Dave reviews ratatooie…. hang on, that’s not how it’s spelt…

By Dave
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Goddamn it, if you’re going to make a child’s film, at least give it a name that children will be able to spell. I mean, I get it, the story is about a rat that can cook, so it’s all very clever and whatever, but is the average 7-year-old going to be able to spell Ratatouille? I’m a 20-year-old spelling genius, and I keep having to look up where the ‘i’ fits in.

Silly name aside though, Ratatouille is a high quality film from the masters of the CGI cartoon, Pixar. In it, we follow the lives of the Master chef rat Remy and his hapless human counterpart Linguini as they turn round the fortunes of Linguini’s father’s restaurant to make it the best in Paris. It’s a fairly standard story, a pair of hapless outcasts do something against the odds and so on, but it’s all very well pulled off and is very slick.

A mention must be obviously given to the CGI itself- it’s incredible. Instead of trying for any kind of realism, Pixar have instead created a cartoon paradise version of Paris, where everybody sits in restaurants or cafés and owns apartments overlooking the Eiffel Tower. That’d not the say the graphics are primitive though, far from it in fact- everything is beautifully detailed and warm looking, and the liquid effects are nothing short of amazing.

The characters are also nice and fun- they’re happily cartoonish, bending and bouncing around and generally superseding the usual wooden mannequins so many CGI characters seem to end up looking like. They’re also easy to like- even the rats, normally associated with disease and litter, are totally loveable.

What puts this ahead of the average CGI film though, is that Ratatouille has soul. And I don’t mean that in the popular black origin music kind, but in the ’someone’s obviously put a lot of love and care into this’ kind. Whereas a lot of CGI animations are all flashy graphics but stereotypical and dull stories, Ratatouille is full of life. Sure, it has all the stunning effects and whatnot, but it also has fun characters and a type of love and care imbued into it that I’ve not felt since watching the hand drawn Disney cartoons of my youth. This is what makes it for me. Cartoons should be beautiful and heart-warming; not a bunch of graphics forced into a ‘family fun’ shaped hole. Ratatouille wasn’t just family fun, it was a work of art, a beautiful show of what a children’s film should be, a loved one giving you the best hug ever. It was brilliant.

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Dave is reviewing Carnavas by Silversun Pickups… So please listen to him.

By Dave
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If there’s one thing that I would have to say that I love doing, it’s introducing people to new bands. To literally everyone I talk to, I will ask them if they are familiar with the work of Belle and Sebastian, and then probably sulk if I find out that they aren’t. And if they don’t like Belle and Sebastian, I would actually hurt them until they changed their tune.

So yes, I’m very opinionated when it comes to music. It basically comes down to the fact that I presume that I am correct and everyone else either falls in line with me, or is completely foolish. I realise this is quite a problem in integrating and having normal conversations about music, but when I feel so passionately about something, I don’t like having to back down or agreeing with someone else’s opinion. For example, I cannot accept that The View have any music talent, and anyone who thinks that they write good songs can fuck off. Also, their pretend Rock and Roll credentials grate on me- so what that they’ve had the same jeans on for four days- I’ve been wearing the ones I currently sit in for a week now. Does this make me more rock and Roll than The View? Probably.

Anyway, I rant. What I actually meant to do here is to tell you about my new favourite band, Silversun Pickups. Their debut album, Carnavas, has been out for a while now, but only now do I actually feel compelled to write about it, after listening to it rather a lot, and fully digesting their goodness.

And oh, the goodness! This is one hell of an album. From start to finish, it is pure fuzz ridden rock beauty. The dirty, often overdriven guitars mix perfectly with Brian Aubert’s soft voice to create a sound that I personally can’t compare with any other band. However, critics in the know say they sound like The Smashing Pumpkins, if that means anything to you. All I know is that I like what I hear. Songs like Lazt Eye keeping building up, dropping back down and generally taking you on a satisfying audio journey. A couple of the later songs don’t have as much impact as the start, but no single track is unlistenable.

And so this is a damn good album. I demand you go and buy it, as their not very famous, but they deserve to be. Also, I like them, and I am generally right about these things, so trust me on this. You shall not be disappointed.

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My night out to go and see the band Maps at the Sugarmill….

By Dave
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Which was tonight, as it happens.

So now I sit, keyboard under fingers, hearing slightly muted from the loud music, pondering what to write.

Jack should be writing a review of our gig friend soon (he was a marvellous dancer), so I will concentrate on the bands instead.

Actually, let’s start from the beginning of the night.

At 7.15 I received a call from Jack, telling me he was parked outside my house in his car, too fearful to leave in case he got a parking ticket. I threw on my coat, put my wallet and keys into pocket and almost walked out the house without the tickets. After a fairly mundane drive into the murky depths of Hanley, we met with our partner in pop, Rosie, and headed towards the Sugarmill for our night of musical passion.

And there we found sticky floors.

The first band to play was ‘Coda’, a four piece that had no singer. Instead they created a wall of atmospheric sound that engulfed my ears in fuzz noise delight. They were a bit samey overall, their only setting appeared to be ‘epic soundscape’, but they were enjoyable nonetheless. Also, I was impressed that not one, but two of the band member used Fender Jaguar guitars- I’ve wanted one of those guitars for many years, so I basically zoned out staring at the guitars for most of the set.

Next up was Jeremy Warmsley, a solo guy that wore a lovely sleeveless checked jumper and had thick rimmed glasses. He muttered and shuffled about on stage whilst playing his own personal songs that no doubt meant a lot to him. Naturally, he was the coolest guy in the entire building. If I was in a critical mood, I could pick apart his lyrics and musical prowess, but due to my current elated state, I have nothing but respect for someone who can perform on stage solo and hold the audiences attention for a half hour set. He also seemed like a genuinely nice man.

And so we come to headliners. Nope, it wasn’t the crazy dancing fools (although they could headline something I’m sure) but Maps, another atmospheric type band, except their songs had words and things. If I had to describe to my mum what they sounded like, I would probably say “they’re a bit like Moby, but, y’know, better.” And that’s about right- they make beautiful noise that would fit perfectly with a quiet night in whilst reading a magazine, but with enough energy for it to work live too.

And so we three music mages inhaled the musical goodness, and after picking up a free CD and telling Jeremy Warmsley that he was ace, we left sated and enriched. Then went to the takeaway.

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300 – A bag of Mixed Views.

By Jack and Dave
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Dear Jack,

It has recently come to my attention that you are a fan of the uber-manly and rather homo erotic action fest that is 300. How can this be? Please explain to me how you don’t view it as a piece of stylish yet totally empty piece of crap.

Yours truly,
Dave.

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Dear Dave,

I’m afraid the reception of that message did not sit well with me. 300 is an excellent film. The action scenes are intense, the dialogue, for the most part, is memorable, and the visuals are outstanding. Empty? It is a fantastic story about men standing in the face of a huge adversary, and not backing down. That film is as deep as the well those Persians got kicked down. How the hell can you not have enjoyed that?

Yours sincerely,
Jack.

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Dear Jack,

The action is completely in slow motion, which is bloody ridiculous, the dialogue is atrocious- everybody speaks in clichés- and the visuals are brown. And how can you say it’s a deep story? It’s just a bunch of homosexuals fighting each other and then going back to base camp at the end of the day to play with each other. This is the perfect example of a movie designed for fools- big, stupid action, thick dialogue, some tits and lots of men being overly manly with each other. It’s for blokes. And I am not a bloke. I can articulate feelings and the suchlike.

Yours truly,
Dave.

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Dave,

Firstly, the action is not completely in slow motion, there are whole scenes in real speed, such as when the Persians are hitting the Spartan’s Phalanx. Yes, that said ‘Phalanx’, nothing else. In other fight scenes the slow motion is used only when the killing blow is struck. I agree that in the politics scenes, and conversations, the dialogue can be a bit boring and slow. But the one-liners in this film practically made me grow a second penis. You know which ones I’m talking about. As I may have stated somewhere before, I am a man. And this film is worthy of going hunting with 3:10 to Yuma. You want emotions and feelings? King Leonidas’ last words were “My love.” That alone added depth. That all throughout he could not tell his wife he loved her, then he does in his final breath. The narration is poetry, and some bits are cheesy, but damn, some bits are beautifully written. I’d like to add that there is no homosexual overtone in the film, maybe you just wanted there to be.

Jack.

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Dear Jack,

300 is clearly the gayest film in recent years. I mean, the Spartans could at least put some clothes on- they’re just happily parading their bodies around to other men. Now, if lots of beautiful women were about, offering naughty services to the men, such blatant nipple action would be fine, but there are no women (apart from the whores, which is obviously demeaning to women, but that’s another argument) And also, the main Persian looked like a sex slave.
As for king Leonardo’s (or whatever) last words, he only said them because he knew he was going to die and wouldn’t have to live with the consequences. Not to mention, it’s totally context-less. His love for what? The male form? Cock in his mouth?
And as for the word ‘Phalanx’. Must I tell you what this is an allusion to?
Honestly Jack, I don’t know how you can defend this film- it’s madness.

Dave xx

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Dave,

Madness?

…

This

Is

SPARTA!

Love,
Jack.

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Dear Jack

Please remember to take those tablets I gave you. I worry for you.

Love Dave xx

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End of discussion.

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Golf, a Gentleman’s Game?

By Jack
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Golf. A game invented by the Scottish, when some cocky bastard decided it would be fun to hit a small, hard ball with a stick. Aiming to get it in a small hole, hundreds of fucking yards away. But he wasn’t content with the game at that point. So he decided to place obstacles in your way, like long grass, sand pits and lakes. Fucking lakes! Then, as the final nail in the coffin, Cocky McArsehole thought that there should be 18 of these holes to conquer.

I played golf yesterday, one round of 18 holes with my Dad. The weather was pleasant, the scenery – picturesque, the golf, was a full on hammer-ride of ball-crushing competition. In my lifetime I have not played much golf, I play occasionally with borrowed clubs, playing a friendly game with my Dad. Yesterday, the club was busy; my competition was not against my Father – a seasoned player, but against the other groups of golfers. The sweater-wearing, Titleist-sporting veterans, who power through that course, like a white man through Salford.

My golfing talents allow me to play a mean round of the gentleman’s sport. If you imagine the fairway as a bowling alley, mine is the ball that manages to bounce off every single section of the bumpers, before flopping impotently into the pins, slightly disturbing the air around them.

That’s right. My ‘golf-penis’ is small and insignificant. It awkwardly fumbles around the course, throwing fleeting glances, as the thunderous erections of the veterans stride past, it bashfully averts their judgmental gaze. We were passed by numerous groups of players during our game. My Dad played well, but he was hindered by my incompetence, or to stick to the golf-penis theme, my incontinence. Every golfer that passed us, marched by smugly, their golf-penis swinging around their knees. Whereas theirs had ‘Titleist’ tattooed down the length, mine just had ‘Tit’.

On one such occasion, two golfers were stuck behind us for several holes. Halfway through the hole we would see them wander up to the tee, waiting indignantly for us to finish the hole. Eventually we relented, letting them pass. The smaller of the two met my eyes as he walked. His piercing glare said so much, to put it in pastry terms; his eyes were pies of pity, but they were glazed with malice. It took every fibre of my being not to punch him right in his 8-year-old face. Anyway, I don’t think his Grandpa would have liked that.

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