Why a ‘Book Club’ has made me shudder

Being an aspiring filmmaker, naturally I still live at home. Whilst this comes with a plethora of upsides and downsides, an enduring constant is being acutely aware of the social lives of both my parents. As such, I am aware that my mother attends a bi-monthly book club, something which I find, or should I say found, entirely charming.

Although I haven’t read any of the literature (if you can call it that), I am aware of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey‘. Let’s face it, how can you not be, unless you live under a rock. I am also aware of how, although dumfoundingly extremely popular, there was much criticism surrounding not only the nature of the book, but the quality of the writing. My curiosity piqued, I will admit to watching the first film when it was released. Suffice it to say, the film didn’t disappoint- it was offensive- but not in the way it so pathetically wanted to be.

I consider myself a man of the world. It wasn’t the content which offended me. Film is supposed to be immersive, dealing with subject matter which wouldn’t ordinarily be debated, transporting audiences to imaginative places. Indeed, some of the best works contain the most sordid material.

But, and I will try not to digress too much, the film was like a teenage boy’s fantasy of a perfume advert, hopped up on too much red bull and masturbation. It was a reprehensible excuse for a film, for so many reasons, and why anybody remotely dignified and considerate of their prestigious career in the film industry would want to be in any way connected to it baffles me; conspiring to make this film is the equivalent of the police finding a rancid corpse with no clues, and somebody trampling onto the crime scene and fingering the murder weapon.

The only thing worse than the first movie was when I discovered there would not only be a sequel, but this was a trilogy of books- and by jove, they were going to make every single one. As I understand, the final ‘chapter’ in this farcical  series was released last year. Popping my head up from behind the parapet, I believed all was quiet, and that the hail of bondage masks and pouting and gleeful women had subsided; it was once again safe to venture back into the cinema.

So imagine my dismay when I switched on the television this morning, and saw a sight I truly never expected. Mopping my spilled mouthful of coffee from my chin, I had to rewind to make sure I wasn’t having a nightmare. Alas, my eyes had not deceived me.

Four lifelong friends have their lives forever changed after reading 50 Shades of Grey in their monthly book club.

Just allow that premise to sink in for a second. And no, I haven’t made that up- that came directly from iMDB.

But that’t not all. Here is the top billed cast:

Diane Keaton.

Jane Fonda.

Andy Garcia.

Richard Dreyfuss.

Just to put this into perspective: Diane Keaton was in The Godfather.

I know actors have bills to pay. But, if it were a choice between do this movie to pay the mortgage on my Beverly Hills mansion or stay upwind and downsize to a project in Detroit? Get me that Greyhound ticket…Diane Keaton was in The Godfather!

Should I be surprised that this film was commissioned? Probably not. But that doesn’t for one second make the whole affair any less vomit-inducing. Let’s be clear:

It’s not the thought of some newly sexually-awakened sixty-somethings.

It’s not even the thought of respected actors taking a pay day- even De Niro has done that (see Bad Grandpa). 

It’s the sheer gall of the producers who, after everything that has gone on in Hollywood recently, want to resurrect this festering turd of a work and let it air out in our newly purged minds. Fifty Shades, despite what any ears-pricked producer might tell you, did nothing for female empowerment. It did nothing for female sexual liberation. What it did was, capitalise on the very insecurities women in the #metoo movement strive to destroy; namely, sexual manipulation. And what it told us is that basically, if you’re willing to fuck a billionaire, everything will be alright.

I don’t care how it turned out in Chapter Three. That’s what I saw.

Not only that, but it belittled anything other than regular, heterosexual, missionary sex. It was like a group of schoolgirls who’d found her father’s Playboys, giggling at the thought that people might indulge in anything other than the perfunctory.

To even suggest it enlivened women of a certain age and class is absolute hogwash.

And the ultimate irony? The group that Fifty Shades back-handed across the face was exactly the group which pumped billions of dollars into the studios pockets. That’s the part I find the saddest.

I will, however, be keeping a closer eye on the material discussed at Mum’s book club.

 

 

 

Kingsman- the action movie Quentin Tarantino never wanted to make.

I have to admit, although I’m not particularly fond of the whole action/superhero mega-franchise studio movies, Kingsman: The Secret Service wasn’t entirely vomit inducing. A believable plot, a good ensemble cast and some nice action sequences (the ‘church massacre’, in particular) spruced up a fairly well-trodden path.

Despite that, I couldn’t shake the faint tinkle of an alarm bell in my head last night when I went to watch the second (of what I fear will be many) instalment.

Despite the qualities of The Secret Service, there was a hint of smugness about it which I feared, given the aggressive marketing approach for The Golden Circle, would be ramped up to eleven.

The film started at 8PM precisely. By 8:05, I knew I was correct in my concern.

By 8:30, I was bored. And things, I’m sad to say, didn’t get any better.

There are a multitude of problems with the film, which misses the mark more times than Colin Firth’s character Harry Hart who, shot in the head killed in the first film, inexplicably (and ludicrously) makes a return. And although some might say, ‘well, it is a film about spies and spies have gadgets we don’t know about’, this suspension of disbelief is actually a more heinous flaw than it first appears.

Having had their UK intelligence hacked and henceforth the Kingsman facilities destroyed Eggsy (Taron Egerton) and Merlin (Mark Strong), relocate to Kentucky where they find the Statesmen, a parallel US organisation. It is here they discover Gallahad (Colin Firth) is alive, but not entirely well- conceivable, given he was quite convincingly shot in the head in the first movie.

Nonetheless, here he is, apparently rescued by the Statesmen with a gel wrap that protects the brain and allows the bullet to be surgically removed. Upside, you don’t die, downside, you suffer retrograde amnesia.

Now, I’ve watched a lot of action movies. Indeed, I’ve watched lots of movies where the audiences disbelief is asked to be suspended. I’m happy to do it.

But there’s a rule everybody sticks to, from spy to action to blood-thirsty zombie cannibals- headshots mean you’re dead. Not even 007 would’ve dared to whip out his headshot gel pack and try and convince you otherwise.

Okay, so it’s a way of shoe-horning CF back into the franchise. Which in and of itself is an issue for me personally, but one I would forgive the filmmaker if it was just that. But it’s not.

For one, it undermined any jeopardy from the first film. Colin Firth dying in The Secret Service was a major turning point- Eggsy, whom he had mentored and nurtured, was now on his own, forced to save the world relying on the lessons Gallahad had taught him. It was where Eggsy finally turned from Oliver Twist into James Bond.

Now, it just seemed an amateurish plot device to make the first film more dramatic. It was as though Matthew Vaughn and Jane Goldman had left the script in the toilet for Jonathan Ross to discover, and had taken a few of his suggestions seriously. It made me feel duped for investing in the drama.

The second problem is, it immediately impacted the second film.

For those not in the know, consider Obi Wan Kenobi turning up in The Empire Strikes Back, having magically pieced himself back together with duct tape. The whole point of Kenobi, this great Jedi knight being slaughtered by Vader in A New Hope, is to make the villain scary and the threat REAL. From then on, we are invested in Luke Skywalker’s journey- how is this inexperienced apprentice going to take down such an evil overlord.

Suffice it to say, as soon as I saw Colin Firth alive and well in The Golden Circle, the film lost any sense of these characters being in danger- one of the core principles of suspense. If getting shot in the head doesn’t kill you, then where’s the jeopardy for Eggsy? Where’s the danger?

Even if we excuse the film for this, well, inexcusable flaw, there are other troubling matters. The film merrily introduces us to interesting characters- for one, Charlie (Edward Holcroft), a previously rejected Kingsman candidate, now gone to the dark side. Although we’ve seen it all before, Charlie’s menace actually does hold some interest- even though he too was convincingly killed in the first film.

Enter my initial fear about the egotistical nature of the film. The Golden Circle is so distracted by itself, showing off with set-piece after set-piece, it fails to address the key characterisation which it purports. It skims the surface of characters, forcibly introducing you, then casually strolling into the distance. It’s like a giant Narcissus, admiring itself in the mirror, oblivious to the fire which destroys the house around it.

The film is unapologetically wasteful, too. Relentless stars pop in and say hi, without ever really impacting the plot. Most notable of these is Channing Tatum who, it would appear, Matthew Vaughn hit it off with at a drinks do and wanted to include, but had real-life scheduling issues; so after introducing him as a key character, the plot chucks him into deep freeze for the rest of the film, only to unashamedly reveal him as a member of the Kingsman at the end of the film, and tee us up for a sequel, which he will presumably be available for. Wretch.

But the tipping point was Elton John. Yes, Elton John. He first appears as a device to show how evil Poppy (Julianne Moore) really is- she has captured the world’s biggest pop star and reduced him to performing monkey in her remote lair in Cambodia.

Okay, I’ll let you away with that. Once.

Then Sir Elton, who I’m not sure whether to pity or ridicule, turns up again. And again. Then he starts speaking.

He’s not just a cameo. He’s IN this film.

And in this moment of dawning realisation I know that, somewhere, Sir Elton is going to have key role in the climax. Probably to the theme of Rocket Man. If you haven’t seen it, I won’t spoil it for you, but….

But amid all the farcical plot twists and clunking set pieces, there’s one element the film really falls short at- it’s not funny.

And it’s not funny because there’s no suspense. Because we don’t ever feel Eggsy and co are in danger, there’s no tension, and therefore the pithy lines bounce back because they’re not easing our concern for the character. I just about managed one laugh when an out of control cable car stops short of a mountain retirement home. But that was as good as it got.

People will say it’s good fun- indeed, I know for a fact people did enjoy it.

But it’s endemic of the viral lobotomy of mainstream cinema, relying on set-pieces and cast to pull a threadbare plot together.

The troubling thing is, I think that deep down there was probably a good sequel in there. And I do wonder, after a $100million plus spend, how many executive producers were meddling in the film.

But it’s no excuse, really, because there are glaring, fundamental problems.

It is so long, the plot such a mess, that the film has the tension of a cheese string.

Mark Kermode said it best- that if Michael Bay had made this movie, we wouldn’t have forgiven him (he was talking about one very specific moment, which I haven’t even had the chance to broach, but I agree with him on, and if you’ve seen the film, you’ll know).

But I would go one further.

I would describe The Golden Circle as a Frankenstein’s monster of a film, compiled of cutting room scraps of James Bond, Guy Ritchie and Quentin Tarantino, sewn together by an evil, amateurish surgeon. Dressed in a Dolce and Gabbana suit, it lures you into thinking it’s flashy and cool, as it lumbers towards you, mouth agape, tailored suit arms outstretched, clumsily crushing any sense of legacy it had created in the first film,  lurching from one pop culture reference to another, all the while catching glimpses of itself in the mirror and admiring itself, before returning to dragging you by the scruff of your neck through the plot.

If there’s one thing I wish that were real from the film, it would be Poppy’s burger mincing machine- at least then we could pop the monster in and confine it to offal, which it richly deserves.

Why I want to make another short film

I can’t believe I just wrote that.

It’s been a year since I said, ‘Never again’.

And yet here I am, a year later, going back on myself. Why…

It’s October 5th 2016. Day 2 of 5 on my first short, ‘(A Very) Ham-Fisted Stake Out‘. A project myself and Dom Bolton (producer) had worked tirelessly to get on its feet for over a year. A project which, if I’m honest, was like an articulated truck speeding at me at 80mph- it got more fucking terrifying the closer it got.

Day 1 couldn’t have gone any better. I woke up with a thrill I hadn’t had since Christmas Day 2001, when I got my first mobile phone. I came home from the shoot and had a glass of wine with my Mum (yeah I still live at home, it’s Bo-Ho, fuck off). I went to bed at around 10 for the first time in 7 years, in the spirit of being conscientious. I couldn’t wait to do it all again the next day.

The morning of Day 2, and I was cruising on the M4 elevated section. Driving past the giant billboards in the sky, I knew it wasn’t long before my film would be projected to the disgruntled commuters on their way into the city. I felt like QT must’ve felt like when Harvey Keitel agreed to do ‘Reservoir Dogs‘. I had arrived.

Stepping out of the car, I took a deep drag on the fifth cigarette of the morning, inoculating any fresh air that dared pass into my lungs. The excitement was plain, the adrenaline pumping.

I arrived on set as I had the day before and greeted everybody. Somebody asked how my night was. I tried to reply, but their question ricocheted around my brain like an errant squash ball. I mumbled something in response, and put it down to not having had my second coffee.

All day this continued. I felt unsteady on my feet. Where the adrenaline had carried me the day before, to the point I felt I was floating, today I felt leaden-legged, a fog slowly gathering in my head.

Lunch came and I didn’t eat. The crew babbled and joked through mouthfuls of Thai green curry, but I could barely follow the conversation, much less contribute. I couldn’t stomach any food, instead choosing to fuel my body with nicotine and caffeine, a winning formula.

The shoot schedule was bottom heavy, and I knew we had a lot still to pack in. We were moving location, so it was imperative we got everything we needed today. I lugged this thought around as we re-rigged for the crucial final scene.

As the final lights were put in place, I stepped on to set to discuss the moves with my lead actor. This was the Dogs style ending, where everybody got their comeuppance, so Chris the Action Director was busy laying crash mats for the actors to fall dramatically onto.

Tom asked me something, and I pretended to ponder it. I had become accustomed to doing this in order to appear intelligent and thoughtful, but actually to buy time trying to summon a seemingly profound response. But there was a secondary reason. This time the question set fire to my nerves. It felt like Roger Federer had smacked that squash ball in my head, and it was pinging around my cranium.

For a moment’s respite, I looked away, up, up into the lamp. I felt myself leave my body and travel into the lamp, like a hypnotised moth, the light getting smaller and smaller until- BLACKOUT.

‘Stop, stop, just relax’.

‘Do you know where you are Max?’.

‘Okay, let’s get him up’.

Muted applause.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’.

‘There’s no need to be’.

I blinked my eyes open. I was horizontal. An attractive nurse with a nose ring was looking at my face. This hadn’t happened before. I smiled at her.

‘Hello’.

She swerved my powers of seduction, the consummate professional.

‘Ah Mister Ward, good to have you back’.

‘Is it?’. Another smile.

‘Do you know where you are?’.

No, come to think of it, I didn’t.

‘Have I been secretly recruited for a clandestine government space mission?’.

‘You’re in Chelsea and Westminster hospital’.

‘Ah’. So Probably not.

‘I’m just going to check your blood pressure…’.

With MI5 out of the question, I realised I didn’t want to be here anymore.

‘Look, I need to go. I’m making a film…’.

This thinly-veiled attempt at impressing her fell flat.

‘Yes, but you had a seizure. We need to find out what the cause was’.

‘Ah’.

She disappeared into the busy ward, and was soon replaced by my worried parents.

‘What happened Maxy?’ asked my Mum, as she patronisingly stroked my forehead.

‘I wish I could tell you…’.

After the attractive nurse had checked my vitals, she allowed me to leave. Being the worldly chap I am, I apologised for wasting NHS resources.

‘Oh don’t worry. We see a lot worse’.

I returned to set and was greeted with warm embraces from the crew that remained. In my absence, they had picked up the slack.

‘Why did you call an ambulance?’ I asked Dom.

‘Well, you turned blue..’ was his reply.

‘Oh. Wish I hadn’t asked’.

‘Luckily, when you dropped, you landed straight on one of the crash mats!’.

‘Every cloud…’.

Despite a building anxiety of a repeat performance, the remaining three days passed with no such palaver. When we wrapped on Day 5, I thanked the cast and crew for their support and patience.

Now, in such situations, where one party thanks another for tolerating an inconvenience (unavoidable or otherwise), I’m accustomed to phoney Americanisms like ‘no problems!’. As such, I’ve become a Morse when it comes to detecting such responses.

But, to a man, there was nothing but genuine concern.

My lead, Steve Hartley, grabbed me tight.

‘Go and get yourself checked out son. Promise?’.

I nodded.

And I did- the neurologist couldn’t find a thing wrong. The upshot of which, I was left in a kind of purgatory; knowing it could happen again, but not knowing if or when. Great.

This was compiled by the fact I couldn’t drive for a year (what seems like an arbitrary length of time, but that’s another story).

Fast-forward a year, to 5th October 2017. I’m standing in the exact spot I had the seizure the year previous.

‘Fucking one year seizure free- yahoo!’ I exclaim, and the crew giggle.

But in the back of my mind, I’m anxious I could drop at any minute.

In the 12 months since the first seizure, we had gone through a rigmarole of a post-production. Unreliable editors, ghost VFX artists and a dwindling budget resulted in a drawn out process tantamount to torture.

And somewhere in those 12 months, I had decided that I had unfinished business.

Watching the rough cut, I knew I would never be happy unless I went back and perfected the final scene I missed out on.

So I compiled a revised script, scraped together the money, begged the friend’s Mum who owned the house to give us the keys one last time, and dragged the actors from various reaches of London back for one last hurrah.

With a sleepless night under my belt, I arrived early on set, every nerve shredded at the thought of seizing again.

Fortunately, the day passed like a smooth dream, and by the time I called wrap, I knew that I had exorcised the demons of a year previous.

As the cast and crew slowly filtered out, I sat by myself and watched them hug one another, laugh, joke and take photos for social media.

I drifted back to a year prior. As the paramedics helped me out of the house, I caught snatches of audio…a round of applause. I realised what had made this experience so worthwhile. Why, despite all the hard times, the pit falls, the financial constraints, the knock-on effects…why I was back here a year on.

The camaraderie.

I could wax lyrical all day about how wonderful the crew had been professionally, but the real joy was the harmony between everyone, young and old, famous and not. There was no ego, no rivalry, no bitterness. Just love.

I sat back and enjoyed it, for one last time, before they all disappeared onto other sets around the country, the confirmation evermore steadfast in my mind that, despite the pain, I would do whatever it took to do this all over again.