Friday, 10 July 2009
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Thoughts on Saffron Burrows
There ought to be a rule, I think, that if your child's name sounds like a location from a poorly translated JRPG then...well, you should change it.
INT. SAFFRON BURROWS - NIGHT
The place here is dark and there are some about. WHISPER and GLANS come in. They are seen fast and three guard come out with fight.
INT. SAFFRON BURROWS - NIGHT
The place here is dark and there are some about. WHISPER and GLANS come in. They are seen fast and three guard come out with fight.
GUARD #1
Halt! Here is not it!
GUARD #2
Don't make it happen!
Halt! Here is not it!
GUARD #2
Don't make it happen!
Whisper whispers something to Glans. They take GREEN HAMMER OF STONES and swing at with force the Guard #1.
GLANS
Break!
WHISPER
He makes it so fast here!
Break!
WHISPER
He makes it so fast here!
Guard #1 gets to smash, the others making leap in surprised. A fight begins to instance.
Monday, 6 July 2009
Captain Finn, continued
Captain Finn the Wine-tasting Robot stood victorious over the body of his defeated foe, icy winds whipping about him like the feverish tails of a thousand cat’o’nines, each and all hell-bent on his destruction. He did not flinch; he was a robot. The eyes of Charles Manson’s Digitised Brain Downloaded into the Body of a Cloned Dinosaur stared up at him from the ice block in which they and the rest of Charles Manson’s Digitised Brain Downloaded into the Body of a Cloned Dinosaur’s body had been trapped. “Malice,” said Captain Finn, correctly identifying the emotion that they, the eyes, transmitted, “with perhaps an undertone of sadness.”
Their battle had lasted for almost a fortnight. Initially, there had been many hundreds of combatants: savage natives, wild dogs, a retired pro-wrestler seeking to promote his comeback, and several curious teenagers from the nearby town. All had fallen asunder, staining the tundra red with the redness of their red blood’s redness. After sixteen hours of the shedding of that blood, only Captain Finn and Charles Manson’s Digitised Brain Downloaded into the Body of a Cloned Dinosaur, his arch nemesis, had remained. Then the real fighting had begun.
Captain Finn had offered to shake hands, seeing as how it was a special occasion, but Charles Manson’s Digitised Brain Downloaded into the Body of a Cloned Dinosaur had exploited this gesture of goodwill by handcuffing him to a tractor. Fortunately, the tractor was made from metal, the same substance from which Captain Finn’s robot body was fashioned, and he had been able to free himself by breaking it with force. Thereafter, the two had fought tooth and claw, although Captain Finn, who possessed neither teeth nor claws, had been at a distinct disadvantage. Had it not been for his massively superior strength and resilience, he might not have prevailed, and this story would be about how Charles Manson’s Digitised Brain Downloaded into the Body of a Cloned Dinosaur was standing over the frozen body of his arch-nemesis, Captain Finn the Wine-tasting Robot. Suffice it to say, though, that Captain Finn did win, and conclusively, albeit after two weeks of non-stop fighting.
The reason the battle had lasted so long was that time in the Scottish Isles is not linear, but concertina-shaped.
“You were a valiant opponent,” intoned Captain Finn, “thank you for your time.” He turned to go. “Wait!” cried out Charles Manson’s Digitised Brain Downloaded into the Body of a Cloned Dinosaur, for whom talking was now difficult. Captain Finn turned back. “I just wanted to tell you,” continued Charlie, each word a bucket of agony poured into a sea of excruciating pain, “that you deserve everything you get. Good and bad.” “Thank you,” replied Captain Finn, as he set off home, leaving his frozen foe to die, once and for all, in the lonesome wastes of a blasted world.
Their battle had lasted for almost a fortnight. Initially, there had been many hundreds of combatants: savage natives, wild dogs, a retired pro-wrestler seeking to promote his comeback, and several curious teenagers from the nearby town. All had fallen asunder, staining the tundra red with the redness of their red blood’s redness. After sixteen hours of the shedding of that blood, only Captain Finn and Charles Manson’s Digitised Brain Downloaded into the Body of a Cloned Dinosaur, his arch nemesis, had remained. Then the real fighting had begun.
Captain Finn had offered to shake hands, seeing as how it was a special occasion, but Charles Manson’s Digitised Brain Downloaded into the Body of a Cloned Dinosaur had exploited this gesture of goodwill by handcuffing him to a tractor. Fortunately, the tractor was made from metal, the same substance from which Captain Finn’s robot body was fashioned, and he had been able to free himself by breaking it with force. Thereafter, the two had fought tooth and claw, although Captain Finn, who possessed neither teeth nor claws, had been at a distinct disadvantage. Had it not been for his massively superior strength and resilience, he might not have prevailed, and this story would be about how Charles Manson’s Digitised Brain Downloaded into the Body of a Cloned Dinosaur was standing over the frozen body of his arch-nemesis, Captain Finn the Wine-tasting Robot. Suffice it to say, though, that Captain Finn did win, and conclusively, albeit after two weeks of non-stop fighting.
The reason the battle had lasted so long was that time in the Scottish Isles is not linear, but concertina-shaped.
“You were a valiant opponent,” intoned Captain Finn, “thank you for your time.” He turned to go. “Wait!” cried out Charles Manson’s Digitised Brain Downloaded into the Body of a Cloned Dinosaur, for whom talking was now difficult. Captain Finn turned back. “I just wanted to tell you,” continued Charlie, each word a bucket of agony poured into a sea of excruciating pain, “that you deserve everything you get. Good and bad.” “Thank you,” replied Captain Finn, as he set off home, leaving his frozen foe to die, once and for all, in the lonesome wastes of a blasted world.
25 Brook Street Review
I was recently in London to review a new oratorio about Handel. You can read it here, although I don't know why you'd want to. Probably you're a fool.
Saturday, 4 July 2009
Thoughts on that whole Tyondai Braxton album listening party
"Strange, steroidal kitsch" was my suggested hook; my friend Alex responded with "classical Girl Talk."
The last time I heard any TB solo material was 2005--noisy, loopy electronic stuff, with a distinct emphasis on texture. I want to say "industrial," but I'm sure that Industrial afficionados will disagree. Central Market, Braxton's first post-Battles solo release, preserves the loops, and it's hardly quiet, but otherwise evinces a major aesthetic shift. It's more dancy (although not in a strictly danceable way--go on, prove me wrong), and the sound palette has expanded to include all manner of acoustic instruments: pianos, trombones, flutes, clarinets....
Considering that he used to be a one-man (plus copious effect pedals) band, Braxton's desire to exploit the resources available to an established recording artist with a built-in fan base is understandable. However, the results of his explorations are anything but: four-to-the-floor bone-shakers, built on Reichian keyboard loops and symphonic string swells, punctuated by fuzzy synth glissandi and pitch-shifted chipmunk vocals al la Battles' Mirrored; gloopy electro-ambient interludes; brass fanfares and flute solos; militaristic snare drum rolls (on almost every track).
Okay, so maybe that sounds like a blast (how would I know what a blast sounds like?), but the reality is thoroughly perplexing. Central Market is a stomping monolith of random episodes, confusing and (at a "listening party," at least--lights dimmed, voices hushed) kinda arduous. Maybe it'll come together after a few listens; it's certainly colourful, and there's an underlying sense of musical mischief that might just redeem the kitschiness, once properly apprehended. For now, however, I'm totally in the dark. What do Girl Talk sound like, anyway?
The last time I heard any TB solo material was 2005--noisy, loopy electronic stuff, with a distinct emphasis on texture. I want to say "industrial," but I'm sure that Industrial afficionados will disagree. Central Market, Braxton's first post-Battles solo release, preserves the loops, and it's hardly quiet, but otherwise evinces a major aesthetic shift. It's more dancy (although not in a strictly danceable way--go on, prove me wrong), and the sound palette has expanded to include all manner of acoustic instruments: pianos, trombones, flutes, clarinets....
Considering that he used to be a one-man (plus copious effect pedals) band, Braxton's desire to exploit the resources available to an established recording artist with a built-in fan base is understandable. However, the results of his explorations are anything but: four-to-the-floor bone-shakers, built on Reichian keyboard loops and symphonic string swells, punctuated by fuzzy synth glissandi and pitch-shifted chipmunk vocals al la Battles' Mirrored; gloopy electro-ambient interludes; brass fanfares and flute solos; militaristic snare drum rolls (on almost every track).
Okay, so maybe that sounds like a blast (how would I know what a blast sounds like?), but the reality is thoroughly perplexing. Central Market is a stomping monolith of random episodes, confusing and (at a "listening party," at least--lights dimmed, voices hushed) kinda arduous. Maybe it'll come together after a few listens; it's certainly colourful, and there's an underlying sense of musical mischief that might just redeem the kitschiness, once properly apprehended. For now, however, I'm totally in the dark. What do Girl Talk sound like, anyway?
Saturday, 27 June 2009
Ulysses and back again
HERE'S YET ANOTHER STUPID IDEA I WON'T SEE THROUGH. You, the reader(s?), will select a favoured literary classic that I (hopefully) haven't read (don't worry; I've read very few literary classics). You will then condense the opening into a dry sequence of facts, which I will attempt to transform into something resembling writing. (This is probably a bad and very egotistical idea, but don't let me know that.)
By way of example:
Buck Mulligan was at the top of the stairs. He had shaving equipment. He looked down the stairs and saw Stephen Dedalus. He shook his head. Stephen Dedalus was sleepy and cross. Buck Mulligan started shaving.
The man known as Buck Mulligan stood at the top of the staircase, a cut-throat razor in each hand and a shaving mirror hung around his neck on a silver chain. He cast his gaze downwards by increments, scrutinising each step in turn, as though he feared that he would miss some tiny detail--some discolouration or ball of lint whose omission might be to his disadvantage somewhere along the line. It was because of this that he took so long to see Stephen Dedalus, even though the other man was stood only six feet away from him. "Why! Dedalus! I didn't see you there! What a shock!" Mulligan shook his head, not knowing quite why. Dedalus glared at him disapprovingly; his puffy face betrayed a night of sleepless agony, but he said nothing. "Gee, I feel pretty shaken up. I think I might have a shave!" Mulligan waved his razors in the air, apeing the maneouvres of a fighting Chinaman. The blades came closer and closer to his jowly face; Dedalus, too horrified to look, averted his gaze. The next he knew, there was a cry, and the ample form of Mulligan was tumbling down the stairs towards him, metal flashing in his flailing hands.
Okay, I got carried away at the end there. Sorry.
By way of example:
Buck Mulligan was at the top of the stairs. He had shaving equipment. He looked down the stairs and saw Stephen Dedalus. He shook his head. Stephen Dedalus was sleepy and cross. Buck Mulligan started shaving.
The man known as Buck Mulligan stood at the top of the staircase, a cut-throat razor in each hand and a shaving mirror hung around his neck on a silver chain. He cast his gaze downwards by increments, scrutinising each step in turn, as though he feared that he would miss some tiny detail--some discolouration or ball of lint whose omission might be to his disadvantage somewhere along the line. It was because of this that he took so long to see Stephen Dedalus, even though the other man was stood only six feet away from him. "Why! Dedalus! I didn't see you there! What a shock!" Mulligan shook his head, not knowing quite why. Dedalus glared at him disapprovingly; his puffy face betrayed a night of sleepless agony, but he said nothing. "Gee, I feel pretty shaken up. I think I might have a shave!" Mulligan waved his razors in the air, apeing the maneouvres of a fighting Chinaman. The blades came closer and closer to his jowly face; Dedalus, too horrified to look, averted his gaze. The next he knew, there was a cry, and the ample form of Mulligan was tumbling down the stairs towards him, metal flashing in his flailing hands.
Okay, I got carried away at the end there. Sorry.
Friday, 26 June 2009
I thought it was about time I made good on that byline
Captain Finn was out in the forest hunting rabbits when he heard the cry. Two cries in fact: one from a woman and the other from a child. His keen robotic brain pinpointed their coordinates instantly, or at least so quickly as to make mention of the time lapse (0.000004 seconds) redundant—an inexcusable waste of words, perpetrated, no doubt, by a rank amateur of the storytelling art. His powerful robotic limbs carried him there in a trice, although there was still time for a vicar in Putney to finish boiling an egg (he had a twelve-minute head-start, to be fair). His exaggerated robotic sense of the absurd all but short-circuited at the sight that met his eyes: a woman and a child, naked but for crude daubs of blue paint, crying plaintively over the body of a man dressed as a koala dressed as a box of Rolling Stones’ seven-inches.
Captain Finn knew not what to do. As a wine-tasting robot he was unsurpassed: every part of his frame—each LED, circuit board, CPU processing unit, copper wire and right-angled bit of metal—was custom-built for the purpose of wine tasting. Had he been confronted at that moment with a glass of Beaujolais he would have felt right at robot home, but he was not; he was confronted with a woman and a child, naked but for crude daubs of blue paint, crying plaintively over the body of a man dressed as a koala dressed as a box of Rolling Stones’ seven-inches. This was quite a different order of fish kettle.
The woman and child seemed oblivious to his presence, probably because his Stealth Field was still active. He crept forward on his powerful robotic legs and grasped them both in his strong robotic arms. “Do not cry,” he said, “your companion is only resting.” He was not only resting; Captain Finn knew this, but he wished to make a positive impression on his new-found friends. The woman span around, a knife suddenly held in her weak human hand. “Who’s there?” she shouted, her voice trembling with both emotion and fear. Captain Finn backed away, not because he was afraid of the puny weapon, but simply to reassure its bearer. “I am Captain Finn. I am a robot and I am here to help you.” The woman looked confused. “Why can’t I see you?” The child grabbed her leg for comfort, but she shook him off. “My Stealth Field is active,” replied Captain Finn, with considerable grace.
It was at precisely that moment that a group of hunters intruded on the scene. “There they are!” shouted the biggest hunter, who was the leader (although this is only known to me through authorial omniscience, it could plausibly have been inferred by a stranger who had happened on the scene at the same or a similar time). He pointed at the woman and the child and the space where Captain Finn was—although he couldn’t see the latter, because of his Stealth Field—and waved the spear that he had in a threatening way. “Fucking fuckers!” he exclaimed. The other hunters, who were smaller than the biggest one, set upon their quarry like wild dogs on the scent of their quarry (which was not the same quarry in this instance, or the same scent). The woman and child began to run, not towards their pursuers but away from them; Captain Finn, who was far more experienced in some matters than others, remained calm and stationary.
Just as the hunters reached the spot where they didn’t know Captain Finn was standing because of the continued activity of his Stealth Field, the wine-tasting robot leapt into action. He first deactivated his Stealth Field so as to confront the hunters with his profound and terrifying—to any who crossed him—form, then began to spin his powerful robot arms around and around. The hunters were initially terrified, but their terror was quickly replaced by death or, in a few lucky cases, mere dismemberment. The biggest hunter, who was the leader, who had been too busy exhorting his men to advance to advance himself, looked on in disbelief as his cohorts were annihilated with consummate ease and no little aplomb. “Ahh!” he shouted, fear and also some confusion audible in the subtle vibrations of his voice. Rather than facing Captain Finn like a man, which is what he was in an anatomical sense, he fled, crying “I’ll remember you Captain Finn; I will have revenge!” (He knew it was Captain Finn because Captain Finn had said so at the very beginning of his attack.) “I hope not,” replied Captain Finn, his voice happening in a debonair way. “Now, where did that woman and that child get to?” He turned and went after them.
Captain Finn knew not what to do. As a wine-tasting robot he was unsurpassed: every part of his frame—each LED, circuit board, CPU processing unit, copper wire and right-angled bit of metal—was custom-built for the purpose of wine tasting. Had he been confronted at that moment with a glass of Beaujolais he would have felt right at robot home, but he was not; he was confronted with a woman and a child, naked but for crude daubs of blue paint, crying plaintively over the body of a man dressed as a koala dressed as a box of Rolling Stones’ seven-inches. This was quite a different order of fish kettle.
The woman and child seemed oblivious to his presence, probably because his Stealth Field was still active. He crept forward on his powerful robotic legs and grasped them both in his strong robotic arms. “Do not cry,” he said, “your companion is only resting.” He was not only resting; Captain Finn knew this, but he wished to make a positive impression on his new-found friends. The woman span around, a knife suddenly held in her weak human hand. “Who’s there?” she shouted, her voice trembling with both emotion and fear. Captain Finn backed away, not because he was afraid of the puny weapon, but simply to reassure its bearer. “I am Captain Finn. I am a robot and I am here to help you.” The woman looked confused. “Why can’t I see you?” The child grabbed her leg for comfort, but she shook him off. “My Stealth Field is active,” replied Captain Finn, with considerable grace.
It was at precisely that moment that a group of hunters intruded on the scene. “There they are!” shouted the biggest hunter, who was the leader (although this is only known to me through authorial omniscience, it could plausibly have been inferred by a stranger who had happened on the scene at the same or a similar time). He pointed at the woman and the child and the space where Captain Finn was—although he couldn’t see the latter, because of his Stealth Field—and waved the spear that he had in a threatening way. “Fucking fuckers!” he exclaimed. The other hunters, who were smaller than the biggest one, set upon their quarry like wild dogs on the scent of their quarry (which was not the same quarry in this instance, or the same scent). The woman and child began to run, not towards their pursuers but away from them; Captain Finn, who was far more experienced in some matters than others, remained calm and stationary.
Just as the hunters reached the spot where they didn’t know Captain Finn was standing because of the continued activity of his Stealth Field, the wine-tasting robot leapt into action. He first deactivated his Stealth Field so as to confront the hunters with his profound and terrifying—to any who crossed him—form, then began to spin his powerful robot arms around and around. The hunters were initially terrified, but their terror was quickly replaced by death or, in a few lucky cases, mere dismemberment. The biggest hunter, who was the leader, who had been too busy exhorting his men to advance to advance himself, looked on in disbelief as his cohorts were annihilated with consummate ease and no little aplomb. “Ahh!” he shouted, fear and also some confusion audible in the subtle vibrations of his voice. Rather than facing Captain Finn like a man, which is what he was in an anatomical sense, he fled, crying “I’ll remember you Captain Finn; I will have revenge!” (He knew it was Captain Finn because Captain Finn had said so at the very beginning of his attack.) “I hope not,” replied Captain Finn, his voice happening in a debonair way. “Now, where did that woman and that child get to?” He turned and went after them.
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