Today I found out I've landed some much-needed employment, and to celebrate I took myself out to see the movie of the moment, Bridesmaids. Now and again, a film comes along that you spend more time reading about than watching. Whatever I had built up Bridesmaids to be in my head, it was totally different. Quirky, yes; full of charismatic women, yes. But it wasn't fully about the hellish journey from dress fitting to Big Day; it was a direct split between wedding disasters and the spiralling life of lonely protagonist Annie (writer Kristen Wiig.) Rather than giving a human edge to the more heavily-advertised half of the plot, this strand just made me wonder if Wiig had found opportunities for bridesmaid antics a bit thin on the ground.
Melissa McCarthy, Ellie Kemper, Rose Byrne, Wendi McLendon-Covey, Maya Rudolph, Kristen Wiig
Don't get me wrong, this film is definitely worth a look. A few scenes are indeed laugh-out-loud, most are just amusingly surreal. Annie, already on a relationship and career low, is thrown when her oldest friend Lillian (Maya Rudolph) gets engaged, but leaps at the chance to be her maid of honour. The most amusing obstacle comes in the form of Helen (Rose Byrne), Lillian's glossier and richer 'new' best friend, and the two women's sneaky battle for best BFF is nothing short of hilarious. Byrne is deliciously despicable, and Wiig charmingly neurotic. For me, Annie's predictably schmaltzy romance with cop Nathan (played by the IT Crowd's Chris O'Dowd) only detracted from the insane brilliance of the all-female moments.
The only part that lived up to the trailer and the reviews, though, was Melissa McCarthy's performance as boisterous sister of the groom Megan - one of the best rom-com characters I've seen in a long time. And this is a rom-com. While critics claim it rivals dick-flicks such as The Hangover - and it does break ground in terms of vomit, swearing and realistic-looking women - the central romance, and Annie's anxiety about losing her friend, still keep it in traditional wedding-comedy territory.
In fact, I would've liked to see less of Annie's sad singledom (except for the painfully spot-on guy stringing her along at the beginning of the film) and more of Annie and Lillian's relationship. There was more than enough sentiment to be wrung from the erosion of the best friend bond, and I could take or leave the cop romance.
Still, there are laughs a-plenty, if not, as journos such as Zoe Williams have implied, gallons more wit or feminist pizazz than most decent romantic comedies. There is one particularly brilliant scene on a plane to Vegas, supporting bridesmaids Becca and Rita keep it light and funny, as do colourful characters like Annie's mum - who goes to AA meetings just for fun - and surreal roomates Brynn and Gil (Rebel Wilson & our own Matt Lucas.)
Wiig's Saturday Night Live past is evident in the ballsy screenplay; the film opens with the same song as ex-SNL colleague Tina Fey's teen masterpiece Mean Girls, and clearly aspired to a similar level of bizarre to her sitcom 30 Rock. Sadly, I just didn't feel it lived up to Fey's fast-paced, wordy scripts, instead resorting to vomit, bad sex and in-flight drugs to fuel the comedy.
I can't tell if the amount of hype ruined it, and had I just walked into screen 8 on a Thursday afternoon whim I would have been raving about it, but I'm not sure Bridesmaids is the innovative and stunning comedy the press has built it up to be. There are lovable characters and memorable moments, and Wiig has fantastic comic timing, but I don't know if I'd buy the DVD.
The last few weeks I have been reading the somewhat overexposed Eat, Pray, Love, something I’ve been meaning to pick up after months of recommendations, but was finally spurred to open by of the impending film adaption starring Julia Roberts. For those who aren’t familiar with this bestseller, it is the memoir of American writer Elizabeth Gilbert, who, following an acrimonious divorce and general listlessness, took herself off to Italy, India and Bali for a year, spending an even four months in each. I’ve really enjoyed it, although it hasn’t all been unputdownable; the first section which describes Liz’s initial turmoil, decision to travel and pasta pilgrimage to Rome was a pure delight, but the middle third detailing her time meditating in an Indian Ashram and ensuing spiritual education was, for me, less compelling. I am currently part way through her adventures in Bali, which are back on her more interesting themes of immersion in culture, meeting new people and relaying poignant anecdotes. I am looking forward to seeing the film in many ways, and can certainly understand Hollywood’s eagerness to put EPL on the big screen; the visual feast on the page just lends itself to a film version, although the real heart of the story, Gilbert's constant, honest introspection, will be harder to incorporate. Today in the Indy, Rebecca Armstrong bemoans Hollywood’s frequent fudging of much-loved books and hopes that Eat, Pray, Love will not prove another casualty. It is a precarious case, as meditation on the self + Julia Roberts + a soaring soundtrack could equal something unbearably sappy, but I really hope they have included some of the individual appeal of the book as well as the inevitable shots of smiling Indian children and sunsets.
There has been a flurry of negative pre-release assumptions, from some of my favourite female writers amongst others, dismissing both book and adaptation on Twitter and in the press. The brilliant Lindy West was not a fan (the savvy Telegraph snapped her up for this cutting review) and I’m sure others will follow. Gilbert is accused of being smug, self-obsessed, hypocritical and clichéd in a ‘moany rich woman finds herself’ sort of way, and on these grounds the book is deemed worthless chick lit. I can’t say I agree. While, on paper, her New York existence prior to her travels might be deemed privileged (published author & journalist, wealthy husband, big house, friends, parties) the point of the opening is exactly that – on paper, her life is perfection. Her chronic sadness is openly based on her guilt that she isn’t happier, that she can’t make her marriage work and that she finds she doesn’t want a baby to complete the domestic picture. I have rarely read a writer more frank about her own shortcomings, selfishness and neuroses. This is, I believe, why so many women found the book refreshing and absorbing: we all have meltdowns, panics and periods of unhappiness. Yes, a lot of it is described in group-therapy schtick, but that’s how contemporary Americans communicate. This self-awareness makes us Brits uncomfortable, but also with a slight hint of envy at being able to admit to your own issues. The writer dwells on her own self more in this book than most people will in a lifetime, but she does it with an educated finesse that makes it palatable.
Whatever her motives, a newly-single Gilbert decided to end the pretence of her glossy city life and visit places that fascinated her. The tripartite structure of the book reflects the poetry the narrator finds in everything she encounters; the neat introduction describes how her tale is divided into 108 small stories, the number having spiritual significance in Yogic philosophy. Whatever her sentimental reasons for conveying her story thus, it worked for me. The small, almost isolated anecdotes are each a charming peek into a completely self-centred adventure (in the best possible way.) We meet her new friends, hear their stories, but more often than not we are privy to her own thoughts and ponderings on life. The narrator is shaken up time and time again by natural beauty, the range of human experience and the ability of others to remain smiling, in a positive look at self-discovery if ever there was one.
But the snobbery over this memoir and its subject matter is not only mystifying, it has eclipsed all critical and public acclaim the book attracted when published in 2006. I was really annoyed when the Daily-bloody-Mail ran a ‘novelty’ feature about their egotistical columnist Liz Jones taking the same trip, making a direct comparison to Jones’ preoccupation with herself that disregards all the beauty of the original. Elizabeth Gilbert is apologetic many times in the novel for her overthinking of things, and relays her joy and satisfaction with the world and its inhabitants far more than her misery at her own situation. Her gift is her ability to tell the stories of others and to put the vividness of a moment on the page. The only thing they have in common is daring to think their own lives might be worth writing about. Maybe the problem is that women are not supposed to be selfish, in any circumstances. But regardless of background, money earned and property owned (and Gilbert started life on a Christmas tree farm in Connecticut, not Park Avenue) I don’t think the book is just a whinefest about her rich Western malaise. She gives good reasons for her escape, including her dependence on men for happiness - having been in relationships basically her entire adult life - and her husband’s venomous approach to their divorce flattening her self esteem. I have nothing but respect for someone who is determined to lift themselves out of the torpor of depression, be that with a U-turn in career, ending a relationship or just taking off in search of something new. But some women seem to be embarrassed by such shirking of domestic responsibility. It is puzzling to me, as there seems no better time to take off than following the painful end to a childless marriage. There is an argument that we don’t all have the money to traipse off and sit on mountains every time we feel sad, but she paid for the trip with the publishers' advance for the book – offered to a result of her own reputation as writer, built up by years of hard work.
Gilbert's choice of destinations was also interesting to me. Rome I can completely relate to, where she essentially indulged her taste for fresh, rustic Italian food, the Italian language and the stunning architecture. This was the most moving part for me, as she nurtures new friendships and finds freedom in pursuing nothing but pleasure. There is a sublime passage where Liz and her new friends celebrate Thanksgiving in the Italian mountains, and she realizes just how many things she is thankful for. At another point, she finds the strength to persevere with her Yogic studies by focusing on a nephew she is fiercely protective of. In moments like these I found myself so in tune with Gilbert’s voice that I felt the lump in the throat, the tear in the eye or the surges of happiness as she narrated them. Make what you will of the cliché of a Westerner dabbling in Yoga, religion and Eastern philosophy, but you can’t deny the power of the writing. In India, her language was more difficult to me as her openness to the idea of a non-specific God as well as energy, meditation and enlightenment are so far from my own views on the world. But it is her hope that something greater than herself can enrich her life, rather than a preachy ‘knowledge’ of this, that still managed to charm me. In Bali, her love affair with its quirky and laid-back population is filled with admiration rather than touristy condescension, and the charismatic medicine man she learns from is one of my favourite figures. Perhaps I found the book so arresting because the thought of leaving my world behind and venturing out alone is both terrifying and alluring to me; in all honesty I don’t think I currently have the balls, but I’d love to in the future, and the fact is so many people’s responsibilities and duties prevent it from ever being an option.
Whether the film is fabulous or a flop, I hope people will still read the book if they find themselves intrigued, as I did this month. Whether you are going through an introspective period yourself or simply want to travel vicariously, this is a fascinating example of someone taking themselves out of their comfort zone and actively trying to widen their perspective. Not only this, but the uncommon spirit of Gilbert’s diary-memoir style shows an appreciation throughout of the beauty, poetry and wonderful contrasts of the world and its communities, something rare and to be cherished in a book. I hope the coven of female media types scoffing at the whole concept stop and think about such things now and again; if not, I know which experience I’d rather have. Review of the film to follow...
I didn’t know what to expect when I skipped into the West End to see Hair the musical last night. Hair is one of those unavoidable chunks of culture; you’ve heard the music (even if it’s via the Müller ads), you’ve vaguely picked up on references to the nudity and you probably know more than you think about the premise (hippies/drugs/Vietnam.) The main reason I still felt unsure, despite this psychedelic frame of reference, was that I hadn’t heard any standout songs and the synopsis itself didn’t draw me in hugely. But the iconic nature of the original late 60s production, the hit songs it produced and the buzz this year as the new Broadway revival was brought to London all made me curious about the show. I don’t particularly adore the music that I do know, but I had heard that it was such an infectiously uplifting night out that many friends were going back for more. So last night, just a few weeks before its schedule closure in September, I finally went to find out what all the fuss was about.
My verdict? It was great, but it wasn’t incredible. The music and the story didn’t blow my mind, but the vibrant vocals, colour and energy did. Audience participation is something I’m usually horrified by (my reserved Britishness finds it cringeworthy and my love of storytelling jars with the breaking of the fourth wall) but the rambly chattiness of the charismatic stoners and the weaving of the cast in and out of the audience, stroking hair and giving out flyers, was utterly charming. I would like to be able to say that this would also have been true of a British production, but I do feel the full-on Americana of the cast is what made it the solid, confident and slick spectacle it is. The quality of each singer just launches it into a different league to the rest of the West End.
The part I found baffling in such a hit was how hard it was to follow; I’m pretty clued up on the Vietnam war period, but the speed of the lyrics and the lack of diction (perhaps a conscious decision, but it didn’t work for me) meant I spent much of the first few character ‘snippets’ feeling completely lost, if very entertained. I hadn’t appreciated how much it had clearly influenced Rent, one of my favourite musicals, with its scenes of anarchic camaraderie, shock factor and loveable characters. But the tribe, whilst charismatic as a dancing, chanting, belting whole, did not have as much individual appeal as the bohemians of Rent. Caissie Levy really stood out for me with her honeyed vocals and subtlety of performance, but the limitless riffs of Aquarius soloist Dionne and the soaring optimism of leading man Gavin Creel also took my breath away. The group songs are the lifeblood of the show and the ensemble, most of whom have been together since the beginning of the Broadway revival last year, create a gloriously unified sound.
By the end I was certainly feeling the Love, the twin ideas of Peace and Love being a central part of the show. The air was fragrant with incense, the set lit with rainbow colours, the cast (on a bog-standard Tuesday night performance) seemed fresh as a daisy and high on life. I wasn’t as moved as I thought I’d be by the Vietnam war theme, perhaps due to the surreal ‘bad trip’ sequence that once again entertained and baffled me at the same time. This baffletainment sort of manages to work though, and there are quite a few laugh-out-loud moments. Most of all you just want to be part of the gang, and even as someone who loves a power shower and loathes tie-dye, I had never found hippie life so seductively portrayed. For something less gripping than Wicked and less moving than Les Miserables, however, it is a shame that there is no option for cheap tickets. For £29.50 though, you can get into the Dress Circle, which we soon realised was prime hippie-partying ground. I didn’t have anyone dance along the back of my seat, but a tribe member did take a sip of my coke. So if you’re wandering the cloudy streets of London in the next couple of weeks and feel a bit bleak about life, I suggest you Let the Sun Shine In and bask in the transcendental aural trip that is the cast of Hair.
I’ve read a lot of try-hard books lately. Or more accurately, I’ve attempted to read them. After three years of over-analysis in lecture theatres and libraries, books start to become merely a product to pull apart and judge, rather than the cosy old friends of my childhood (when I would routinely romanticise the process by trying to find a window-seat to curl up in – or at last the end of the sofa nearest the window.) Books used to be an irresistible chance to float away on a story and become completely embroiled with its characters; from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s tragic and hopeful A Little Princess – dogeared with re-reading, even in adulthood – to Noel Streatfeild’s charming Ballet Shoes, I devoured my houseful of books. Wherever myself and my family went, we brought far too many books, and there were even books I associated lovingly with my grandparents’ houses. My childhood reading just preceded the trend of absolutely everyone reading a series (think Jacqueline Wilson, Harry Potter, Horrible Histories) and I like to think I chose and loved my books free from PR tactics and peer pressure.
So how I came to be two years out of an English Literature degree, a self-confessed bookworm but secretly, thoroughly out of love with reading – I don’t know. When you’ve learnt to take apart a piece of music bar by bar and question the composer’s motives and influences, it never quite sounds the same. And so it is with books; I find myself unconsciously picking up on Shakespeare-derived sayings, Austenian plots, oxymorons, repeated words, mixed metaphors, overpunctuation, streams of consciousness and the influence of postmodernism, when really wishing I could go back to finding characters, stories and little worlds created seemingly for my entertainment alone. Post-degree, I also tried to go for prize-winners, dark themes and inaccessible styles to continue my analytical education, when really I should have been letting myself back into the groove of enjoyable bookwormery with that elusive of genres, the Great Read. Only two GRs have this year sliced through the pedantic layer of academia that still obscures my reading: the first was the beyond-charming The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society(highly recommended) and the second was my most recent commuting - and lunch hour, and bedtime – book, the newly-published Turning the Tideby Christine Stovell. This book has, quite simply, made me hate having a job and a life. What I wouldn’t have given to have an empty weekend to sit and read it from intriguing beginning to satisfying end (it definitely warrants a re-read.) But then again, it just may be the perfect commuter's novel. With the artful suspense of a six-part TV drama – a form which I think it would suit perfectly – the plot ebbs and flows with each chapter, giving you a little more information with each burst of reading.
When smooth-talking hottie Matthew Corrigan starts nosing around the sleepy seaside town of Little Spitmarsh, its bored residents are stirred by his plans for a chic new restaurant on the waterfront, to be followed by apartment blocks and a new-look waterfront. Many think a change is just what the town needs, but tomboy Harry Watling is distraught at the thought of her scenic childhood haunts and the tiny boatyard she inherited from her father being swept away by modernization. As Matthew puts his plans into motion, his cool business head is turned by feisty Harry as she becomes determined to make it as hard for him as possible (no pun intended, although there is a more than a dash of sauce to this classic romance.) Any girl who has been single for too long will identify with the confused and restless girl below Harry’s spiky exterior, and rakish Matthew is almost more fanciable than fictional. I was completely absorbed by the comings and goings of the Little Spitmarshers; adorable gay couple Frankie and Trevor trying to start a new life together, Sophia Loren-esque trout-pouting Carmen Moult waxing, plucking and coiffing the locals and gruff ex-naval handyman George with his immaculately kept caravan and tightly-sealed biscuit tin. You wish them all well in different ways, desperate for Harry to use her feminine wiles as well as her fighting spirit, willing father-figure George to come clean about the family secrets of Harry's past, wanting Matthew to soften and see the natural beauty of the place and its most snarling inhabitant. There is even a compelling mini-drama involving the florists’ canine companions Kirstie and Phil. The book’s magic lies in the frankness of its characters, the balance of their perspectives and Stovell’s ingenious ability to add a tiny twist or leak a piece of vital information just at the end of every chapter, making the wait for the conclusion absolutely thrilling. The romance is, perhaps, inevitable but their slow-burning attraction is realistically muddled and complex, making the reader root for them even more.
The bottom line is this is a fabulous summer read – romance, escapism and chuckles galore – but it is also intelligent, exploring business head versus vulnerable heart, natural beauty threatened by modern progress and the pain of losing an idolised parent, all while neatly avoiding cliché and schmaltz. I would love to go to a rugged coastal town and re-read this compelling novel in a complimentary setting, but it was vivid and absorbing even when wedged against a fellow commuter’s shoulder or in a city park surrounded by noisy teenagers and daytime drunks. Huge credit to Stovell’s talent as an author – she paints the quaintest seaside setting, complete with flaws, and makes her reader care about it so fervently that they begin to feel fiercely defensive of Harry and her quirky home. The chemistry between the two lead characters is tangible and the obstacles dividing them excellently placed. Even if you are nautically ignorant, the sailing theme gives you a taste of the freedom and beauty of our native waters, and Harry is the ultimate independent woman, mastering manual labour and tempestuous seas if not her own desires. As the last chapter came to a close, I got off at my station, sat on a bench in the sun and postponed my walk home by ten minutes or so to enjoy the last few pages uninterrupted, a little oasis of sublime romance in my rushed day. I knew from the first time I picked up Turning the Tide that this was a chance to renew my friendship with reading, and I greatly look forward to enjoying more of Christine Stovell's animated and intricate storytelling in the future. If your mind needs a little break from urban life, take a trip to Little Spitmarsh and fall in love with the sensation of diving into a Great Read again.
With this Friday's release of the second Sex and the City film, there has been a bit of a media backlash against Carrie and co as people begin to tire of the glamorous foursome's adventures. The fabulous Stylist magazine (that I love a little more with every issue)has a four-page feature on why men don't get SATC - it's vapid, banal and wildly unfeminist, apparently - and The Guardian's Hadley Freeman this week slates the first film while casually dropping spoilers and judgements on the second (which, it must be noted, she has not seen yet.)
I find it all very amusing that people get so hot under the collar about a little 90s HBO entertainment; I cringe a bit when people declare that SATC changed the world, and I bristle when they dismiss it as misogynist tripe, but mainly because (until Hadley) no one has really made a distinction between the series and the film. They are very different creatures, but in my experience fans of the show tend to adore the first film, and those who always hated the concept were equally unimpressed by SATC on the big screen. I enjoyed both in different ways, but I have to agree with Freeman that the the original TV series was sharp, witty and gritty yet chic. It went from fairly realistic (Carrie's frizzy bob, Sam's hoochy lycra) to uber-glam (bigger budgets, better labels, chicer styling), but all the while maintained its key weapons - snappy dialogue and pacy storylines.
It was groundbreaking, if not revolutionary, because it tackled abortion, cheating, and STDs with aplomb, never once giving them a palettable Hollywood gloss. There was dark humour, discomfort, and real sadness as well as bad puns and outrageous outfits. One of the reasons I've always found it compelling is the acting; as well as most American dramas and sitcoms having predictable dialogue, fairytale storylines and sanitised humour, they are also generally acted in the most attractive way possible (if that makes sense.) I will stick my neck out and say that I think Sarah Jessica Parker is an extraordinary actress; when Carrie cries, most women will too. Her ability to sacrifice lightness and glamour for a crushing narrative moment is rare. I appreciate that she is not conventionally attractive - while not worthy of being constantly portrayed as the direct opposite to viagra in the male mind (or as 'looking like a foot' in Family Guy) - I think she has a glow and an animation on screen (specifically as Carrie) that women are drawn to. The girl's got charisma.
As well as Samantha's HIV test and the erectile dysfunction ruining Charlotte's perfect marriage, the SATC writers domesticated modern things rarely seen on the US small screen - women smoking, the gay club scene, non-maternal ladies having babies and a plethora of weird sexual preferences. Yet I have never felt it to be gratuitously shocking; the show basically took the freakshow that is the world of dating and relationships and laid it bare. Men like those writing in Stylist choose to focus on the cocktail chats about sex lives and the amount of shoes Carrie owns (a relatively small part of the narrative, if you've ever sat through one continuous episode) but there was a whole other level to the TV show. These women were work and friendship first, and romance was generally something that they fit around those two things - an approach I and many others admired. In suburban Surrey, looking for an ambitious single girl is a bit of a needle/haystack scenario - domestic bliss has swung right back into vogue and everyone seems to be settling down. Take the 30 minute trip into London and you'll find plenty of perfectly pretty, lovely, witty single girls juggling dating with the many other things they want. Toby Young's assertion in the Stylist article that women inspired by the SATC girls shouldn't expect a boyfriend or a marriage as they have merely been duped into a no-strings, promiscuous lifestyle seems way off base to me. Most women still want the lovely traditional things our parents and grandparents had, we just want to live a bit first. The choice to wait and shop around in order to find the best relationship for you is an exciting prospect for those who didn't find Mr Right in week one of our dating life, and the more you date the more you realise that life does go on after a relationship ends. You see the flaws, you learn from the mistakes and you carry on better equipped to make a new one work.
Carrie's writing also inspired me because she looked out for something that was in the air that week, being mulled over at brunch, in the celeb world or in her own life, and tackled it as a cultural trend. I never minded the puns, the neurotic girlfriend behaviour or the sometimes terrible style choices because that's who she was - imperfect, especially when it came to men, and that was much more engaging than any of the glossy women of Friends or Desperate Housewives. Equally, Miranda was the first female lawyer I had seen in fiction, and very realistically the writers made her great at her job but consequently a little frazzled, intimidating to men and struggling to juggle family bereavements and motherhood with work. Samantha's character is a bit of high camp which I can't believe SATC's critics take so seriously - I have never met a woman like her, and the best way I've heard her described is as 'a gay man in a woman's body.' There isn't as much of a market out there for famously promiscuous women as the show would have you think, but it's a bit of fun and allows for most of the funny sex stories and frank conversations that are its hallmark - and she is as much about her career as her sex life (especially poignant in the episode where they discuss women crying at work.) I do think talking openly about sex is the way to go for better relationships and less teen pregnancies, so she was a good role model in that sense at least. And Charlotte is the perfect example of the dangers of the Prince Charming dream that no real relationship can live up to. But her optimism and Miranda's cynicism made the show an interesting debate about what women want, expect and actually get in life.
I think that the follow-up films have taken on a life of their own. I won't say that the SATC creators have created a monster, as I think they've stayed true to much of the original charm, but they have definitely sacrificed the integrity of a cult series in favour of more cash. Like most fans, I loved the way SATC broke off ever so coolly after just six seasons (when they could have done ten), leaving the girls in various stages of happy-ever-after, but with plenty of compromise as well as romance. I didn't need to know how it went with Carrie and Big, but then along came the film franchise to ram that down my throat. As a separate story I enjoyed film 1; I cried, chuckled and enjoyed the ride... and I also felt a bit let down by the things the characters settled for: an insecure fiancee, a giant penthouse, a cheating husband. But you could argue that this is a dose of realism - women do have to forgive things and compromise more the older they get, so it was fairly reflective of reality.
Film 2 looks more like a 'romp' - uh oh - so I fear it may damage the memory of a great show even further. The forty and fiftysomething women are looking freakishly youthful, even Big's had one too many eye lifts, and the whole hysterical 'getting away with the girls' thing just seems tragically unrealistic - I would have liked to see them getting more middle aged, buying a Slanket, catching up over tea and talking about the menopause. Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte were real women in so many ways (periods, laser eye surgery, grey pubic hairs and all) in the TV show, but the whole movie franchise has descended into glitzy madness. I will probably still see the sequel, but I will also feel a little sad to see a concept that was so original becoming just another cash cow.
The straight-talking girls back in series 2...
...and unrecognisable behind the labels and airbrushing.
*Since writing the above, two interesting pieces have come out about the backlash....
2) Lindy West for The Stranger on her utter, extreme boredom with the whole concept (warning: contains unsavoury language and imagery - also may cause pant-wetting)
Both interesting - the first because it analyses why SATC2 is so irrelevant to most women at this point (although who would go and see a film about 'the lives and problems of ordinary women', I have no idea.) The second hits on the bizarre choice of Abu Dhabi as a getaway location, and the fact that so much of SATC's material is fantasy because it is 'essentially a home video of gay men playing with giant Barbie dolls.' So both point out that the film is escapist fantasy, but also suggest that we shouldn't want to see or enjoy this. I don't mind a bit of fiction in my fiction films, but I do see their (especially West's) scathing point about very privileged women moaning about the minutiae of their expensive lives being fairly unrelatable to me and my friends, here and now. Betcha it still makes a ton at the box office though...
I think I've replaced love with baking. Actually I've replaced work, relationships and normality with it. Baking and I are very happy together - it gives me what I need, is always sweet and delightful and I don't even mind cleaning up after it.
Don't get baking confused with cooking - cooking and I have been going strong since I was about fourteen. I love to throw together a vibrant stir-fry, cook carby, creamy comfort food like macaroni cheese or even just put a new spin on a classic like scrambled eggs. Baking is a new thing in my life. It's a separate concept - cakes, cookies and brownies are not necessary, they are treats. Taking the time to bake something delicious that's both unnecessary and a little naughty takes love and patience. There is something unbelievably satisfying about beating a cake mix until it's perfectly smooth and airy, or sieving flour, or whipping up creamy icing. Sharing your baked goods with other people is like introducing them to a boyfriend - you're half proud, half scared no one will like it, with just a pinch of wanting to keep it all to yourself.
My latest baking challenge is Nigella Lawson's Chocolate Guinness Cake. It's the sort of mix of indulgent and quirky that you wish you had created yourself. I added some melted Bournville chocolate (I refuse to believe that merely cocoa powder and sugar is enough for a rich chocolate cake) and it's still baking, but I'll update with the results and a picture. I'm not a huge Guinness drinker, but alcohol in puddings is only ever a great thing in my experience, and the mixture smelled irresistable pre-oven. I still have to make the cream cheese/sugar/double cream whipped icing, but not a lot can go wrong from here.
Cooking is totally cathartic (as well as a brilliant skill to have, especially if you can trade off cooking for the person/people you live with shopping or washing up) and while some people love going for a run or a swim to clear their head, for me - tragically, for my waistline - it is cooking that does the trick. I recently read Julie & Julia by Julie Powell, and it's such a great read for anyone interested in blogging or cooking. Julie was in a dead-end, depressing job in New York in the aftermath of 9/11, and felt trapped and suffocated by the pressures of her life. She set herself a mad goal to cook every one of the 524 recipe's in Julia Child's hefty Mastering the Art of French Cooking book in one year, and to document her efforts, her victories and failures in a blog (back when blogging was still a new concept.) The book is not published with blog entries but as a more fluid story, with some references to her readers' comments and her personal life. It is fascinating, and takes some getting into (Julie is a somewhat acerbic character and not at all concerned with being likeable, which I loved) and it's really just about being a normal person with problems and joys and ambitions, trying not to get swallowed up by a big city in turmoil. I highly recommend it, as well as suggesting that you persevere if you find it slightly slow-moving or inaccessible - I was totally absorbed and rooting for Julie by the end.
Essentially, Julie comes to feel a huge personal satisfaction in setting herself little goals in the form of complex dishes, and also in feeding those she loves. It's a primal thing to nourish those around you, and I can totally relate to her turning her life around in the kitchen. This is not to say that this will become a cooking blog, but just that baking is putting a smile on my face these days (not least because I'm blasting Journey in the background and singing along) and I kind of like it.
I've followed the hype for Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland as much as anyone else, but I wasn't entirely sure it would be my cup of tea. I have a bit of an issue with the fantasy genre; I kept way out of Lord of the Rings, Beowulf and Pan's Labyrinth, and the Harry Potter films have been a constant source of disappointment. I don't believe the plots, I don't get absorbed in the fantasy worlds, and my mind just wanders. If there's a book original involved, it's often ripped apart and cut down, with casting that clashes with my mind's interpretation. With CGI still in its pubescent years, a lot of the action sequences and setting choices just seem like a way to flex various technological muscles. All in all, they end up feeling less like a story and more like an epic film experiment.
Since seeing Avatar just before Christmas, I've opened my mind up to fantasy a little more. For once I just appreciated it for being something truly beautiful, and I let myself be absorbed (ironically, as this was the fantasy narrative other people slated the most.) So with Alice in Wonderland, I decided to ignore the Burton 'cult' factor, the slightly tired-sounding casting, the fact that I absolutely hated what he did to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - bring back Gene Wilder and the orange oompa loompas! - and give it a go. More specifically I decided to go on my own, in the spirit of falling down the rabbit hole, and to an unsociable screening time. It was essentially me, a massive screen and my imagination. I don't often take solitary cinema trips, but having done it to review things before, I knew it was the best way to avoid taking on other people's reactions or getting distracted at crucial moments.
Luckily, distraction wasn't a problem as Alice is totally gripping. It wasn't too wacky, it used the CGI and the surreal dimension to enhance certain things, but it didn't dominate the story. Having heard nothing but Johnny Depp this and Helena B-C that, I was delighted to hear Stephen Fry as a purring, whimsical Cheshire Cat and Alan Rickman as the pipe-smoking blue caterpillar. Factor in Babs Windsor as the Dormouse and Michael Sheen as the White Rabbit, and you've got an impressive range of character actors. But the celebrity casting didn't distract too much from the beautifully detailed characters - one of my favourite moments was when the heroine finds herself in the forest of Wonderland being berated by talking flowers, rabbits, mice, chubby twins and caterpillars for being the wrong Alice. It was so beautiful and striking after the bleached, genteel reality we had just come from, and that's when I started to believe that this was a journey I really wanted to go on.
Mia Wasikowska, looking remarkably like a young Kate Moss (but with 100% more personality), more than holds her own in the title role. I had prejudged her supermodel looks and waiflike stature, but Burton clearly knows what he is doing. She is odd and curious in a way I could totally relate to. I don't know if all girls feel a bit isolated and inclined to say socially unacceptable things, but I often do, and Alice's detached nature and 'mad' statements really worked for me. This Alice is out of place in a regulated and polite human world, then finds herself amongst creatures much madder than she. It made the transition from reality to Wonderland much more interesting. It made me want to go back to the original animated version, where I seem to remember Alice as being a lot more normal and confused by the wacky things she sees. This Alice fits right into the madness and goes with the flow, which I enjoyed. She is not picture perfect, but pale and interesting, with dark inquisitive eyes and a sort of physical resilience that makes her at home in the suit of armour she wears at the climax of the film.
Helena Bonham Carter is suitably posh, lisping and full of tantrums. I liked the animated additions to her character, but it was all as cliched as I'd suspected. Johnny Depp is featured much more than the Mad Hatter demands, and becomes an unnecessary hero of Wonderland (something in his contract?) but just about gets away with it by being believably barking and utterly charming. How much this has to do with his giant, graphically-enhanced green eyes, I don't know. The odd decision to have his accent flit from BBC English to gruff Scottish didn't really do it for me... perhaps another aspect of his insanity, perhaps a chance to fully showcase the skills section of his CV. I found it distracting, just as I found the White Queen's affected 'grace' - I like the imaginative nature of Burton's direction, I just don't like being able to see the mechanics and decisions behind a character.
I did think for the first time that Burton should have snapped up the Harry Potter films; the man knows how to make things odd, quirky and otherworldly without overly explaining or domesticating them. He got the balance between human and other so right in this film, while I found every installment of the HP films jarringly badly scripted and imagined at times. I think he would have stripped them down to the important parts and really brought the characters to life. But perhaps the concept was just too commercial for him. Here, they have taken a classic with enough distance to completely reinvent some parts, while keeping in the familiar ponderings that spring to mind when we think of Lewis Carroll: "Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
I enjoyed the script, I felt the story bounded along through the 'Drink Me' potions, the Red Queen's court and the Mad Hatter's tea party, and nothing felt too long-winded. I loved the little touches of Tweedledum and Tweedledees yoda-like speech, Alice's wound making her tougher and more warrior-like and the Tudor references in the Red Queen's palace. I think a little more humour and lightness could have improved the adventure, but Burton was understandably going for a crueller, darker and more violent Wonderland. The nonsense and riddle was done well and it didn't become a pantomime, Alice returning to her world genuinely jolted me, and I liked the way she was revisiting as a young woman, having thought the place a dream in childhood.
What I find hard in fantasy films is when the world they create is inconsistent, badly communicated or cliched. This Wonderland was solid - characters spoke of people and places as if we were all in on the facts, and this is the root of the story: everyone seems to be speaking a different language and it is Alice who is the oddity. I'm glad Burton didn't try and make Wonderland too easy for us to enter, it shouldn't be. It felt just right as a dash through foreign landscapes, nonsensical speeches and fascinating characters, with the sole aim of widening Alice's perspective so she doesn't settle for the ordinary in the real world. She is made to feel extraordinary in a good way, and goes back to her life with confidence, and this layer of grown-up narrative really gave the film an edge. Yes, I cringed a bit when Depp burst into his 'futterwhacken' dance at the end, and yes there was an over-long 'look what we can do' CGI chase by a Bandysnatch, but overall these indulgences were eclipsed by so many great performances. This is no mean feat, reinventing one of the most imagined and interpreted stories of all time. Google images for 'Alice in Wonderland' and you'll see how many illustrations and ideas have come out of this one book.
I do recommend you take a trip to Wonderland, but do it when you're feeling a bit odd, and if you're brave enough, go alone. I guarantee it will improve the experience.
I was lucky (and well-connected) enough to go to the press night of the new West End incarnation of Legally Blonde, and I'm now ashamed to say my expectations weren't that high. This is odd for two reasons: First, I absolutely love the original 2001 movie (a total Witherspoonful of sugar) and second, I have adored the Broadway soundtrack of the musical version for well over a year now, and think it's work of genius. So why the hesitation? I sometimes feel that British producers and directors can take a good thing and overthink it. I thought so with Wicked when it first arrived (again, love it, have seen it three times, but what was with the British accents and obvious cultural tweaks?) It's not as if we can't handle a little US drawl over here; many cultural references have seeped into our consciousness from years of sitcoms and romcoms anyway. The other thing is our bizarre need to cast 'faces' rather than talent. Denise van Outen, Jon from S Club, Gareth Gates and anyone from a soap can all stick to their day jobs, as far as I'm concerned. Despite many 'faces', Legally Blonde has remained delightfully all-American, thankfully, as so much of the story is based on East- and West-coast stereotype. If anything, I felt more informed than the cast in this respect: one of the only things that bugged me throughout was Sheridan Smith's very New York-y twang, especially when her 'California girl' character came up against Emmett, supposedly from the Boston slums, but audibly more West-coast than her. But elocutionary pedantry aside, there was very little to be irked by.
Sheridan Smith is sheer dynamite*, carrying the show on her perky little shoulders without even breaking a sweat. Elle Woods leads 16 of the show's 18 numbers, and the range and movement involved make for a hardcore singathon, but she did admirably well. I just wanted to give her a hug and hand her a sports drink afterwards. Duncan FromBlue rises to the challenge and gives a smooth vocal performance, although his acting could use a little work. It is to the credit of the rest of the cast that he stands out as pronouncing each word a little unnaturally, as though learning to be human rather than American, but the superficiality of the character makes even that forgivable. A great supporting turn from Chris Ellis-Stanton as the UPS dreamhunk (with accompanying porn theme) and astounding skipping-and-belting action from How do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?'s Aoife Mulholland, transformed from demure governess to aerobics queen Brooke, all rock-hard abs and platinum hair. I was expecting to love Alex Gaumond as Emmett, one of the few unknown main cast members (which usually translates as the only musical theatre professional), but I found him a little weak and not nearly charming enough. The material serves him impassioned lyrics, high romance and lush melodies on a silver platter, but while never musically 'off', he was never exactly 'on', either. He showed a glimmer of greatness in one of my favourite numbers, Take It Like a Man, but didn't make enough of his big notes and snappy lyrics.
This by no means spoilt my fun, as Smith had more than enough chutzpah for the both of them, and another complete and utter surprise was Jill Halfpenny as trailer-trash hairstylist Paulette. The US cast featured Broadway diva Orfeh in this comedic gem of a role, and I have to say, I didn't see how a former Eastender and Strictly contestant could possibly live up to it. Yes, she's done Chicago, but who hasn't these days? It just goes to show you shouldn't judge a gal by her CV, because she was actually one of the highlights. Charming, gutsy, but not stealing the show, she made Paulette less of a caricature and more of a sweetie. She made Ireland, the show's most baffling track, funny and moving, and her bend and snap was truly brilliant. My favourite, favourite part of this show, the Delta Nu Greek Chorus girls, more than exceeded my expectations. Grease's Susan McFadden and newcomer Ibinabo Jack were a powerful pair as Serena and Pilar, but Amy Lennox as Margot was the standout performance for me - her voice and moves were flawless, and she risked out-singing Sheridan 'off-the-telly' Smith on a couple of occasions. What I love best about ensemble musicals is when the chorus really milk their small parts, and militant Enid Hoops and closeted pool boy Nikos were also a fine example of this.
Song-wise..the surreal brilliance of Gay or European? in the second act cannot accurately be described... you will just have to go and see for yourself. It was also very refreshing to see a gay clinch or two choreographed into a mainstream musical. The comedy definitely worked better than the tragedy - while Bend and Snap, What You Want and Ohmigod You Guys were pinker and perkier than I could ever have predicted, the lone moment of sensitivity in Legally Blonde was a little lost. While Smith has all the energy and humour the role demands, her voice is a little harsh and lacks the softness needed in this one song. Light and shade is not her strong point, and as lots of her 'backup girls' seemed to have that edge on her I would be interested to see an understudy performance just for that one song. Relationship meltdown Serious was inevitably hilarious, and the only downer was Professor Callaghan's Blood in the Water, which I never really liked anyway. Stage Callaghan is creepy and smarmy enough without taking up too much of your time, which is ideal.
I could actually go on for pages about this, but I don't want to completely ruin the experience for you. This show works because it's unashamedly camp, tongue-in-cheek and escapist; the score and book are a witty romp through girl power, romance and chihuahuas (LOVED the dogs). Production magic such as Elle's 'Ohmigod' dress change, the department store scenery emerging from two plain doors, the courtroom/bathroom madness and the orange hue of the prison workout scene just make it even more of a visual feast. A note to the costume department - Sheridan's hot pink courtroom dress was beyond fabulous, but how on earth did her clashing coral pink shoes get overlooked? As Elle would say, truly heinous. Despite this fashion slip-up, you will come out tapping your toes and feeling great about the world, having laughed your mascara right off. Take your mum, take your daughter, take your hen party, safe in the knowledge that it will be money well spent. Snaps to all involved.
*My misconceptions about her musical abilities may have something to do with this:
Just to revisit my review of John Mayer's latest album, there was an excruciating piece on him in Saturday's Times review section. In a profile which openly aims to give some background to the artist as he is so little known (musically) this side of the pond, what the writer was essentially trying to say was much the same as me. He may come across as a tabloidy, god-complexy, celebrity-shagging douche bag, but the guy has made some pretty exceptional music. Unfortunately, the feature involved an interview with Mayer (promoting his UK tour starting this month) and he couldn't have ruined that core message more perfectly if he'd just dumbly stated, 'I'm a twat, I'm a twat, I'm a twat' over and over again. The writer reveals his humble beginnings in blues bars during high school and his attendance of a Boston music college renowned for its jazz. She suggests this album is a little more mainstream...
"I don't pay as much attention to being good as to being liked. I don't know that Battle Studies is the best record I've ever made, but I think it's going to be one of the most-liked records I ever made, and that's all I care about," he says.
Now correct me if I'm wrong, but that just summed up what I said in the review. It's lazy, calculating and plays on his tabloid image. I start to gag a little as I realize that I BOUGHT THIS ALBUM. Trying to salvage the profile, the writer then brings up his brilliant Tweets, quoting a few for effect. But then he starts describing Twitter as a major threat to his human relationships:
"It's questions of, do I want to share my desires with someone else or do I want to sate them myself with my laptop and my Twitter account?"
Actually, it's not a question of that for many people. But we'll take another shot at boosting your UK image. At this point the writer gives up and asks a broad, sympathetic question about how he is portrayed in our tabloids, and the man actually has a rant about her going off subject and how he's sick of everyone's "unbelievable curiosity about what it's like to be me." All in all, total interview suicide. I could have forgiven the self-conscious ramblings, the dismissal of relationships as less real than Twitter, the stunning insincerity of his replies, but his total agreement that this fourth album is nothing more than a tactical bid to attract a mainstream audience just makes him ridiculous.
"This time I just wanted to make a pop record, and I hope there are some people who are annoyed by that... I hope there are people who say "Why wouldn't you come out swinging with the guitar and the grit?" and I'll be like, "Well, why are you humming track five?"
.... yeah. I wasn't humming track five when I first listened, and I'm not now. Try harder next time, Mayer. In a world where many brilliant, honest unknowns are out there singing and playing their guts out with nowhere near his level of financial backing, this admission of laziness is in poor taste. But nice to know my reaction to the album was so accurate.
I love Gav'n'Stace. I love the menagerie of characters as if they were my own eccentric kin, I love the witty script, the spot-on regional stereotyping and most of all I love the fact that underneath the bizarre comedy there is real, unmistakable heart.
I got into series one quite late, only this year, and it took me a couple of episodes to get into it. I read an interview with Alison Steadman the other day where she described reading the script for the pilot and being won over by a moment where Pam has been upset by badgers crying on the TV. When Gavin questions whether they were really crying, she simply says 'I know what I saw.' I think we all know that woman.
If you've ever lived in Wales or even popped over for a rugby match, you'll also know a Nessa. And a Stacey. And definitely, definitely a Bryn. Bryn is possibly the purest amount of Welshness you could vacuum-pack into one character. I love his slightly-behind-the-zeitgeist jokes that quickly back up into seriousness (today, the Apprentice: 'Gav - you're fired! I'm only joking I am, I don't have that kind of power.') James Corden as the kind of bloke I'd hate in real life still manages to make Smithy loveable, an unbelievable feat.
Having spent three years in Cardiff, their shift of location from Essex to Wales actually made me long for that easy Welsh charm; London with all its buzz and glitz is still a very isolated place at times. Nothing is more important than a commuter getting that train on time, no time for pleasantries. I loved the un-PC endearment 'lovely', although it took some getting used to. Working in a bar with brassy, loud Welsh girls who gave as good as they got with the rowdier customers made me feel like the most uptight Surrey specimen in the world, but I really enjoyed it.
I adored the nightlife and the lack of posing - cheesy music and body con dresses are as important a part of a Cardiff night out as chips on the way home. There is no underdone, relaxed boho chic; Welsh girls go all out with big hair, big heels and fake lashes. Absolutely fine by me, why should we agonise over whether our look is too much? If you want to wear a sparkly dress, wear it.
If you haven't got into Gavin and Stacey yet, beg borrow or steal series one to get a feel for it. It seems like small snapshots of unremarkable lives in some ways, but it's the real things in life - relationships, arguments, humour, human eccentricity - that make this golden, heartwarming, must-see TV.
Love him or hate him, John Mayer is good entertainment. His sultry guitar-led tunes are at odds with his tabloid presence, cemented by years of high-profile womanizing, and post Aniston he sadly seems to be known only for their on/off amour. He courts the press while trying to remain credible, and is famous for filling them in on his love life and generally oversharing, a trait that doesn't usually go with great songwriting and performance. I actually got into some of his older tracks before he hit the glossy pages of Look and Grazia, and I'm glad because Mayer deserves to be on your cultural radar for his soulful voice and masterful guitar skills, or at the very least, his tweeting (he recently reacted to outrage at Britney's miming on Twitter by posting "If you're shocked that Britney was lip-synching at her concert and want your money back, life may continue to be hard for you.") Follow him on Twitter now (@JohnCMayer) for some hilarious 140-character sparring between him and Perez Hilton.
A cocktail of tracks from his 2002 debut album Room for Squares, 2007's Continuum and his live album Where the Light Is add a range of chilled acoustic sounds and witty lyrics to my iPod which soothe my soul and tingle my spine in equal parts. Which is why I was so eager to download his latest effort, Battle Studies (released 16 November). At the height of his notoriety for all the wrong headlines, Mayer's people have obviously pushed for a suitably heartbroken and chastened album in the wake of the Jennifer Aniston affair, hence the title and slightly overstretched metaphor of love as battlefield. Expecting a feast of sensual pop-rock with real depth and honesty, I was sad to discover that Battle Studies is actually a little dull. Scrap that, 80% of the tracks are unbelievably skippable, with cliched lyrics, forgettable melodies and unremarkable riffs.
Mayer has really taken his eye off the ball here; in an effort to channel his gossip-column status he goes for the sympathy vote on Heartbreak Warfare, All We Ever Do is Say Goodbye and Friends, Lovers or Nothing, but they are so interchangeable it suggests a rushed album made to hit the shelves before the magazine pages cool. Half of My Heart featuring Taylor Swift (WHY?) only layers bland on bland, while attempting a cheeky nod at his womanizing ways.
There are a couple of lifelines; the funky Robert Johnson cover Crossroads adds some much needed tempo with its gospel-spiritual flavour and showcases the soul in his distinctive voice, while the jaunty 'Who Says' is mellow and folky with a witty edge. It harks back to some of the old John Mayer magic as he asks 'Who says I can’t get stoned / Call up a girl that I used to know / Fake love for an hour or so / Who says I can’t get stoned?' You can't help wishing he'd hit the ganja a little harder during recording, because the rest of this sober retrospective of his relationship scars is pretty banal.
Download: Who Says, Crossroads, Perfectly Lonely
From Mayer's back catalogue - Waiting on the World to Change, My Stupid Mouth, Your Body is a Wonderland, Stop This Train, Dreaming with a Broken Heart, Gravity, Slow Dancing in a Burning Room
No matter how hard we try to escape her, the Colester is everywhere. I can't help but love Cheryl. I actually think she's become a bit sanitised and Beckham-bland styling wise lately, but you've got to admit that she always looks flawless. I love her Geordie scrappiness, her genuine judging style on the X Factor and while I still feel the girl could use a cheeseburger once in a while, I do love the combo of big hair and tiny cinched waist.
I think TV is where she seems to make the most sense - I do have a guilty-pleasure love of Girls Aloud but she's got the least va va voom in her vocals by far... so I really didnt expect to like her first real shot at a solo single. But actually, Fight For this Love is not just inoffensive, it's got real playlist potential. You can tell it's had Will.i.am's magic touch (I love that a bigtime US producer is a such a fan of a Geordie girlbander) but she sounds good and someone very smart has told her to stick to what she does best: looking slick and sticking to a fairly mid to low range. It could have been more of a club track, I reckon, but we'll blame Will for that - I think the melody lends itself to bigger beats and more production than this sort of Mariah/Ciara clicky thing going on - but I'm sure there will be loads of great remixes before long. It sounds a bit Fergie actually, but slightly falls short because Fergie's main selling point is that she's got this massive powerhouse voice that cuts through all the background stuff. But nevertheless, she's definitely upped her game since the supremely rubbish Heartbreaker.
The only real puzzle for me is the styling... I know from various news stories and The Passions of Girls Aloud that she claims to love hip-hop dance, and the hoods, baggy trousers and fingerless gloves certainly reflect that, but then what's she been doing every other day of the year? This ghetto-fabulous look seems out of place when we see her papped or on TV constantly in demure shifts, waist belts, floral skirts, vests and peep toes. Either her stylist rules her life (there was a distinct point in Mrs Beckham's career where all originality and personality seemed to depart from her wardrobe too) or she's leading some sort of Beyonce/Sasha double life. I suppose you can't record a sultry r'n'b single and perform it in a twinset, but it just seems a completely different image than she's been carefully putting out there the last couple of years.
My overall thoughts on the new single? Surprisingly good, a definite grower, but probably won't set the world alight. I bet she'll be played (albeit remixed) in many a club over the next few months, and I'm quite looking forward to hearing more. But i'm still hoping for a Cheryl chat show more than anything. She's made for TV.
I don't usually recommend music because the people I know generally listen to much cooler and more credible stuff than I've even heard of. This is for several reasons....
When I rarely turn on the radio (usually when taking a shower) I head straight for the cheesy pastures of Magic or Heart FM. Sometimes Smooth FM if I'm craving a bit of a sax solo.
When I go to club, a major prerequisite is that it plays some form of soul, pop, 80s rock or disco. Extra points for 90s girl and boybands. We've all got our junk, and Oceana's cheese room is mine.
I do actively try to add new albums and downloads to my ipod in the hope of magically transforming into a devastatingly cool indie chick in the style of Zooey Deschanel or similar - but at the end of the day, I'll always flick past them onto a bit of Queen or Bon Jovi.
The only way I can honestly describe my musical taste is proud-gay-man-meets-karaoke-loving-housewife. I just don't do edgy and complicated. However shamelessly media-hungry, shallow or just downright whorish a pop act becomes (Sugababes' new single, anyone?) their catchy melodies and whiplash beats will always, always get me on the dancefloor. Especially if they reference any or all of my above retro tastes.
Which is why I find myself once again saying 'It's not cool - but I love it' to the new Pussycat Dolls single - It's loud, it's repetitive, it has an overly dramatic slow beginning (I regularly lie in the bath singing sensually to myself) and a funky homage to disco classic I Will Survive - what's not to love? And while La Scherzinger may looking a little drag queen-esque in the vid, I still love her. Her big hair and powerhouse vocals bring out the diva in all of us, and she does it with such flair.
I remember hearing about the premise of US comedy Ugly Betty and thinking it sounded awful. Even as someone wanting to get into the magazine industry it didn't grab my interest - small, frizzy, unglamorous, unstylish girl lands a job at the highest profile fashion magazine in the country. Cynical, city-slick Stylebots who work there are mean to her. She wins them round with her ungainly Latina charm. I remember reading all the media hype, the interesting background story of the original telenovela Betty La Fea being picked up by Mexican star Salma Hayek and made into a glossy US sitcom. But the idea of taking a bizarrely-set, unrealistic spanish-speaking comedy and making into TV gold just seemed surreal to me - I couldn't shake the image of the Spanish comedy guy in the bee costume who pops up in the Simpsons from time to time. Ay ay ay.
But in the last couple of weeks a combination of channel-changing laziness and the time I tend to hit the sofa now led me to watch several episodes from the new series (the third, I think), and it really surprised me. Not only do they have the magazine industry dead on - not the hyper-real, icy offices or diva editors, but the gossipy staff, the celeb & fashion chat, and there is definitely a Marc and Amanda combo in every glossy's editorial team - but there is also real humour and heart to each episode.
But you don't see a lot of Bettys in Magland, truthfully. I'm probably one of the more clueless interns, and when I say clueless, this usually means too much in love with my sleep to get up at 5 and start blowdrying and strapping on killer heels. Or too much in fear of debt to blow all my meagre earnings on the latest everything. But obviously, with Betty, it is not so much slacking as having an idea of what looks great that just happens to collide with the fashion industry's idea of what's vile. The layering, the ponchos, the printed shirts, the clashing colours... even I wince at Betty's attire - I must be one of them, after all. What her colleagues actually tend to point out are the frizzy mass of hair, the giant fringe, the red glasses and the braces. I actually think she's pretty cute, facially (google America Ferrera without the get-up and she's an absolute fox) and if she was just handed a beautifully cut black shift and some glossy heels she'd look great.
I like the fact that although some of fictional mag Mode's staff are verging on caricatures (Wilhemina Slater is a botoxed work of genius), their storylines are funny and sweet and genuine. I love Betty's gentle father, her brash homegirl sister, the straight-talking gay nephew, the whole lot. The brilliance of the show is contrasting the warmth and chaos of the Suarez home with the arctic flawlessness of Mode magazine. But Betty's perseverance is pretty inspirational, and best of all is the show's theory that if you work hard and are nice to people, things will work out for you.
And while some days I do feel like this....
I know that I'm getting to do more and learn more than at a publication like Mode (Vogue. Why don't they just say it?)
I've been wanting to update this blog for well over a week now, and consequently have way too many topics to choose from. So I'll do sub-headlines for each to avoid the contents of my headspace spilling over you like a molten stream of consciousness.
Best bar Nun
Last week I went to see the newly-opened Sister Act musical with my two own lovely sisters. It was the younger one's birthday, and we all had a delicious meal at a little cafe/bar called Libre around the corner - highly recommended. After the nicest Thai red curry I've ever tasted and a passionfruit-champagne cocktail, I was very much ready for some singing nuns. The production was, in the words of its main character, Fabulous. You can tell it has Whoopi's Goldberg touch (I'm sorry, in an awful pun mood today), and effervescent lead Patina Miller has all of her attitude and comic timing, with the added bonus of being a lot more Beyonce-licious. There were hardly any filler songs at all in my opinion (I know some of my musical theatrey friends disagree) as they were all lyrically slick, often hilarious, with a strong theme of 70s disco, soul and funk. There were lots of genius close-to-the-mark rip offs (one VERY Dancing in the Street, one very Barry White, one very Marvin Gaye) but Alan Menken's astonishingly good score also has a few classically Disney moments, which might grate on less of a Disney-lover than myself. Katie Rowley Jones, previously a fab Nessarose in Wicked, does a great job of being the 'straight' character, and her voice lives up to the contradiction of little meek nun/huge voice, which notably had to be dubbed in the film. Overall it was a wonderful night out, with heartfelt, funny, poignant and downright camp moments, and everyone should treat themselves to it this year! In these crunchy times, you never know how long even the greatest West End show will run.
Deal Breakers
Another interesting quirk of humanity that came up over dinner on Monday night, and was in the London paper the following day, as well as popping up in July's Cosmo - those little niggles that can make or break a new romance. Various anecdotes revealed how we (not just men) find those irritations that we just can't live with in the other sex. Some were physical - who can forget Chandler's issues with oversized nostrils: 'When she leaned back, I could SEE HER BRAIN' - some etiquette-related (talking too much about themselves, name-dropping, poor hygiene) and many far more random reasons. Cosmo's Tracy Ramsden has a beady eye for bad accessorizing, citing "dodgy man jewellery" and "a friendship band screaming 'I spent my gap year in Thailand'" as bad omens on a second date. I do despise this kind of walking stereotype, the surfy haired, stoner-voiced, quite-rich-really-but-desperate-not-to-look-it guy, so that would probably be a deal-breaker for me. My own personal ones? Hardcore Daily Mail reading, rudeness to waiters, excessive vanity, drug-addled brain masquerading as 'chilled out', anyone described by their friends as a 'legend' or addicted to the word 'banter' (translation: loud, drunk exhibitionist with an inflated sense of their own brilliance), and fussiness with food. That's not such a colossal list, is it? But I am less tolerant than some; I truly believe I know in the first five minutes of the first date if the guy is a keeper.
The Glad Game
I mentioned in this post that I was coveting some gorgeous gladiator sandals for summery days. After extensive searching (and only one purchase-and-return error) I have found my perfect ancient-history-chic sandals. They're not actually classic glads, more Grecian-goddessy than Spartan-studded, but I love them. Yes, they murder my feet - all sandals do, I have oddly angular feet and ankles - but I'm determined to wear them in and enjoy my summer footwear romance.
And finally...
Funny story of the week: New Yorkers are getting a system of STI identity cards. The idea is that men register with the site, which synchs up to their sexual health history, and by acquiring their STI-dentity code (I really will stop soon), women can access their man's last two STI tests and make sure they're getting a clean slate, as it were.This is responsible, clever, and a little weird - a brilliant reflection on savvy New Yorkers. In one of the early series of Sex and the City, back in the days of the surreal vox-pops-style sequences, a guy remarks that women want a blood test before they'll even have dinner with you (or words to this effect). It seems SATC were way ahead of their time, and in the cynical, 'wise-up-and-get-a-grip' world of the Big Apple, falling in love really can be as practical as checking a bank statement.
Do comment on any or all of the above... I love comments.
Since I was about 16, I have been in love with the music of Jason Robert Brown. Musical-theatre-phobes look away now; this is a gushy one. All this time I have had the original cast recording of his innovative two-person show The Last Five Years, which (in thinly veiled autobiography) tells the story of a passionate, painful, beautiful five year relationship. Even in my mid-teens, knowing little of love and heartbreak, the honesty of the music grabbed my attention. No note, chord or lyric is wasted and every song perfectly encompasses a relationship scenario we can all relate to. There's no way to describe the genuinely modern, hilarious and tragic quality of JRB's work, but if you are at all interested in musicals, get hold of this and his revue Songs For a New World.
I went to see the fabulous Notes from New York production of The Last Five Years last week with such high expectations of the songs and characters I have been besotted with for so long - for five years, incidentally. It is rarely on in London, so I jumped at the chance to finally become better acquainted with the piece. Starring as Cathy was Julie Atherton, who I recently saw in the brilliant Avenue Q, and she more than delivered as an alternately sweet and sour tempest of a woman, accompanied by her usual supreme vocals. I hadn't seen Paul Spicer in anything thus far (he is the co-producer for the Notes from New York production, as well as starring) but I was completely seduced by his cocky, romantic, ambitious Jamie, a part which he made sweeter and funnier than I had envisioned it, to great effect. Being in the second row of the stalls felt both uncomfortable and hypnotic; you felt awkwardly wedged between them in the bad moments of the relationship and oddly voyeuristic during the good.
What struck me the most, especially in light of its autobiographical core, was how balanced the production was; the male protagonist is cocky, cruel at times and even unfaithful, but his love interest is also stubborn, confrontational and closed off at times. You can love and hate and totally relate to both all the way through. The minimalist set put the spotlight completely on the two actors, and the structure of the show (her songs begin at the end of the relationship and work backwards, his run vice versa and they meet in the middle) made it incredibly moving.
Something wonderful about composer-lyricists is that often the melody and lyrics become completely inextricable, and Brown is the best example of this. Many themes appear instrumentally in the show before words are put to them, and when they are, the emotion of the melody immediately makes sense. I feel I could see this show a hundred times over a hundred years and recognise something different in myself every time; maybe this is the product of someone with real life experience. Either way, my talent-crush on Jason Robert Brown is bigger than ever.
In life news, my second week at Elle is going great, I feel like I'm on top of things and like I'm making an impression, and there has been talk of possibly getting to go to film screenings and review books for their wonderful Preview section, which I'm ridiculously excited about. I'm also going to see the other Notes from New York show this Saturday, Jonathan Larson's Tick, Tick... Boom! I know nothing about this musical so it will be a contrast to how emotionally invested I was in last week's show. I'm hoping to have a bit of a theatre-going year, so any show recommendations are very welcome.
They say you should write what you know - but what do I know?
At the dawn of my twenties, I find myself starting out in the capital, armed only with my laptop and and an inquisitive brain. This blog is about me finding my feet (in skyscraper Louboutins, I hope)
Join me while I peruse the news, delve into the epicurean and generally overthink the world...
