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I'm doing a bit of DJing early on at Feeling Gloomy later, but please don't let that dissuade you from coming down to check out the newer, shinier Luxembourg and all the other attractions.
Peep Show just gets more painful every time, doesn't it? Meanwhile, I only tried watching Roman's Empire because I used to vaguely know the lead back in the midlands; as such, I was a little jarred to find one scene filmed on my London road, out front of Rowan's. It's not a *bad* programme, but nor does it quite seem to gel, even with a good supporting cast including Nathan Barley and Roy from The IT Crowd.
One comedy which definitely doesn't live up to its early promise: Mike Judge's Office Space. After starting off with ten painfully accurate minutes which are almost too The Office to be fun, the real laughs ensue: our hero is left under hypnosis with no guilt or inhibitions, and stops giving even the semblance of a toss at work. Yes!, you think, This Is The Stuff! But then, like far too many US comedies, it starts pandering to conventional sentiments. Having established, very sensibly, that *all* work is rubbish, it pulls back, falters, flakes out. The scheme to rip off the employers (who sorely deserve it) falls apart for no particular reason. Our Hero's hypnosis starts wearing off, again for no particular reason. Convention is restored, normality asserted, the status quo survives. What looked so promising a denunciation of all work ends with a cliched paean to the dignity of manual labour. It's a terrible, middlebrow waste of what started so anarchically well. It's like when Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead veers away from the hijinks which should ensue and instead forces the oldest kid to get a job. Oh well, perhaps I was a fool ever to hope for greatness from any film where Jennifer Blandiston is the unattainable object of desire.
White Mischief last night had enough that was splendid to do great credit to a first attempt. Evil Genius were their usual charmingly demonic selves, and Flipron filled the bigger space as effortlessly as they do the smaller venues in which I've seen them before. True, Tuesday Weld were rather let down by Stephen's voice and poise not being up to the usual standards (he may just have been ill), and I'm afraid Kunta Kinte are no Catch - the Laurel Collective do this sort of thing much better (though Toby still only looks about 16, so it's not as if he's got no time to pull it all back together). The vast majority of the crowd had made an impressive effort, and the space was almost right, but I fear Conway Hall just doesn't have the edge of darkness which would suit a night like this - nor does it help having a Polonius quote over the stage (silly humanists). The most astounding entertainment I've seen in quite some time, though, was The Great Voltini. Several wise men and women of this parish having concluded, some time ago, that the mark of a great pop video was fire and/or breasts - last night I saw a fire started with a breast. Is this where the young folk would say 'FTW'?
Peep Show just gets more painful every time, doesn't it? Meanwhile, I only tried watching Roman's Empire because I used to vaguely know the lead back in the midlands; as such, I was a little jarred to find one scene filmed on my London road, out front of Rowan's. It's not a *bad* programme, but nor does it quite seem to gel, even with a good supporting cast including Nathan Barley and Roy from The IT Crowd.
One comedy which definitely doesn't live up to its early promise: Mike Judge's Office Space. After starting off with ten painfully accurate minutes which are almost too The Office to be fun, the real laughs ensue: our hero is left under hypnosis with no guilt or inhibitions, and stops giving even the semblance of a toss at work. Yes!, you think, This Is The Stuff! But then, like far too many US comedies, it starts pandering to conventional sentiments. Having established, very sensibly, that *all* work is rubbish, it pulls back, falters, flakes out. The scheme to rip off the employers (who sorely deserve it) falls apart for no particular reason. Our Hero's hypnosis starts wearing off, again for no particular reason. Convention is restored, normality asserted, the status quo survives. What looked so promising a denunciation of all work ends with a cliched paean to the dignity of manual labour. It's a terrible, middlebrow waste of what started so anarchically well. It's like when Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead veers away from the hijinks which should ensue and instead forces the oldest kid to get a job. Oh well, perhaps I was a fool ever to hope for greatness from any film where Jennifer Blandiston is the unattainable object of desire.
White Mischief last night had enough that was splendid to do great credit to a first attempt. Evil Genius were their usual charmingly demonic selves, and Flipron filled the bigger space as effortlessly as they do the smaller venues in which I've seen them before. True, Tuesday Weld were rather let down by Stephen's voice and poise not being up to the usual standards (he may just have been ill), and I'm afraid Kunta Kinte are no Catch - the Laurel Collective do this sort of thing much better (though Toby still only looks about 16, so it's not as if he's got no time to pull it all back together). The vast majority of the crowd had made an impressive effort, and the space was almost right, but I fear Conway Hall just doesn't have the edge of darkness which would suit a night like this - nor does it help having a Polonius quote over the stage (silly humanists). The most astounding entertainment I've seen in quite some time, though, was The Great Voltini. Several wise men and women of this parish having concluded, some time ago, that the mark of a great pop video was fire and/or breasts - last night I saw a fire started with a breast. Is this where the young folk would say 'FTW'?
