The Russian Communist Party has complained about the new Indiana Jones film. Having seen it yesterday, I would assume that letters of protest are also in the post from archaeologists, academics, double agents and James Dean impersonators. Near the end there's a scene where Indy can't believe what he's seeing, shortly followed by an expression of utter relief that it's all over. I was right with him.
It's not that The Crystal Skull is a terrible film, it's actually quite an enjoyable way to pass a couple of hours. But if, as rumoured, it took 14 years to come up with a script that Ford and Spielberg were happy with, I dread to think what the first draft must have been like. George Lucas's pervasive and unique brand of pseudo-sci-fi mumbo-jumbo is off-putting and the central legend so obscure (made up?) that a huge amount of exposition follows. The result is a film of dramatically fluctuating pace.
The Crystal Skull just looks tired and rather humourless, although there's a nice touch with the hat just before the credits - which you might miss after spewing at the sickly-sweet Hollywood ending. Cate Blanchett's villain appears to have escaped from a spoof superhero movie, while the supposedly up-and-coming Shia LaBoeuf is plain annoying, John Hurt speaks only gibberish and Ray Winstone manages to sound even more Cockney than usual. Jim Broadbent is predictably good in his brief role as a plot device.
The film features probably the longest and fastest chase scene ever shot in the Amazon but you could drive a large truck through the holes in the continuity and logic. There's also the most predictable plot twist - sorry, make that two - I've seen for a while and a scene lifted straight from The Mummy. To quote Indy, the skull itself "couldn't be made with any known technology", which begs the question, how did the props man make it? And I don't think I'm giving away too much by revealing that as usual the entire set crumbles into dust at the end - rather like the franchise itself, perhaps.
The fifth and final instalment, "Indiana Jones and the Bathchair of Senility" (simplified US title: Indiana Jones Returns), is due for release in 2022. I hear it will feature either Heather Mills or Kerry Katona as Indy's long-lost daughter, and Vinnie Jones as a mute baddie who tries to prevent Indy returning his talking books to the library. I can't wait.
Monday, 26 May 2008
Sunday, 18 May 2008
Chaos at last
Work has finally started on our extension. Technically it started about four weeks ago when I called “the boys” round to help demolish the garage. Paul is about 17 stone of solid barminess with a unique approach to the task. He ripped down the trellis, karate-kicked a hole in the wall, headbutted a few bricks for the benefit of his audience, thumped the roof off its bolts… Emmanuel and I watched with astonishment, then joined in with everything except the headbutts.
The garage wasn’t exactly well built: many of the bricks could be lifted off and there were little piles of sand everywhere from what remained of the mortar. Paul also got to work on the lintel with an angle grinder, to my considerable envy. (I did get to rip down the fence posts though. Real man's work with a proper man's tool.) All best practice with regard to the handling of asbestos roof sheets was blatantly disregarded, by both us and the men at the household waste site when I came to dispose of it. We did have approximately 1000 bricks stacked around the perimeter of the house, before the builders dumped some in the soakaway and I donated more to Paul for his proposed man's shed. We also had a large heap of trellis in the middle of what used to be the lawn, until I converted it to a small heap of ash. My mate Michael came over with petrol but we didn't need it: the thing went up like a Jimmy Godden seaside park. (Topical Kent reference there.) Michael's next visit was to help take up the block paving. That's a devil of a job if, like me, you get two bad lots of advice on how to approach it - and really quite simple if a builder on a recce tells you the proper method. Even simpler if you come home from work to find that a kind South African with a shovel and a work ethic got there first.
The builders turned up on Tuesday and apart from digging a trench in the wrong place and not turning up on Thursday (it was raining too hard, apparently) they appear to be doing a good job.
And at the end of my long exercise trying to decide who to employ, it's Mr Brusque's men who are on site to do the groundworks only. My later dealings with him were very professional, unlike the others. Mr Vague, who didn't bring even a notebook for his visit, not surprisingly forgot to provide either a quote or our drawings back; Mr Thorough asked a lot of intelligent questions and gave us some fine ideas but we’d have had to sell the house to pay his quotation; Mr Non-committal couldn’t read the (admittedly faint) drawings and after I’d personally delivered a better version to his ramshackle office he eventually informed us he couldn’t take on any new work. In the midst of all this our friend Colin told us he could sort out the project from the brickwork onwards and so, despite some obvious risks, that's our chosen option. It is theoretically cheaper than employing a builder to do the whole lot but even at the end I don't think we will know for sure whether it was the right call. And as to when the end will be, your guess is as good as mine. Colin has the skills - he built his own house - but it did take rather longer than expected.
There has been good news (no problem arranging a flexible additional mortgage; opportunities to trim the budget; some additional finance taking shape; the party wall agreement signed; cunning schemes to avoid total loss of the kitchen for six weeks) and bad news (things we’d overlooked in the original budget; my study being smaller when I laid out bricks than I’d anticipated; no permission to increase the size without a new planning application; can’t drain the heating system without losing our hot water; the water main runs through the middle of the site). Perhaps the best news is that Daniel has decided he no longer needs nappies, which removes the need to have the downstairs shower room ready for toilet training during the summer holidays.
I have a hunch we are going to find the next three months or so quite stressful. Our holiday, which was also a nightmare to organise, may fall at just the wrong time in the process, so we’re here for all the messiest and most disruptive stages. At least I will get to take some photos. Keep watching this space…
The garage wasn’t exactly well built: many of the bricks could be lifted off and there were little piles of sand everywhere from what remained of the mortar. Paul also got to work on the lintel with an angle grinder, to my considerable envy. (I did get to rip down the fence posts though. Real man's work with a proper man's tool.) All best practice with regard to the handling of asbestos roof sheets was blatantly disregarded, by both us and the men at the household waste site when I came to dispose of it. We did have approximately 1000 bricks stacked around the perimeter of the house, before the builders dumped some in the soakaway and I donated more to Paul for his proposed man's shed. We also had a large heap of trellis in the middle of what used to be the lawn, until I converted it to a small heap of ash. My mate Michael came over with petrol but we didn't need it: the thing went up like a Jimmy Godden seaside park. (Topical Kent reference there.) Michael's next visit was to help take up the block paving. That's a devil of a job if, like me, you get two bad lots of advice on how to approach it - and really quite simple if a builder on a recce tells you the proper method. Even simpler if you come home from work to find that a kind South African with a shovel and a work ethic got there first.
The builders turned up on Tuesday and apart from digging a trench in the wrong place and not turning up on Thursday (it was raining too hard, apparently) they appear to be doing a good job.
And at the end of my long exercise trying to decide who to employ, it's Mr Brusque's men who are on site to do the groundworks only. My later dealings with him were very professional, unlike the others. Mr Vague, who didn't bring even a notebook for his visit, not surprisingly forgot to provide either a quote or our drawings back; Mr Thorough asked a lot of intelligent questions and gave us some fine ideas but we’d have had to sell the house to pay his quotation; Mr Non-committal couldn’t read the (admittedly faint) drawings and after I’d personally delivered a better version to his ramshackle office he eventually informed us he couldn’t take on any new work. In the midst of all this our friend Colin told us he could sort out the project from the brickwork onwards and so, despite some obvious risks, that's our chosen option. It is theoretically cheaper than employing a builder to do the whole lot but even at the end I don't think we will know for sure whether it was the right call. And as to when the end will be, your guess is as good as mine. Colin has the skills - he built his own house - but it did take rather longer than expected.
There has been good news (no problem arranging a flexible additional mortgage; opportunities to trim the budget; some additional finance taking shape; the party wall agreement signed; cunning schemes to avoid total loss of the kitchen for six weeks) and bad news (things we’d overlooked in the original budget; my study being smaller when I laid out bricks than I’d anticipated; no permission to increase the size without a new planning application; can’t drain the heating system without losing our hot water; the water main runs through the middle of the site). Perhaps the best news is that Daniel has decided he no longer needs nappies, which removes the need to have the downstairs shower room ready for toilet training during the summer holidays.
I have a hunch we are going to find the next three months or so quite stressful. Our holiday, which was also a nightmare to organise, may fall at just the wrong time in the process, so we’re here for all the messiest and most disruptive stages. At least I will get to take some photos. Keep watching this space…
Sunday, 11 May 2008
At the village school May Day fayre yesterday there were new signs on the bouncy castles, saying that parents must supervise their children at all times. Is this a legal requirement or just common sense?
I suspect it's a result of the court case last week in which Sam Harris, who was injured on a bouncy castle, sued the couple who'd hired it, and won £1m compensation. I'm not clear whether this is money that's needed for his care, or just a windfall. It will be covered by the defendants' house insurance, which is strange considering it didn't happen on their property. Good news for the defendants, bad news for those of us whose insurance premia will go up to cover it.
My mother-in-law knows the defendants and told us more about what happened. The Perry family hired the castle along with some other equipment for their triplets' birthday party. Because their garden wasn't big enough, they arranged the use of the field behind their home. Sam Harris happened to be playing in the field, with his father, and wanted to bounce. The Perrys said he couldn't, as he wasn't attending the party, but he went on the castle anyway. (He has Asperger's Syndrome which apparently means he doesn't always listen or understand instructions; the judge said this was irrelevant, curiously. Mrs Perry's back was turned; the judge decided this was relevant.) Another boy did a somersault and accidentally kicked Sam, as a result of which he sustained serious head injuries.
Mark Jerram, founder of the British Inflatable Hirers Alliance (BIHA) said the outcome of the case came as little surprise and reflected the blame culture of modern Britain.
Which brings me back to the signs. The judge rejected the Perrys' argument that Mr Harris should have supervised his son. So why are we now asked to do so? Sometimes the law (or its arbitraters) is a ass.
I suspect it's a result of the court case last week in which Sam Harris, who was injured on a bouncy castle, sued the couple who'd hired it, and won £1m compensation. I'm not clear whether this is money that's needed for his care, or just a windfall. It will be covered by the defendants' house insurance, which is strange considering it didn't happen on their property. Good news for the defendants, bad news for those of us whose insurance premia will go up to cover it.
My mother-in-law knows the defendants and told us more about what happened. The Perry family hired the castle along with some other equipment for their triplets' birthday party. Because their garden wasn't big enough, they arranged the use of the field behind their home. Sam Harris happened to be playing in the field, with his father, and wanted to bounce. The Perrys said he couldn't, as he wasn't attending the party, but he went on the castle anyway. (He has Asperger's Syndrome which apparently means he doesn't always listen or understand instructions; the judge said this was irrelevant, curiously. Mrs Perry's back was turned; the judge decided this was relevant.) Another boy did a somersault and accidentally kicked Sam, as a result of which he sustained serious head injuries.
Mark Jerram, founder of the British Inflatable Hirers Alliance (BIHA) said the outcome of the case came as little surprise and reflected the blame culture of modern Britain.
Which brings me back to the signs. The judge rejected the Perrys' argument that Mr Harris should have supervised his son. So why are we now asked to do so? Sometimes the law (or its arbitraters) is a ass.
Sunday, 4 May 2008
A victory for Not-Ken
Although a contributor to London's economy - at least in the number of lunchtime omelettes I buy across the road from the office, if not in my work itself - I am not a resident and hence did not get a vote for mayor this week.
Nonetheless I am happy to go on the record as being happy that Boris Johnson won. The electorate weren't exactly spoilt for choice. There were only four candidates who got any publicity at all.
Sian Berry is a member of an extreme Green group.
Brian Paddick is a gay policeman and, er, who knows?
Boris is known for his gaffes and buffoonery, under which I suspect lie some views that are closer to the 19th than the 21st century.
Ken Livingstone is himself, which in many people's eyes is enough to make him unelectable.
This is the man who said he wouldn't serve more than one term, who said that no mayor should serve more than two terms - and then tried for a third. A man who welcomed all kinds of extremists (both political and religious). A man who took junketing and cronyism to a new level. A man who introduced bendy buses which may be statistically successful (if you overlook the spontaneous combustion of several in the early days) but have drivers boiling over as they block junctions and are a fare-dodger's delight into the bargain. A man who said he would never increase the congestion charge from £8 and then put it up to £25. A man who held a consultation about extending the congestion zone west and ignored the 80% majority opposition to implement the scheme anyway. A man who makes a big deal of travelling by public transport but appears to have invested nothing in the Tube, only buses.
The only way the Tories could have lost was to put forward a complete idiot of a candidate and even they couldn't find one bad enough to lose to Ken. Boris may well screw up the actual business of being mayor, although the way he's avoided hot water during the campaign suggests some wiser heads are playing a part in his operation these days. History may show him as something of a stalking horse but the crucial thing is, London has declared a victory for Someone Who is Not Ken.
Nonetheless I am happy to go on the record as being happy that Boris Johnson won. The electorate weren't exactly spoilt for choice. There were only four candidates who got any publicity at all.
Sian Berry is a member of an extreme Green group.
Brian Paddick is a gay policeman and, er, who knows?
Boris is known for his gaffes and buffoonery, under which I suspect lie some views that are closer to the 19th than the 21st century.
Ken Livingstone is himself, which in many people's eyes is enough to make him unelectable.
This is the man who said he wouldn't serve more than one term, who said that no mayor should serve more than two terms - and then tried for a third. A man who welcomed all kinds of extremists (both political and religious). A man who took junketing and cronyism to a new level. A man who introduced bendy buses which may be statistically successful (if you overlook the spontaneous combustion of several in the early days) but have drivers boiling over as they block junctions and are a fare-dodger's delight into the bargain. A man who said he would never increase the congestion charge from £8 and then put it up to £25. A man who held a consultation about extending the congestion zone west and ignored the 80% majority opposition to implement the scheme anyway. A man who makes a big deal of travelling by public transport but appears to have invested nothing in the Tube, only buses.
The only way the Tories could have lost was to put forward a complete idiot of a candidate and even they couldn't find one bad enough to lose to Ken. Boris may well screw up the actual business of being mayor, although the way he's avoided hot water during the campaign suggests some wiser heads are playing a part in his operation these days. History may show him as something of a stalking horse but the crucial thing is, London has declared a victory for Someone Who is Not Ken.
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