Godzilla (Gareth Edwards, 2014)

A pre-review note: my only previous experience with the Godzilla franchise, which apparently has over 30 installments now, was the 98' American flick (I know, shame on me), and you can only imagine how that helped shape my view of the series. So, as much as I preserve the right to nerd over things, I wasn't sweating the small stuff here: complaints I've heard from friends with a much more substantial interest, like the title monster not appearing until too late into the movie, and not having enough screen time when it does, weren't on my mind. I just wanted a good Hollywood monster movie.

This Godzilla may have been approved by Toho (the Japanese company who made the original films) although unlike the Toho films' focus on the monster, Godzilla 2014 has the very modern-Hollywood worry of needing someone relatable for us to follow and root for in face of the monster. Here we get Ford Brody (Aaron Johnson), a US Marine who is supposed to be enjoying his leave although is called to the place of his childhood, Tokyo, by his crazed scientist father (Bryan Cranston), unaware that what his father is rambling is actually about to come true when huge creatures the government has kept secret start waking up. Thus we have our 'personal story' of Brody making his way home to his wife and son while in the background there's the 'universal story' of the world facing annihilation.

The best analogy of how this applies to the film is a scene in Martin Scorsese's Howard Hughes biopic The Aviator, which I will give Scorsese the benefit of the doubt in believing it really happened exactly as filmed: Hughes found that shots of planes, despite being real, didn't seem real or seem to have the great majesty one expects when faced with a fighter plane. He fixed this when finding the planes only seemed up to real scale when there was something else in the shots (the clouds) to give proportion to the images. In the best sequence in Godzilla we see one of the monsters attacking a small coastal resort in Tokyo all from the perspective of Brody who is trapped on a train (traveling towards one of the monsters, no less) and trying to protect a young boy. It's a brilliantly tense sequence, about as close-knit as one could want from an end-of-the-world movie, and achieves what I guess is the mission of every film of this type: giving the audience enough to go on to imagine themselves in these situations.

Anyone who knows their Godzilla history will know that the original was a way for Japan to make a statement on Hiroshima without getting censored. The reboot opens with a small clip of the blast, a little homage to the original, although also a sign that the new movie isn't built around anything as strongly as the original. The idea of monsters coming up from the Earth as an unstoppable force doing damage has obvious connotations with the very modern fear of the Earth doing things we don't want it to that we can't control; although more than anything else Godzilla 14' is built on the modern blockbuster quota, leading to moderately big cast all converging towards the area of a major final battle. The special effects are tight, the cast more than serviceable (especially Johnson, who's whole physicality seems to change by the role), and the action scenes fairly intense. Yet the movie doesn't quite get past being a more than serviceable, well intentioned blockbuster. That doesn't seem like it should be a problem when just looking for a Hollywood monster movie, but with the amount of blockbusters out these days it really is.

Inside Llewyn Davis (2013, Coen Brothers)

I'm not sure you could call the week or so of events we see in Inside Llewyn Davis a "plot", more like just a "struggle". The Coens named their newest movie well: ILD really does feel like a random slice of life following a rather unremarkable man stuck in an existential crisis.

Llewyn Davis' goal is simply the vague wish to become successful in the New York folk scene of 1961 (that's pre-Dylan meaning pre-where the money is) and trying to move more copies of his already lost-in-the-world album which shares the movie's title. The "struggle" that the Coens allow us to bare witness to is a barrage of bad choices and unfortunate coincidences; there's a dark comedy to ILD: one moment that comes to mind is a hitchhiking Llewyn solemnly watching as his driver is arrested and takes the car keys with him. It's a sickly, un-signposted humor that I doubt everyone will enjoy, but is typically-Coen, which always makes me think the Coens have a fantastically British sense to them.

The Coens understand though that we'll all be happy to fight through a black cloud of depression if it's not only a nice, down on his luck guy doing the struggling, but a nice, down on his luck artist; a struggle that I imagine even the people who don't relate to wish they related to enough that they'd watch through anything. The endless slog of bad luck Llewyn faces becomes a sort of catharsis for an audience seeing how much an artist who seems on the very edge of success, and certainly deserving of it, will go through. And all done under the finesse expected from a good Coens movie.

The actual aesthetic of ILD feels like a bit of a paradox: it has the cosy, homey warmth of the brother's more comedic work, yet exists in the downbeat worlds of their more recent movies. Their recreation of a New York still awaiting a 60s revolution is given a loving care as only can come from people hugely envious of the artistic landscape of a time now lost in history. It's this same cosy darkness that runs through all of ILD and makes it an artists struggle that feels so gratifying to sit through.

Favorites: If I Had by Eminem

Hip hop and rap might be the things of boasting and show offs, yet ironically, it's usually the music that comes from a place of desperation and being totally fed up that really connects with people. Just think of the Beastie Boys, circa License to Ill: it's just three young kids sick of school, and sick of suburbia and just generally sick of being three kids doing hip hop and not getting anywhere. And here, with If I Had, we find a pre-fame Eminem more fed up than he'd ever have reason to be again. 

Just looking at a lyrics sheet for If I Had always makes me think of Bob Dylan. Dylan was the street poet of the sixties: a master word smith who spun his tales in the name of the counter culture. Eminem was the street poet of the 90s: he combined the part bravado, part vulnerability of rap at the time and used it to ride the zeitgeist of the impending millennium. The song conjures up the image of some skinny kid spitting lines on a street corner, pretending his two friends and some random guy, the only three people who are listening, are a sold out arena.

I was only a child at the time when this song was coming out, so I can't really comment on whether there really was a mystical aura in the air. Films like American Beauty and Fight Club would have you believe it, and the general quality of the culture that brought us films just like them would have you believe it as well; that maybe in the back of everybody's mind they really did fear the world would end as the clock struck twelve, and that if you were going to change, or make something of yourself, or to quote Eminem himself, take your 'one shot', then now was the time to do it.

Lines like 'I'm tired of wanting to be him' have such resonance whatever context you put them in, but even more when put into the culture of self improvement and making big changes before it's too late. There's a big range of things Eminem touches on here but things work best when he focuses on the smaller more personal details: 'I'm tired of wearing the same damn Nike Air hat'. These lines have such a want and an envy; it's asking for a lot without sounding entitled. I can't imagine anyone wouldn't relate to the feeling inside this song, of wanting something so bad, and so huge that it encapsulates your whole life, that it quite literally hurts. It's a feeling for looking out into the empty night sky and contemplating.

Most think of Eminem as either murderously angry or spitting on your onion rings style silly, yet If I Had is more restrained. It is smooth and laid back, which makes sense since it has all of life to contemplate. Em isn't as grisly as most give him credit for, his message has always been positive; even back on his debut album Infinite and his biggest hit Lose Yourself. If I Had has a real struggle inside it; it's Eminem rapping from a real place that a few years later - after he'd took his 'one shot' and saw it pay off - would be unavailable to him. And we can only thank god he got it down and recorded while he had the chance.

A Million Ways to Die in the West (Seth Macfarlane, 2014)

If you like Family Guy then you probably haven't put much thought to the way it's constructed; if you don't then I'd gauge it's possible you hold the show up as a symbol of all that is inherently evil about modern comedy. I've always disliked FG, and for that reason mostly ignored MacFarlane's other output (a slew of very similar shows like The Cleveland Show and American Dad). During an episode of South Park, a show I prefer to an almost painful degree, during an episode where Cartman tries to get FG pulled off the air, Cartman himself has a monologue that explains a lot of why so many hate FG (maybe not for its content exactly but its whole style): "when I make jokes they are inherent to a story: deep, situational and emotional jokes based on what is relevant and has a point - not just one random, interchangeable joke after another". MacFarlane's comedy sacrifices all for the comedy. This might sound, on paper, like a noble effort, yet eventually it just becomes tiring; if everything is throwaway, built on nothing, then all the jokes become throwaway too. 

MacFarlane's first movie, Ted, possibly my favorite comedy of the last few years, managed to escape the normal MacFarlaness. I won't argue for it as a great work of storytelling but the story, of a man who can't leave the life of smoking dope and watching shitty movies with his teddy bear, was built on something - there was a story, of someone who hadn't grow up and was stuck in a sort of 'arrested development' of his youth back in the 80s. The jokes, too, were accordingly laced in 80s nostalgia and references. Macfarlane's second feature - and his first anything to feature himself beyond just a voice - A Million Ways to Die in the West, isn't really built on anything. It more closely resembles MacFarlane's TV work, and points to a career for MacFarlane with film after film accompanied by lines like fans will enjoy this one, although there is little here to change the mind of anyone with their mind already made about MacFarlane.  

A Million Ways, the only comedy that comes to mind that's been brave enough to try the western since Blazing Saddles, follows Albert Stark (MacFarlane), a sheep farmer who's cowardice in a gun battle looses him his girlfriend Louise (Amanda Seyfried). Then Anna (Charlize Theron) rides into town; obviously, this being a comedy where our hero needs to learn something, Stark doesn't realize the smoking hot sharp shooter that's right in front of him but instead simply uses Anna to try and get Louise back. Unfortunately, just as he's starting to realize Louise isn't the one, Clinch Leatherwood (Liam Neeson) the fastest hands in the west and all around bad guy, rides into town revealing he's Anna's husband. A test of bravery for our hero thus ensues. 

A Million Ways does have the look of a professional western, which may have worked, especially with just what a contrast the vulgar material here does, but MacFarlane doesn't have enough material to make it work. The production almost seems like overkill. One thing that needs mentioning is the majority of Neeson's scenes, most of which take place separate from the main plot, and are played by Neeson completely straight. His performance here is more intense than anything else he's done recently, and his early scenes are so serious that they feel like they'd fit perfectly into a serious western (a good one too), although this just makes it seem a little awkward when he's exposed to MacFarlane's brand of comedy. It feels like your always serious step-dad joining you and your immature teenage friends on a camping trip. 

The more squeamish gags (a block of ice crushing a cowboy into the ground, a mustached Neil Patrick Harris violently shitting into a hat) stick in the mind a lot longer than anything else; it feels like MacFarlane is almost fulfilling a quota for the amount of laughs so people are at least satisfied. Yet there is one truly brilliant section in the movie, the funniest few minutes, in which Stark is camping out with a group of Native Americans who give him some hallucinogenic drugs. It's a trippy few minutes filmed with every random occurrence it seems MacFarlane could come up with. The houses grow legs, the sheep start singing and Liam Neeson's head grows out of an eagle's mouth that Stark kicks in the balls. It feels like it has the justification that Eric Cartman wanted, and is a sign that MacFarlane can bring the belly laughs when he's on form. It's not enough to make A Million Ways a recommendable way to blow your time; it's more a showcase of why the movie would have probably worked better as a TV sketch or maybe even a Family Guy western special. 

R.I.P Rik Mayall (1958 - 2014)

I don't know how many American readers will know who Rik Mayall is, for all I know he was somewhat big over there too. Either way, the news of his death today came as a big shock to me.

Mayall found his fame as one of a new group of young British comedians who turned up in the 80s as the BBC was starting to worry all of their comedy was living off of the coattails of Monty Python; Mayall becoming one of the main cast members of The Young Ones (worth checking out).

Although to me, Mayall will always be Richie from Bottom. As a kid, every Saturday night - when my dad was at the pub - me and my mum would sit and watch either Bottom or Red Dwarf, both becoming endearingly important to me for that reason. If you really think that only true comedy lies in subtlety then look at Mayall's Bottom performance, any clip will do. He played loveable crazy like no-one else.

Mayall since became one of those British comedians who just shows up everywhere, now and again. Last year he showed up in Greg Davies vehicle Man Down, his performance as Davies' bonkers dad being a highlight. And the year before that he made a surprise appearance during Ade Edmondson (his long time partner in crime)'s performance of The Dying Swan for Lets Dance for Comic Relief - Mayall's appearance feeling almost obligatory to the sketches success.

His death at the too-young age of 56 comes as a shock, especially for a man still making frequent appearances. My first thoughts went to Edmondson - the two had even hinted at reunions for years - and it made me realize just how much these two have branded my psyche, my sense of humour, at least parts of it, are completely down to these two. They were fantastically, and unapologetically British, and deserve to be remembered up with comedy greats like the Pythons they were once called in to follow up.

Diary: In the Wee Hours

Sneaking out in the middle of the night, maybe to attend a party, is a common thing in American teen movies (probably why I mistook it for something people must do it all the time) but the below story - unremarkable as it is - is the only time I have ever snook out of my house, at least to go somewhere.

The set-up: it was a Saturday night, only around 11, already in pajamas and ready for bed. Had my Saturday night and Sunday morning gone to plan I would have spent hours in a blur of junk food and movies I only vaguely wanted to watch.

My parents were already in bed (maybe that's where I get my shut-in genes from) when a friend of mine, Jack, rang me up. He said "hey, do you want to come to the village? me and some friends from work are going". He works at a bar, one that me and some other friends continually say we'll soon go to yet never do. I told him I probably couldn't go; I was vague with my reasons why, as if not going out drinking in The Village was simply because I wasn't feeling it, and not because I probably wouldn't be allowed to go and couldn't wake my parents up to be told I wouldn't be allowed to go.

He said "but your always saying you want to go to the village". This reminds me that I am always saying I want to got the village, or out quite literally anywhere on planet Earth. I say I'll go, feeling that sudden urge - and don't say you haven't felt it in your own most impressionable moments too - to say yes to everything and that the actual act of saying something as positive as Yes justifies any amount of stupid shit you do because of it. Jack says he and the work friends are getting a taxi down there, and that they'll meet me outside the Blagdon Arms and I should be down there quick!

I change into day clothes as quietly as possible and leave, leaving the TV on in the living room and locking the door behind me - both questionable choices in retrospective. The Village isn't far from my house, a small street with a barbers, vets and a few pubs. I've never been out drinking, only drunk at friends or random people's houses, although I have run through empty streets in the middle of the night before; a relaxing experience, the grand openness of the world making one want to stretch out their arms and jump around as much as possible. I do so on this night for the first time with an actual destination to get to.

I stood outside the Blagdon Arms a good ten minutes looking like a pleb, my constant strolling up and down the street and eyes surveying the drunk people there possibly making me look like someone on a large amount of paranoia-inducing drugs. I tried ringing Jack but no reply. Eventually I text him and he text back saying he was inside and for me to come in. I was stopped at the door by one of two security men; he said "Excuse me, have you got any ID?" I told him no and he said "well I can't let you in then". A painfully drama-less encounter.

So I went back to standing on the sidewalk. I explained the situation on the phone to Jack - who had managed to get in by clinging to the sides of work friends as they went through the door - who kept me updated with texts detailing how many gulps of his pint were left until he came out to meet me.

By the time he did come out he was already pissed and on the move - on an unbreakable path - towards his house. He kept asking me to come sleep at his, even text his mother that he would be brining me home despite my protests, which had to do with the obvious weirdness of my parents waking up the next morning to find their only son gone. But being I was in the mood to be a Yes Man I followed him home anyway.

His house, now asleep, felt like a blank version of the one I'd only seen lit up by house parties. He loaded me up with a stash of drinks he kept in his room, making me wonder about the fact that I didn't have any drinks in my room, and we sat on the sofa. He put on Celebrity Juice and we talked about how funny Keith Lemon is then talked about which host was hotter; he feigned disgust when I said Fearne Cotton. I sat there downing shots and Jack Daniels trying to catch up to Jack's level of drunkenness.

We ended spending most of the night talking girls; the one that I like in particular. I told him I'd asked her out twice now and she said going out with her would be unfair on me. He didn't get this and I told him she had an eating disorder but he still didn't get it. He went on his phone and started reading jokes about her disorder. I should have felt bad but I really didn't; me and him sat there and laughed hysterically. There was something comforting in it, I guess, in being able to talk about my day problems which seemed so world shattering out in the real world and sit here, partly drunk on a friend's sofa while I should be home in bed, and have him be horrible and make fun of her. I guess that was what I was really looking for when I started talking about her.

He loaded up playlists of gangster rap and we managed to dance to it while still sitting; we sat through moments of Celebrity Juice which you'd think would be extremely awkward watching with only one other friend yet really weren't; and we both decided I would stagger home at two. Which I did. I got home, hadn't been caught out, and downed pints of water to make sure there'd be no hangover. I was glad I'd went out.