Monday, 4 February 2008

Sweeny Todd and CJ7? Ace!

Don’t think that just cos I’ve been off since Friday I’ve done nowt. Oh no, no, no, my friends, I’ve been hairing around getting as much done as possible. Take for example me leaping out of bed at the crack of noon on Friday to get me hair straightened. Three hours sat in a hairdresser’s chair will take it out of anyone, unless you have yer copy of H.G. Wells short stories to entertain you (it’s got ‘The Queer Story of Brownlow’s Newspaper’ in it! How fab is that!). Anyway, that done I had to find a way to make myself feel better. So sitting and getting through all six episodes of ‘Revelations’ starring none other than Mr B Movie himself, Bill Pullman, was a good move. A little boring in places, a little too talky-talk-talk religion blether, but not uncomfortably so. And Bill was ace, as he always is.

So Saturday I had tea and ‘Supernatural’ with a friend, who shares my love of all things Dean Winchester creepy, and then I put myself through the inestimable torture of going into town and getting a manicure (‘Ten Ten’, halfway up the Mid-Levels escalator, Cochrane Street, I believe). Believe it not, I’ve never had one before, so it was kinda fun to watch the girl. To make up for all this very girly stuff, went out and got tickets for ‘Sweeny Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street’. Thought it only fair, considering what I’d had to put up with fert last two days.

So Sweeney Todd then ~ how fucking ace were that? The songs, the characters, the scenes, the costumes, the whole bloody picture. Seeing as how we weren’t exactly enamoured of London int first place, the opening salvo about it being a pit of shit was absolutely bang-on. The moment of the “Is this piss?” and then the “This is piss! Piss wiv ink in it!” had me in stitches. There were so many cool moments in it, I don’t know where to start.

The music – excellent, excellent songs, cunning lyrics, wonderful moments (“Have a priest!”), marvellous little scenes. Loved it, loved it, loved it. So what if the gore looked more like stage blood than stage blood – and there were a lot of it, I know. But then it were done so bloody well, if you’ll pardon the pun. Absolutely fab. And I think they still had less blood in it than yer average ‘Evil Dead’ film, so we hardly even noticed.

Supporting bods like Sacha Baron Cohen and wee Jamie Campbell Bower (who did not look like a girl int film. Which is why I did wonder if he were Keira Knightley in drag, or praps a very young Justin Hawkins) were excellent. Alan Rickman gets more and more sinister as time goes on, Timothy Spall did yet another good job of being a repulsive little oik, and Helena Bonham Carter were really good in her role. Of course Johnny Depp were fab – how can the Deppster not be better than everyone else in it? We did agree that he were praps the only one who kept his Mockney accent even while he were singing – wee lad and sailor-boy kinda lost it once they went into full-on trained singing mode. However, it were all good, all good.

So the very next afternoon from watching this, we went along to the new Stephen Chow film ‘CJ7’. Where oh where do we start wi this one? Excellent cast (familiar faces from previous Stephen Chow flicks abound), wonderful scenery, excellent repartee and some genius little moments. How many films can make you cry wi laughter, and then cry for real just half an hour later? It’s not just about the little alien, not just about the comedic moments of hard-hats and making faces, it’s also about a little boy (played so very well by a nine year old girl, Xu Jiao) learning to live with his father, despite everything.

Anyone who’s ever seen ‘King of Comedy’ will be familiar with the “I can act, just watch my faces” moment with the wee alien thing at school. I’m not entirely sure, but I’m thinking the list of faces he’s ordered to produce are exactly the same ones Stephen Chow’s character had to make to impress his casting agent from ‘King of Comedy’. Laugh? I thought I’d die.

Two big thumbs up for both ‘Sweeny Todd’ and ‘CJ7’, then. And then Sunday evening went down the Winchester White Stag fert pub quiz as usual, came a blinding second place, so also got my free Purple Nurple courtesy of a newly-trained barman knowing he dunt he even have to ask my particular brand of poison for occasions of winning. Such a nice lad, too. Very handy wi a cocktail shaker an’ all. Anyway, a few celebratory drinks later and we’re off to the local dive of a hovel to dance the night away to rock covers by a really underrated band. The odd Alice Cooper track, some AC/DC, Queen, and even a fantastic rendition of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Down South Jukin’ had us bopping along till roughly half four int morning. Getting home was easy. However, today has been the worst hangover in the history of bad hangovers. Put it this way, I’ve spent all day sleeping and hurling for England. I’ve not eaten owt since I got home after last night’s debacle, and I don’t think I will till probably tomorrow. It wasn’t till me mate called me to make sure I wont dead that I realised I had some strange bloke’s number in me phone, an’ all. Hmm.

Anyway, that’ll be it then. It’s just past 1am, so I can finally go back to bed without having to make an excuse.

Go easy ont sauce, everyone, and I’ll see you all again very soon. ‘Time for bed, said Zebedee.”

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