1. Let's start right at the beginning with the reason that roused me from my slumber and made me write about this. Chekhov's Gun is one of the most famous principles of storytelling there is. It's existed formally for over a hundred years and informally for, well, Odin only knows how long. Yet apparently not everyone knows it because at the end of Beerfest, there was an entire NRA club's worth of guns left unused. And it annoyed the hell out of me.
2. This is a shame because it's not a bad movie, particularly given that I was only watching it because my girlfriend made me. It passed part one of the main test given to all films your significant other makes you watch, and that is I didn't keep silently wishing I was watching the Food Network instead. I'd feel pretty bad saying mean things about it if it wasn't for the point above.
3. In fact, the question even arises as to whether, for its genre, it's a really good movie. However, it's genre is American comedy for college students, and what I know about that genre you could tattoo on a mouse's dick. So maybe it's great for that and maybe it's terrible. I wouldn't know. But judging this thing by the standards of Twelve Angry Men would be even more ridiculous than this film.
4. This film is pretty goddamn ridiculous by the way. I mean, sure, a film about a family feud and the secret beer olympics is always going to be ridiculous, but they gave this one a good push off such a lofty start. Giving a character a job where he masturbates frogs? Fine. Accidentally breeding monkey-frogs? Ridiculous. Whether ridiculous is good or bad is up to you, but ridiculous it is. Incidentally, they recoil in horror from the monkey-frogs and whichever idiot came up with that monkey-puppy-baby ad at the Superbowl would have been well advised to remember this movie and the way humanity reacts to hybrids.
5. Camp comedy German accents are really annoying. We can argue all day over how offensive it is to stereotype nationalities in such a way to begin with but in terms of aesthetics it should be an open and shut argument. It's like nails down a chalkboard the size of Everest.
6. Going back to point 3 for a moment, my ability to judge this film is seriously compromised by the fact I'm nearly thirty and was sober when watching it for the first time.
7. This film would be a far better 15 minute highlight clip on YouTube than a film.
8. The most important test of any film your significant other makes you watch is how much you remember it was their choice. The better the movie, the less you remember that fact straight afterwards. When Beerfest ended, I definitely remembered this was my darling girlfriend's pick. But might not have done if they hadn't had such a horrible shitty anticlimatic ending that left me wondering why they spent so long building certain plot elements up. Maybe that's my fault though, not theirs. After all, I was sober at the time.
Wednesday 2 March 2016
Tuesday 12 January 2016
8 things I thought while watching The Peacemaker
1. I only watched this move because Nicole Kidman was smoking hot, I was bored, and it turns out I have a thing for Nicole Kidman with shortish red-brown hair. I'm not saying there aren't other worthwhile things to the movie (yet) but those are the selling points.
2. It's a good thing Kidman is highly attractive as that was about the only thing going for her presence on the screen, and that's not a criticism of Kidman. That's a criticism of everyone involved in that project who thought that as long as there was a woman on the screen and she got some important things to do, like defusing the bomb, then who cared if her role and lines were flatter than a tire made of pancakes. I don't think she was trying very hard, granted, but then why on earth would she?
3. I just told you that a bomb was defused. This post has no spoilers warnings. This is because spoilers are for surprises and you will have worked out there's going to be a bomb that gets defused way, way before it happens.
4. On similar lines, I can tell you now that Kidman's nuclear scientist and George Clooney's special forces colonel get together at the end of the film. This might have come as a bit more of a surprise, as you have no reason to see it coming from watching it, but this is how things work and sure enough, Colonel Manchild wants a hot date with the hot nuclear scientist. Well, don't we all.
5. In fairness, Nicole Kidman is about one hundred thousand times more convincing as a science geek than Denise Richards.
6. Again in fairness, this film isn't bad or anything. I watched it, I'm writing about it. I've some kind of fondness for it, like I do for most by the numbers action films. And boy it is by the numbers. It's almost like they took a template, took a break while writing some script to go with it, and one wild bender later, forgot all about finishing it.
7. One of the things they must have forgotten was the dialogue and characterisation. Going back to Kidman's scientist having poor lines and worse depth, I can at least say there was nothing sexist about that. Clooney's special forces guy is just as bad. The closest thing to character we see is him finding the time to go back and make sure the guy who shot his friend is dead after wrecking half the city. His good line was... *looks at IMDB* pass. I get that they get big stars to carry these films where there's not really the time for characterisation when explosions come first. But give them a break here, people. Give them a few big moments. Give them some sharp lines. That's the difference between The Peacemaker and all the good action movies it wanted to be.
8. At least, I assume they wanted it to be good, to be one of the blockbusters like Die Hard or the Bourne Identity. They spent enough on it. It's not though. It's late night TV fare, the sort of thing you watch when you've run out of other ways to interact with the world that you're interested in. The sort of movie that the Netflix generation won't watch because they've always got something better to watch. Part of me feels they'll be missing out. But not really.
2. It's a good thing Kidman is highly attractive as that was about the only thing going for her presence on the screen, and that's not a criticism of Kidman. That's a criticism of everyone involved in that project who thought that as long as there was a woman on the screen and she got some important things to do, like defusing the bomb, then who cared if her role and lines were flatter than a tire made of pancakes. I don't think she was trying very hard, granted, but then why on earth would she?
3. I just told you that a bomb was defused. This post has no spoilers warnings. This is because spoilers are for surprises and you will have worked out there's going to be a bomb that gets defused way, way before it happens.
4. On similar lines, I can tell you now that Kidman's nuclear scientist and George Clooney's special forces colonel get together at the end of the film. This might have come as a bit more of a surprise, as you have no reason to see it coming from watching it, but this is how things work and sure enough, Colonel Manchild wants a hot date with the hot nuclear scientist. Well, don't we all.
5. In fairness, Nicole Kidman is about one hundred thousand times more convincing as a science geek than Denise Richards.
6. Again in fairness, this film isn't bad or anything. I watched it, I'm writing about it. I've some kind of fondness for it, like I do for most by the numbers action films. And boy it is by the numbers. It's almost like they took a template, took a break while writing some script to go with it, and one wild bender later, forgot all about finishing it.
7. One of the things they must have forgotten was the dialogue and characterisation. Going back to Kidman's scientist having poor lines and worse depth, I can at least say there was nothing sexist about that. Clooney's special forces guy is just as bad. The closest thing to character we see is him finding the time to go back and make sure the guy who shot his friend is dead after wrecking half the city. His good line was... *looks at IMDB* pass. I get that they get big stars to carry these films where there's not really the time for characterisation when explosions come first. But give them a break here, people. Give them a few big moments. Give them some sharp lines. That's the difference between The Peacemaker and all the good action movies it wanted to be.
8. At least, I assume they wanted it to be good, to be one of the blockbusters like Die Hard or the Bourne Identity. They spent enough on it. It's not though. It's late night TV fare, the sort of thing you watch when you've run out of other ways to interact with the world that you're interested in. The sort of movie that the Netflix generation won't watch because they've always got something better to watch. Part of me feels they'll be missing out. But not really.
Wednesday 6 January 2016
Veeraswamy Review
Christmas gifts are tricky things. It's why I felt very pleased with myself when I suggested our Christmas gifts to each other should be a joint meal somewhere nice - everyone gets what they want. I left them to choose, and they picked Veeraswamy, an Indian restaurant that boasts of being the oldest in London.
Nobody wanders in; you have to buzz for admission, and are let into a little corridor where the bored-looking receptionist takes the name then points you to the lift. Well, we are just off of Regent Street. It fits. I was shown to the table, where they took quite a while to ask me what drink I wanted then came and asked for dinner choices fairly promptly afterwards. I mightn't have objected to the wait for my drink if I wasn't several drinks behind my friends, but I was, and I was thirsty, and I'm used to the the question of beverage arising far sooner. As well as the question of water.
No matter. My mango lasse was quite nice, although not the finest I've had (yes I complained about being less full of alcohol but had a soft drink anyway). The room was perhaps half-empty at this point, maybe a little fuller, which together with decent spacing between tables meant the ambience was at a pleasing background hum, which was good as my friends had a lot of interrogation to do.
My starter was the crabcakes The chef had not stinted with the crabmeat and the coating was pleasingly crunchy, which is a fine start for the type, but after passing around the plates I found myself wishing I'd gone for the monkfish, which was just that bit better. The crab felt a little underseasoned, something exacerbated by stinting with the sauce. Or sauce-based decoration, as might be more accurate to say. Only the scallops came up with plenty of sauce, plump well-cooked morsels that benefitted from it immensely. It's not that I'm against food without sauce. But once some sauce has gone on, I expect enough for actual use.
Thankfully, I cannot whine about the mains and flavoured liquid designed for the enhancement of food. There was said liquid. There was lots of it. Our food swam around in it. I had plumped for the lamb chops, three of them for close to thirty pounds, which places a not inconsiderable amount of pressure on them to be pretty bloody good. They were. They were exactly the right shade of rosy pink, meat easing free of the bone with only a little pressure, covered with small fragments of nut to increase the crunch. My friends had the duck vindaloo and the malabher lobster curry, while the table shared a reasonable sized bowl of Naans (for over 10 pounds though), a small-ish bowl of lemon rice, a pineapple curry and a vegetable sidedish I didn't touch.
The duck vindaloo was very good, which is perhaps a worrying sign coming from me, who tends to deal badly with hot food. I had not even the faintest case of sniffles after eating it, which is not what is expected from a vindaloo. Still, there was spice enough to cut through the fat, particularly in company with the sweetened acid from the pineapple. I must hasten to add I'm really not complaining. All vindaloos should be like this. I just expect I would get lynched if all vindaloos were like this and it was revealed to be my fault. The lobster wasn't quite as show-stopping; buttery, meaty, perfectly cooked and richly seasoned, but just not quite as special. It too had came with a heat warning on the menu; again, I could not understand why.
For dessert we decided to run away to Gelupo's instead (increasingly my usual reaction to the end of any dinner near Soho), which led to a little internal friction as we tried to indicate we would like the bill and the waiting staff seemed more ambivalent about the process. We did make Gelupo's in time, but it left the slightest grumpiness in the mind as we left, when instead we should have all been very happy about filling ourselves with very good curry. Which reminds me again that I had the slightest grumpiness when walking in too.
Veeraswamy make a big thing about being upmarket. They're certainly not afraid to charge upmarket prices for not huge portions. Little blemishes in service stand out in such situations, particularly when you can look around and see that the room really is not all that full. Would that prevent me from going back there? Maybe. I'd be more likely to hold the overly restrained hand with the spice jar against them. Indian food, high end or no, should be bold and dizzying. Everything was good, but too little of it dizzying. Even I can take - nay, demand - more heat than that.
Perhaps Veeraswamy's long history has rendered them too used to English palates; outside, the world has moved on.
Nobody wanders in; you have to buzz for admission, and are let into a little corridor where the bored-looking receptionist takes the name then points you to the lift. Well, we are just off of Regent Street. It fits. I was shown to the table, where they took quite a while to ask me what drink I wanted then came and asked for dinner choices fairly promptly afterwards. I mightn't have objected to the wait for my drink if I wasn't several drinks behind my friends, but I was, and I was thirsty, and I'm used to the the question of beverage arising far sooner. As well as the question of water.
No matter. My mango lasse was quite nice, although not the finest I've had (yes I complained about being less full of alcohol but had a soft drink anyway). The room was perhaps half-empty at this point, maybe a little fuller, which together with decent spacing between tables meant the ambience was at a pleasing background hum, which was good as my friends had a lot of interrogation to do.
My starter was the crabcakes The chef had not stinted with the crabmeat and the coating was pleasingly crunchy, which is a fine start for the type, but after passing around the plates I found myself wishing I'd gone for the monkfish, which was just that bit better. The crab felt a little underseasoned, something exacerbated by stinting with the sauce. Or sauce-based decoration, as might be more accurate to say. Only the scallops came up with plenty of sauce, plump well-cooked morsels that benefitted from it immensely. It's not that I'm against food without sauce. But once some sauce has gone on, I expect enough for actual use.
Thankfully, I cannot whine about the mains and flavoured liquid designed for the enhancement of food. There was said liquid. There was lots of it. Our food swam around in it. I had plumped for the lamb chops, three of them for close to thirty pounds, which places a not inconsiderable amount of pressure on them to be pretty bloody good. They were. They were exactly the right shade of rosy pink, meat easing free of the bone with only a little pressure, covered with small fragments of nut to increase the crunch. My friends had the duck vindaloo and the malabher lobster curry, while the table shared a reasonable sized bowl of Naans (for over 10 pounds though), a small-ish bowl of lemon rice, a pineapple curry and a vegetable sidedish I didn't touch.
The duck vindaloo was very good, which is perhaps a worrying sign coming from me, who tends to deal badly with hot food. I had not even the faintest case of sniffles after eating it, which is not what is expected from a vindaloo. Still, there was spice enough to cut through the fat, particularly in company with the sweetened acid from the pineapple. I must hasten to add I'm really not complaining. All vindaloos should be like this. I just expect I would get lynched if all vindaloos were like this and it was revealed to be my fault. The lobster wasn't quite as show-stopping; buttery, meaty, perfectly cooked and richly seasoned, but just not quite as special. It too had came with a heat warning on the menu; again, I could not understand why.
For dessert we decided to run away to Gelupo's instead (increasingly my usual reaction to the end of any dinner near Soho), which led to a little internal friction as we tried to indicate we would like the bill and the waiting staff seemed more ambivalent about the process. We did make Gelupo's in time, but it left the slightest grumpiness in the mind as we left, when instead we should have all been very happy about filling ourselves with very good curry. Which reminds me again that I had the slightest grumpiness when walking in too.
Veeraswamy make a big thing about being upmarket. They're certainly not afraid to charge upmarket prices for not huge portions. Little blemishes in service stand out in such situations, particularly when you can look around and see that the room really is not all that full. Would that prevent me from going back there? Maybe. I'd be more likely to hold the overly restrained hand with the spice jar against them. Indian food, high end or no, should be bold and dizzying. Everything was good, but too little of it dizzying. Even I can take - nay, demand - more heat than that.
Perhaps Veeraswamy's long history has rendered them too used to English palates; outside, the world has moved on.
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