
At least it is open-matte, and since it was released, I’ve acquired the combination of an Oppo DVD player and Toshiba LCD screen which means that, much to my astonishment, even half-decent transfers scale up quite nicely - so I should be able to watch the film in decent OAR. Well, here’s hoping, and it does come in at under $5. So if I have to turn it into a coaster (or a cat scarer, or a frisbee), there’s not too much damage done.
Oh, and I chucked in the Criterion The Fallen Idol from CDWow simply because I had a soon to expire £2 voucher. More money, er, invested (Mrs H’s word - the madness is catching)! Fiscal genius, I tells ya!
All that money I’ve saved. By spending it. Brilliant. (Ah, isn’t it…?)
Meanwhile, the DDD 20% off sale ends November 23 (it should have been Nov. 18, but it’s been extended. Sadists), which can’t come soon enough for us ’savers’ and card holding members of DVD’s Anonymous. The bad news is that there will most likely be another Spring / Summer ‘07; if I keep saving money at this rate, I’ll soon be bankrupt.
By the way, those of you who love their classic films, and love them even better in a sale or on special offer, could do worse than visit The Classic Cinema & DVD Forum Bargain Thread for up to date offers on classic films. If, however, like me, you’re saving money, then please stay well clear…it’s bad for your wealth.
The Incredible Shrinking Robby November 9, 2006
Posted by John Hodson in : General, DVD News & Info , add a commentRemember when you were a small child and everything looked so big?
Everything that mattered at least; the telly, toys, food, bed, your first primary teacher’s breasts (precocious child, I). Wasn’t hard to empathise with Grant Williams in The Incredible Shrinking Man who had to put up with baggy clothes (hand me downs from my older brother), gigantic scraps of food (I swear the local chippy deep fried cod two-foot long) and huge, scary arachnids (they’ve always looked huge to me; me and Woody Allen, who once famously dealt with a spider ‘the size of a Buick’).
But toys; when you’re seven or eight, those little wind up things look, thanks to a childs almost limitless capacity to create worlds within worlds (cardboard boxes becoming anything from a three masted man ‘o war, to Supercar, a Tardis, or an arrow punctured stagecoach), as gi-normous as the real thing. Or in the case of Robby The Robot, the real, imaginary thing.
As I described in Monsters, John! Monsters from the id!, my childhood model of Robby was so damned cool, though it stood probably no higher than eight, maybe nine inches (20 - 25 centimeters for those confused by Imperial measure). In my head it was an unstoppable, mechanical hero or villain (depending on the scenario), spitting fire from it’s tiny clockwork head, falling over when it hit anything larger than a tinned bean (or the back of mum’s hand - ‘get that thing off the table!’)
So, my Forbidden Planet Ultimate Collectors Edition arrived today. It’s a humongous tin which, in itself (size being everything), is exciting. In transit (to the suppliers I suspect, the package being unmarked), it’s taken a couple of whacks, nothing serious. I claw, somewhat frantically, at the plastic cover, whip open the tin’s hinged lid, and…blow me, what’s that?
I feel like the kid on Christmas Day who wakes after dreams of sacks full of goodies, hand delivered by Santa himself…only to find that it’s still barely November (and, besides, Christmas is cancelled this year). Yup, there’s the Forbidden Planet digipak 2-disc set, complete with a sleeve of nicely produced lobby card reproductions, and underneath is Robby.
Barely three inches tall, like a pea on a drum. Shrunken in stature a la Fantastic Voyage. Tiny. Not big. Small.
Look, I’m 50-years-old and I can’t even wind the damn thing up and play with it? It’s not a wind-up toy, dummy, it’s a faithful reproduction of the actual Robby, scrupulously detailed….aw, screw that. I wanted to wind him, watch him go, spit phony mechanical sparks and tell me that there is ‘danger! Danger…!’ No danger of that. He’s about the size of your average (economy) fish finger, and about as threatening.
Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger (bugger). So, here I am, running out of shelf space, buying an Ultimate Collectors Edition the size of a medium sized roasting tin (and far less useful), for almost triple the cost of buying the two-disc set itself, which, when it comes down to it, is all I’m interested in. I am a marketing man’s dream.
Come on, the voice of reason (or justification) whispers softly in my head, you’ve got yourself a collectible tin, a finely crafted homage to a Hollywood legend (‘not a toy’ should be printed on there in 72-point bold), a desirable piece of…no, won’t wash. I repeat, all I’m interested in is the 2-disc set. Well, that and turning back time.
Your youth. When it’s gone, it’s gone. You can’t even buy it back, it seems…
My Brain Hurts… November 8, 2006
Posted by John Hodson in : General , add a commentEver had one of those days? I mean, one of those days when your brain just simply lets you down.
Oh, I can walk and talk, so the motor functions are a-okay; I know my name, address and telephone number (on reflection, that last one’s a toughie though; after all, I’ve only had it 17 years), so another day without dementia, but, well, the little things just go butter side down.
First up; I read DVD Savant’s nicely rendered review of The Fallen Idol. I hop on over to the Criterion website and read: “The Fallen Idol was the first of three masterpieces to result from the legendary meeting of director Carol Reed and writer Graham Greene, who together would also create The Third Man and Our Man in Havana.”
Okay. So I do two things - I fire off an email to Glenn Erickson to congratulate him on his review (it was a good review, deserved a pat on the back, it’s the least us watchers from the sidelines can do), then I tell him of my fervent wish that Criterion would release Reed and Greene’s Brighton Rock. I then go back to Criterion and snippily tell John Mulvaney, with the greatest hauteur I can manage, that they musn’t think much of Brighton Rock in view of their comments in the notes on The Fallen Idol and would they pul-lease consider it for release. Y’know. John Boulting’s Brighton Rock. And not the one by Carol Reed. Which he didn’t do (as you well know). Ouch.
With deepening horror I realise my schoolboy error. Which Glenn points out me as gently as he can in a return email, because I am either (a) a mental defective and must be kept at arms length or (b) …well, to be honest, there is no other possible explanation, so we scrap (b). Criterion don’t answer. I assume that even now the mythic Mulvaney is applying for a restraining order.
I knew that, honestly, I bloody well knew that. I can flap my arms and repeat that a zillion times, but it still doesn’t stop teenage film students (the lowest form of life) from pointing at me, guffawing and slapping me with rolled up copies of Sight & Sound. Look guys, I bleat, it’s just that I’m on one of those days when my brain is on a work to rule; it’s a ‘lower brain functions’ only day. One of those, ‘let’s just keep this sucker alive and no more’ days.
Mid-way through the afternoon, I post at the DVD Forums about the 2-disc Network version of the R2 Black Narcissus. A gorgeous, gorgeous disc, as in singular, because there is no second disc. It hits me like a bolt of lightening several hours later, and I have a track down a similar post I’d made on a different forum a few days ago. In fact, I can’t remember which bloody forum, only that I’d made one. Phew, made it, edited both posts, and no-one pulled me up. My secret is safe.
I have the damned Network Black Narcissus, I know it’s a single disc. I can count (all the way up to two on this evidence). Only my brain doesn’t. Not today.
I have form for this kind of thing. There are loads of crass errors I could point to, but for some reason, I recall two particularly clearly. I once mixed up which scenes were in colour and which were monochrome in Lindsay Anderson’s If…, even though I was pontificating about it as if I was some sort college lecturer (it’s not so bad; I’m pushed now to recall. But, hey, I was nurturing a reputation here…), and I remember typing some rubbish in some film forums thread (about silent films), about Fritz Lang’s M. Easy mistake to mix up silent movies with subtitled ones isn’t it? Especially when your brain goes on an away day to Inverness without you.
It’s hard work trying to cultivate an on-line persona as some sort of bleedin’ cinematic know all, when you, it is apparent, can’t tell your Boultings from your Reeds. Years of hard work trying to convince people you’ve never met (and who could care less) that you actually know something, to establish a cyberspatial rapport, undone in a few key strokes.
Not my fault. My brain wasn’t plugged in today…but shush! Let’s just keep it between ourselves.
Bond-age November 5, 2006
Posted by John Hodson in : General, Film General , 1 comment so farStraight off the bat; I’m not a fan, per se, of James Bond on film.
I will declare, however, that I am a fan of Fleming’s novels, which boasted a titillating cocktail of ’sex, sadism and snobbery’ that appealed hugely to this teenage reader back in the day (and a special mention too, for Colonel Sun, so well written by Kingsley Amis that it was hard to see where Fleming ended and Robert Markham began. I still have the first edition.)
And when I say I’m not a fan of Bond on film, I mean every Bond. You see, I’m a Sean Connery man (a ‘Sir’ Sean Connery man…), an admiration cultivated in an even younger incarnation of myself. I grew up with the iconic images and sounds; Ursula Andress emerging from the sea, Bond shooting down the helicopter, John Barry’s familiar themes (’million dollar Mickey Mouse music’ he called it), the rotund Auric Goldfinger being sucked through an unfeasibly small aeroplane window into the upper atmosphere, all pressed the buttons of boys of all ages, everywhere. But for different reasons.
I remember fingering the pages of my Auntie Nora’s Great Universal Stores catalogue and staring lasciviously at the Dayglo orange wet-suit and spear-gun accessory that was the Thunderball outfit, little pieces of plastic that could miraculously turn your workaday Action Man into 007 (just ignore the crew cut and the scar. He didn’t need a penis by the way. That came later when my cousin bought Sindy. Hmmm…). If only mum could afford it. No, not even over 16 weeks. Actually, as I couldn’t even afford an Action Man at the time, the point was moot, but you see where I’m going - Bond, was - is - a fantastic character, a gigantic money making machine, that appeals to a huge demographic; young (oddly, young children fer cripes sake), old, rich, poor, males and females across the continents.
As a child, I couldn’t see quite where they were going with a name like ‘Pussy Galore’, all I knew was that ‘Oddjob’, that fiendish, mute, oriental master of the martial arts, died in a shower of special effect sparks - cor! By the time I got to ‘Plenty O’Toole’, I knew exactly where they were going, because I was headed in similar directions. Well, not so much the sadism and snobbery (though there’s an element of both in all of us), but sex. Oh, yes please. Commander Bond was well and truly on top with lines of submissive girls to bed, bad girls to turn ‘good’, lesbians to be made ‘normal’, and, in Bond world, STDs had not even been invented. Which teenager, hormones zooming around his system, would not want to be in his tuxedo? For decades, Americans had had the celebate super hero that was Superman, we Brits got James Bond. No contest.
Alas, Sean’s sad abdication of the role and George ‘Big Fry’ Lazenby’s roasting at the hands of News of The World hacks meant that my love affair with the screen Bond was near its end too, though oddly, OHMSS is one of my favourite Bonds today. OHMSS, by the way, not only contrived to defy expectations, it also followed the novel quite closely (Fleming, ironically, by this time writing with Sean’s Bond firmly in his mind). The spark was rekindled when Mr Connery did his bit for charity (and wig makers everywhere) and came back for Diamonds are Forever, but it was the Greatest Living Eyebrow who more or less did for me and Mr Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang.
I mean, fer Gawd’s sake, what was Ivanhoe, what was The Saint, doing impersonating James Bond? It was on an Away Weekend to London that I saw Live and Let Die. I was 17 years old, with two chums equally determined to paint the capital red. Sadly we were given the bad news that our hotel had been overbooked, but at no extra charge, they slapped us into the Piccadilly Hotel. So, three teenagers, pitch up at this five star monolith, just off Trafalgar Square. We arrive as the top hatted doorman is ushering an Arab gentlemen in flowing robes through the door; he doesn’t bat an eye as three likely Lancashire lads slide out of their black cab complete with duffel bags and silly grins.
I’d never stayed in a ‘hotel’ before; the occasional guest house, but never a ‘hotel’. Were they all like this? Did they all have ‘Press Rooms’ (where we were too young to drink), restaurants (where we were too poor to eat), maids in black uniforms and frilly aprons (I kid you not), and plumbing that dated back to old King George? Was being woken by the Horse Guards trotting past outside de rigeur for a London stay? I know visiting Soho was, as was giggling as we bought porn magazines that promised much in their expensive vacuum packing, but delivered little (black spots printed over the naughty bits, Bah! We’d been ripped off. Well, I never…)
We queued for Live and Let Die at Leicester Square and, while waiting, were each offered a ‘good time’ by an over made-up good time girl in a skirt that was much too short for the time of year. No vest, the hussy (and, puzzlingly, a five o’clock shadow evident above her Adam’s Apple…)
What the hell? (No, not the prostitute - I owned a copy of The Kinks Lola after all). Roger Moore; I’m sorry, but James Bond you are not. Dismal - he even raised an eyebrow when he said ‘Bond - James Bond’. Bugger off. Useless porn, transvestite prostitutes, and Roger Moore. That London - a huge disappointment in almost every way.
A few years ago Mark Cousins asked the question of Connery during a BBC ‘Scene By Scene’; just what did he think of Bond post his tenure? The answer was succinct and, to my mind, perfectly correct: “Not quite hard enough, not quite dirty enough.”
Now read that again doing your best ‘Seany-Sean-Sean’ impersonation. Come on, the one you bore everyone to death with every Christmas when they show a Bond film on ITV: “Not quite haarrrd enuff, not quite durrrty enuff”. Better. And you can see the point can’t you?
Connery’s Bond was a steel hard ex-Navy Commander, licensed to kill. He could, with Her Majesty’s sanction, take it on his own initiative to snuff out the opposition through any means he felt necessary, with whatever weapon he had at his disposal; knife, bomb, garrot, Walther PPK, his bare hands. Up close and personal; strip away the girls, the gadgets, the jokes, the martinis, the dress suits, the globe trotting, the fast cars, the superannuated cartoon villains. What we have is a man who is perfectly willing and able to face you down, extinguish your life, quietly and quickly (but not painlessly) and then have enough strength of character not only to justify it in the name of duty, but, after washing away the blood, to sit down and enjoy a good dinner. Rights and wrongs don’t come into it.
And you could believe that of Connery’s Bond, those cold, cold executioner’s eyes, those whipcord muscles, the straightening of the tie before the bad guy even hits the ground. Hard enough. Dirty enough. All of it, I think, captured in that breathless, sweaty, bone-crunching fight scene with Robert Shaw’s equally frosty killing machine in From Russia With Love. It even hurts just to watch it; wonderfully written, directed, acted and, above all, edited. A fight in a train compartment; simple is best.
I accept totally the argument that I grew up with Connery’s interpretation, so, culturally, he’s bound to be ‘my’ Bond, but nothing will change my view that Sean is Bond, Bond is Sean. And down through the years the fights became bigger, the stunts became more daring, the bad guys more colourful. But as we moved on from Sean, to Roger, to Tim and Pierce, Bond became as predictable as the average episode of The Incredible Hulk (you know; sad start, Hulk change, lots of nothing (more nothing), Hulk change. Sad end).
So after the debacle that was Sir Rog, I’ve largely stayed away from Bond in the cinema, except when Timothy Dalton briefly intervened; the buzz seemed to have gone and, besides, real life inconviently barged in, curtailing regular cinema visits. Even on the smaller screen, I just couldn’t believe Brosnan, and it all seemed so bloody forced and contrived (and yes, I know it is ‘contrived’ or it wouldn’t be a film, but you know what I mean.)
But like Bond, I’ll be back to see Daniel Craig; tick the boxes - hard enough? Looks like he could be. Dirty enough? Again, the signs are good. And simple, a stripped back, licensed to kill secret agent for this, the 21st century, or indeed, any century, a truly timeless character? Just might be, though not everyone seems convinced.
23 years ago, after saying I’d finished Bond watching, Never Say Never Again took me back to the cinema for a film that I actually quite enjoyed. It wasn’t top drawer, but Sean was really quite close to the right age for Fleming’s Bond, though, at the very least, it missed the music (which is vitally important to Bond don’t you think?) and much of the verve. But Alec McCowen’s ‘Q’ had a great line: “Good to see you Mr. Bond. Things have been awfully dull around here. I hope we’re going to see some gratuitous sex and violence.”
I hope so too. Altogether now: #Da-da, di-da, da-da-daaaa, daaaaiiiahhh da-da-dahhhhhh (da-dada-di-dadaaaa!)#
Nigel Kneale; 1922 - 2006 October 31, 2006
Posted by John Hodson in : Television, General, Film General , add a commentOne of the most perceptive and imaginative writers of science fiction, for the movies, but chiefly for British television, Nigel ‘Tom’ Kneale has died, aged 84.
Kneale’s contribution to a genre that encompasses both the ridiculous, but in his case, nearly always the sublime, is almost incalculable. He influenced whole generations of film makers, not just in this country, but round the world with his unique blend of science fiction, science fact, horror and prescience that matched the lauded H.G. Wells in its scope, it’s fierce intelligence and mind-boggling creativity.
I’ll point you first at HammerWeb, who appear to be among the first to have picked up the news with their Tribute to Nigel Kneale:
‘Hammer’s decision to make The Quatermass Xperiment was probably the most important the company would ever make. Director Val Guest cut the script down from a three hour epic to a taught [sic] 80 minute chiller, pitting Brian Donlevy’s Quatermass against the creeping unknown that comes to earth in the space rocket. The company’s first X picture proved a runaway success and would cause Hammer to look towards further macabre projects kickstarting the gothic horror cycle with The Curse of Frankenstein…’
But for anyone not too familiar with his work, a quick glance at IMDB and his Wiki entry shows that Kneale was much more than that. I have a vivid memory of quaking with fear at the creepy, atmospheric The Abominable Snowman as a child, yet at the same time, being captivated by what was so much more than a mere creature feature. On top of his three famous Quatermass films and TV series (even the fourth has much to merit it), his TV plays The Year of The Sex Olympics (which set Mary Whitehouse a twitter; I suspect the title was enough) and The Stone Tape still have a startling profundity (in the case of the former) and the power to make the skin crawl (in the case of the latter).
I’ve been thinking much about the man recently (see Something Wicked This Way Comes), it is, after all, that time of year. At his best, Kneale had the ability to chill the viewer to the very marrow.
Just last year, the BBC broadcast a ‘live’ version of his original The Quatermass Experiment script; though I love the Hammer film dearly, there is no slightly tacky macro shot of a doomed cephalopod here, no publicity drive to make the most of that ’X’ certificate - his original vision was, I thought, beautifully captured. Class is timeless.
God bless him; we’ll never see the like again.
A Day In The Life of An Obsessive / Compulsive… October 26, 2006
Posted by John Hodson in : General, DVD News & Info , 5 commentsThis is madness.
Work is piled high on my desk, I have a million and one tasks facing me, each one a challenge for any highly skilled individual (y’know; breathe in - breathe out - breathe in - breathe…), places to go, people to see. And what’s been preoccupying my day?
My Humphrey Bogart Signature Collection 2 arrived this morning. And there is no slipcase wrapped around The Maltese Falcon three-disc SE. That’s it. Nothing earth shaking, nothing exciting, nothing to get het up about. Nothing.
Not even anything that affects the content of this fantastic box set. Except there is no slipcase wrapped around The Maltese Falcon.
Now look, I’m a fairly rational guy (well, fairly), I know what matters in this crazy world and what doesn’t amount to a hill o’beans. But - God help me - there is no slipcase.
I stare at the box, hoping that one will materialise out of the ether. I slap myself around the chops (I do, I actually slap myself. I’ll take it and like it…), telling the inner me to pull himself together. But look - I just want this to be perfect. This most entertaining, thrilling, brilliant of film classics has been reborn as an all new Special Edition, digitally spruced up, beautiful - I mean goddamned gorgeous - with a host of extras. But it’s emerged into my world blemished. There. Is. No. Slipcase.
The box sits there and drools at me. The slimcases inside beg for an extra couple of millimetres so that they can stand proud and erect. But (have I mentioned this before?) there is no slipcase around The Maltese Falcon, so they slump, sadly, together, like lifers in the Big House. Especially the two slimcases that form the ‘Falcon’ set, as if they’re both frightened of bending for the soap. With no slipcase to protect them. The box itself resembles an inverse Kasper Gutman, the sides sucking themselves in to take up the slack of the space within. It wilts. It won’t stand upright.
There is no slipcase, y’see?
The box lies. It does you know. Pictures on the box show the artwork from the slipcase (the one that has apparently joined the choir eternal), just to show me exactly what I’m missing. ‘This is what you could have had’ it yells‘ if only either (a) you’d have bought the The Maltese Falcon individually or (b) Warners had got their FUCKING ACT TOGETHER!’
Calm down now. It’s only a slipcase. The slipcase that is not there. Missing. Not included. Not actually in my possession. Omitted. Not present (or correct). Unaccounted for. Stood on a shelf in Burbank next to the big sign that reads ‘For the Humphrey Bogart box sets - Do Not Forget!’ I’m not the only one. Do I take comfort in that? Not for one second. I want my slipcase. My slipcase.
I email my etailer - Movietyme - and they basically tell me that, okay, but-this-is-how-they-came-to-us-and-it’s-not-our-fault-and-please-don’t-bother-us-again. So there. I wince, but I know who to blame. How could you Jack Warner (or is it Ted Turner. I forget)? But then I remember Jack Warner. A total penny-pinching bastard. And dead. I’m screwed (slipcase wise). I feel like such a sucker. Like Miles, I too would have followed that dame down the alley. Gat in pocket. Overcoat buttoned. Without a slipcase.
So I sit here. Not working, not going places or seeing anyone, my brain beginning to itch. Not watching the damned films in the damned Humphrey Bogart Signature Collection 2. Thinking about something that isn’t here and how to get it. No, not the black bird.
The slipcase.
Madness…
Adventures In The Screen Trade… August 31, 2006
Posted by John Hodson in : General, Film General , 2 commentsThe death of Glenn Ford - briefly, one of Hollywood’s brightest shining stars, and who famously, William Goldman tells us, Paul Newman didn’t want to be - brings to mind the brushes I had with a couple of my Tinsel Town heroes as a bright eyed and bushy tailed junior on one ‘those’ small town local rags in South Lancashire.
You know the type I mean; headlines such as ‘Man Trips Over Kerb’, ‘Town Empties for Wakes Week’ or ‘Mayoral Chain - The Big Debate’. In the case of Glenn Ford it was ‘Hollywood Star Comes to Horwich’; for the Canadian born Ford’s family hailed from that sleepy little town between Bolton and Chorley. And in the late ’70s, his visit was big news.
Ford was no longer a big star by then of course, but for the Horwich & Westhoughton Journal it just pipped ‘Councillor Warns of Pond Danger’ as the lead story. And he had, relatively recently, taken the role of Pa Kent in Superman that had sparked many a fan to remark: ‘Good grief, is he still going?’ Unfortunately, Mr Ford proved to be the shy retiring type; he flew in, he flew out again, and we had to rely on such second hand quotes as: ‘He’s a lovely man; no edge to him’ (’edge’ being considered the reserve of the ‘posh’). ‘Took three sugars in his tea and in a chipped mug. No complaints.’ Well, it seemed like that. ‘Superman’s Dad; Lovely Man’ might even have been the following edition’s headline.
And I never did get to meet him to tell him I thought he was smashing in The Big Heat…
The second (not very) close encounter, albeit post-mortem, occurred when Robert Shaw died of a heart attack at the end of August in 1978. The son of old Doctor Tom Shaw, the future star of A Man for All Seasons and Jaws had been born in Westhoughton where his father was a G.P., and something of a local character.
Doctor Tom, in the best tradition of the Irish stock character, was renowned for his fondness for taking the occasional nip. Fortunately, as he made his rounds in a buggy, the horse was well-used to his master being, shall we say, asleep at the wheel, and would often return him home, sat bolt upright on the narrow sprung seat, bowler at a jaunty angle, snoring loudly.
The mere mention of his name brought a smile to many a lip decades after the Shaw family upped and left the little Lancashire town, and when young Robert, (who would only have been a very small child when he departed), made it big, ‘Howfen’ (as it was known in local ‘Lanky’ dialect) claimed him as one of its own. Which is why, next to the column reviewing the Sacred Heart Dramatic Society’s latest farce (the farce was usually a drama, by the way), or the Anderton Choral Group’s musical hit (hmmm; their Sound of Music was particularly, ah, memorable), there would often be a couple of paragraphs on ‘Westhoughton Man in TV hit’ or ‘Next Stop Hollywood for Shaw!’
So, Robert dies. He’s front page news right around the world; so why should we be any different? The editor gets it into his head that for some unaccountable reason, his family is going to have the remains shipped over from his beloved Ireland to have him buried in his birthplace. I have to stake out the local cemetery. Seriously.
I first nip over to the Presbytery and quiz the priest, an amiable middle-aged Irishman (there are the usual rumours surrounding his relationship with his housekeeper; he’s wary of any approach by Her Majesty’s Press). I ask the question, and, head peeping round the narrowest door gap, he responds: ‘Good God no!’ He laughs nervously, shoots me a shy, ’see-I’ve-nothing-to-hide’ smile, then adds, fatally, ‘…at least, I haven’t been informed.’ So I’m to keep a watch on the churchyard for any signs of a grave being dug (and then I would ask who it’s for, which added to the growing suspicion that I was a looney). Oh, and ring the crem, because you never know. And we’ve got the number of his agent, so give him a bell. The laughs, at each and every enquiry, grew louder. Groan.
I was finally released from this hell when - surprise, surprise - Robert was buried ‘neath the green sod of auld Ireland. But even that was worthy of a sniffy ‘Snub for Westhoughton’ piece; though that hasn’t stopped them putting a plaque on one of the several houses Doctor Tom owned during his tenure, and naming a pub after his illustrious son.
Ah, showbiz - bright lights, the smell of money, hot and cold running women (no, wait; I’m describing the Amusement Arcade on Market Street…)