no, Angel!

David Boreanaz is in the video for the new Dido single 'White Flag'. Now, I'm aware that David is not Vincent Gallo (wait, hang on, that's a good thing... okay, he's not John Malkovich.... no, wait - he's not Johnny Depp, okay?), and that it is not a necessity that the actors who appear in TV shows I enjoy also share my taste in music, or even my standards of dignity.

But really. A Dido video. What. Was. He. THINKING?

He's never looked podgier, his hair is as disastrous as in any Angelus-was-a-bad-man flashback, and he wears a series of outfits that scream "someone somewhere told me this was hip, but in a non-threatening way!" Plus he meanders through the whole thing with that bemused "did I leave the gas on?" expression - you know, the one which has led the writers of Angel to work the titular character's tendency to be slightly dim into the plot. It's a cringe-inducing disaster from start to finish. The only moment of light relief comes when the two of them pull up to some traffic lights in their respective posh cars (and somehow manage not to meet each other's gaze - ahhhh, it's a moment, do you see?), and the weird swaying camerawork and gushing smoke machine makes it looks like they're meant to be in 60s-retro spaceships (which would be an improvement, because then they'd be in a video for a song by The Darkness). Failing that, for a moment you think that they might be about to have a Rebel Without A Cause style race (but then they'd be in the video for N*Sync and Nelly's 'Girlfriend', which would be a HUGE improvement).

There's no drag racing, of course, because that would be far too scary and exciting for the likes of Dido. 'White Flag' is as you'd expect: unbearably polite, coffee-table friendly cack. It's also pretty much a carbon copy of 'Here With Me'. Still unbelievably evocative of the posh part of Islington. Still exactly the kind of music that the person I hate Dido for reminding me of would love.

What WERE you thinking, Dave?

I'd just like to say: the first episode of Six Feet Under season 3?

Wow.

modern rock review

On hearing 'I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself' by The White Stripes:

Quick, somebody break a few more of Jack's fingers! I'm sorry, I liked 'Seven Nation Army' well enough, but this is needlessly tedious swill. Plus, the video is so dull a) it even manages to make Kate Moss in her pants a boring prospect / b) because it's just Kate Moss in her pants (delete as applicable).

On hearing anything by The Darkness:

Quite fun, but why not just admit you like Queen, go out and buy a Queen album, put it on very loud and do air-guitar to 'Seven Seas Of Rye'? That's what I'd do.

Poor people, all fifty of you a day, checking this page and seeing no updates...

Here's some thoughts I had on Withnail & I recently, originally posted elsewhere.

[... and begin...]

Entropy.

Entropy, entropy, entropy.

England is crumbling into the sea.

More specifically, I think what I really get from the film these days is the terrifying spectre of what we might call Thatcherism for want of a better word. Call it Blairism now if you like. An ideology that basically says there is no place in the kind of England we want for weirdo misfits like Withnail or Monty or Marwood-pre-haircut. They are not useful. They do not contribute to society. The question of whether the idealised arcadia that Monty believes existed back in his punting days, and Danny believes that the 60s were/could've/should've been, ever existed is pretty moot. What's certain is that the world of Thatcher and Blair is bearing down on scum like this lot, and it wants them to get a job and a haircut and GETINTHEBACKOFTHEVAN.

And you can basically either sulk and fret, or get drunk and have a few laughs until it all becomes too much and you crack and end up reciting Shakespeare to the lions.

That's the gloomy way of looking at it. The fun way is just to recite all the best lines. Christ, let's do that, it's all far too depressing otherwise.



Re: the question of Withnail's feelings for Marwood - my take on that is that this is a film obsessed with the blurred boundary between homosocial relationships and... something more. I mean, why is Marwood so fucking terrified of Monty, right from the start? Okay, so Marwood is terrified of almost everybody and everthing, but even so... I don't think this is a guy who's very secure in his own sexuality. This works utterly brilliantly to comic effect because the only way he can find to respond to Monty is this bizarre fixed grin and polite deferral which always comes across as flirting... It's painful to watch but painful-funny up until the point where Monty actually leaves. You know, the film has been encouraging us to laugh at this appalling enormous middle-aged gay man in semi-drag saying "I intend to have you even if it must be burglary!", and all of a sudden he's gone, and the film is heading inexorably towards a downbeat ending from that moment on. Monty is incredibly alone at the end of the film (I know his previous liasions with younger men are implied, and maybe he'll have them again, but c'mon, that letter he writes them is so tragic, he's so desperate for real love or even companionship). Y'know, in a way Monty's fate sort of foreshadows Withnail's, only the latter doesn't have any of the material comforts, making him doubly fucked.

Also note that there are virtually no women in this film, nor do Withnail or Marwood ever express any interest in them (Marwood says he's not a homosexual, but he doesn't seem to be much of a heterosexual either - these are people whom sex has somehow passed by). And it's so grimly ironic that W&I pretend to be a couple and Monty envies them this togetherness, and then they 'split up' and you realise the extent to which they *were* a couple, albeit a platonic one...

Which is not to say that Withnail definitely has romantic or sexual feelings for Marwood. But he loves him. They love each other, in fact. That's where the emotional kick comes from.

God, the bit that always gets me is when they're in the park, in the rain, and Marwood asks Withnail not to walk him any further to the station, and Withnail's like "I want to", and just the way Paul McGann says:

"Please don't. I really don't want you to."

And you know it's because he can't take the goodbyes. Gah. And then, oh God, "I shall miss you..."

I'm usually drunk enough to get seriously watery-eyed and lumpy-throated at that point. Pass the hanky. *sob*

Okay, my Soulseek (or whatever) puppies - download the Peaches and Iggy Pop track, 'Kick It', now. It is a thing of joy.

He: "I hear you like kinky shit!"
She: "That just depends who I'm with."
He: "What is it, S&M or some kind of toy?"
She: "Like you said, search and destroy!"

I'm writing this from Red's place, deep in the wilds of Metroland, the commuter kingdom, endless outposts of suburbia in a rural setting. She's just dyed her hair, thus ceasing to be entirely Red, although no doubt that name will continue to be mildly appropriate due to a persisting resemblance to a character from a cult TV series... I like it here, it feels like a farmstead compared to my crooked little ultra-urban corner of King's Cross (which has its own considerable advantages and charms, but space and homeliness are not two of them).

I have been wondering why I don't start calling Red by either her given name here, or one of her own online handles, but I guess I just like people to have as many codenames as possible. Geeky.

[Edit: it turns out her hair is still quited red. It's just darker. Problem solved!]

Here's a new idea for this blog - I'll write the title of a really long and interesting essay, and you just imagine what the content would consist of.

1. The Misogyny of the Heterosexual Male Gaze and Sex-as-Commerce Vs. The Misogyny of Puritanism, Censorship and Sexual Repression.

There you go.